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Chapter Forty-One

Our Last

I climb slowly to my feet.

Never before have so many people stared at me, stricken, but for once in my life, I don’t flush beneath their attention. I don’t stumble and stammer at their disbelief, their rising indignation. No, my limbs feel as if they’re made of ice, and my hands tremble as I smooth my crimson dress, as I push the hair from my face and lift my chin. Because I don’t know what else to do. I certainly can’t look at Jean Luc, can’t stand to see the raw accusation in his eyes. All the color has drained from his face, and though he opens his mouth to speak, no words come. He doesn’t understand. Of course he doesn’t—no one does—and helplessly, my chin begins to quiver.

This is all my fault.

Abruptly, I stoop to pick up the hen, but she squawks and hops through my fingers before darting away. Too quick to catch. I chase after her reflexively, my footsteps echoing loud and stilted in the hush of the harbor, but it doesn’t matter; the hen could be hurt, and if she is, those injuries would be my fault too. I have to—to catch her somehow, perhaps bind her leg. My feet move faster, clumsier. Odessa studied medicine, so she might know how to—

The hen beelines toward Jean Luc.

Losing my head completely, I leap at her, determined to somehow help , but with a shrill cry of panic, she changes directions and plows straight into Reid’s shins instead. I skid to a halt a split second before following suit. Warily, he bends to pick her up with a soft, “Hello, Célie.”

“Reid! How are you?” I straighten at once, still shaking like a leaf, and force a tremulous smile. Before he can answer, I add hastily, “Should we—should we check her wing? Her feathers look a bit ruffled, like she might’ve—might’ve broken it or—”

But Reid shakes his head with a pained smile. “I think the chicken is fine.”

“Are you sure?” My voice climbs steadily higher. “Because—”

In that instant, however, Jean Luc seizes my wrist—right over Michal’s bite—and wrenches me around to face him, his face blazing with a thousand unspoken questions. Though I try not to flinch at the bolt of pain, I can’t help myself. It hurts . At my sharp intake of breath, Michal, Odessa, and Dimitri instantly materialize beside me, and Jean Luc’s gaze darts from their otherworldly faces to my wrist and the obvious teeth marks there. To the blood now gently weeping between his fingers. His eyes widen and, almost instinctively, he tears the cloak away from my throat to reveal the deeper, darker wounds there. Jaw clenching, he wrenches the Balisarda from his belt.

“Jean—” I start quickly.

“Get behind me.” Voice urgent, he tries to pull me away from Michal and the others, but I dig in my heels and shake my head, throat tightening to the point of pain. He stares at me in disbelief. “ Now , Célie.”

“N-No.”

When I twist to loosen his grip and retreat into Michal—when Michal slides a protective arm around my waist—realization slams into Jean Luc with the force of a falling guillotine. I can see the exact second it strikes—he blinks, and his expression abruptly empties. Then it contorts into something unfamiliar, something ugly , as he drops my wrist. “You let him— He bit you.”

I clutch my wrist to my chest. “It doesn’t mean what you think it does.”

“No?” Though he tries to conceal his suspicion, a note of trepidation still creeps into his voice. “What does it mean, then? Did he—did he force—?”

“He didn’t force me to do anything,” I say quickly. “He was— Jean, he was hurt, and he needed my blood to heal him. He would’ve died without it. Blood sharing with vampires isn’t always— It doesn’t have to be—”

“Doesn’t have to be what ?” Jean Luc’s eyes sharpen on my face, and cursing my own stupidity, I stare back at him helplessly. I can’t say the word. I can’t . Still clutching my wrist, I pray harder than I’ve ever prayed before—to who or what entity, I do not know, as clearly God has abandoned me. “Célie,” he warns when the silence grows too long.

“It doesn’t have to be... sexual,” I finish in a small voice.

He recoils like I’ve slapped him. When whispers sweep throughout the crowd, his jaw tightens, and I brace, expecting the worst. “So it’s true,” he says coolly. “You really are a whore.”

A low, menacing noise reverberates from Michal’s chest. I can feel it all the way down my spine as I press against him, shaking my head again. This time in warning. I cannot allow Michal to attack Jean Luc, and I cannot allow Jean Luc to attack Michal. Because if either of them hurts the other, I don’t know what I’ll do, and because—because I deserve this anger from Jean Luc. I do. I deserve his hurt. And because as Lou and Coco once told me, a whore isn’t the worst thing a woman can be. Still— “You don’t mean that,” I tell him quietly.

He scoffs and gestures bitterly to the crimson gown beneath Michal’s cloak. “What else would you call it? For a fortnight , the entire kingdom has been searching for you—fearing the worst, dreading what we might find—and where have you been?” His knuckles clench tight around his Balisarda. “Entertaining the locals.”

At the last, his eyes flash to Michal, who chuckles darkly. “I’m not local, Captain, and how fortunate that is for you.”

Odessa elbows him sharply in the side.

Jean Luc glares between them for several seconds—disgust and unease at war on his face—before he turns to me and snarls, “Who is he?”

My mouth parts to answer before closing promptly once more. How in the world can I explain Michal without revealing his secret to not only hundreds of gawking people but also an entire contingent of Chasseurs, who—most inconveniently—wield silver swords?

Sensing my hesitation, Michal steps smoothly forward.

“As I’m standing right in front of you,” he says in that cool, would-be pleasant voice, “it’s rather rude not to ask me directly. Surely any fiancé of Célie’s should know better. However”—Jean Luc’s skin flushes at the insult—“for the sake of ending this conversation as expeditiously as possible, you already know who I am. Célie has told you.” He inclines his head slightly, his black eyes cold and unblinking. “I am Michal Vasiliev, and these are my cousins, Odessa and Dimitri Petrov. We’ve contracted Célie’s services in avenging the murder of my sister, who—I believe—is just one name on a long list of victims.” Straightening, he adds, “It should come as no surprise that Célie has already located your missing body and your missing grimoire, both of which she found at Les Abysses while working undercover.”

The silence deepens at his pronouncement, and I feel the eyes of everyone in the harbor fall to my crimson gown. “Michal,” I whisper, blinking rapidly. No one has ever—they’ve never even thought about me in such a way, let alone voiced it for hundreds to hear. It shouldn’t mean this much—he isn’t saying anything untrue—yet my knees still threaten to give way beneath the crowd’s curious gaze.

I will not break. I will not shatter.

“At this brothel,” Michal continues impassively, clasping his hands behind his back and strolling around me, “Célie discovered Babette Trousset isn’t dead at all, but alive and well. The blood witch faked her own death before stealing your precious grimoire and fleeing to the arms of her cousin Pennelope Trousset, who has harbored her in secret for days. Presumably, both women have been acting on orders from a man who calls himself the Necromancer. All of this, of course, Célie investigated while being quite out of your sight .”

Jean Luc, who looked momentarily stunned at the revelation, seems to return to himself at his own shameful turn of phrase. “Because you abducted her—”

Before either can do more than sneer, however, Reid appears between them, still clutching the resentful-looking hen in his arms. To my surprise, he addresses neither Jean Luc nor Michal, instead gazing intently at me. “Are you hurt, Célie?” His eyes fall to the blood all over my dress, my wrist, my throat. “Are you all right?”

“I’m—”

As if he can’t hear me, Jean Luc thrusts the Balisarda back into its scabbard with brutal force. “What kind of question is that? Of course she isn’t all right . She clearly isn’t herself, and she hasn’t been herself for a long time.”

He delivers the words like an edict, like his perception of my well-being is truer than my own, and a tendril of flame licks up the ice in my chest. “He wasn’t asking you, Jean. He was asking me . And for the record, it is rude to speak about a person indirectly when they’re standing right in front of you.”

He gapes at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Do you even hear yourself? The Célie I know would never agree with someone like—”

“Perhaps the Célie you know never existed. Have you ever considered that?” Instinctively, my hand clutches the cross around my neck until the edges bite sharp into my palm. Kindling that fire in my chest. “It can happen without us even realizing—we fall in love with an idea instead of a person. We give each other pieces of ourselves but never the whole thing, and without the whole thing, how can we ever truly know a person?”

And you’ll never know a world without sunlight, will you? Not our darling Célie.

She never truly knew me either.

“Célie, what are you—what are you talking about?” This time, Jean Luc seizes my uninjured hand, squeezing it desperately for some kind of assurance. “Is this about the Chasseurs? Listen, if you no longer want to be a huntsman—hunts woman —you don’t have to be. I— Célie, I spoke with Father Achille last month, and he agreed that I can purchase a house outside Saint-Cécile without revoking my vows. We can move away from Chasseur Tower.” When my other hand falls away from the cross, he grasps it too, his eyes bright with emotion, or perhaps unshed tears. He steps even closer and lowers his voice. “I’ve already looked at a few—one right down the street from Lou and Reid, even. It has an orange tree in the back, and—and I wanted it to be a surprise for your birthday.” He lifts my hands to his lips, brushing a soft kiss against my knuckles. “I want to build a home with you.”

I stare at him for a long moment, striving to keep my composure. Then—

“What would you have me do there, Jean? Would I freshly squeeze those oranges every morning before you go to work? Teach our half-dozen children how to embroider and alphabetize the library? Is that what you want?”

He wrings my hands as if trying to shake the sense back into me. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“I don’t know what I want!”

“Pick anything, then!” Tears definitely sparkle in his eyes now, and I hate the sight of them. I hate myself more. “Pick anything, and I’ll make it happen—”

“I don’t want you to make it happen, Jean.” It takes every inch of my strength not to pull away now, not to flee and humiliate him in front of all these people. He doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve this , yet I don’t deserve it either. “Can’t you understand that? I want to make it happen for myself. I need to make it happen for myself—”

“Is that why you ran away with him?” Desperate again, his gaze plunges to my throat once more, and after another anguished second, he closes his eyes as if unable to bear the sight of it, exhaling raggedly. “Did you leave to punish me? To somehow—to prove yourself?”

The word sinks straight through my ribs and into my heart, too familiar and true to ignore. Jean Luc doesn’t know what he’s saying, of course. He doesn’t mean to hurt me, but only moments ago, he spat the word abduction like a curse. “I didn’t run away,” I say through clenched teeth, “but now I wish I had.” His eyes snap open. “Look at all the meetings you held, the secrets you kept—can you honestly say you regret them? Would you do anything differently if you could?”

Though I pose the question to Jean Luc, my own answer rises swift and sure between us.

This is all my fault, yes, but I cannot bring myself to regret the choices I’ve made. They led me here. Without them, I never would’ve noticed this deep unease in my chest as I gaze upon Jean Luc, upon Reid, upon Frederic and my old brethren. I never would’ve heard this deafening silence.

I might not know exactly what I want, but I know it’s no longer here.

“Everything I did,” Jean Luc says at last, “was to protect you.”

Now I squeeze his hands, trying to pour every last ounce of my love and respect into that touch. Because that’s what it is—our last.

“I’m sorry, Jean, but I don’t need you to protect me. I never needed you to protect me. I needed you to love me, to trust me, to comfort me, and to push me. I needed you to confide in me when you had a poor day and laugh with me when I had a good one. I needed you to wait for me to catch those lutins in Farmer Marc’s field, just as I needed you to break the rules and kiss me when the chaperone looked away.” His face flushes again—he glances around quickly—but I’d be the filthiest sort of hypocrite to protect his feelings now. “I needed you to seek my counsel when you found the first body, even if you couldn’t ask for my help. I needed you to value my insight. I needed you to tease me and prod me and stroke my hair when I cried; I needed a hundred different things from you, Jean Luc, but your protection was never one of them.

“And now... now I don’t need anything from you at all. I’ve learned to survive on my own.” Swallowing hard, I force myself to say the rest, to acknowledge the truth of those words. “In the last two weeks, I’ve crossed the veil and danced with ghosts. I’ve drunk the blood of a vampire, and I’ve lived in the dark. I’m still here.” My voice grows louder at the affirmation, stronger. “I’m still here , and I’m so close to finding the killer now. He’s after me, Jean—he wants me —and I know I can catch him with a little more time.”

Though I try to pull away, Jean Luc’s hands tighten around mine. “What do you mean by he wants you ? What are you talking about?”

“Are you even listening to me? Did you hear anything else I—”

“Of course I’m listening to you! That’s the problem—I’m listening to you, and you just said some lunatic who calls himself the Necromancer is after you!” He flings my hands away as if they’ve burned him. “Célie, you’ve been gone for less than two weeks, and you’ve somehow managed to capture the interest of a killer. Do you not see how unsafe that is? Do you not see how badly you need to be around people who—”

“—lock me up in Chasseur Tower?” Despite my best efforts, hot and angry tears spring to my eyes. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe him . I thought—if I could just explain myself properly—he would understand, would perhaps even feel remorse, but clearly, Filippa isn’t the only person about whom I’ve been wildly mistaken. He’s hurt , I remind myself fiercely, clutching my elbows, but he isn’t the only one. Taking another step backward, I add, “Tell me to be a good little huntswoman and wait in my room while the men handle things?”

His eyes flash dangerously, and he straightens his shoulders with the air of a man steeling himself to do something unpleasant. “Enough, Célie. You’re coming back to Chasseur Tower with me whether you like it or not, and we can finish this conversation in private.” His gaze darts from Reid to Frederic to the watching crowd before settling on Michal at last. “Don’t make this uglier than it needs to be,” he warns him.

Michal no longer sounds cool and impassive. “Oh, you’ve already done that.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I snarl.

“Yes, you are.” Jean Luc lunges for my arm, and I react without thinking—react faster than even the vampires behind me—darting sideways and snatching the Balisarda from his belt as he missteps to avoid charging into Michal instead. The rest happens as if in slow motion. His foot bends, sliding a little on the cobblestones, and he overcorrects, whirling to face me and losing his balance in the process.

With a degrading thud , he hits the ground at my feet, and snickers break out around the harbor. One person even applauds.

My heart stops at the sound.

“Oh my God.” Whatever fury I felt vanishes instantly, and I drop to my knees, shoving his Balisarda at him while also attempting to haul him to his feet, to brush the muck from his coat. “Are you all right? I’m so sorry, Jean, I didn’t mean—” He pushes my hands away, however, his face colder and angrier than I’ve ever seen it. Seizing his Balisarda, he climbs stiffly to his feet, and I clamber after him, feeling sicker with each second. “Please, believe me, I never wanted to—”

“Go.”

He speaks the word simply, irrevocably, and my outstretched hands freeze between us. Without looking at me, he takes the hen from Reid, who has gone pale and still, and returns her to the others in their cage. Over his shoulder, he says, “And don’t come back.”