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Chapter Twenty-Seven

Michal’s Promise

Half an hour later, Michal pours himself a tumbler of absinthe in his study.

He doesn’t speak—doesn’t look at me—as he unstoppers the crystal decanter, pours the foul liquid, and throws the whole thing back in one swallow. I watch the pale column of his throat work in grudging fascination. I didn’t know vampires could drink liquor, yet here he is, unhinging his jaw like a snake.

The burns on his face shine slick and angry in the firelight.

I can’t bring myself to feel guilty.

His silence soon stretches too long, however, and I shift in my seat, the soft rustle of my skirt joining the steady tick tick tick of the clock on his desk. I cross and uncross my ankles. I knot my fingers in my lap. I feign a cough to clear my throat. Still he ignores me. At last, unable to bear the awkwardness another second, I ask, “Why did you bring me here? And why haven’t your wounds healed?”

He pours himself another glass of absinthe in response. “Silver.”

I wait patiently for him to explain; when he doesn’t, I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Will they just... remain on your face forever, then? You’ll look like you’ve been mauled by a bear for all eternity?” I don’t remind him that I was the bear, not when his shoulders look so tense and forbidding.

After Mila left us, he led me from the aviary to his study without a word, refusing to touch me again. “She’ll be back,” he said ominously. “The temptation to meddle is too great.”

Despite his certainty, however, she didn’t reappear. Not then and not now.

“My wounds will remain until I drink something stronger than absinthe.” Michal cuts an arch look over his shoulder. “Are you offering?”

The shadows beneath his eyes seem deeper after his encounter with her, the planes of his face sharper. Harder. He looks... tired. “No,” I say. Because I don’t feel sympathy for him. His sister completely and thoroughly dismissed him— and me , I think mutinously—but he still doesn’t deserve my sympathy. Even if he isn’t the killer, he is certainly a killer, and—and I don’t exactly know where that leaves us.

Or why he’s forcing me to sit with him.

“Why did Mila want to heal Dimitri?” I fidget with the ribbon at my wrist, unwilling to look at him any longer. “Why did they need to find Lou?” And at the Church, of all places?

At last, Michal turns to lean against the sideboard, considering me. I watch him swirl his absinthe leisurely from my periphery. My mother always called it the Devil’s drink. It makes sense that he’d like it. “Dimitri suffers from bloodlust,” he says after another long moment.

I don’t wait for the awkward silence this time. “And what is bloodlust ?”

“A uniquely vampiric affliction. When Dimitri feeds, he loses consciousness. Many vampires forget themselves in the hunt, but a vampire affected by bloodlust goes beyond that—he remembers nothing, feels nothing, and inevitably kills his prey in gruesome and horrific ways. Left too long, he becomes an animal like Yannick.” I can’t help it—now I do glance up at him. Shadows cut sharp beneath his cheekbones as his gaze drops to his glass once more. He stares hard at the emerald liquid. “Usually, we dispatch those infected quickly and quietly. Vampires with bloodlust are a liability to everyone. They cannot keep our secret.”

“But Dimitri is your cousin.”

A hard, self-deprecating smile twists his features. “Dimitri is my cousin.”

“You love him,” I say shrewdly. “You blame him for Mila’s death, but you still love him, otherwise he’d already be dead.”

Michal’s lip curls at that, and my hands twist the fabric of my skirt as another thought, altogether unwelcome, intrudes in the space between us. Love blinded Michal to his sister—he still cannot fathom why anyone would want to hurt her—but what if it also blinds him to Dimitri? Michal might not have killed his sister and the others, but someone did. Someone drained the blood from their bodies and left those bodies all over Cesarine. How long, exactly, had Dimitri and Mila been in Cesarine before she died? A week? Longer?

Enough time to feed on a human, Dame Blanche, Dame Rouge, melusine, and loup garou?

Beneath Michal’s black stare, I don’t dare voice my suspicion—not after Mila—but there it is, growing stronger with each tick of his maiden clock.

Dimitri has bloodlust.

Dimitri was the last person with Mila before she died.

Though Mila claims vampires only feed on other vampires in strictly nonfamilial situations—whatever that means—would Dimitri know who he fed upon in the throes of his bloodlust? Michal himself just said vampires with the affliction often lose consciousness, so it stands to reason that he wouldn’t.

Dimitri is an addict. Michal’s ominous words drift back to me on a chilling whisper. He has thought of nothing but your blood since he made your acquaintance yesterday. That lovely throat has become his obsession.

Mila’s voice soon joins. At the heart of it all is a figure. A man.

Grief shrouds his face.

He needs your blood, Célie.

A shiver skitters down my spine, and I sit rigid in my seat, clenching my hands in my skirt. Does Dimitri know I’m a Bride? But—no. Michal didn’t know until Mila told him earlier, and he certainly won’t be sharing that information with his estranged cousin any time soon. I relax a little, exhaling soft. For now, my secret is safe.

“And what do you know of love, Célie Tremblay?” Michal asks softly. I startle at the question, returning to the room with an unpleasant lurch. Nothing good ever comes when Michal uses that voice. Indeed, a cool, calculating gleam has entered his eyes, and without warning, he crosses to his desk. When he sets his empty tumbler upon it with a decisive clink , I recoil slightly in my seat. “Humans always speak as if they’re experts on the subject, but in my experience, nothing is so fickle as the human heart.” In a blur of movement, he opens the top drawer, clicks something within, and withdraws—

My heart plummets to the floor.

He withdraws my engagement ring.

It sparkles between us in the firelight like a thousand tiny suns, bright and pure and eternal, and my throat grows thick just looking at it. Jean. Cheeks flushing, I lurch to my feet to seize it, but of course, Michal moves faster. The ring is there and gone again before I can take a single step. “Prove me wrong, mademoiselle,” he says, lifting it into the air between us. “Tell me why you didn’t wear it, and I’ll gladly return it to you.”

Pressure burns behind my eyes, but I refuse to cry in front of this wretched man. He needn’t know that I haven’t thought about Jean Luc, really thought about Jean Luc, since I arrived here. He needn’t know about our confrontation in the library, about Jean’s failures as a partner, about my own horrible failures as one too. He needn’t know that I didn’t wear the ring because I—because—

I can’t even think the words.

“I don’t know,” I snap instead, crossing my arms tight against my chest. “Why do you care so much either way? That’s twice now you’ve mentioned my engagement. Do you have nothing better to do than pry into the relationship of two people you don’t even know? Aren’t you the king of all vampires?”

The cruel gleam in Michal’s eyes fades at whatever he sees in my expression, and after another moment, he shakes his head in disgust. Perhaps at me. Perhaps at himself. And I hate him—I hate him—because part of me hates myself too.

When he tosses the ring to me in the next second, I jolt and almost drop it. He pretends not to notice. “Take it. I have no use for such a silly trinket anyway.”

My hand trembles slightly as I stare down at it, torn with hideous indecision. If I slip the ring onto my finger, I’m admitting something to Michal. If I don’t, I’m admitting something else altogether. He spares me the humiliation of an audience, however, by turning and stalking back to his sideboard, busying himself with something I cannot see.

Self-loathing courses through me as I push the ring down my corset and out of sight. “Where is my silver cross?” I ask him, surprised at how steady my voice sounds.

He doesn’t turn. “That depends entirely on you.”

“Then give it to me. I want it.”

“No,” he says calmly, sliding the silver cross from his pocket and dangling it aloft by its chain. His fingers smoke slightly at the contact, and the pendant spins and winks in the firelight like a mirage. “Not until we reach an agreement.”

“What kind of agreement ?”

At last, he turns, clenching the cross in one hand and offering me a tumbler of absinthe in the other. “Quite a simple one. Are you with me, Célie Tremblay, or are you against me?”

My eyes dart incredulously from his face to his clenched fist, where the silver continues to sizzle and smoke against his skin. Part of me wants to draw this moment out. Part of me wants to see how long it’ll take before his entire hand bursts into flame. The other fills with inexplicable dread at the prospect. I have never seen someone catch fire before, and I don’t necessarily want to change that, even with Michal. “Do you still plan to kill Coco?” I ask breathlessly, ignoring the absinthe altogether.

“If the situation calls for it.”

My expression hardens. “It doesn’t.”

“I remain unconvinced.”

“And I remain unconvinced that you aren’t a blackhearted, sadistic madman intent on destroying all that’s good in the world. You might not have killed your sister, but you’ve certainly killed others. I would no sooner trust you than trust an adder.”

“Hmm.” He considers me for a moment—his expression cool, calm, despite his smoking hand—before tipping my tumbler of absinthe back and pocketing the silver cross once more. He shakes his head in disappointment. “Such a pity. To think, I was going to take you with me.”

I wrench my gaze away from his charred palm. “Where?” I ask suspiciously. “ Why? ”

“It doesn’t matter now, does it? I’m a blackhearted, sadistic madman who can’t be trusted.” He tilts his head. “Though, curiously enough, I haven’t tried to destroy you . Do you not consider yourself among what’s good in the world, Célie Tremblay?”

“Stop twisting my words.”

“I would never.” Then— “Tell me everything you know about Cosette Monvoisin and Babette Trousset.”

My eyes narrow at the unexpected turn. “Excuse me?”

“Cosette Monvoisin,” he repeats, his own eyes glittering with sudden malice, “and Babette Trousset. You wanted to know why I brought you here, why I want you to accompany me off the isle. I need information on their relationship. Specifically, I need to know why Cosette would’ve stolen Babette’s body from the morgue.”

“You think... Coco stole Babette’s body—?” But the words die swiftly, and realization bursts to life in their wake. “You really are insane. Coco would never impede a murder investigation by—by running off with Babette’s corpse—”

“Blood witches have peculiar burial rites, do they not? Called ascension?”

“Well, yes, they burn their dead and hang the ashes in secret groves throughout La F?ret des Yeux, but I repeat : Coco would not have taken Babette’s body without permission.”

“Is it true that they believe a witch’s soul remains trapped on earth until they ascend? Would Coco wish to subject Babette’s soul to such torment, even temporarily? You said they were lovers.”

I scowl and lift my chin. “ Anyone could have moved Babette’s body. Just because you have a personal—and extremely misplaced—vendetta against Coco doesn’t mean she is guilty. Perhaps the real killer returned for her body. Did you ever consider that? Perhaps the healers missed something in the autopsy, something that would’ve implicated the killer, so he returned to destroy the evidence.”

Michal spreads his hands, leaning forward upon his desk. “Enlighten me, please, mademoiselle. If not Coco, who?”

I glare at him, opening and closing my mouth like a fish. Because obviously I don’t know who . No one in the kingdom knows who —not even him—and that is the entire godforsaken problem.

“I have two viable paths before me, Célie Tremblay.” Straightening, Michal clasps his hands behind his back and strolls casually around his desk. Except there is nothing casual about Michal. Not ever. Each step falls precise, ominous, as he draws to a halt before me. “I can either investigate Cosette Monvoisin, or I can investigate Babette Trousset.” His face remains deceptively calm. “Perhaps your friends are innocent. Perhaps they are not. Either way, I will avenge the death of my sister, and I pity all those who stand in the way of that vengeance. Now,” he says, softer still, “which path will it be?”

A beat of silence.

Dimitri , I almost say, but I catch his name on the tip of my tongue. I have no real evidence that Dimitri killed Mila or anyone else, and until I do, I cannot betray his friendship. Michal tolerates Dimitri’s tangential involvement in Mila’s death; if I tell him that Dimitri actually killed her, Michal won’t hesitate. He’ll tear the beating heart from his cousin’s chest without waiting for proof.

Neither can I betray Coco.

Michal continues to wait, clearly expecting an answer.

“You don’t need me to tell you anything about Babette Trousset.” Frustration spikes, sharp and sudden, at his complete and utter obstinacy. “You can compel any one of the witches in her coven to tell you everything you need to know about her—not that it matters. We have a greater chance of finding a needle in a haystack than finding her body now.”

“Let your idiotic brethren find her body. Her body isn’t important. What we need to know is why the killer returned for it and not the others.”

“They are not idiotic,” I say hotly.

He waves a dismissive hand. “They are inept. For months now, they’ve skirted around the periphery, searching for our mystery killer without unearthing a single suspect. In a week, you’ve managed to position yourself in the very heart of this investigation—as well as learned how to kill vampires, walk through the veil, and communicate with the dead. You also have a unique knowledge of witches, mermaids, and—unless I’m much mistaken—werewolves, all of whom call you friend.”

My cheeks flush at the unexpected words. I stare at him, confused, as his praise washes through me in a hot wave. I’m not quite sure if I’m floating or drowning in it, however. Never before has anyone been so—so flattering to me, yet from Michal, it somehow isn’t flattery at all. By his curt, matter-of-fact tone, we could be discussing the weather. “I”—I blink stupidly, unsure how to respond—“I don’t think—”

“Yes, you do,” he interrupts. “You think , which is why you’re twice as valuable as every huntsman in Chasseur Tower. I will not force your hand, however. If you don’t wish to join me, I’ll return you to your room, and I’ll personally ensure you remain unbothered until All Hallows’ Eve.” A pause. “Is that what you want?”

The soft tick, tick, tick s of his maiden clock are the only sounds that punctuate the silence. And my heartbeat. It beats a treacherous rhythm in my chest, threatening to burst forth and ruin everything. Is that what you want? No one has ever asked me that question before either, and I—I stare at him helplessly. In a handful of hours, I’ve gone from plotting to kill Michal to—to what ? Absolving him of guilt? Seeking his praise? I nearly weep with frustration at the impossible choice before me.

If I agree to join Michal, we might find the killer.

If I agree to join Michal, I’ll be helping one too.

“Promise you won’t kill anyone,” I whisper. “P-Promise you’ll let the Chasseurs have the killer if we find them, and promise you won’t interfere with their sentence.”

His reply is swift, instantaneous. His eyes dark. “I promise I won’t kill you , Célie Tremblay, and that is the only promise I’ll ever make. Do we have a deal?”

I close my eyes briefly.

In the end, however, it isn’t a choice at all. I cannot simply return to my room, to my shelf, and collect dust while a killer roams free. I cannot ever go back to that place again. I won’t. “We have a deal,” I say quietly, opening my eyes and lifting my hand toward his. It trembles only a little.

A small, dangerous smile pulls the corner of his mouth, and he shakes my hand with his blackened one, his fingers wrapping firmly around mine. No ghosts rise up to meet us this time. No. This touch, this binding , is ours alone.

When he pulls away, the silver cross rests in my palm, as brilliant and familiar as ever, and I frown down at the faint initials etched along one side. I’ve never noticed them before—indeed, wouldn’t have noticed them even now if not for the exact angle of the firelight—yet there they are, winking up at me. BT.

If we’re going to work together, Michal needs to know everything.

“I don’t know why the killer returned for Babette and not the others, but Babette... she was the only victim found with one of these.” Together, we gaze down at the cross. “She didn’t worship the Christian god.”

Michal’s eyes snap to mine. “You think she knew something.”

“I think she feared something.” Like a vampire. I tuck the cross into my skirt pocket, where it lies heavily against my leg. It tethers me to the floor of Michal’s study; it tethers me to Michal . But I can’t turn back now. “Serial killers typically choose victims that fit a certain profile, but the huntsmen have found no discernible pattern among the dead. Perhaps this killer chooses his victims a different way. Perhaps he has a... personal connection to them.”

Michal doesn’t need further explanation. His mind races ahead, his black eyes glinting with anticipation. “Where did Babette live? In Cesarine?”

“No.” And thank God for that. I shake my head, tears of relief welling up behind my eyelids. Thank God that Babette moved far, far away from Coco after the Battle of Cesarine. Thank God that Michal has forgotten my friend for now. I can only pray it remains that way. “She lived in Amandine. I overheard her telling—telling someone,” I say quickly, “about a place called Les Abysses, but I don’t know the address. My parents sold our summer home in Amandine when I was a child.”

“I doubt your parents would’ve approved.” Michal steps away from me with a cold smile. “The Abyss is no place for genteel, politely bred ladies.”

“You know it?”

“Oh, I know it.” He gestures to the door, which opens of its own accord, spilling deep shadows into the room. I rise quickly. “And soon, you will too. We’re going to Amandine, pet. If there is any connection between Babette and our killer, we will find it. You should know, however”—his hand snakes up my arm as I pass through the doorway—“if there is nothing to find, only one path remains. Do you understand?”

Our eyes lock in the semidarkness, her name passing between us unspoken.

Coco.

I resist the urge to burn a cross into his cheek forevermore.

“Yes,” I say bitterly.

“Good.” He releases me with a dismissive nod. “We sail to Belterra tomorrow evening, then. Seven o’clock. Wear something... green.”