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Chapter Forty-Seven

The Trap

Half an hour later, Beau and I stand huddled together against the wind on the northernmost balcony off the ballroom. A quaint courtyard stretches below us, partially hidden by two ancient oak trees, just like Michal said it would be. One of them has grown up and over the stone balustrade, its branches straining toward the castle, while the other conceals the rest of the courtyard from view. The effect is almost total privacy—and thank goodness for that, as Beau seems determined to ruin our plan before it can begin.

“Let me get this straight.” Beau crosses his arms against his chest. Half in spite, probably, but also to shield himself from the miserable cold. “ You have volunteered as bait for this Necromancer character.”

Rubbing my arms through my sleeves, I whisper, “He needs my blood to do the actual necromancy bit, yes, but can you keep your voice down? You’re supposed to be consoling me.”

“Right.” Our breath puffs between us in little clouds of white as he obliges, grudgingly patting my back. “And because of this rather unfortunate decision, I have also—somehow—been volunteered as bait.” As he speaks, the ever-present clouds of Requiem part to reveal a bright autumn moon, and it bathes the ridiculous spangles of his costume in muted silver light. “Me,” he repeats incredulously, flicking the bell on his hat for emphasis. “The one person here without any means to contribute if the Necromancer does, in fact, reveal himself and attempt to harvest your blood .”

“Which is exactly why we chose you and not the others.” I lean into him, anxious and shivering, and sniffle as loudly as possible. Perhaps I shouldn’t have removed my mask so soon; it would’ve at least kept my nose warm. When Reid pretended to insult me at the end of our waltz, however, I’d needed to remove it to pretend to burst into tears, fleeing toward a mutinous Beau, who clearly didn’t like our scheme one bit. “We need to lull the Necromancer into a false sense of security. He’s much more likely to attack us than he would be if Michal or Lou or even Jean Luc had escorted me out here. Console , please.”

“I’m flattered, truly.” Wrapping a stiff arm around my shoulders, he forces my head into the crook of his neck and pats my ear instead. “There, there.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. You said it yourself—you’re the least threatening person in the group.”

“And suffering for it, apparently. How long is this going to take ?” Louder, then— “Don’t cry, Célie darling. My dear brother is clearly overcompensating for something.”

Ignoring his scowl, I blow warm air into my palms and try valiantly to pluck an emotion from my chest. I just need one— one emotion deeply felt—to step through the veil and check with Mila, who probably waits for me there already. It shouldn’t be difficult. Until this moment, I’ve been able to slip in and out of the otherworld as I please, yet tonight, my nerves have stretched to the point of snapping, and their frayed ends blow wildly in the wind. I can’t focus on a single emotion. Indeed, I can’t focus on anything except the incessant noise of Beau’s costume as he shivers. Lifting my head from his shoulder, I hiss, “Can you stop jingling for a moment? I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is this incredibly frustrating for you?” Rolling his eyes, he seizes his hat and flings it over the balustrade, except instead of vanishing from sight, it catches on a tree limb instead. It dangles there—chiming madly in another gust of wind—until Beau looks likely to leap from the balcony instead. “I’d like it noted,” he says through gritted teeth, “this is not how I envisioned tonight would go.”

“No?” I press my ear back to his shoulder in an effort to muffle the wretched jingling. Even now, the Necromancer could be hiding below, waiting for his opportunity to strike, to kill , but—no. Teeth chattering, I shake my head. I can’t think like that. Michal is hiding somewhere too, and he won’t let anything happen to us. We simply need to wait. “What part of the evening isn’t living up to your expectations?”

“For starters”—Beau wraps the corner of his satin cape around my shoulders—“I would’ve liked it with a bit less reference to necrophilia. No one said anything about a necromancer when I jumped on that ship. Help you escape a vampire island? Yes, without question.” A muscle in his jaw flexes. “Especially after Lou mentioned compulsion, and Jean Luc convinced us that must be the reason you chose to return to this wretched place.” I recoil instinctively from the image he paints: Jean Luc arguing with the others, desperate to convince them I’d been compelled. Desperate to convince himself. Even admitting that I left would’ve cost him, and I—my mind skitters away from the rest of the thought. “Now that we’ve determined you’re most definitely not being compelled, however...”

“You would leave me to the Necromancer?”

It makes sense, of course. Beau isn’t like me; he isn’t even like Reid or Jean Luc. He is royalty—the king of all Belterra—and his people will surely feel his absence while he chases down runaways and murderers.

“Of course not.” Beau sighs in defeat, his shoulders slumping beneath the cape. “It’s just—today was Coco’s birthday. Did you know that? She was born on All Hallows’ Eve.”

“ What? ” My stomach plunges at the realization, and I jerk upright to gape up at him. Because of course I know Coco’s birthday. How could I possibly have forgotten? Worse still—instead of celebrating, she spent the evening on a ship sailing to her possible demise, and I just might be the worst friend to have ever called herself one. “Oh no,” I whisper in horror. “I didn’t get her a present.”

“In light of the circumstances,” Beau says, his voice wry, “I think she’ll forgive you. I had a rather special gift planned myself before I realized we’d be spending the majority of the night luring a murderous witch onto a subarctic balcony. It really is colder than a witch’s tit out h— Why do your eyes look like that? ”

He leaps away from me, appalled, and the temperature plummets as my regret ties each frayed nerve into a neat little bow. It weighs me down, down, down until I step through the veil into the otherworld, where Mila lounges upon the nearest tree branch, her skirt and hair billowing in the wind.

Grinning, she flicks the bells on Beau’s hat in haphazard rhythm. “What took you so long?”

My gaze flicks from her to the hat, widening in indignation. “It wasn’t the wind at all. It was you .”

Beau stares at me like I’ve grown a second head before whipping his own toward the tree, where Mila grins broader and switches mid-jingle to a truly galling Christmas hymn. “Who are you talking to?” he asks, wide-eyed. “And why—why are those bells suddenly playing ‘The Friendly Beasts’?”

“Stop it, Mila.” I march over to the balustrade, stretching on tiptoe to snatch the hat away from her, but it dangles just out of reach. “You’re scaring him.”

“You’re the one talking to thin air, Célie.”

“Just give me the hat!”

“ What is going on?” Beau strides forward and seizes my hand, pulling me away from the tree limb with an alarmed expression. “And who is Mila ? Is it—is it the tree? Is the tree named Mila?”

Sighing, I wrench my hand away and glare at the ghost in question. “No, the tree is not named Mila ,” I snap. “The name belongs to Michal’s dead sister, Mila Vasiliev, and if she doesn’t stop jingling that hat, I might have to kill her all over again.”

Beau blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You asked to whom I’m talking—her name is Mila, and the Necromancer killed her several months ago.” His eyes threaten to pop out of his head now, but I ignore him, crossing my arms and giving myself a vicious mental shake. Because Mila’s rendition of “The Friendly Beasts” matters even less than Beau’s ridiculous hat. We’re supposed to be acting like I needed a moment outside to compose myself, not arguing about bells and ghosts. Lowering my voice, I ask Mila, “Have you seen... anyone yet?”

Her grin fades, and she stops playing the bells at once. “More than one, unfortunately. I hope Michal is prepared to give his little warning teeth, because over a hundred creatures have arrived in Requiem tonight—dozens of blood witches included—and any one of them could be our necromancer.”

“Are you sure about that?” Guinevere’s horribly familiar voice precedes her from the ballroom, and together, we turn just as she drifts through the mahogany doors to join us. I endeavor not to groan. “I thought you said the Necromancer was a male blood witch. That narrows the candidates quite a bit, Mila darling.”

Ghosts, I decide, will be the death of me.

Though I hastily open my mouth to tell her to go away , I change my mind at once—because who am I to turn down information? Without it, Beau and I can do nothing but sit here and wait for the worst. “Approximately how many of them have you seen, Guinevere? Are any in the castle?”

“Guinevere?” Beau asks faintly.

Her eyes light upon him then, and they spark with gleeful interest. “Hold on a moment. Who is this ?”

Oh no.

Before I can answer, she darts forward—right into his personal space—and slants her head, studying him from the tips of his black hair to the soles of his leather boots. Even his costume doesn’t deter her. If anything, it seems to add to the attraction; with a noise of appreciation, she strokes a finger down his spangled sleeve. “This,” she says, “is a welcome development.”

I swat her hand away as Beau recoils from the cold, invisible touch. “Don’t even think about it, Guin.”

Exhaling sharply, Beau backs toward the doors and drags me along with him. “Célie, darling, you seem to be feeling much better. Perhaps the two of us should return to the party and—”

His hand tightens on my elbow, and in his dark eyes, I finally see the floating, pearlescent forms of Mila and Guinevere reflected back at me. “Holy fucking Hell,” he breathes, pointing a shaking finger. “They’re—Célie, they’re—”

“Ghosts,” I finish in resignation. “If it helps, you can only see them because you’re touching me. The instant Guinevere oversteps”—I shoot her a pointed look—“you can let go, and you never need to see her again.”

Scoffing, Guinevere floats around us in a circle. “Now why on earth would he want to do that?” To Beau, she purrs, “Guinevere de Mimsy, at your service. No need to ask who you are, of course. Even forced into a clown suit, one could never mistake those tousled waves and that chiseled jaw for anything other than nobility.”

Though Beau gawks at her, incredulous, he cannot help but mutter, “Royalty.”

If she could, Guinevere would surely bounce on tiptoe at the news, but her incorporeal form forces her to swell three times her size instead. “Your Majesty .” She clutches a hand to her chest. “How honored I am to meet you.”

With an air of impatience, Mila shoots forward, plucking a velvet box from the depths of Beau’s breast pocket. I didn’t notice it before, and even Beau startles slightly as she waves it under Guinevere’s nose. “Do you know what this is, Guin?” She plunges on before Guinevere can answer. “ This is all the incentive you need to leave the poor man alone.” Flicking it open, she reveals a gold ring with a magnificent ruby centerpiece. It sparkles so brightly, so beautifully , that I gasp and seize it from her, examining it from every direction in the moonlight.

“Is this—?” I whirl to face Beau, and now it’s my turn to bounce on tiptoe, an enormous smile splitting my face in two. “Beauregard Lyon, is this an engagement ring?”

He snatches it away, hastily checking for damage before tucking it into his pocket once more. Sheepish now, he says, “It might be.”

“Ask him how he intended to propose. You can tell a lot about a man by how he chooses to propose.” Drifting away from us, Guinevere lifts her pert nose in the air, and I realize Beau dropped my elbow in his haste to retrieve the ring. If possible, I grin even wider in realization. He planned to propose to Coco on her birthday , and that—that must be why he’s been acting so churlish tonight. He wanted to make the evening special. He wanted to make it theirs. The whole thing is so ridiculously romantic that I might cry all over again, except I wouldn’t be pretending this time. Because—

The warmth in my chest cools in an icy blast of wind.

Because he didn’t get to do it. Despite his grand plans, he missed her birthday; because of me , he missed his chance.

“Oh.” The word leaves me in a painful breath, and I clutch my elbows, shivering again in the cold. Though the rational part of my mind knows this isn’t my fault—I didn’t ask the Necromancer to target me—I still feel somehow responsible. “I’m so sorry, Beau.”

He waves a hand without looking at me. “Don’t be. Really, you—you probably saved me a great embarrassment. Coco has never been the sentimental type.”

“She would’ve said yes,” I say firmly. “She will say yes.”

Though he shrugs, he says nothing else, and if the Necromancer is somewhere listening, I hope he feels like complete and utter refuse for wreaking such havoc on our lives.

And... well... ending several others.

Guinevere heaves a dramatic sigh in the silence. “A paramour of mine once proposed in the putrid alley behind a tavern, right there in the middle of his sick.”

“That,” Mila says, “is disgusting.”

“Yes. Quite.” Guinevere cuts Beau an arch look from the corner of her eye. “I left him for his brother the next morning.”

Though Beau can no longer see or hear them, he seems to realize the conversation has carried on without him—and about him. Dragging a weary hand through his hair, he speaks in a low murmur. “Seriously, Célie, I think it’s time to go back inside. If the Necromancer was going to attack, he would’ve done it by now, and—”

The bells on his hat jingle again.

Brows furrowing, I glance between Mila and Guin, but neither of them floats anywhere near the tree. The air, too, has fallen unnaturally still and silent. Odd. “Did either of you—?” I start to ask, but Mila shakes her head.

“It must’ve been the wind,” she whispers, but the hair on my neck lifts regardless. Mila is a ghost. She has no reason to whisper, no reason to fear. No one can even hear her except for me and Guinevere, who frowns and peers below the balcony to investigate.

Her eyes fly wide. Whirling back to face me, she says, “Célie, run —”

But it’s too late. Long fingers appear on the balustrade, and before Beau and I can do anything but stumble backward—clutching each other—a pale figure slides over the parapet and onto the balcony with lethal grace. My mouth falls open, and shock jolts through my body like an injection of hemlock, rooting me to the spot. Because it isn’t the Necromancer who smiles at me now, her dove-gray gown flecked with bits of starlight.

It’s Priscille.