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Chapter Forty-Eight

The King and His Court

“Bonjour, humaine,” she says, smoothing her gossamer bodice.

Before Beau and I can turn, can run , Juliet seizes me from behind, while another, unfamiliar vampire wrenches Beau’s arms behind his back, drags his nose down the column of Beau’s neck. Though Beau thrashes against him, his strength is nothing to that of a vampire, and this one presses his teeth against Beau’s jugular until the king of Belterra stills, closing his eyes and holding his breath.

“Leave him alone—” Snarling, I strain toward them, but Juliet wraps a cold hand around my own throat.

“I wouldn’t worry about your friend,” she murmurs in my ear. “Not when your blood tastes sweetest.”

Instinctively, I launch myself back through the veil before she notices Mila or Guinevere. Judging from the cold, crystalline glint in Priscille’s eyes, these vampires are out for blood— my blood. Yannick’s words from the aviary flit through me like tiny knives: I will not be quick. If either Juliet or Priscille realize I can see the dead, can communicate with them, who knows what else they’ll do?

“You don’t have to hurt us.” Juliet’s hand nearly crushes my throat as I swallow, searching for any sign of Michal. He should be here by now. My knuckles clench white around her arm, but no matter how violently I claw at her, my nails cannot pierce her skin. Abruptly, my lungs cannot draw breath. Because if Michal could reach me, he would, yet he isn’t here. He isn’t here. “There is still time to change your minds. You can leave, hide, never come back to this place, and pray Michal never finds you.”

Priscille bares her teeth in a smile—fangs sharp, overlong—and three more vampires climb up the balcony behind her. “How fortunate that even His Majesty could not stop the enchantment around Requiem from lifting tonight,” she says, mocking Michal’s words with a harsh laugh. Casting a wicked, sidelong look at the vampire beside her, who shares her wild black curls, her full figure, her snarl. A brother, perhaps, or a cousin. “He could not stop our kin from joining us either, and how patiently they’ve waited for this moment.”

I struggle uselessly against Juliet’s hold, unable to reach the silver knife in my boot. I didn’t prepare for this. Foolishly, stupidly , I didn’t prepare—because it was supposed to be the Necromancer who attacked tonight, not a faction of mutinous vampires. Though I try to thrust backward, to force the silver of my gown against her chest, she holds me away from her with viselike strength. “Please,” I whisper. “Michal may forgive your kin for coming to Requiem, but he won’t forgive you if harm comes to us. Please, please , just let us go.”

“ Michal , she calls him,” snarls Juliet, tightening her hand until the edges of my vision blur. Until I choke and gasp for breath. “He allows the human to say his name—to bring her filthy companions to our isle, our home —and he honors them above all others. One even wears the coat of a huntsman.” When my shoulder manages to brush her arm, she snarls and tears the capelet in half, hurling the priceless garment aside. Diamonds scatter in every direction. “A king with divided loyalties is no king at all.”

The other vampires hiss their agreement.

I nearly scream in frustration. “But his loyalties aren’t divided—”

“Would you have us plead for our king’s forgiveness, humaine?” At my helplessness, Priscille’s smile grows positively lethal. “Would you have us crawl on our knees and beg him to forget? We are vampires . We will not ask for permission or forgiveness from one so weak , and we will accept his regime no longer.” Eyes blazing, chest heaving, she turns to address the others in a fit of passion. “Friends, the rule of Michal Vasiliev ends tonight —”

Eyes bulging, she stops abruptly, and for a split second, my mind cannot process the speed with which Michal moves to stand before her. When it does, however—when I recognize his sleek pale hair and alabaster skin—I nearly sob in relief, sagging in Juliet’s arms. Though teeth marks ooze at his throat, it doesn’t matter. Though one wing hangs half-torn from his back, Michal is here, unharmed, and his mere presence has terrified Priscille into silence.

Then I see the blood dripping from his hand, the viscera between his fingers, and realize he’s ripped out her vocal cords.

Beside me, Beau gags at the sight and bends double—the vampire holding him has fled, only to be seized by Ivan, who vaults over the parapet and snaps the vampire’s neck. He goes down like a sack of bricks. Choking, Priscille scrabbles at her throat and whirls, desperate to escape, to live , but Odessa rises to block her path. Dimitri, too, and Pasha. One by one, they debilitate the insurgent vampires in a blur of liquid movement—breaking their kneecaps, seizing their hair, dragging them toward the mahogany doors of the ballroom.

Lou, Reid, Coco, and Jean Luc climb from the limb of the oak tree several seconds later, ashen-faced and grim. None appear seriously injured—thank God—but a bruise already swells on Reid’s cheek from whatever happened below; Coco bleeds from a cut on her forearm. Beau rushes toward her, and Dimitri—

His face snaps toward her too. Toward her blood . For just an instant, his eyes gleam feral, but Pasha snarls, shoving him through the doors and out of sight.

Leaving Juliet with her hand around my throat.

“Let her go,” Michal growls.

Though he approaches slowly, carefully, to where Juliet has pulled us against the balustrade, her entire body tenses, and something seems to snap within her. With a snarl, she attempts to sink her teeth into my jugular. Too slow. Michal descends in an instant—eyes flashing with rage—and seizes her by the throat too, pushing me aside with his other hand. I spin wildly toward Jean Luc, who catches me against his chest. Instead of ripping out her vocal cords like he did with Priscille, however, Michal smashes through the doors to the ballroom.

He nearly flies as he ascends the dais with Juliet in tow.

We all bolt after him—Beau and me stumbling slightly—to find the entire room has gone silent.

Except for Juliet. She still writhes and kicks, hissing and spitting and tearing at his hand, which he uses to hold her aloft by the throat. Despite her struggle, he doesn’t release her. He doesn’t even flinch. Expression cold and cruel—eyes wholly inhuman—he addresses the room in a whisper. “There are some among you who question my strength.”

Pasha, Ivan, Dimitri, and Odessa form a sort of barricade around Juliet’s debilitated companions. When one struggles to rise, his knees healing, Pasha shatters his tibia, and the vampire screams in pain. Priscille’s relation still snaps his teeth at me, eyes burning with hatred, until Dimitri wrenches the fangs from his mouth by force. Blood spatters the obsidian floor, and I look away hastily, edging closer to Coco and Beau, whose stricken expression mirrors my own. Somehow, this feels so much worse than Yannick in the aviary. This feels like an exhibition, a performance , except the actors and actresses crawl and bleed upon the ground instead of sweeping across the stage. Unbidden, my gaze creeps back to Priscille and her torn-open throat.

This is—this is sick .

“Some of you believe I’ve grown too weak to rule this isle. You believe I’ve grown unfit, perhaps unable to protect you from the dangers beyond Requiem.” A pause. “Is that what you think, Juliet?” Michal asks her softly. “Do you envision yourself as monarch? As queen? Do you think real power stems from preying upon those weaker than you?”

She bares her teeth at him in response.

“I see.” Nodding to himself, Michal lifts her higher, and her feet scrabble upon the dais floor. “By all means... allow me to address your concerns.” Raising his voice, he speaks to the entire room now. “Allow me to address all of your concerns and, at last, lay your petty fears to rest.”

With the simple flick of his wrist, he parts Juliet’s head from her shoulders, and her entire body shrivels, desiccating to bone, before he drops it to the floor with a muted thud . I stare at her corpse, unable to blink. Unable to think . Every thought empties from my head until only Michal remains. Standing above her, he stares at his people with an expression so foreign, so empty , that I cannot look at him either.

“Holy hell,” Beau whispers, and I follow his gaze to the crowd.

I don’t know what I expected—for the vampires to shriek, perhaps, or hiss as Priscille now hisses. Perhaps I thought they would scatter in fear at such a display of dominion, or else rush the dais to attack. They outnumber us, after all. They could do it.

Nothing, however, could’ve prepared me for the relish in their eyes as they gaze upon Michal now.

Murmuring eagerly, they part to form a crude sort of circle in the middle of the ballroom, and—when the imprisoned vampires begin to thrash in terror—cold dread whispers a warning down my spine. The circle they’re forming—it looks like a pit. A cage . Incredulous, I step toward Michal, but both Beau and Coco seize the back of my gown, and Lou moves her head in a slow, nauseated shake. “This isn’t meant for us, Célie.”

Reid nods gravely. “We should go.”

But we can’t just go —I look between them in desperation—because the Necromancer is still out there. Despite all our careful planning, he didn’t come, and I still almost died at the hands of vengeful vampires. I just—I don’t understand this place. My throat constricts as the full ramifications of the evening catch up with me. The Necromancer didn’t come. He didn’t come , and how—how am I going to sleep tonight? My breath comes in short, painful bursts. How am I going to live if the Necromancer could be lurking around every corner? He could be hiding in my room even now, and if he isn’t, it could be Monsieur Dupont instead. It could be Ivan or Pasha or even Dimitri. Bile rises in my throat at the thought of them—lurking in the shadows, waiting—and unbidden, I glance back toward Michal.

Juliet’s blood still stains his hand.

She would’ve killed me. They all would’ve killed me in a brutal and gruesome fashion if Michal hadn’t intervened. What else could he have done except strike back and strike true? What else could I have done to prevent it?

No.

Shaking my head, I back into Lou, into Reid, into Coco and Beau and even Jean Luc, and at the movement, Michal’s eyes flick to mine. An unspoken question stirs within them. I cannot give him the answer he craves, however; I cannot do this any longer, cannot abide such violence . Does he truly think I could ever live in such a place? Does he truly think I could survive it?

Lou squeezes my hand in silent comfort, but even her presence does little to reassure me now. When Odessa appears beside us, seizing my other hand, Michal clears his throat upon the dais. “The revelry has officially ended,” he says. “Leave this place, and do not return.” Jerking his head toward Pasha and Ivan, he says, “Do with them as you please.”

He turns on his heel and disappears through a nondescript door in the wall behind. Odessa pulls more insistently on my hand—whispering for me to hurry, hurry —as Pasha and Ivan haul the imprisoned vampires to their feet. As they drag their prone bodies into the center of the pit.

“Célie, move —”

Forceful now, Odessa whisks me onto the balcony, down the tree, and into the courtyard below—but not before I hear the screams.