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Chapter Thirty-One

Eden

Michal doesn’t lie about reaching Amandine in four hours. It should be impossible, but I’m beginning to understand there is no such thing as impossible anymore—not when Les éternels rule the night. After cleaning the mess from his shoes in long-suffering silence, Michal gestures for me to climb atop his back—which I vehemently refuse—before sighing, sweeping me into his arms, and whisking me into Cesarine.

“ Wait—! ” The wind takes my cry, however, and Michal only pushes faster, the city passing in a blur of browns and blacks and grays. At least it isn’t raining here; at the speed with which we now move, the drops would’ve bruised my face. As it is, Michal lurches to a halt twice, twisting me around just before I empty my stomach onto the street.

“Finished?” he asks dryly.

I’ve barely wiped my mouth the second time when he sets off again.

I suppress another low, pitiful moan, and Michal’s mouth twitches again like he wants to laugh. This entire evening has been humiliating, debasing , and I swear on everything holy that I’ll never drink another drop of alcohol again.

My stomach gradually settles as we cross into La F?ret des Yeux and its whispering pines. I hardly notice the way they’ve sickened, their bows turning black and curling inward. What possessed me to drink absinthe as my first crusade in the land of vice? Why did I ever agree to climb into a coffin with Michal? And why— why —did he treat me with such kindness inside it? Why did he comfort me? My stomach twists anew at the gentleness with which he touched my hair. At the fierceness in his gaze when he forced me to admit the truth—that Lou couldn’t have killed Morgane without me. That we’d needed to do it together, or not at all.

It would’ve been so much easier if he’d been cruel.

A different kind of sickness spreads through me at the direction of my thoughts, and I shake myself mentally. Because it doesn’t matter if he showed me kindness tonight. He still plans to kill Coco, to lure my friends to their deaths—he still kidnapped me—and one kind deed doesn’t outweigh a lifetime of horrid ones. Michal is still Michal, and to forget that would be the last mistake I ever make. He is not my friend—he will never be my friend—and the sooner we find the true killer, the sooner we can part ways forever.

I take a deep breath and nod.

It’s for the best.

Michal doesn’t take any road through the forest. He doesn’t need one. Though my hair grows wilder and wilder in the wind—which wrests tears from my eyes and the breath from my chest—Michal never slows, and he never tires. His footsteps never falter as the trees drift farther apart, and the hills around us rise into mountains.

Somewhere after Saint-Loire, I succumb to exhaustion and fall asleep.

He wakes me at the edge of the city with a murmured, “We’re here.”

Blearily, I blink at the streetlamp nearest us. It marks the beginning of Amandine, a glorious, sprawling city in the mountains. Warmth blooms through me at the sight of it, at the familiar smell: lichen and moss and damp earth, the sharp sting of cypress. Cesarine might be the political and industrial capital of Belterra, but I’ve always preferred Amandine’s libraries and museums and theaters. Before my father sold our estate here, my mother would host parties filled to the brim with artists—actual, genuine artists who painted and wrote and acted—and Filippa and I would fall asleep on the staircase, listening to their stories. They always seemed so magical. So fantastical .

Michal sets me on my feet now.

Tonight, I suspect he’s going to show me an entirely different side of the city. Babette was a courtesan in Cesarine. It makes sense that she would’ve continued her work in Amandine. My heartbeat accelerates a bit at the possibilities, and by the wry slant of Michal’s lips, he hears it. “Three hours until sunrise,” he says before striding into the darkened street.

Mouth dry, I smooth my crinkled skirt and hurry after him. I’ve never stepped foot in a brothel before—my parents wouldn’t allow it—let alone a brothel called Les Abysses. It sounds positively, delightfully thrilling .

“Try not to skip with glee.” Though clearly attempting to sound superior, the amused glint in Michal’s eyes quite ruins the effect. “We’re here for reconnaissance, nothing more.”

“What’s it like?” I ask, burning with curiosity. “The brothel? It is a brothel, isn’t it?”

He casts me a probing glance. “The absinthe wasn’t adventure enough for you?”

My face flushes, and I abruptly remember that it smells like something died in my mouth. “You don’t have any mint, do you?” When he shakes his head, I snatch his arm and steer him left, toward an apothecary I used to know. Then I stop short. Because it won’t be open at three o’clock in the morning. Indeed—I peer around the street in growing hopelessness—the city has turned into a veritable graveyard. Not a single creature meanders past. Not even a cat. A groan of frustration builds in my throat. What am I going to do ? I can’t very well make my debut at Les Abysses reeking of sick .

Sighing heavily, Michal drags me toward the shop anyway. I dig in my heels. “What are you—?”

Before I can finish the question, however, he breaks the lock on the door with a quick flick of his wrist. I gape after him as he sweeps inside and reappears seconds later with a toothbrush and mint paste. He thrusts them both at me, closing the door firmly behind him. “Happy?” he asks.

“I—” My hands close around the items. “Well, yes—that was very—very—” He rolls his eyes and paces several feet away. Giving me privacy, I realize with another start. “Thank you,” I say awkwardly. “Did you, er—did you happen to pay for these?”

Slowly, he turns to look at me.

“Right.” I nod hastily, making a mental note to repay the apothecary on my next trip to Amandine. Preferably without Michal breathing down my neck. Add thief to the list , a supercilious little voice in my head says, along with kidnapper and potential murderer . My eyes, however, cannot help but drift back to his perfect profile—and that’s when I see it. My own face staring at me from the shop across the street. Inked in large, crisp handwriting, the notice below it reads:

MISSING

CéLIE FLEUR TREMBLAY

NINETEEN YEARS OLD

LAST SEEN ON 10 OCTOBER

I turn away quickly, pretending not to have seen, and scrub my teeth a bit harder. Of course there are notices. My father cannot pretend to distribute his ludicrous reward without notices. The street remains dark and empty, however—no bounty hunters descend—and five minutes later, I follow Michal down a side alley and through a trapdoor in the cobblestones.

I try not to shudder at the thick, suffocating air in the stairwell beneath. It always feels like this belowground, like the walls and ceiling might collapse upon me at any moment, like the earth itself wants to swallow me whole. Thank God torches line the passage. Thank God we slow almost immediately, drawing to a halt at an unmarked crimson door. It boasts no knocker, no keyhole, not even a handle. Just smooth, painted wood.

It matches the precise color of my dress.

“Is this it?” Whispering, I resist the urge to fidget. To straighten my bodice and tame my snarled hair. It’s one thing to read about the unknown in books, to dream of exploring it yourself someday. It’s quite another to stare it right in the face. “Is this Les Abysses?”

“It is.” He arches a brow at me. “Are you ready?”

“I—I think so.”

Michal nods once before lifting a hand to the door, which swings open silently. Without another word, he steps inside, leaving me no choice but to follow. My mouth falls open as I cross over the threshold, and my breath leaves in a sudden whoosh .

The unknown is a whole new world.

Polished marble floors of swirling white give way to a shining gilt banister, where vines creep along the most magnificent staircase I’ve ever seen. I resist the urge to gasp, to gape and point and make an utter spectacle of myself. I spent my childhood surrounded by wealth, of course, but this single room—we appear to be on a landing of some sort—puts my father’s entire estate to shame. To my left, stairs lead down into shadow. To my right, they curve upward and disappear around a bend, but that hardly matters—not when a fresco of brilliant clouds and blue skies opens up on the ceiling above us. Two enormous trees sprawl outward from the center, and cherubim soar between their limbs. Each carries a great flaming sword.

“Welcome to Eden,” a light, feminine voice says.

I startle, clutching Michal’s elbow, as a white-skinned woman with peculiar eyes of gray smoke materializes in front of us. In her hands, she holds a beautiful red apple, and the pieces finally click into place. The vines, the trees, the cherubim...

Eden.

My breath hitches.

As in the Garden of Eden.

Smiling at the woman, I speak in an undertone to Michal. “I thought we were going to Les Abysses?”

He bows his head toward mine and replies in a mocking whisper. “That depends entirely on you. Ladies first.”

“What?”

He makes his meaning clear, however, by pushing me forward without ceremony. The woman turns her gaze to me instead, and upon closer inspection, I realize her eyes don’t have pupils or sclera. I try and fail not to stare. The gray smoke simply swirls, uninterrupted, throughout the whole of them, each lid fringed with pale lashes. They linger curiously on my crimson dress as I drop into a curtsy. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” I say, studying her through my own lashes in fascination. She looks almost like a melusine with her monochromatic complexion, but I’ve never seen a melusine with eyes like hers. I have heard whispers of melusines who possess the gift of Sight, however. Though rare, they must exist; their queen is an oracle, after all— the Oracle—a goddess of the sea who glimpses tides of the future.

Straightening, I smile wider now. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

With a small, enigmatic smile of her own, she says to Michal, “You know the rules, roi sombre. The maiden is not welcome here.”

“The maiden is with me. That makes her welcome.”

He speaks the words coldly, absolutely, as only a king could, and my chest pinches unexpectedly as his cruel mask slips back into place. As his eyes flatten to terrifying black, as his face hardens into that of the vampire I met aboard the ship and in the aviary. Gone is the spark of interest, the reluctant amusement. This is the Michal I know. No—this is the Michal he is .

It takes several seconds for me to realize what the woman said. The maiden is not welcome here. An odd sentiment, as I do not know her at all. Could she mean—are humans not welcome here either?

Those eerie eyes study Michal for several seconds more—or at least, I think they do—before flicking once more to me. “Very well.” She inclines her head in submission. “Bonjour, Eve.” When she presents the apple to me with both hands, her fingers have one too many knuckles. Definitely a melusine. In water, webs will grow between those long fingers. Her legs will transform into fins. “Will you partake of the apple and gain the Knowledge of Good and Evil, or will you resist temptation and seek Paradise?”

I tear my gaze away, blinking rapidly. Because something just moved in her eyes—something shapeless and shadowed at first, but growing clearer each second. Something familiar. No. Someone familiar. But—that can’t be. I shake my head to clear it, and when I risk another look, the melusine’s eyes are clouded once more. I must’ve imagined the face I saw there.

“Will you partake of the apple,” she repeats, her voice a touch louder now, “and gain the Knowledge of Good and Evil, or will you resist temptation and seek Paradise?”

Clearly, she expects an answer.

Focus, Célie.

I look determinedly at the apple now instead of her eyes. I know this story, of course, and it doesn’t end well: Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made. The melusine even wears swathes of iridescent black fabric to complete the effect; they glisten like scales in the candlelight, stark against her white skin. She is paler than even Michal.

“This is blasphemous,” I whisper to him, ignoring the eager flutter in my belly. We stand in a metaphorical Eden, which means the stairs to my left must lead to Les Abysses, while the stairs on my right must lead to Paradise. All I need to do is partake of the apple like Eve, who cursed the whole of humanity in a moment of weakness, and we can be on our merry way.

To the Abyss.

Hesitating, I crane my neck to peer into the shadows below. It’s just a clever metaphor , I remind myself quickly. It isn’t actually Hell. And yet... “What does she mean by ‘gain the Knowledge of Good and Evil’?” I ask Michal.

“Just what she said. If you eat the apple, you gain truth but lose eternity. If you resist temptation, you enter Paradise.”

“You couldn’t be more vague, could you? There are parts of this I still grasp.”

He clicks his tongue impatiently. “You’re stalling, pet. Make your decision.”

“The decision is already made, though, isn’t it? We need to go below.” I exhale a shaky breath, still hesitating to take the apple. This situation—though different—reminds me of another on the shores of L’Eau Melancolique. If I learned anything from those mysterious waters, it was that the truth isn’t always helpful. It isn’t always kind. “I just— I want to understand. What will happen after I bite the apple? What does ‘gain truth’ mean?”

“It means something different to everyone.” When I continue to gaze at him, expectant, his tone grows rather scathing, and irritation pricks my chest at the sound of it. “After you bite the apple, our lovely pythoness, Eponine”—he gestures to the melusine, who still watches us—“will tell you a truth about yourself. Is that clear enough?”

Oh, it’s perfectly clear now, and I don’t like it one bit.

“Have you partaken of the apple before?” I ask with a note of accusation.

“Many times.” As before, his lips twist into a not-quite smile. “For example, our pythoness once predicted that I would take a bride—a mortal woman with hair of onyx and eyes of emerald, not unlike yourself.” My cheeks blaze instantly at the ridiculous image—at the two of us, together , bound forever in holy matrimony—before he reaches out without warning, tucking a strand of hair almost affectionately behind my ear. His black eyes glitter with malice. “She also predicted that I’d kill her.”

“ What? ”

When I recoil from him, horrified, he drops his hand and chuckles darkly. “Then again, five hundred years ago, she told Odessa that she’d fall in love with a bat. To my knowledge, that hasn’t yet happened. Now, shall we stand here debating Eponine’s ploys for the rest of the night, or have you made your decision?”

Eponine’s smile does not falter. “They are not ploys, roi sombre, and that is not all I told you about your bride.”

The last of Michal’s laughter fades at that. “And as I told you ,” he says softly, “it will not happen.”

“The future oft reveals itself in strange and unexpected ways.”

“Take the apple, Célie,” Michal says, abruptly curt, “and let us be done with this.”

Eyes narrowing, I glance between them. They obviously don’t want to discuss the rest of Eponine’s prediction aloud, but as that prediction concerns me , their secrecy hardly seems fair. And what could possibly be worse than him killing me? No. I repress a shudder. It cannot be true. Odessa hasn’t fallen in love with a bat, and what’s more—Michal promised he wouldn’t hurt me. Indeed, it was his only promise, and I have no choice but to believe him at the moment. Besides, his suspiciousness makes sense. I learned melusines can be crafty during my time in Le Présage; they can be sly. Each word from them often holds a double meaning. Michal found a mortal bride, yes, but not in holy matrimony. He found a Bride of Death, which is something altogether different. Perhaps the second part of Eponine’s prediction relates to that.

It doesn’t mean Michal will kill me.

Or perhaps , says the supercilious voice again, her predication isn’t about you at all.

Strangely agitated, I ignore that voice, and my fingers close instinctively around the apple. “To your health,” I tell Michal, and without further ado, I lift the sweet fruit to my lips.

It tastes just like any other apple.

I chew quickly, ignoring the way Eponine’s smile widens—like a cat who has cornered a particularly juicy mouse. The impression only intensifies when she begins to circle me, her long and glittering robes trailing behind her. “Take out what is in your pocket.”

I hesitate for only a second before extracting the silver cross and dangling it from my fingertips, where it spins and glints in the lamplight. Eponine studies it in silence for a long moment. Beside us, Michal tracks her every step. I cannot decide if he dislikes her or simply distrusts her; either way, I do not envy the pythoness. “Tell me what you see,” she says at last.

I frown at her. To be completely frank, I expected much worse. “It’s a silver cross.”

“And?”

I hand the apple to Michal. “And it’s... ornate, bright, with filigree around the edges. It belonged to Babette Trousseau.” I trap the cross pendant in the palm of my hand, extending it to her. “She etched her initials along the side. See? Just there.”

Light, delighted laughter spills from Eponine’s mouth. “Are you sure?”

Brow furrowing, I angle the cross toward the nearest lamp, and golden light spills upon the markings. “Quite. Her initials are faint, but they’re right there, etched into the silver like I said. BT.”

At last, Michal looks away from Eponine, lifting my wrist to examine the cross. Despite his fit of temper with the prophecy, his touch remains carefully light. “This doesn’t say BT.”

“Of course it—”

“Someone tried to carve over the original letters, but the strokes are different.” He regards me almost warily. “I don’t think Babette was the original owner of this necklace.”

I snatch my wrist away from him, unaccountably offended. “Don’t be ridiculous. What are you talking about?”

“Why didn’t you give the necklace to your brethren after you discovered Babette’s body?”

“I—” My frown deepens as I look between him and Eponine. “It just didn’t feel right to turn in something so personal. The necklace plainly meant something to Babette, or she wouldn’t have been carrying it with her. I was going to give it to Coco instead,” I add defensively. “She would’ve wanted it.”

“But you didn’t give it to Coco. You kept it. Why?”

“Because someone abducted me before I had the chance.” My voice echoes a touch louder than necessary in the still and quiet of the landing. Perhaps because I’ve developed a strange connection to this cross, and I don’t relish the idea of it belonging to someone else. Perhaps because I shouldn’t have kept it in the first place. Or—perhaps the most disturbing—because I cannot unsee my sister’s face in Eponine’s smoke-filled eyes. “What does it matter why I kept it? Shouldn’t we be descending into Les Abysses now? I partook of the apple, which means we’re free to go below.”

“It matters,” Michal says firmly, catching my sleeve when I move to shove past him, “because the original initials are FT.”

FT.

FT.

Oh. He means—

FT.

The letters wash through me like a flood, but instead of carrying me away, they freeze my insides solid. “Filippa Tremblay,” I whisper, turning slowly to face him. “You think the necklace belonged to my sister.”

He answers with a small nod.

“No.” I shake my own head abruptly, forcefully, the ice in my chest melting to molten-hot conviction. I plunge the cross into my pocket and seize the apple from his hand. As it turns out, there is such a thing as impossible , and we’ve stumbled upon it in this exact moment. Michal isn’t going to kill anyone—not if I can help it—and my sister—my dear, departed sister—couldn’t have owned this cross before Babette. Without a doubt now, Eponine is a charlatan, and Michal needs his vision checked. “It seems you’ve already forgotten our cozy little confessional. Let me remind you: Filippa has been dead for over a year. The murders started last month. She isn’t involved in this.”

“Célie,” Michal says quietly, but I refuse to hear another word. Not about this. As far as I’m concerned, this conversation never happened, and our pythoness is a mermaid in a gauche costume. Impulsively, I sink my teeth into the apple once more, chewing the sweet fruit without tasting it.

“ There. ” I lift the apple to show the pythoness my second bite. “I partook of your wretched apple again, so I demand another truth—an actual truth this time, and not about me. I want to know about Babette Trousset.”

Eponine tilts her head, irritatingly calm despite the circumstances. “You may only partake of the apple once per night, Célie Tremblay.”

“You recognize me from the notices outside. Excellent.” I cross my arms in my best impersonation of my sister, of Lou and Coco and every other stubborn woman I’ve ever met. “You’re about to learn much more than just my name, however. I can be quite stubborn when I want to be.”

Though he says nothing, Michal moves to stand behind me. To loom behind me.

Eponine pretends not to notice. With another curious smile, she says, “My own sister, Elvire, speaks highly of you, mariée. I believe you met her in January when you visited Le Présage. You showed her kindness.”

Perhaps not the notices, then.

“It wasn’t difficult. Elvire is lovely.”

“There are many humans who disagree.” A pause. “However, for the sake of my little sister, I must ask... are you certain you wish to enter Les Abysses? I am not the first pythoness to warn the descent to Hell is easy, and I will not be the last. If you continue on this path, you will not be able to turn back.”

“Babette has died ,” I say emphatically. As if any of this has been easy. “Any one of us could be next if we don’t find her killer.”

“Hmm.” Her smile fades as she considers me, but she no longer seems to see me at all; her gaze has turned peculiar, almost inward , as if she stares at something we cannot see, and her voice takes on a strange, ethereal cant. “You seek someone, yes, but forget someone seeks you. If you are to succeed, the killer will too.”

My heart drops like a stone. “What did you say?”

Behind me, Michal radiates such cold that I can practically feel him burn down the length of my back. “Do you know the name of the killer, Eponine?”

She lifts her face toward the ceiling, still lost in the otherworld. Her hands shoot upward as well, and her fingers twitch as if searching for something, plucking at invisible strings. “No... his is not the name you need. Not yet.”

Michal steps around me now. “And yet it is the name I want . You will give it to me.”

“I will not.”

“Be very careful, pythoness.” Though she cannot see him, his eyes flash with the promise of violence. “I cannot compel you, but there are other ways of extracting information.”

Slowly, she lowers her hands, and her own eyes seem to clear, returning her to the present. When they finally land upon Michal, they narrow, and she draws herself up to her full and considerable height. “How very foolish you are, vampire , to risk the ire of my queen. You live on an isle, do you not?”

Michal suppresses a snarl, but even he seems reluctant to provoke the goddess of the sea. After several seconds, he forces his features into a mask of indifference, but I know—I know —that if Eponine invoked any other name, this night would’ve ended very different for her.

Which leaves it solely to me.

“I’m not leaving this spot until you explain.” Widening my stance, I plant my hand on my hip and glare at her. “ Properly explain. No more riddles.” When she arches her pale brows, unimpressed, I resist the urge to shrink beneath her stare. Because I don’t care if her patience has grown thin. Mine unraveled hours ago. “I’ll stand here all night if I must. I’ll frighten away all your customers. For all your pomp and pageantry, you still need customers, don’t you? This is a place of business. I’ll tell everyone both brothels are full of humans like me, or I’ll”—inspiration strikes like a bolt of lightning—“I’ll tell them the Chasseurs are on their way!” I thrust the apple toward her for emphasis. “Is that what you want? Huntsmen running amok?”

She scowls between me and Michal. “You dare invite even their name into this sacred place?”

“Oh, I’d dare a lot more than that. Perhaps I’ll invite the real thing.” A lie. “At this very second, half the kingdom searches for me. I’m quite certain that a huntsman or two will answer my call. Isn’t—isn’t that right, Michal?”

Though he doesn’t look at me—though his gaze remains cold, remote, as he considers Eponine—there is almost... satisfaction in the set of his jaw now. Perhaps triumph. “She means every word,” he says softly, strolling to the wall beside the stairs to lean against it. He tips his head at me infinitesimally before picking a crimson thread from his sleeve.

“That’s right.” My stomach swoops low at his assent. “I can be incredibly vexing.”

Without warning, the apple flies from my hand to Eponine, who clenches it tight in her fist. “I can see that.” Her voice has lost its light, ethereal quality, and she sounds very ugly now. Very ugly, indeed. “Though even I cannot see why Elvire dotes on you. I will not give you the name you seek, but—if you leave my presence this instant—I will give you another: Pennelope Trousset. She is Babette’s cousin and confidant, and she will lead you where you need to go.”

Pennelope Trousset. I commit the name to memory, and—for Elvire’s sake—force myself to take a deep, calming breath and curtsy once more. “Thank you, Eponine. It was... interesting to meet you. Please tell your sister I’ll visit soon.”

“I will not lie to my sister, Célie Tremblay. Now go.” She waves a skeletal hand, dismissing us, those eerie eyes burning into mine even as the rest of her begins to fade, to dissipate like smoke in the wind. Her voice, however, lingers after her body has disappeared. “And take care of the company you keep. We will not meet again.”

As I follow Michal down the stairs, her true meaning rings clear and ominous behind me: Because you will be dead.