Page 31

Chapter Twenty-Nine

La Fée Verte

I take a shot for each person I’ve seen die.

Michal—who has apparently grown a conscience in the five minutes since I’ve joined him—stops me after three.

“How dare you?” Swaying with the turbulent waves, I thrust my wet hair from my cheeks indignantly. They already feel warm, flushed, as if I’ve been lying in the sun for hours instead of drowning above deck. My throat, too, burns like I’ve been drinking acid. I peer suspiciously at the bottle now clutched in Michal’s hand, squinting at the green fairy on the label. Her smile appears innocuous enough. “I am trying to honor the dead, but you”—a particularly violent swell rocks the entire ship, and I stagger into him—“you wouldn’t understand that, would you?”

He rolls his eyes and steadies my elbow. “Probably not.”

“Typical.” I push away from him to seize Odessa’s desk instead, stripping off my heavy cloak before it suffocates me. “Death doesn’t affect you anymore. You’ve killed too many people.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Yes, I do say. I really do.” A pause. “Out of curiosity... how many people have you killed?”

The corner of his mouth lifts—more grimace than smile—and he stalks around me, tucking the bottle of absinthe inside Odessa’s desk. He shuts the drawer firmly. “That’s a very personal question, Célie Tremblay.”

“I’d like an answer.” I lift my chin. “And my bottle back. I only drank for Ansel, Ismay, and Victoire, but I still need to drink for—”

“And I’d like you not to vomit on my shoes.” His eyes narrow when I sway again, blinking as the heat from my cheeks washes through the rest of me. It happens quite suddenly, quite unexpectedly, and—I hesitate, glancing around the semi-lit ballroom in surprise. It seems pleasantly distorted around the edges now, almost like I’m in a dream, or—or perhaps seeing it through lovely, clouded glass. Michal scowls at something in my expression. Snatching my wrist, he drags me around Odessa’s desk and forces me into her chair. “It looks like both of us are going to be disappointed.”

I lift a hand in front of me, examining it curiously in the flickering lamplight. “I feel... strange. I’ve seen other people intoxicated, you know, but I never expected it to feel so—so nice .” I leap to my feet and whirl to face him, stumbling slightly. He catches my elbow once more. “Why don’t people do this all the time?”

Impatient, he exhales hard and pushes me back down. “A sip of your mother’s mulled wine didn’t make you feel nice ?”

I wave an airy hand. “Oh, I lied about that.”

“You what?”

“I lied.” A muscle in my cheek begins to twitch as his expression darkens. Ignoring him, I open Odessa’s desk drawer to steal back the bottle of absinthe. He nearly slams the drawer shut on my fingers. “You said I couldn’t lie, but I can and I did . And you had no idea.” I cannot help it now—a giggle bursts from my lips as I turn in my chair to poke his stomach. He swats my hand away. “I told you I tried my mother’s wine, but I never did. She doesn’t drink wine. She doesn’t drink alcohol at all—she doesn’t approve of it—so I’ve never had a sip in all my life before this.” I clasp my hands together in delight. “It’s wonderful , though, isn’t it? Why didn’t anyone tell me it’s so wonderful? Have you ever been drunk?”

He glares at the ceiling with a pained expression, as if questioning how, exactly, an ancient and all-powerful vampire could land himself in such a situation. “Yes.”

I gaze at him intently. “ And? ”

“And what?”

“Well, and everything . How old were you? How did it happen? Was it absinthe too, or—?”

He shakes his head curtly. “We aren’t discussing this.”

“Oh, come on.” Though I turn to prod him again, he sidesteps in a blur, and I’m forced to merely point my finger at him instead. “ That isn’t fair,” I tell him. “You may be able to—to dart around with your super-special speed , Michal Vasiliev, but I can be super and specially vexing when dismissed, which is quite unfortunate for you because I’m always being dismissed”—I wave my finger emphatically—“which means I’m quite comfortable being vexing, and I’ll simply keep asking and asking and asking until you tell me what I want to—”

He seizes my finger before I accidentally poke him in the eye with it. “That much is painfully clear.” Exasperated, he drops my hand back into my lap. “I was fifteen,” he says irritably when I try to jab him again. “Dimitri and I stole a keg of mead from my father and stepmother. The entire village came out to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary, and they never noticed it was gone.”

He was fifteen. “You drank all of it?” I whisper in awe.

“No. Mila and Odessa helped.”

“Were the four of you the very best of friends?”

He scoffs, though the sound isn’t nearly as cold and dispassionate as he wants it to be. No, he almost sounds fond , and I bite my cheek to hide my smile. “We almost set the barn on fire, and we spent the rest of the night vomiting in the hayloft. Our parents were furious. They made us muck the stables for hours the next day.”

Despite the vomit and horse muck, I cannot help but sigh at the story—inexplicably wistful—and lace my fingers together in my lap. “Did your father love your stepmother very much?”

“Yes.” He casts me a long, probing look. “He loved my mother too.”

“He sounds lovely.”

“Yes,” Michal says after another slight pause. Then, more reluctant— “He was... much like Dimitri in that way.”

Huh.

I purse my lips, considering him with keen interest for several seconds. The absinthe still blurs his features into a dark painting of sorts—all alabaster and obsidian—until he doesn’t look entirely real. I shake my head in bemusement. Because he is real, of course, even if the thought of him at fifteen with exasperated parents and mischievous cousins and a barrel full of mead fills me with an inexplicable and unexpected sense of loss.

I laugh reflexively.

“And to think—when I was fifteen, I still slept in a nursery and played with dolls.” I laugh again, unable to stop myself, and tip back abruptly to balance on my chair’s hind legs. Though he opens his mouth for a scathing reply, I speak over him, faster now. “Lou and Reid and Beau played a game of truth or dare with whiskey last year, but I was sleeping in the other room. I wish I hadn’t been, so I could’ve played too. I’d like to play a game like that sometime—and you’d think it would’ve been awkward, all of us traveling together, but it wasn’t awkward at all. Do you know why?” I pause dramatically, craning my neck to look at him upside down, waiting for his eyes to widen, riveted, or perhaps for him to lean forward and shake his head in anticipation.

“No,” he says, his voice strangely quiet instead. “I don’t.”

“Do you want me to tell you?”

A wry twist of his lips as he pushes my chair back to all fours. “Do I have a choice?”

“No”—I spring to my feet once more, and he takes a step back to avoid the collision—“and it wasn’t awkward because Lou and Reid are soul mates . Just like your parents , Michal.”

“Is that so?”

I nod enthusiastically. “You already know Reid and I dated because you—well, I don’t know how you know, exactly—but I bet you don’t know how perfect they are for each other. I bet you don’t know that Lou plays four instruments. I bet you don’t know that Reid dances splendidly around the maypole when he thinks no one is watching.” I poke him in the chest again, daring him to contradict me. “He dances better than you, I’m sure. And he’s taller.”

His lips twitch. “A god among men.”

“Reid would never invite that comparison. He’s too humble.” Lifting my nose in the air, I turn and snatch the bottle of absinthe from the drawer. This time, Michal doesn’t even try to stop me. He leans against the nearest coffin instead, folding his arms across his chest and watching me. “And don’t forget about his brother, Beau,” I tell him, unstoppering the absinthe for another drink. It doesn’t even burn my throat now. Indeed, my tongue has gone completely numb. “Beau just might be the funniest person in the entire world. He’s a gentleman and a rogue, and when he smiles, he looks exactly how I imagine a dashing pirate to look—all charm and dimples and danger. And Coco— Coco ”—I shake the bottle for emphasis, unable to stop myself—“Coco is so much more than a beautiful face, you know? She has this razor-sharp wit and tough exterior, but it’s only because she doesn’t like to feel vulnerable.” I cradle the bottle against my chest now, leaning against the desk and tracing the green fairy’s wings with my thumb. Perhaps I’ll dye my hair emerald like hers for the masquerade on All Hallows’ Eve. Perhaps Monsieur Marc will sew all of us matching wings. I sigh happily at the thought. “I just love them all so much.”

“Really?” He arches a sardonic brow. “I never would’ve guessed.”

Startled, I glance up at Michal and frown. Because I’d quite forgotten he was here. Because judging by his tone, he doesn’t love my friends like I do, and because he—he plans to—

The room swirls dangerously as I seize a letter opener from Odessa’s desk drawer, brandishing it at him like a knife. It’s much lighter than the lances and longswords of Chasseur Tower. Much more agreeable. “I will not let you kill them, monsieur,” I say abruptly.

He rolls his eyes, but otherwise, he doesn’t move. “Put that away before you hurt yourself.”

My own eyes flash at the dismissal. “You can’t tell me what to do. Everyone is always trying to tell me what to do, but only one of them is my captain— you are not my captain—which means I don’t have to listen to a word you say.”

At mention of Jean Luc, all humor in Michal’s expression flickers out.

“Ah, yes.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he stares down at the tip of the letter opener against his chest. Regretfully, it’s made of steel and not silver. “Célie, the huntswoman. For a moment there, I forgot. How many people would you have killed, I wonder, if you’d stayed in Chasseur Tower?” He steps pointedly into the letter opener, and it—my eyes widen in disbelief—it bends against his chest. It bends . I drop it hastily, scramble backward, and careen into Odessa’s desk. He doesn’t stop strolling toward me, however, slowly closing the distance between us. “You certainly never hesitate to attack me . Why is that?”

“Because you’re a monster.” Still backpedaling, I throw the bottle of absinthe at him to stop his approach. I don’t even know why I want to stop his approach. He promised he wouldn’t hurt me, yet something in the determined set of his jaw sends a delicious skitter down my back. He catches the bottle with one hand and throws it into Odessa’s desk drawer. “And I’m not a Chasseur,” I tell him stubbornly, darting behind a coffin. “Not anymore.”

“You certainly think like a Chasseur. Does your beloved captain know you’ve broken your vow?”

“No, he—” My brows furrow in confusion, and I recoil, blinking hard. I forgot to tell him about Jean Luc. I told him all about the others, but somehow, I forgot to mention how driven Jean is, how steadfast and capable and devoted. Does your beloved captain know you’ve broken your vow? A low hum fills my ears at the question, making it impossible to think. “What—what do you mean by that?” I ask him suspiciously.

He plants his hands atop the coffin. “You tell me.”

But—no. I don’t like his question. I don’t like it at all. Indeed, this conversation has grown irrevocably dull.

“I—I’m not telling you anything, and I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” Resolute, I turn away from him into the aisle. He will not ruin this moment for me, no matter how hard he tries. It doesn’t matter that I’m nineteen instead of fifteen, that my only companion here is la fée verte—I too can light a metaphorical barn on fire. I look around desperately for something to do. The ship has stopped pitching, which means we must’ve outstripped the storm, and beyond the stairs—somewhere on the sodden deck—a sailor plays a lively jig on his harmonica. That’s it. I bounce a little on my toes at the sound. We are in a ballroom, after all, and I haven’t danced in ages.

I don’t hear Michal move behind.

“Let us hope,” he says, his voice unexpectedly strained, “that Monsieur Diggory didn’t teach you how to dance.”

Leaping from my skin, I whirl again—this time to push him away—but stop short at the last second. He stands very close to me. Too close, yet my feet grow roots as I stare up at him. Standing this near, this still, I could count his eyelashes if I wanted. I could sweep my thumb across them, could trace the line of his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth.

I could graze the tips of his teeth.

My breath hitches at the intrusive thought, and unbidden, my gaze falls to his lips. Though his expression remains carefully empty, he doesn’t move either. He doesn’t breathe.

He didn’t breathe in the theater when he scented my fear. Or the aviary when he scented my blood.

Because he’s a monster , my mind repeats, thrashing wildly against me. A monster.

Stomach fluttering, I lift a tentative hand anyway.

In that instant, however, a knock sounds on the door, and a sailor pokes his head inside the room. “Your Majesty,” he says, and the unnerving tension between us shatters. Your Majesty. I snort loudly at the designation and step back. Michal turns stiffly to look at the sailor, who cowers beneath his black glare. “Apologies, Your Majesty, but three ships approach with the Belterran flag. They’ve signaled for a cargo search.”

A cargo search.

The words flit in my ears like bees, urgent and unpleasant and unwelcome. They clearly mean something important to Michal and his crew, however, which means they should probably mean something important to me. I can’t quite remember what , however—not with all this humming—or why they’ve started to sting. So I swat the words aside, bounding across the room and reaching for the sailor. “What is your name, monsieur?” I ask him eagerly.

Warm and calloused, his hands accept mine after a brief hesitation. When I squeeze them, he returns the pressure with a small smile and a furrow between his brows. “My name is Bellamy, mademoiselle.”

“You have an excellent name, Bellamy.” I lean into him conspiratorially. “And you’re very handsome too. Did you know that? Do you have a family at home? Do you dance with them? I love to dance, and if you’d like, I can teach you to love it too.”

He blinks at me, nonplussed, and glances at Michal. “Er—”

“Just ignore Michal. I always do.” When I swing backward, pirouetting under his arm, the vampire in question catches me instead. He yanks me toward him. His lips have pressed together in a hard, flat line, but I don’t care; I spin beneath his arm too, still laughing and speaking to the handsome sailor. “If I were a vampire, I’d compel everyone on the isle to ignore Michal. It would be marvelous.”

“How fortunate that’ll never happen.” Michal waves a curt hand at the sailor, who backs hastily out of the room. “Now”—he inclines his head toward something behind me—“stop bewitching my crew and get in the coffin.”

Instinctively, I cast a glance over my shoulder, and my heart crashes to somewhere around my navel. A familiar rosewood coffin leers back at me. I blink at it rapidly. The bees in my ears buzz in earnest now, and the room grows abruptly, intolerably hot. Scrambling away from Michal, I press my hands to my feverish cheeks. Why is it so hot in here? Have we somehow transcended Cesarine and sailed straight into Hell? “Get in the coffin, Célie,” Michal says again, softer now. His black eyes glint with impatience. And something else. Something I cannot name.

I snort again.

“Your Majesty, darling , has anyone ever told you no?”

He steps toward me with purpose. “Never.”

“I’m not getting into that coffin.”

“You drank a pint of absinthe for no reason, then?”

“A lady would never drink a pint of absinthe. I partook sensibly, and moreover—I said I wouldn’t get into that coffin. I never said I wouldn’t get into a different one.” Feigning a serene smile, I pat the lacquered ebony casket beside it. The floor begins to shift beneath my feet as the fourth shot of absinthe hits my stomach. “I’ll be getting into this one, thank you.”

“That’s my coffin.”

“It was your coffin. Now it’s mine.” Still smiling, still swaying, I fumble with the brass clasps and heave the lid open as shouts sound again from above. The royal fleet must be almost upon us. I lift my skirts and step into the casket before hesitating, turning to extend an expectant hand. “And I’ll take that witchlight now.”

“Your Ladyship, darling , has anyone ever told you no?” To my surprise, to my horror , Michal blows out the lamp before I can answer—plunging us in total darkness—and steps into the coffin with me.

“What are you doing ?” I seize his arm as he moves to sit, pushing him away and clinging to him in equal measure. I can’t see a thing beyond the sickening spin of the darkness. “You can’t just— Michal ,” I hiss, “this is highly inappropriate, so go somewhere else! And give me the witchlight before you do!”

“I refuse to spend the next hour cramped in another coffin when I built this one specifically to accommodate me. If you prefer not to share, by all means”—he extracts the witchlight from his pocket and shoves it into my hands—“choose another.”

I stare at him in the eerie white light, wide-eyed with disbelief, but he doesn’t wait for my decision. No. He sinks into the coffin like a person might sink into silk sheets, and that is not a comparison I need right now. I give myself a vicious mental shake and nearly stumble to the floor. It isn’t a comparison I need ever . Of course I can’t share such a small, intimate space with a vampire, especially one as domineering as Michal. Besides—I glance into the coffin—there isn’t even room to lie beside him. If I do this, I’ll have to lie, well— flush . My cheeks burn hotter.

If I don’t, however, I’ll spend the next hour alone in the semidarkness, trying not to remember those things la fée verte has kept away.

Perspective is a wonderful thing.

Before I can change my mind, I drop like a stone onto Michal’s chest, shimmying flat against his front—or trying to, at least. I nearly knock him in the forehead with my witchlight, and my knees prod first his stomach, then his hip, in their battle to contain my skirts. The red silk and chemise bunch up in the tight space, baring my calves, and I twist to straighten them in alarm, accidentally jabbing Michal in the throat with my elbow. “Sorry! I’m sorry!” But my knee jerks to the left with the words, grazing the place between his legs, and he inhales sharply. I gasp in horror. “I am so —”

“ Stop ”—he seizes my waist and lifts me straight into the air above him—“ moving. ”

Without another word, he shifts my weight, pressing me against the coffin wall, and reaches a hand between us to tug my skirts back into place. His fingertips brush my bare legs. My hair kisses his furious face. Neither of us acknowledge either, however, and when he lowers me back against him, I want to leap from the coffin and flee.

As if reading my thoughts, he pulls the coffin lid shut with a decisive click , and thank goodness he does—within seconds, the ballroom door opens, and heavy footsteps land upon the carpets.