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Chapter Forty-Five

Masquerade Part I

Two weeks ago, I thought I would die on All Hallows’ Eve. Somehow, everything has changed since then—everything, and nothing at all. Smoothing the silver bodice of my gown, readjusting the organza mask, and taking a deep breath, I step into the corridor beyond my room. Already, the faint strains of a haunting violin drift through the castle, along with the gentle murmur of voices. According to Odessa, the revelry won’t truly start until midnight, but I can only pace in my room for so long.

Coco and Lou will be here soon. They’ll be here , on Requiem, for me to talk with and see and embrace. Reid and Beau too, hopefully.

And Jean Luc.

My chest constricts in a way that has nothing to do with my corset. After how we parted in Cesarine, I can’t imagine he’ll be pleased to see me. Go , he said in that horribly empty voice, and don’t come back . But that—that was then. I resist the urge to bite at my fingernails, which Odessa has painted with clear lacquer. Perhaps Jean will have changed his mind in the hours since I left him; perhaps, after his anger faded, he realized he doesn’t hate me, after all. I lift my hands to pinch my cheeks instead. Will he want to speak to me about what happened? Will he want to change my mind too?

Worse still—my chest squeezes impossibly tighter—what did he tell the others happened at the harbor? Will they be angry at me for leaving with Michal? He did threaten to kill Coco, and they have no way of knowing he changed his mind. Does it even matter that he changed his mind? I don’t have the answer—I don’t have any of the answers—and when the next question strikes, I think I’m going to be sick all over again.

Because what if no one comes at all?

In their eyes, perhaps I chose Michal over them, chose Requiem over Cesarine. They’ll know by now that I’ve broken my vow to the Chasseurs. Perhaps they’ll perceive my actions as unforgivable, as an irrevocable break in our friendship. Yes. I’m definitely going to be sick now. Except—

The Necromancer.

Beyond anything I’ve done to hurt him, Jean Luc remains captain of the Chasseurs, and he won’t ignore what Michal said in the harbor. He can’t afford to ignore it. If I know Jean Luc at all, he’ll insist on due diligence, and an entire contingent of huntsmen will swarm the isle tonight—because if Michal told the truth, we’re closer than ever to catching the Necromancer, and if I told the truth, the Necromancer is stalking me.

Jean Luc has worked too hard to miss the action. The glory. My heart sinks miserably.

Perhaps my friends will join him for the same reason.

Odessa follows me into the corridor, swatting my hands aside before they can stray to my hair. “The Necromancer cannot kill you if you’re already dead. Touch another strand of my masterpiece, and I shall thwart him all by myself.”

She spent the last two hours curling my hair with hot tongs, meticulously pinning half of them at my nape. The rest cascades down my back to join my wings, which she now bends swiftly to rearrange. Long gloves of deepest blue satin cover her hands, wrists, and arms. They match her sapphire cloak perfectly, complement the pearl diadem across her forehead and the garnet damask of her bodice—scandalously sleeveless and recklessly low-cut, more corset than anything else. Her breasts nearly spill from the top as she straightens with a satisfied nod. Without a doubt, she is the most sensual Madonna I’ve ever seen, and—judging from the smirk on her bloodred lips—she knows it.

“Are you sure he’ll be able to recognize me?”

“Célie, darling,” she says pleasantly, “you’ll be the only human in attendance until your little friends arrive, and even then—there won’t be a vampire, human, or necrophiliac in attendance who doesn’t notice you in that gown. Now stop fretting. You’ll ruin the cosmetics.”

Despite my mask, Odessa spent another half hour dusting iridescent powder upon my eyelids, brow bones, and cheeks—every inch of me now sparkles in the light of the corridor candelabra. She even adhered tiny diamonds to the outer corners of my eyes. “Will he be— Will there be blood down there?” I ask nervously.

She arches a brow beneath a rather peculiar mask of her own: strands of gold weave in an open, diamond-knit pattern, so the mask isn’t really a mask at all, but another piece of jewelry. “We’re vampires, Célie. There will always be blood.”

With that, she seizes my hand and drags me down the corridor.

Focusing on that bundle of nerves in my chest, I slip through the veil to find Mila, who drifts alongside us with an impish grin. “Anything unusual yet?” I ask her as a distraction.

“The enchantment doesn’t break until midnight,” she replies sweetly. “Or did you mean my brother?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“What is it?” Odessa peers back at me, eyes narrowing through her mask. “Is it Mila? Has she seen anything?”

If a ghost can skip, Mila does so now, clapping her hands and practically cackling with glee. “I’ve never seen Michal so agitated—he nearly bit off Pasha’s head when the idiot suggested waiting outside your room. He and Ivan are going to join you in the ballroom instead. You do look lovely tonight, Célie,” she adds, her voice a bit wistful. “Vampires tend to covet lovely things.”

Warmth spreads through my cheeks at the compliment, but I push it aside. I push thoughts of Michal aside. “Never as lovely as you.”

“The sentiment,” Odessa says as Mila beams, “it chokes me.”

Truthfully, both of them look almost surreal tonight—too beautiful to exist—and I feel as if I’m floating through a dream. The castle, too, seems different with music, with soft, disembodied voices and flickering candlelight in every corridor. No less eerie, of course, because the shadows and cobwebs and sentience remain, but somehow all the more mysterious. Like I might take a wrong turn and end up somewhere else entirely—dropped into La F?ret des Yeux on a snowy, moonlit night, perhaps, or trapped in a nightmare disguised as a room.

The impression only intensifies when we step into the ballroom, and I gasp, severing the connection with Mila and falling back through the veil. Vampires of every shape, size, and color crawl through the enormous room, not only on the onyx dance floor but also up the gilded walls, upon the very ceiling . My mouth falls open as my head falls back to stare at them. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Odessa murmurs, closing my jaw with a gloved finger and readjusting the capelet around my throat. “No need to poke the dragon, so to speak.”

I hardly hear her.

Across the room, Pasha and Ivan cut toward us through the crowd with determined expressions. A stringed quartet plays a plaintive song atop the dais behind them, and the couples overhead waltz between the chandeliers with uncanny grace and beauty. The candles cast their pallid skin in golden light. A thousand more tapers surround the dais, the musicians, the long and elegant tables along the edges of the room. Crystal-cut goblets of blood rise in pyramids upon each one. Odessa follows my gaze, her own gleaming brighter than usual. Exhilarated. “We spike them with champagne. I arranged actual champagne for you, however, if you’d like to partake.”

I shake my head, overwhelmed. “No, thank you.”

She prods me toward the tables anyway, skirting around a patch of enormous pumpkins carved with narrowed, wicked eyes. More tapers still flicker from within their depths, and what look like real skeletons lounge among them, some dangling from above. Someone has dressed the bones in wide velvet hats with feather plumes, in the lavish robes of priests and Pharisees. One even wears the ivory crepe gown and golden tiara of a queen. With an odd plunging sensation, I remember the skull outside of Monsieur Marc’s shop.

Hello again, Father Roland. You’re looking well.

I look away quickly to find Odessa perusing the goblets of blood, selecting one, and sipping delicately. “Ah... melusine. Even cold, their blood is my very favorite.”

A trio of vampires join us at the table to choose their own goblets. Jewels drip from their throats, and they stare balefully at me behind their glittering masks. One has dressed in the fur cloak of a loup garou—his sleeves dripping lace—while his two companions have painted themselves as sculptures. Their entire bodies gleam with golden paint.

They’re also naked.

“What does blood taste like to you?” I ask Odessa abruptly. Pasha and Ivan materialize behind us, rigid and imposing, and the trio of vampires cast one more disdainful look in my direction before gliding away.

“Hmm.” Odessa purses her lips, considering, and takes another sip. “I suppose it tastes the same to me as it does to you, except, of course, that the nerves in my tongue receive it differently. It nourishes my body, and thus, my body comes to crave it. The metallic taste is still there, yet it doesn’t repulse me as it does you. And the salt—it becomes addictive. The blood of a melusine boasts a particular vigor, probably from their time spent in the seawater of L’Eau Melancolique.” She tips the goblet in my direction. “Would you like to try it?”

“No.” Repressing a shudder, I look past her toward another vampire dressed as a bleeding rose. Behind them waltzes a couple masquerading as ancient forest gods. One of them even wears the enormous stag horns of the Woodwose. “I think spiked blood might be stronger than the champagne itself, and we’re supposed to be looking for the Necromancer.” Despite my best efforts, the words hold a subtle rebuke.

“Actually,” she corrects me in a miffed voice, “we’re supposed to be blending in with the revelry. We can’t do that if you continue gaping at everyone like a codfish.”

“I do not look like a codfish.”

She waves an errant hand, ignoring me. “Furthermore, we’ll be able to smell him when he arrives. Blood witches possess a very distinctive scent because of their magic.”

I bite my lip and glance around the room. “Forgive me, Odessa, but you mistook me for a blood witch when we first met. Their scent can’t be that distinct, or I wouldn’t be here at all.” Above the music, the clock in the belfry booms half past eleven. When I jerk at the sound, nearly upsetting Odessa’s goblet, she lifts it to her lips with a smirk. “Shouldn’t Michal be here by now?” I ask defensively. “Where is he?”

“Michal arrives at midnight.” Dimitri strolls up beside us, grinning, and a rather tall and pretty young woman clutches his arm. They’ve dressed as flora and fauna for the occasion; he wears the fur pelt and elongated mask of a gray wolf, while her petal-pink gown floats airily around her ankles. Real vines and flower buds adorn her mask. Though I cannot see much of her golden-brown face, she seems to be... human. “This is Margot Janvier,” he tells me proudly, and the young woman offers a tentative smile in response. “She owns le fleuriste in the Old City.” He squeezes her elbow. “Margot, this is Mademoiselle Célie Tremblay, our guest of honor for the evening.”

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Tremblay,” she says softly.

I return her smile with one of my own, trying not to betray my disbelief. This is Dimitri’s florist? A human woman? Surely even he knows how irresponsible it was to bring her tonight, to fixate upon her at all. My stomach curdles at the thought of her beautiful silk mask ending up in his room. I force myself to curtsy regardless. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mademoiselle Janvier. Your costume is stunning—are those viola and crocus blooms?”

“You know your botanicals.” Margot’s smile widens in approval, and she lifts her free hand to the delicate flowers on her face. “And please... call me Margot.”

The song ends on a drawn-out note of yearning, and when the next piece starts, the two bid us goodbye, Dimitri leading Margot to the dance floor. I watch them go anxiously for several seconds before turning to Odessa. “Does Margot know about his bloodlust?”

To my surprise, Odessa’s expression mirrors my own. “No. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve told Dimitri to stay away from her. He won’t listen,” she says simply, placing her half-empty goblet on the tray of a passing attendant. Her mouth twists as if she’s lost her appetite. “He says he loves her.”

“Does he?”

“In his mind, perhaps.” She tears her gaze away when Dimitri throws his head back and laughs at something Margot said. “Who can truly say? My brother tends to fall in love with everyone he meets.”

We lapse into silence as the clock ticks on, and eventually, my thoughts stray from Dimitri and Margot to Ivan and Pasha, who still loom behind us. To the vampires all around who cast quick, cutting looks in our direction. None approach, however, and thank God for that. My nerves are stretched taut as it is, winding tighter and tighter with each song. I don’t know whether I want the clock to speed up or slow down—because when Michal arrives, the enchantment around the isle will have broken, and the Necromancer will follow.

I feel the exact second the enchantment breaks.

It happens a heartbeat before the clock strikes midnight—the very air seems to stir, seems to wake , and when the first chime clangs through the castle, it ripples outward in a wave toward the sea. I grasp Odessa’s arm for balance as the ground seems to shudder, as the chandeliers clink gently overhead. The musicians stop playing abruptly, and—staring up at the crystal with an impassive expression—Odessa murmurs, “So it begins.”

Michal appears on the dais as the last chime falls silent.

Though he makes no sound, every head in the room turns toward him, and the ensuing silence feels deeper than usual. Unnatural. It takes several long, unnerving seconds for me to realize why: Margot and I are the only ones in the room who need to breathe. The rest stand cold and still as statues. Even those on the ceiling look as though they’ve been carved into the fresco, perhaps created as part of the castle itself. Enduring and ancient and sinister. They don’t even blink. Chills skitter down my spine at the thought, and I do not release Odessa’s arm.

Michal’s eyes find mine instantly through the crowd. They peruse my person slowly, thoroughly, as if he doesn’t care in the slightest that every creature in the room waits for him to speak. No—as if he expects them to wait. And the vampires oblige. Not a single one interrupts as he stares at me, and I—

I can’t help it. My God , I can’t help it.

I stare at him too.

Chest bare, he wears his signature black leather everywhere else: his boots, his pants, his mask, even twin straps of it across his broad shoulders. They support the colossal wings that rise from his back, the hundreds of thousands of obsidian feathers on each one. My mouth goes dry at the sight of them. Unlike crow and raven wings, these feathers don’t collect and reflect light; no, they seem to absorb it, casting Michal in a perverse halo of darkness. He looks almost like the— I tilt my head, then loose a slow breath in realization.

He is the Angel of Death.

And he can’t take his eyes off me.

Heat builds in my belly the longer he looks, a sort of liquid fire that spreads across my chest and into my cheeks. The nostrils of the nearest vampires flare in response. Odessa cuts them a sharp glance, and Pasha and Ivan appear swiftly on either side of us. Ivan stands so close that I can feel the chill emanating from his arm; he doesn’t wear a costume like the others. Even a mask could not hide the menace in his expression.

“Good evening,” Michal says at last, clasping his hands behind his back. Though he speaks softly—his voice barely above a whisper—every word rings out with lethal precision. “And welcome to my home on this All Hallows’ Eve. Each one of you looks magnificent.” His eyes flick briefly to me before surveying the crowd once more. “I understand the revelry is different this year. I could not usher your loved ones into Requiem, and for that, I will not apologize. Never before has the threat of the outside world pressed closer, and we cannot risk our home for the sake of one blood-drunken night.” A meaningful pause. “However... even I cannot stop the enchantment around Requiem from lifting. The magic that protects this isle is unyielding and eternal, but tonight—if your loved ones so choose—I cannot stop them from joining you.”

Though the vampires remain unmoving, an undercurrent of... something seems to stir within them at his words. Anticipation? No. Defiance. Gooseflesh creeps down my neck.

“That said,” Michal continues, his voice still deceptively soft, “I would urge you to remember that I am also unyielding and eternal. I will not forgive those who endanger our home, and I will not forget them either.” Unclasping his hands, he spreads his arms wide in supplication, and the muscles in his chest stretch long and powerful with the movement. An odd pang shoots through my stomach at the sight. Tensing, I drop Odessa’s arm and keep my own tight to my sides. “With that, I bid you to enjoy the masquerade and invite you to stay until dawn.”

He steps from the dais without another word, and the crowd parts reflexively as he strides through it.

Straight toward me.

“Oh God,” I whisper as the musicians resume their song and the vampires gradually drift back to their drinking and mingling. “I owe Monsieur Marc a dance,” I blurt abruptly, loudly . Cringing, I step backward and search desperately for any sign of candy-floss hair. There. On the opposite side of the room, he chats animatedly with a strapping young man and his buxom companion. He also wears the most ostentatious peacock mask I’ve ever seen.

Odessa doesn’t follow my gaze, instead smirking at whatever she sees in my expression. “Monsieur Marc looks rather busy at the moment, doesn’t he?” Then she twirls a lock of my hair around her finger and says, “Good luck.”

She melts into the crowd before I can beg her to stay.

Michal appears a second later, and I have no choice but to return his slight bow with a curtsy. “Hello, Michal,” I say a bit breathlessly. Up close, he looks even more unattainable—his chest somehow wider without a shirt, his body less cultured and more primitive. But of course it’s less cultured. He isn’t wearing a shirt , and I—I—

I shake my head, cursing my wandering eyes, as he tilts his head to study me. When his lips pull up at the corner, I clench my hands in the delicate fabric of my skirt to hide their trembling. Because why am I looking at his lips ? We aren’t here to gape at each other, and I need to focus. I need to focus . Because we’re here to trap the Necromancer, to lure him into a false sense of—

“Hello, pet.” Michal’s grin widens, and—impossibly gentle—he coaxes one of my hands into his own before placing a kiss on my inner wrist. My knees threaten to buckle. “You seem... nervous this evening.”

“Nervous? I’m not nervous.”

“Your pulse is louder than the music.”

“Stop listening to my pulse , then, and we won’t have a problem. It’s invasive, you know, to—to listen to things like that. Perhaps I imbibed several glasses of champagne before you arrived, and that is why my heart is racing. Did you ever think of that? Perhaps I’ve been dancing vigorously with Odessa—”

He chuckles, and the sound thrums against my skin until I shiver with it. “My cousin,” he says, his voice low, “loathes to dance, and unless I’m much mistaken, it’ll be a very long time before you imbibe again. After all, you asked me to dance the last time.” His eyes glitter in the candlelight. “And what a shame it would be if you asked again. Who knows how I might answer?”

My traitorous gaze darts from the silver of my gown to the bare skin of his arms and torso. If —if— I agree to dance with him, it isn’t as if we would need to... touch more than strictly necessary. Indeed, we couldn’t , and that—that would be for the best, wouldn’t it? After all, we can hardly blend into the revelry if we continue to stand here and stare at one another.

Right.

I straighten my spine.

“Would you like to dance, Michal?”

My breath catches slightly at the smile that splits his face in answer. When he looks at me this way, it feels rather like catching the eye of a ravenous wolf—like he longs to give chase, and at any second, he might yield to temptation and pounce. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Careful not to touch my gown—our hands the only point of contact—he leads me to the dance floor just as the stringed quartet breaks into an eerie waltz. “How are you going to—?” I start to ask, but he wraps an arm around my back in answer, pulling me close. His skin burns instantly upon contact with my wings.

Craning my neck in horror, I say, “Michal, no —”

“Are you rescinding your offer?”

“Of course not, but you’re— You shouldn’t have to—” I shake my head to clear it, swiveling to face him in disbelief. “You’re burning . Surely we can find a—a glove or a jacket—”

“Relax, Célie.” If anything, his grip tightens around me, and his grin fades at whatever he sees in my expression. “I do not fear pain.”

“No? What is your fear, then?”

His eyes linger for several seconds upon my hair, my mask, my cheeks.

“Philophobia,” he says at last. Then— “If you could travel anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

The question takes me by surprise, and I answer without hesitation. “Onirique.” When he says nothing, waiting for me to continue, I explain hastily, “It’s a village in L’Eau Melancolique—smaller than Le Présage, of course, but legendary for its eerie lights. Elvire told me it also boasts the oldest library in the world. She said they safeguard tablets from thousands of years ago.” Now I do hesitate, regarding him suspiciously. “Why?”

Without answering, he whisks me across the heart of the dance floor, and his body moves so lithely, so firmly against mine, that within seconds, I forget about his question altogether. I forget about his burns. I forget about what philophobia could possibly mean, and I forget about our plan, about the Necromancer and balconies. Indeed, everything falls away except my hand on his shoulder—the way his muscle flexes beneath my touch, the grace with which he guides my every movement. Until— “Tell me about your mother.”

I nearly stumble at the question, but his hand remains firm on my waist. “But you haven’t answered my question. That—that isn’t how our game works.”

“Who says I’m still playing a game?”

I stare at him for a beat, eyes wide, before blurting, “Tell me about your mother, then.”

“If you like.” He lifts a shoulder, spinning me around Dimitri and Margot. “She died when I was young, so I remember very little about her—except for her voice. She was a lovely singer. Can you sing, mademoiselle?”

I resist a grimace. “Not if I can help it.”

“And if I ask nicely?”

“I might think you have a deeply rooted psychological issue.”

“Fair enough.” He flashes those fangs again—sharp and startlingly white—and a rumble of laughter rolls through his chest. “Would you rather be reincarnated as a canine or feline?”

“ Many deeply rooted psychological issues.” He dips me abruptly, bringing our faces closer together than before—too close—so I can see the deep brown in his eyes. When he lifts our hands to tuck a strand of my hair behind an ear, my head starts to spin a little. A lot . “Dog,” I breathe, gazing up at his lips. “But I don’t believe in reincarnation.”

“Interesting. What breed?”

“I never learned any breeds. My mother detests animals.” When he pulls me upright, I stagger into his chest, light-headed and flustered and bemused. This is the most bizarre conversation I’ve ever had in my life. If I didn’t know any better, I might think he was trying to become better acquainted. To become friends . “Why all the questions, monsieur? This is hardly the time or place for such a discussion.”

“Perhaps you’re right. When is a good time?”

Despite the sardonic note in his voice, I can’t muster the ire to glare at him. Indeed—I don’t even want to glare at him, and that—that should terrify me. I hold him closer instead, lacing my fingers through his. “Do you talk as a rule while dancing?”

“Only under extraordinary circumstances.”

My face flushes at that—with exertion, with exhilaration —and as the song reaches its crescendo, I spin backward into his chest, my own pink and feverish. He trails his nose along the crook of my neck before placing another kiss there. Then he whirls me away from him when I try to turn.

I’ve danced with many partners in my life: my father, my instructors, Jean Luc, even Reid, and none of them— none of them—can compare to dancing with Michal.

I never want to stop.

The song soon draws to a close on a hauntingly poignant note, however, and reluctantly, Michal and I release one another. “That was...” My eyes fall to the burns across his arms, his chest, impressions of my body left to linger on his skin. He’ll need blood to heal them, and at the thought of him drinking from Arielle again—of him drinking from anyone —fire sears through my entire being. “Unexpected,” I finish faintly.

He stares at me like a starving man. “Was it?”

“Michal, I—”

He shakes his head, however, and withdraws a length of silver ribbon from his pocket. His palms—already angry and red—hiss softly as he offers it to me. “What I said before,” he says quietly, “about staying on Requiem... I meant it.” He closes my fingers around the ribbon, swallowing hard. “You’re welcome here for as long as you choose.”

Unable to hold his gaze, I look down at the ribbon instead. The tail of it ripples slightly—once, twice—as I clasp it to my chest. Of course he meant what he said. Michal always means what he says, but to actually live on Requiem... I glance unbidden to the vampires around us. Though they give Michal a wide berth, their malevolent eyes still seem to follow me through the room, gleaming with hunger. With violence.

Would life even be possible here?

Sighing heavily, shaking my head, I open my mouth to thank Michal—

And the doors to the ballroom erupt in a sphere of blinding light.