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Chapter Thirty-Two

Les Abysses

I often understand why my father fell prey to magic.

Though I hate him for it—though I blame him entirely for my sister’s death—I understand its lure. It lingers like a toothache when you’re surrounded by extraordinary people, when you yourself are thoroughly and irreparably ordinary. When Lou beckons the stars with the crook of her finger, I cannot help but gasp and clutch my jaw. When Reid catches them in a glittering bouquet, I bite down hard, again and again, until that toothache consumes my entire body. Until I cannot think of anything else, cannot do anything else but want.

Sometimes, I think the wanting will kill me.

It certainly killed my sister.

“Are you afraid?” Voice low, Michal pulls me toward another crimson door. This one stands at the bottom of a narrow spiral staircase of black stone, and when he pushes it open, I force myself to march past him, to enter the room first with my chin held high.

“No,” I lie, breathless.

Michal smirks and follows after me.

We step onto a metal platform that runs the circumference of the room. Enormous fireplaces curve along the walls—built of the same black, rough-hewn stone as the corridor—and inside their hearths, strange black fire crackles, casting stranger light on the center of the room. The pit , I realize with a sudden stab of delirium. Several feet below the outer platform, it spans wide and deep; dark velvet pillows scatter across its floor between low chaises and settees, and atop them, creatures I’ve never seen. Most writhe and twist so closely that I can’t tell where one body ends and another begins, but some simply lounge and watch. My cheeks flush hotter with each second. There are witches and werewolves and melusines, yes, but there are also... others. Creatures I’ve never before seen.

You know the rules. The maiden is not welcome here.

Any doubt of Eponine’s meaning flees when a pallid woman laps at the bloody palm of a scarred courtesan. When a dragonesque man flicks a forked tongue in the ear of another. When a horned woman digs sharp nails into the latter’s hips. Behind them, a fully transformed werewolf throws their head back, howling as a man with scales strokes his tail. No human—at least, no discernible one—joins the revelry.

Wait.

It takes several seconds for my eyes to see past the—the relations occurring below us, but when they do, they dart between the different creatures with rising panic. In a sea of black fabrics, the courtesans burn bright like beacons in the night... because each one of them wears brilliant crimson.

My eyes widen at the realization, and I sway on the spot.

Each and every courtesan wears a crimson gown, crimson suit, or crimson cape. Two melusines wear crimson roses in their silvery hair, while crimson jewelry drips from a broad-shouldered loup garou’s neck. Indeed, crimson is the only color in the entire room other than black, which is most startling for anyone else wearing it.

Namely me .

Whirling toward Michal, feeling rather light-headed, I hiss, “Why didn’t you tell me?” I seize my skirt and quell the urge to wrap it around his marble throat. “Give me your cloak!” I paw at his black traveling cloak instead. Tragically, I left mine aboard the ship. “Give it to me!”

A smirk still plays on his lips, and his black eyes glitter almost impishly as he evades my attack. “I told you to wear green.”

“You didn’t tell me the courtesans wear red .”

“According to you, I couldn’t have said a thing to change your mind.”

“If anyone here thinks I’m a courtesan, they’ll”—I wince and shake my head—“they’ll—”

“They’ll what ?”

I stare hard at my shoes, at the scuffed leather along the toes. At anything other than Michal, who sees too much and also nothing at all. “They’ll be very disappointed,” I whisper, my voice growing smaller with each word. I hate him for making me say them. For making me even think them. “Because I’m—I wouldn’t know the first thing about helping them, because I’m—because I’m a”—my voice is almost inaudible now—“a virgin.”

Michal still hears it. When I dare to glance back up at him, his smirk has faded. To my surprise, however, no pity has crept into his expression. No. That same strange intensity from the casket burns in his gaze, and he lifts a hand as if to touch my cheek before his fingers curl inward and he drops it back to his side. “No one would be disappointed,” he says shortly. Then he flags down a nearby courtesan, a lovely man with glowing violet eyes and lustrous dark skin. Bare-chested, he wears ruby studs in the shape of flowers through his nipples. “We need to speak with Pennelope Trousset,” Michal tells him.

The man dips his head—his ears are pointed—toward the pit. “Of course, monsieur, but Pennelope appears to be already engaged this morning. I’m late to an appointment myself, but might I suggest Adeline? We’ve been told her blood tastes sweetest.” He pulls a jewel-encrusted pocket watch from his belt, checking the time, before turning those beautiful violet eyes upon me. They flick down my dress curiously. “Is tonight your first shift, chérie?”

I swallow hard. “Er—no, monsieur.”

“No?” He blinks in confusion. “But how can that be? I never forget a face.” Leaning closer, he sniffs delicately, and his confusion only deepens at whatever he smells. I send up a fervent prayer of thanks that I brushed my teeth. “A human face, it would seem. However did you convince Eponine to let you in?”

Helpless, I glance to Michal for an answer, but he only rumbles with laughter and starts toward the pit.

“Do the courtesans know what you are?” Trying not to hyperventilate now, I clamber down the stairs after him. “You said you’ve been here before, and that woman”—I jerk my head to our left—“is drinking that man’s blood.”

“They do not have a name for our kind, but they know and respect our tastes.” Among the bodies in the pit, a dancing couple threatens to separate us, but Michal’s hand snakes back to seize mine. He pulls me to his side, murmuring, “I thought you weren’t afraid?”

“I’m not afraid. I’m—I—” But the words stick in my throat as I glance right, and the dragon man shifts, affording me an unobstructed view of his—of his—I turn my face away quickly, breath hitching, and lift a trembling hand to my forehead. What I am is woefully unprepared for a situation like this. Just like my mother and father wanted me to be, just like Evangeline and my governesses wanted too. In all my years, in all my education, I’ve never once learned—never once seen —

Filippa slipped through our window each night, yes, but she never told me what she did with her mysterious paramour. I’ve heard about sex, of course—read every book I could sneak into the house—but it’s much different to imagine it than to see it with my own eyes. Seeing it makes the room feel much smaller than it should be, much hotter, as if I’m standing in an open flame, burning slowly alive.

It makes me feel faint.

When I stumble, Michal catches me, pulls me across the room toward a courtesan who arches in the lap of a loup garou, his form caught halfway between man and wolf. His eyes gleam yellow. His teeth glint sharp. Though they aren’t quite in the act —at least, I don’t think they are—they still seem to be enjoying themselves. “Do you want to wait outside?” Michal asks, and his thumb —he slides it up my wrist to soothe my rapid pulse. “Eponine gave you her blessing. She won’t bother you again.”

“No.” I shake my head fervently and pull away. “No, I have to do this. I want to do this.” Then, because I cannot help it— “Does Eponine own this place?”

“She is its mistress, yes.”

“And Paradise?”

“She presides over it too.”

“What’s it like up there?”

He gestures around us. “Much like this. The courtesans wear white instead of red, and a choir of melusines puts all who enter into a sort of trance.” He pauses. “I confess, I’ve only visited Paradise once. It... felt much like a dream.”

It felt much like a dream.

A dream is exactly what this entire night has felt like.

When I fall silent, Michal sinks into a nearby settee, spreading an arm along its camel back while I stand awkwardly beside him. Unbidden, I glance toward the werewolf and courtesan. This must be Pennelope. She shares her cousin’s heart-shaped face and golden hair, her scarred and ivory skin. And the way she moves ... a heavy weight settles in my chest as I watch her. I could never hope to move like that.

I force myself to look away, to give them privacy. As the violet-eyed courtesan above pointed out, she seems... somewhat preoccupied at the moment, and quite unable to answer our questions. Perhaps we should’ve made an appointment. Who knows how long they might take to—to finish? Michal seems prepared to wait, but as he said, daybreak rapidly approaches. Could I just... tap her on the shoulder? I shift from foot to foot, considering my options. Perhaps I can simply clear my throat, and the two will magically break apart.

Voice casual, Michal says, “It isn’t a dirty word, you know.”

“What word?” I ask distractedly.

“ Virgin. ” He arches a brow at me. “No one here cares one way or another, so you needn’t whisper it like a curse.”

My mouth falls open in shock, in mortification, and my hands curl to fists at my sides. Just like that, I quite forget about Pennelope and her companion undulating behind us. “I never should’ve told you that. I never would’ve told you that if I’d known you’d want to—to discuss it.”

“Why wouldn’t we?” He tilts his head curiously. “Does it make you uncomfortable to talk about sex?”

“And if it does? Will you cease this conversation?”

“It’s rude to answer a question with a question, pet.”

“I am not your pet , and it’s ruder to continue addressing me as such.”

He studies me with rapt interest. “Do friends not take sobriquets? If I recall correctly, you called my dear cousin Dima .”

“You cannot be serious.” I stare at him in disbelief—both that he remembered the one time I shortened Dimitri’s name and that he could ever, even in the warped depths of his mind, consider pet as a term of endearment. “You are not my friend, Michal Vasiliev.”

He arches a brow. “No?”

“ No ,” I say emphatically. “That you would even think of friendship while you plan to maim and murder my loved ones proves you are quite incapable of it.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Every relationship has problems.”

“ Problems? You kidnapped me. You blackmailed me.” Indignant, I lift a finger for each offense. “You locked me in a room, and you goaded me into summoning ghosts. Only a few moments ago, you revealed a prophecy in which—”

Before I can finish, however, a square-jawed gentleman approaches us—no, approaches me —and extends a broad hand. The sharp bite of incense, of magic, trails in his wake. “Hello,” he purrs without preamble, kissing my fingers. “May I have your name, humaine?”

I stiffen at the word, abruptly and painfully aware that I’m not supposed to be here—and that my face and name litter the street outside. Cursing myself for forgetting my cloak, for wearing this silly dress, I duck my head. “Fleur,” I say, pulling my hand from his as politely as possible. “My name is Fleur... Toussaint.”

I cringe internally at the slip.

“Toussaint?” The witch furrows his brow, trying to place the name, before brushing it aside and inhaling deeply. A wide, unctuous smile spreads across his face at my scent. Humaine . “Might we spend some time together this morning, Mademoiselle Toussaint? I am... eager to know you better.”

“Er—no.” I shake my head apologetically. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t actually work here, monsieur.”

The witch’s smile slips. “I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t work here. This dress—it—”

“—is crimson in Les Abysses,” he finishes, scowling now. “As you stand alone in the pit, I can only assume you seek companionship.” A dark pause. “Unless witches are somehow offensive to you? Is that what this is, Madame Toussaint?”

“No, no , not at all! This dress”—I glare at Michal in accusation, and he gazes right back, completely at ease—“was a very poor joke, and I apologize for any misunderstanding it caused.”

“Humph.” Though the witch’s eyes narrow, his face relaxes slightly after hearing the earnestness of my words, and he edges closer to try again. “In that case... are you sure I might not persuade you to leave your companion for the remainder of the morning? I promise you will not regret it.”

Now I resist the urge to scowl. Apparently, he didn’t hear the part where I don’t work here , or else he’s conveniently forgotten in the last thirty seconds. Grudgingly, I look again to Michal, who has once more, somehow, become the lesser of two evils. Enormously entertained, he suppresses a smirk—still reclining against the settee—and in his black eyes, I see my own reflection snapping, You are not my friend, Michal Vasiliev .

Perfect.

Exhaling hard through my nose, I say, “My apologies, monsieur, for not explaining properly”—the witch leans forward eagerly—“but I’ve already made an appointment with this gentleman.” I drop stiffly to the settee beside Michal and force a would-be convincing smile. The witch still eyes the space between us in suspicion. Scooting a bit closer, I give Michal’s knee an awkward pat. “I shall be spending the rest of the morning with—with him.”

“So leave,” Michal tells the witch coolly.

For a second, it looks as if the witch might argue, but with one last disgruntled look in our direction, he turns and stalks away. I remove my hand from Michal’s knee at once. “I think I’m going to kill you,” I say pleasantly.

“I think I might enjoy it,” Michal says as another patron—this one a scaled creature with round, glassy eyes—approaches. When she asks for my name, my hand darts back to Michal’s knee. When she asks if I’ll join her by the fire, it creeps higher, clutching his thigh for dear life. When she brazenly asks for a kiss, I crawl straight into Michal’s lap, and he shakes with laughter underneath me.

“You are insufferable ,” I whisper as the woman sighs and slinks away. I brace my shoulder against his chest, unable to look at him, as this is quite possibly the most humiliating moment of my life. And yet—as absolutely revolting as it is to admit—he did tell me to wear green. “Do you mind if I just—er, sit here until Pennelope finishes her appointment?” Then, unable to keep a note of desperation from my voice— “ Has Pennelope finished her appointment?”

Michal’s laughter gradually subsides. “No.”

Damn it.

I sit there for a moment—trying not to notice the chill of his skin through my gown—before he shifts slightly, his free hand sliding around my back. “We’re starting to draw attention.”

I cast a panicked glance around, and—sure enough—more than one pair of eyes has settled upon us. Perhaps because I’m human, or perhaps because we’re not locked in passionate embrace like all the other couples. Instinctively, I press my cheek into Michal’s shoulder, praying my hair hides my face. It’ll be a miracle if I leave this place unrecognized. My stomach plunges as my mind plays out the consequences: Chasseurs swarming, Jean Luc shouting, Frederic seizing my arm—

“Would it be horribly rude for you to interrupt Pennelope?” I ask quickly.

Would it really be so terrible to see Jean Luc again?

“No one here will report you to the huntsmen, Célie.”

“A hundred thousand couronnes is a lot of money, Michal.”

I feel rather than hear his low rumble of agreement, and his arm—it tightens subtly around me, angling my face further into his chest. Shielding me , I realize with a start. “Loup garou are territorial by nature, occasionally aggressive, and he could perceive it as an insult if I interrupt. He could attack.” Instantly, I envision the enormous loup garou charging Michal, who stands still and silent, waiting, before tearing him in half. “Yes,” Michal says, correctly interpreting my shudder. “I doubt anyone here would help us after that.”

My throat tightens at our distinct lack of options. “So... we wait.”

“So we wait.”

It is the longest hour of my life.

Never before have I been so aware of a man’s proximity—of his hard thighs beneath mine or his cool hand on my spine. I try not to think about either, try not to acknowledge the way my heartbeat slowly descends to my belly. The cries of pleasure all around us do little to help the situation. If this is how they indulge in public, I cannot imagine what happens in the courtesans’ private rooms... unless the exhibition makes it better for some? I squirm a little at the thought, still flushed and restless, until the hand on my back seizes a lock of my hair and tugs. Hard. I gasp and pull away to face him. “What was that for?”

“Stay still.”

“Why?” I jerk my head toward Pennelope, who moans in time with the werewolf. “ She isn’t staying still.”

His fingers wrap more firmly around my hair, and he pulls harder, tilting my face upward and baring my throat. His eyes glint like shards of glass as he holds my gaze. “Exactly.” When I open my mouth to tell him exactly where he can put his arrogance, he flexes his hips against me, and I nearly choke on the words. Something—something hard presses against my leg. “Shall we do what they’re doing? Is that what you want?”

Heat floods my cheeks, but I don’t answer. I don’t need to answer. Of course I don’t need to answer, and of course I don’t want to—

“Interesting.” His eyes drop to the pale column of my throat, and that casual arm along the sofa moves to my knees. He drapes it across them, his fingers lightly brushing the back of my thigh; gooseflesh erupts down my legs. I shift in his lap again, unable to help it. Unable to breathe . Because this is Michal. I should fear the open hunger in his gaze, should push him away from me—should do it now —but the fluttering in my belly doesn’t feel like fear. It feels like something else, something tight and urgent and powerful. The realization catches in my throat as I stare at him. I feel powerful . “They’re almost finished,” Michal murmurs.

He dangled you over the sea , I remind myself fervently. He threatened to drown every sailor.

My hands still ache to touch him, however, not unlike how it felt when I drank his blood. Except I haven’t drunk his blood this time, and that— that should send me fleeing into the sunrise.

“How can you tell?” I ask instead.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.” Though I hesitate on the word, I realize it’s true—I do want to know more about this strange, secret world that has been kept from me. I want to understand, I want to learn , but most of all, I want—

No.

I dare not admit what I want, even to myself.

Because if I admit that I want Michal to keep looking at me like this, I’ll have to admit other things too, like how the name Madame Toussaint chafes against my skin. It shouldn’t, of course. Someday, it’ll be mine. Madame Célie Toussaint, devoted wife, mother, and huntswoman. A future as neat as it is pretty. As I told Michal, however, I have no intention of returning to Chasseur Tower, of pining for respect I’ve already earned. Which means...

Guilt spears the flutter in my stomach.

Would it really be so terrible to see Jean Luc again? The answer hides in the darkest part of my mind, waiting for me to look at it. To look at myself. I’ve been too scared to admit it—to lose the only place I have in this world—but here, straddling the unknown, the truth creeps out from the shadows. Ugly, yes—the ugliest thing I’ve ever done—but impossible to ignore.

I don’t want to marry Jean Luc.

My heart lifts and cracks simultaneously as I finally acknowledge the truth. “Célie?” Michal drags his gaze from my throat as I lift his hand to the feverish skin of my cheek. His fingers are cool. Lovely. The guilt twists deeper.

“This isn’t real,” I tell him. “We’re just pretending.”

It felt like a dream.

He tilts his head languorously to consider me. “Of course we are.” His thumb, however, brushes my bottom lip in the next second, parting it from the top and lingering there. Daring me, I realize, to make the next move. I should recoil from the challenge—that small, hateful voice in my head urges me to stop, stop, stop —but instead, I take his thumb into my mouth. If possible, his eyes darken further, and that same heady sense of power surges through me, washing away everything else. Without knowing why—without understanding the impulse at all—I suck gently, my tongue laving his skin with a confidence I shouldn’t feel. He tastes cold and sweet from the juice of the apple. I suck harder. “Easy,” he says through clenched teeth.

Reluctantly, I release his thumb. “Why?”

“ Because ”—he presses it hard against my bottom lip—“I’ve been imagining how you taste since I met you.”

I swallow, and he tracks the movement hungrily. “I thought vampires didn’t like the taste of human blood.”

“I think I’d like the taste of yours.”

I certainly liked the taste of his . We stare at each other, and from his expression, we’re remembering the same thing: how I climbed up his body in the aviary, drunk on his blood and desperate to kiss him. Would he let me kiss him now? Would I let him bite me? In a seemingly reflexive reaction, his hips jerk up at the memory, and heat stabs through me like a knife—I catch his thumb between my teeth and bite down violently.

In an instant, I know I’ve made a mistake.

His entire body clenches, and he wrenches his thumb from my mouth with preternatural speed. Ice creeps back into his voice as he says, “Never do that again.”

“Wh-What?” With that single cold command, reality crashes down upon my head, and I blink at him, confused and disoriented. The cries and grunts around us magnify as I return to the room, to myself , and realize what I’ve done. Oh God. I glance hastily at his unblemished thumb. “Did I—did I hurt you?”

His expression softens slightly. “No.”

Abrupt pressure burns behind my eyes, but I refuse to acknowledge it. Because I don’t deserve to cry, because this is my fault—this is all my fault—and my shoulders curl inward as the guilt returns tenfold, twisting my insides until I can’t look at anyone or anything. We were just pretending, yes, but we still— I still—

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to him. To Jean Luc.

Jean Luc.

I bury my face in my hands.

“Célie. Look at me.” When I don’t respond, shaking all over, Michal pries my wrists apart and forces me to meet his eyes. They burn into mine, stark and brutal with unfamiliar emotion, and I don’t like it. I don’t like the way it makes me feel— like my skin has shrunk too small, revealing the exact shape of me, and he can see every imperfection. “You cannot ever bite a vampire. Do you understand? You cannot consume my blood—or any vampire blood—ever again. It’s too dangerous.”

“But in the aviary—”

He shakes his head fiercely. “It was an emergency in the aviary. You might’ve died without it. But if something happens to you with vampire blood in your system, yours will be a fate worse than death.”

“What will happen?”

“You’ll become like us. Like me.” He clenches his jaw and glares determinedly over my shoulder. “That cannot happen.”

“Michal—”

“It will not happen, Célie.” Without another word, he lifts me from his lap and returns me to the settee. I fall silent, staring at the rigid lines of him, and nod. Because I don’t know what else there is to do. Because I couldn’t have actually pierced his skin—not without wood or silver—yet even the possibility has upset him beyond anything I’ve seen.

Most of all, however, because he’s right—this can never happen again. This will never happen again.

Brushing aside a tear, I glance back to check on Pennelope, only to find her standing directly behind the settee. She arches a golden brow, watching us, as a smile plays on her lush, red lips. “It seems I’ve missed the fun part. What a pity.”