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Chapter Forty

The Clucking Hen

We huddle at the edge of Cesarine that night, peering out at the docks from a rather damp and putrid alley. It smells of fish. Or refuse. My nose wrinkles in distaste. None of the vampires comment, however—except for Odessa, who grimaces like someone shoved pins in her eyes—so I say nothing either. If they can endure such stench, I can too.

“Hood on, I think,” Michal murmurs at my ear. “They’ve almost finished their inspection.”

He loaned me his traveling cloak before we departed Amandine. Though Dimitri offered, we both ignored him, and a silent truce passed between us in that moment—mutual distrust of Dimitri, of course, but also mutual understanding that neither would mention what transpired between us in the attic. I cannot decide if I’m grateful. Now that my anger has ebbed, only a hollow sort of shame remains, one that I cannot examine too closely.

And certainly not right now.

I pull the cloak over my hair, where it ripples in the midnight breeze along with the reward notices. Torn from wind and discolored from rain, they litter every available inch of this alley, thicker here than they’d been in Amandine. As if my father suspected that I’d return home eventually, or perhaps that I never left Cesarine at all. Unable to help it, I resume pacing, the cloak billowing around my feet in the muck and mire of the alley. Too long. Too large. I roll the sleeves up my hands irritably, feeling like some sort of reaper, an eternal harbinger of bad luck. All I need is a scythe.

I take care not to glance at the docks.

“This sketch doesn’t look a thing like you,” Odessa muses, plucking a notice from the dirty brick and scrutinizing my face up close. “You look much too... regal. Like a rather crotchety dowager empress I used to know.” When I snatch the notice from her gloved fingers, ripping my face in two, she arches a bemused brow and flicks her half away dispassionately. “Why, Célie, whatever is the matter? You seem upset.”

“Shall I peruse your face from an inch away?”

“I would welcome it, darling. I have nothing to hide.” With a smirk, she lifts a shoulder and turns away. “You should know, however,” she says, “chronic anger twists the human body up inside—high blood pressure, heart and digestive problems, headaches, and even skin disorders.” She reaches out to smooth the furrows between my eyes, her own glittering with mischief. Though she hasn’t yet tried to trap me in conversation about her brother, she seems more determined to engage me than before, more determined to like me, but I know she heard my suspicions. “I studied medicine several years ago.”

“You’re practically a healer, then.” I swat her hand away, irritated, but she merely laughs and sweeps across the alley to Dimitri, who’s been trying and failing to catch my eye for the greater part of four hours. When I accidentally look at him now, he pushes forward with fervent determination.

“Célie—”

I turn away with a groan, unable to face him, and my sister’s note seems to burn a hole through my bodice. I resist the urge to thrash my head and gnash my teeth as Tears Like Stars had done—because what I mean, of course, is not ever . Dimitri might make a better suspect than my sister, but if Filippa knew Babette—and that’s a very large if —does that mean she knew him too? Could he have been her mysterious lover? Do I even want to know? “Just stop, Dimitri,” I tell him wearily when he opens his mouth again. “Leave me alone.”

Just stop, Célie. Leave it alone.

Undeterred, he reappears in front of me, reaching into his cloak and withdrawing a small linen sack. “I know you don’t want to talk to me right now, but when is the last time you ate? I took the liberty of procuring bread on our way through the city—”

Reacting instinctively, I knock the bag out of his hand, and it crashes to the filthy street between us. I refuse to apologize. “And what else did you take the liberty of procuring?”

He blinks. “I don’t know what you—”

“You still have blood on your collar, Monsieur Petrov.”

Dimitri’s face hardens for a split second before re-forming into a brilliant smile once more. He extracts a golden pear from his cloak next, waving it in front of my nose. “Don’t be like that, darling. Despite what you think you heard in Les Abysses, I am not a murderer—er, not that murderer—and you must be ravenous by now. What sense is there in starving yourself?”

“Enough, cousin.” Voice low, Michal leans against the mouth of the alley, watching the commotion at the docks and blending into darkness like he’d been born a shadow instead of a man. “This isn’t the time or place.”

“But she suspects—”

“I know what she suspects, and trust me”—he pins Dimitri with an expectant look over his shoulder—“the two of us are going to have a very long discussion when we return to Requiem. Though I don’t agree that you killed Mila, I will hear every detail of your relationship with Babette Trousset, and I’ll learn about the contents of her grimoire too, particularly the page marked FOR LUST OF THE BLOOD.” A dark pause. “I assume you know of it.”

Dimitri glares at him in mutinous silence.

Though I don’t agree that you killed Mila...

I turn away quickly, trying not to curse Michal for his sudden and inconvenient levelheadedness. If he doesn’t suspect Dimitri, he must suspect someone else, and if the note in Filippa’s cross burned any hotter now, it would actually start to smoke.

Tucking it beneath my collar in a would-be casual gesture, I start to pace once more, my thoughts running rampant. Because this isn’t the time or place to dwell on Dimitri. This isn’t even the time or place to dwell on Filippa, and—and because my finest boots are now scuffed. They’re now stained from our little adventure into Amandine, and the blood will probably never come out. I should’ve soaked them in white vinegar, should’ve scrubbed them until the leather looked shiny and new again. The elderly couple who lived in the town house kept their pantry stocked full of things like white vinegar and soap, and they never would’ve known if I’d borrowed some. I shake my head as I pace, growing more and more agitated. They never would’ve known if I’d lit my boots on fire either, or if I shed this bloody dress and ran naked and screaming into La F?ret des Yeux, never to be seen agai—

“Célie.” Once more Michal turns at the mouth of the alley, his lips twisting in a wry grin. Fresh shouts sound from the docks behind him. “Your heart has started to palpitate.”

I lift a hand to my flushed chest. “Has it? I don’t know why.”

“No?”

“ No. ”

He sighs and shakes his head, pushing off the wall to stand beside me. As always, he clasps his pale hands behind his back, and the familiar gesture brings me a strange modicum of comfort, despite the way he seems to peer down his nose at me. “You escaped an undead creature today.”

I straighten my spine. “Yes, I did.”

“You outwitted a blood witch only hours before that.”

Odessa examines a sharp nail absently. “With help.”

“Both were much cleverer than those you called brethren,” he continues without acknowledging her. Though I long to glance over his shoulder at mention of the Chasseurs, I force myself to concentrate on his face instead. Something like pride glints hard and sharp in his eyes. “They will not check the caskets again, Célie. Even huntsmen fear the idea of death, and—though they’ll never admit it—fear proximity to it as well. After the harbormaster has finished his inspection, we’ll slip inside our inventory without notice, and my sailors will load us aboard our ship without interference. We’ll be back in Requiem before daybreak.”

As if in answer, the harbormaster—a thickset man with swarthy skin and sharp eyes—bangs his gnarled hand upon the last of the caskets and shouts the all clear. His crew moves on to the next cargo scheduled to disembark, leaving the vacant-eyed employees of Requiem, Ltd., to mill about until Michal compels them otherwise. Apparently, this shipment of caskets has been crafted from a rare conifer found only in La F?ret des Yeux—at least, that’s what Michal tells me. It’s been rather difficult to listen to the finer points of his plan when beyond him—beyond the alley, the sailors, and the caskets—Chasseurs swarm the docks, their blue coats like little flares of memory in the darkness. Bright and painful and intrusive.

A familiar voice rises sharply from among them.

I close my eyes at the sound.

“That said,” Michal murmurs, “I can still arrange for you to speak with him.”

Instinctively, my eyes snap open, and they dart over Michal’s shoulder before I can stop them, searching desperately for the one person I do not wish to see.

They find him instantly.

There—striding through the heart of his men—Jean Luc kicks over a barrel of grain in frustration. The contents spill across the feet of an irate farmer, who shouts himself purple at the loss of inventory. Jean Luc, however, has already lunged to straighten the barrel. He hastily scoops the grain from the street with his bare hands, shaking his head and apologizing over the farmer’s tirade. When Frederic kneels to help, Jean Luc curses bitterly and shoves him away.

I take a small, involuntary step forward.

Jean Luc.

My chest seems to seize at the sight of him—so near to me, so dear to me, yet so far away too. We were so similar once. I still remember the fierce, determined gleam in his eyes during the Battle of Cesarine. We spent the greater part of the night whisking children into the relative safety of Soleil et Lune. Despite the horror of the circumstances, I’d never felt more connected with another person. Both of us working hand in hand with a common purpose: to serve those children, yes, but also to serve each other. We’d formed a partnership that night—a true partnership—and that morning, when Jean had covertly wiped the tears from Gabrielle’s cheeks, I’d known I loved him.

My heart aches at the memory.

Looking at him tonight feels like looking into a broken mirror; his reflection is somehow sharper than before. Fractured. Though his dark hair remains the same, his eyes now shine with a crazed sort of light, and deep shadows have crept beneath them, as if he hasn’t slept in weeks. At his orders, Chasseurs seize luggage for impromptu search, while the constabulary have formed several blockades throughout the docks, carefully inspecting the face of each and every individual who passes. One of them snatches the arm of an unsuspecting woman with dark hair, refusing to release her until her husband—who holds a squalling baby with one hand and a shrieking toddler with the other—threatens civil action.

Across the way, Basile has accidentally let loose a flock of chickens, and dozens of men dart around the water’s edge, trying to catch them before the harbormaster’s dog, which barks gleefully and snaps at passersby’s heels. Charles holds a crimson gown from another woman’s luggage up to the torchlight while Frederic attempts to calm the seething harbormaster, who storms toward the farmer and Jean Luc with several of his crew in tow.

“You’re a blundering fool!” He jabs Jean Luc hard in the chest, and those nearest him all mutter their bitter agreement. “ Fifty years I’ve been running these docks, and I’ve never seen such a slipshod show of things—”

“ Ruined! ” Bellowing in rage, the farmer kicks his barrel of soiled grain to the street all over again. Jean Luc watches mutely as the kernels pour over his boots. “I’ll be reporting this to the king, huntsman . Over a hundred quarts you’ve cost me , and mark my words, you’ll pay for every couronne you’ve lost—”

“And where is old Achille, eh?” The harbormaster whirls around in search of the Archbishop while Jean Luc swallows hard and clenches his jaw, still glaring at his feet. Behind him, Reid emerges from the watching crowd, his face tight and grave as he leads the harbormaster’s dog forward by a piece of rope. “Doubt he knows what you’re on about, does he? You can be sure I’ll be speaking to him too, and I’ll be demanding some sort of recompense. Just look at my harbor. Backlogged, young’uns crying, chicken shit everywhere—”

“And for what ?” The farmer actually pushes Jean Luc now, and Reid and I both step forward at the same time. When Reid clasps a hand on the man’s shoulder, scowling, the man laughs unpleasantly and spits at Jean Luc’s feet. “Because your little whore might be hiding in my crop?” He jerks away from Reid and kicks grain toward Charles, who still holds the crimson dress in his hands. “Oh, we all heard, didn’t we? We know all about her little tryst up north. My brother is friendly with one of your huntsmen, isn’t he? And it’s looking like she isn’t dead, after all. Wasn’t abducted either. It’s looking like she ran off with some creature instead.”

I expel a pained breath as Jean Luc’s entire body stiffens.

“Mademoiselle Tremblay is wanted for questioning in a murder investigation,” Reid says quietly, handing the dog’s rope to Frederic. “She could provide much-needed evidence to identify and bring the killer to justice.” Stepping to stand beside Jean Luc, Reid addresses the rest of the harbor, his voice louder now, strong and steady. “We apologize for the inconvenience, and we appreciate your cooperation in our efforts to locate Mademoiselle Tremblay, who—despite speculation—we still believe to have been abducted. She was last seen in Amandine fleeing a place called Les Abysses—”

“A brothel,” the farmer snarls.

“—and could soon be boarding a ship out of Cesarine,” Reid continues determinedly, ignoring the outburst of scandalized whispers. He looks to Jean Luc then, who nods tersely and squares his shoulders. Though Jean’s eyes remain tight, his breath rather shallow, his voice carries a newfound note of authority as he addresses the crowd.

“If this happens,” he says, “our chances of recovering Mademoiselle Tremblay vanish with the tide. We ask for your patience only a little longer as we try to protect an innocent woman from unspeakable evil.”

Recover.

Protect.

The words catch in my throat as the farmer spits again, the harbormaster scoffs, and Jean Luc ignores them both, turning away abruptly to catch the nearest chicken. Conversation finished. With a shake of his head, Reid trails after him, and—to my horror—the chicken runs directly toward the caskets as the Chasseurs and constabulary resume their search.

Holding my breath, I try to imitate Michal and melt into the shadows, infinitely grateful for his black cloak.

“Jean Luc, wait.” Reid breaks into a light jog to catch up to him, frightening the chicken—a fat little hen with a particularly shrill cluck—onto Michal’s and my casket. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Jean Luc lunges, swiping wildly, and misses the hen completely. “That cockhead farmer said it all, didn’t he? Célie is alive, and rumors place her at a magic brothel hundreds of miles from here. Not only as a patron,” he adds bitterly, “but also, it seems, as a worker.”

Reid approaches the hen cautiously. “We don’t know why she was there.”

“The witnesses’ reports were pretty clear, Reid.”

“Célie wouldn’t do that to you, Jean.”

My heart crashes to somewhere between my feet, shattering upon the cobblestones. I shouldn’t be listening to this conversation. As before, these words are not meant for me, yet what can I do to escape them? Backing up as quietly as possible, I turn—determined to give them privacy, or perhaps to flee—and crash straight into Michal’s chest. His hands reach out to steady my arms, and fresh humiliation, fresh shame , washes through me as I look into his cool expression. As I glance to where Odessa and Dimitri stand like statues in the alley behind, equally still and cold and silent. They can hear every word too. I know they can, and I—I think I’m going to vomit all over Michal’s shoes again.

Because your little whore might be hiding in my crop?

It’s looking like she ran off with some creature .

And then—on the wings of my shame—two words.

Recover.

Protect.

“Where is she, then?” At the sound of his voice, I turn once more, and Jean Luc extends his arms in helpless supplication, gesturing to the caskets, to the docks, to the city at large with increasing agitation. His face contorts. His hands begin to shake. “If she can visit a brothel in Amandine—if she can practically disrobe for a stranger—why can’t she visit her fiancé in Chasseur Tower?”

But Reid shakes his head curtly, impatiently, as Michal’s hands fall away from my arms. “We don’t know anything about vampires. For all we know, she could’ve been coerced—”

“She wasn’t wearing her engagement ring.” The hen clucks forgotten between them, pecking at spilled grain. “Did Lou tell you that part? Every report said the same—crimson dress of a courtesan and no ring on her finger.”

“That means nothing. Nothing. No, listen to me, Jean.” Reid seizes Jean Luc’s arm when he sneers and begins to stalk away. “ Listen. The two of you fought the night of her abduction—she wasn’t wearing it then either. She wasn’t wearing it in Brindelle Park.” Though Jean Luc snarls, Reid doesn’t relinquish his grip. “The vampire himself could’ve taken it from her, or it could’ve been lost in their tussle during the abduction. There are a hundred possible explanations—”

Jean Luc does jerk away now. “And we won’t know the real one until we find her.”

Reid sighs heavily and watches as Jean marches right past the hen. “You’re determined to think the worst.”

“No, what I’m determined to do is find her,” he snarls over his shoulder. “Find her, arrest the fucking night creature who took her, and never let her out of my sight again.”

After another long moment, Reid follows him back into the tumult—the harbormaster and Frederic have nearly come to blows over the former’s dog—leaving me to the aching silence of the alley. “Célie?” Dimitri asks quietly, but I lift a hand to silence him, unable to speak.

Recover.

Protect.

I knew those words tasted wrong, tasted acrid and resentful in my mouth. His previous condemnation weaves through them softly, strengthening their rancor. I can hardly discharge her. Célie is delicate.

We both know Morgane would’ve slit your throat if Lou hadn’t been there.

Never let her out of my sight again.

Swallowing them down, I force myself to look at Michal, to meet those black eyes with my own. “No,” I tell him, trying to adopt his composure, to adopt the cool, dispassionate countenance of a vampire. I can be made of stone too. I will not crack, and I will not shatter. “I don’t want to speak with him.”

Though Michal’s mouth tightens like he wants to object, he nods curtly instead, readjusting his hood over my hair. When he steps backward, offering me his hand, his meaning is loud and clear: this time, the choice to go with him is my own.

I accept his hand without hesitation.

We don’t speak as he pulls me into our casket, as Odessa and Dimitri follow in theirs, as their sailors tow us across the harbor toward our ship. Still I hold my breath, counting each heartbeat and praying nothing goes awry. Are all statues as hollow inside as I now feel? As brittle? Do they all secretly suffer this sense of dread? The harbormaster’s dog has stopped howling, at least, and the children have quieted. Even the farmer has stopped cursing. Only the terse orders of the Chasseurs remain, the grumblings of the merchants and the harbormaster’s crew.

I blink away tears of relief.

Just as I exhale—convinced we’ve made it to the gangplank—a sailor near my head lets out a panicked shout. A hen shrieks in response, and the entire casket topples, lurching sideways. Michal’s arm snakes around my waist in the next second, but before I can draw another breath, we smash into the wall of the casket, plummeting to the cobblestones as the lid crashes open. Though Michal swears viciously, twisting midair to position himself beneath me, my teeth still rattle as we spill onto the ground.

As we roll right into a pair of familiar grain-speckled boots.

“Oh God,” I whisper.

Oh God oh God oh God—

“Trust me.” Sighing, staring up at the stars in resignation, Michal’s head thuds upon the cobblestones as a horrified Jean Luc gapes down at us and absolute silence descends in the harbor. “He’ll be no help at all.”