Page 10 of The Shadow Bride (The Scarlet Veil #2)

Chapter Ten

Make It So, and It Will Be

An hour later, I sit in an odd little consignment shop overlooking the docks.

It isn’t much—a few dusty tomes on navigation, a bundle of rope, and, curiously, a basket of kittens—but Michal and Odessa know the owner, a portly, middle-aged man with a kind smile and a desk in his shopwindow. “Wait here,” Michal told me, his hand at the small of my back as he ushered me into the shop. “I need to speak with the harbormaster.”

“Does this place carry stationery?” I asked him in a hollow voice. “And envelopes?”

He hesitated in the doorway, casting me a searching look. “I believe so.”

I stare down at said envelopes now. Sitting at the desk in the window, I focus on the heft and texture of the linen, the crisp corners, the shopkeeper’s glistening seal. Crimson wax. My breath quivers slightly as I lean forward to blow on the viscous liquid until it hardens, until it resembles something other than—other than—

I give myself a vicious mental shake.

Blood.

This is getting ridiculous. I can still say the word. I can still think it.

My hands, however, seem to disagree; they snake out in a wretched blur, flipping each envelope to hide the wax, and I gaze instead at the names scrawled across the fronts in black ink. Black like the kitten underfoot , I think firmly. My vision narrows on those letters, on each loop and curve of my handwriting until nothing else exists. Black like my hair, like the shopkeeper’s vest. Black like —

My gaze flicks upward, and I watch Michal through the window as he argues with the harbormaster.

Even at a distance, I can see his black eyes.

Amidst the bustle of merchants, of dockworkers and fishermen, he looks more preternatural than ever, too still and too beautiful to ever be mistaken for human. Too pale. His alabaster skin shines like a beacon in the overcast light, stark and perfect against his dark clothing. Fortunately, his surcoat hides most of his torn shirt beneath, except for the sleeves. I shredded those too. The harbormaster eyes the claw marks in the leather dubiously, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his brow.

Michal gave me his cloak to hide the bloodstains on my nightgown.

Forcing myself to relax, I count the kittens in the basket while I wait for him to finish arranging our transport. Seven of them in all. They mewl and scramble against the wicker in a desperate bid to reach me. Ruefully, I bend to scratch each of their little heads with a pang of unexpected loss; my mother forbade animals in the house, so Filippa and I never owned a pet.

I straighten with a miserable sigh. Eventually, Filippa persuaded her into allowing me to adopt one of the horses from our stable—Cabot—and when I joined the huntsmen, I insisted on taking him with me from West End to Chasseur Tower. He probably thinks I abandoned him now. He probably takes his oats from Brigitte.

I wish Michal would hurry up.

Near the till, Odessa peruses a brilliantly inked star chart as the shop owner counts the last of his couronnes, taking careful notes in his ledger. “Lucille traveled all the way to Zvezdya to acquire that piece,” he tells her proudly, “along with a compass of pure obsidian from the home of a sorcerer—the Shadow, locals call him.”

“Sorcerers don’t exist, Yves,” Odessa says absently—though not unkindly—as she examines the chart. “I hope your daughter didn’t pay an exorbitant sum because a charlatan called himself the Shadow .”

“Always the skeptic.” Chuckling, Yves closes the till and pats her arm fondly. “Alas, your brother would believe me—and where is Dimitri, anyway?” Odessa stiffens near indiscernibly at the sound of her brother’s name, but Yves doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes glittering with mischief. I wonder if he knows to whom he truly speaks. I wonder if he knows what she eats. “Is he out romancing the locals? I know Lucille would love to see him before he leaves.”

Fixing a smile on her lips, Odessa returns the chart to its shelf. “Dimitri is otherwise occupied, I’m afraid.”

Otherwise occupied. It isn’t a lie, per se. Disappearing with the Necromancer after his betrayal on All Hallows’ Eve has probably kept Dimitri quite busy this week. No one has seen him since the grotto—where he murdered Babette, fed from Beau, and attacked his own sister in a desperate bid to take La Voisin’s grimoire. In his defense, he believed it held the cure to his blood sickness.

He also almost killed us all.

Odessa stares fixedly at the tin of biscuits by the star chart, her body taut as a bow.

Thankfully, a customer enters then; he interrupts whatever Yves might’ve said.

As if sensing the weight of my gaze, Odessa’s eyes flick to mine, and I look hastily away, spreading my envelopes across the desk: To Jean Luc , To Brigitte , To Lou . My fingers still tremble slightly against the last letter. They haven’t stopped trembling since I wrote it. I stare determinedly at the stained crescents of my nails, the dried brown blood underneath, instead of imagining her expression when she wakes and cannot find me. Brown like autumn leaves. Like acorns and chestnut coffee.

Lou deserves so much more than what I’ve given her. They all do, yet I cannot bear to say goodbye in person. It makes me a miserable coward, yes—and a wretched friend—but if I return to their doorstep, if I sit in that merry kitchen with its copper pots and fat peonies, I know I’ll never leave. Eventually, I’ll hurt one of them like I hurt Jean Luc, and that cannot happen. I cannot put us in such a position again.

Never again.

I cling to that resolve with every fragment of my body. It becomes imperative, a life raft, and though it won’t buoy me forever, it buoys me for now. It will buoy me straight to Requiem, where I must... atone for what I’ve done somehow. Where I must make things right .

I run my finger over the sharp corners of the envelope, thinking hard.

Three years ago—on the night of my debut into society—I stood alone at the top of our grand staircase, staring down at the beautiful peers in our ballroom. I nearly vomited at the sight of their unfamiliar faces, of my own empty dance card. My mother had refused to invite Reid to the soirée. He held no title or fortune, yet I still wanted to marry him. I’d never danced with anyone else. “You’ll be fine,” Filippa told me fiercely, seizing my gloved hands. “Every gentleman in this room will be clamoring to meet you tonight, ma belle. Mark my words—Maman and I will need to beat them away with a stick.”

I regarded her with wide, helpless eyes. “What if they don’t?”

Our mother stepped forward with that familiar air of competence and severity. “Make it so,” she said curtly, “and it will be.” Then she pinched my cheeks with brutal efficiency and towed me down the stairs.

Make it so, and it will be.

Nonsensical words, to be sure, yet her advice—it worked that evening. Under her sharp eyes, I held my shoulders straight and my chin high. I batted my lashes, and I spoke with confidence, feigned wit and charm. By the end of the night, my feet ached from dancing, and two men proposed the very next morning.

I’ve always been good at pretend.

And if it worked then, why shouldn’t it work now?

I might be a monster, but I can still act otherwise—like my life hasn’t just shattered into a thousand jagged pieces, like my teeth don’t still ache to taste blood. Instead, I can go to Requiem, and I can start again. I can do better. I can be better.

“You don’t need to explain yourself to anyone, Célie,” Odessa says, pretending not to read Jean Luc’s and Brigitte’s names over my shoulder. Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t hear her approach. I gather the letters with a scowl.

“I almost killed them, Odessa.”

“And?” She stoops to retrieve one of the kittens who have escaped the basket, lifting it by the scruff to peer directly into its blue-gray eyes. It meows loudly for rescue. “A letter will not change what happened, nor will it change their minds. They cannot understand what transpired in that alley because they are human. Filthy little things, aren’t they?” she adds, tilting her head at the kitten. “Yves sells them to sailors to catch rats on their ships, yet I think a rat would eat such a small creature, don’t you?”

I snatch the kitten away from her and return it to the basket. “It doesn’t matter if they change their minds. I still need to apologize.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why ?” I straighten, inexplicably flustered, and cram my letters into the pocket of Michal’s traveling cloak. “I hurt them. It’s the right thing to do—”

“According to whom?”

“According to everyone , Odessa,” I snap. “I took a vote, and everyone agrees the polite response to tearing open your ex-fiancé’s throat is to apologize.”

“And yet,” she says, “you just said it doesn’t matter if they change their minds. If so, one might question the need to apologize at all—unless, of course, the apology is for your benefit instead of theirs.” She pauses as I blink at her, stunned. “Well? Do you truly think they wish to hear from you?”

“Must you always twist everything I say? It’s exhausting —”

“Just something to think about.” She shrugs and plucks a book from the shelf before stopping short, turning with a beleaguered sigh. “Though while we’re on such an uncomfortable subject... I might need to apologize for the role I played in all this.” She waves a hand toward my bloodstained nightgown, her garnet bracelets clinking around her wrist.

I wrap the cloak tighter around my waist. “You didn’t do anything, Odessa.”

“You’re right, of course, but alas, that is precisely the issue—I didn’t do anything, and Michal tasked me with guiding you through your transition.” A pause. “He trusted me, and I allowed you to starve.”

“You didn’t—”

“I knew animal blood could never sustain you. I knew you’d eventually need to imbibe from the source. Everyone in that wretched house could see you withering away, yet we did nothing to stop it. I failed as your mentor—not that I asked for the job,” she adds, lifting her chin in a haughty, defensive sort of way. “I would’ve much preferred to stay in Requiem. Newborn vampires aren’t my particular cup of tea. Too impulsive, you know.”

I do know. Rather than tell her that, however, I finger the clasp of Michal’s cloak and stare fixedly at the basket of kittens. A cream-colored tabby blinks back at me. “Yes, well... I won’t be starving myself anymore, which means you’re officially relieved of your duties. I know better now.”

“Right.” She hesitates again, and I cannot help it—I glance up at her, frowning. She has the air of a woman preparing herself to do something extremely unpleasant. “Except... I’m not sure you do, darling—know better, that is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well... have you learned about the birds and the bees?”

Spluttering, I nearly knock over the desk as I jolt forward. “ What? ”

“The birds and the bees.” Her hand grows more agitated, and she lowers her voice. “The analogy doesn’t apply to vampires, of course, as we cannot reproduce, but the mechanics remain the same—”

“ Odessa. ” Hissing her name, I glance at Yves, who remains deep in conversation about the benefits of using a True Lover’s Knot over a Double Dragon. “ Why are we talking about this?”

“Well, darling, I assume that lovely flush in your cheeks isn’t simple coincidence—not when you smell so thoroughly of Michal.”

Oh no.

“I smell of Michal?” I ask faintly.

“Yes,” she says slowly, placatingly, and if I hadn’t died in that grotto, I’d want to die all over again. The heat in my cheeks burns deeper as—unbidden—my eyes flick to the window. To Michal at the docks. He still speaks with the harbormaster, but at that precise second, his gaze snaps upward, finding mine. I turn sharply, and this time, I do upset the desk. Its leg skids into the basket of kittens, who tumble out in a heap of orange and gray and black. Oh no no no—

Limbs blurring, I right the basket and scoop them inside before they touch the floor.

Odessa sighs again.

“Célie.” She looks as if she’d rather stick pins in her eyes than continue this conversation, and I agree. I wholly and thoroughly agree. “You have nothing of which to be ashamed. If consensual, the act of blood sharing is completely acceptable between vampires. I only ask about your sexual expertise in case you felt things during the act—things you might not understand. Vampirism tends to amplify sensation, emotion... all of it, really.”

“The act ?” My voice rises to a squeak, and both Yves and his customer glance in our direction now. Odessa waves them away with a pained smile. “With Michal? But we didn’t— I’d never —”

“There isn’t a word to describe how little I want to hear the rest of that sentence. I am simply ensuring you know how intercourse works if the opportunity presents itself.” She clears her throat delicately. “You do know how it works, then?”

I stare at her, incredulous. Though I’ve never—well, performed the act , I’ve read more than enough books to understand the mechanics. I’d rather combust than tell her this, however, so I simply snap, “Yes, Odessa. I know how it works.”

“Excellent.” She lifts her chin, smoothing her bodice in palpable relief before adding, “That said, if you have any questions—”

“I don’t—”

“—or if you ever have any questions—”

“I won’t .”

She rolls her eyes just as Michal enters the shop with a carefully neutral expression. It gives him away entirely, and I want to die all over again because he must’ve overheard this ludicrous conversation. I stifle a groan. Of course he did. He’s a vampire, which means he overheard everything, and I—I stare fervently at the kittens, cheeks blazing, unable to meet his gaze as Odessa says, “She’s all yours, cousin.” Then, sweeping past us to the door: “I’ll be on the ship. Do hurry up, won’t you? This city is tedious at the best of times, let alone after a week of listening to Louise le Blanc and Reid Diggory demonstrate their understanding of certain mechanics—”

“Odessa!”

She merely lifts a shoulder, however—unconcerned—and disappears.

Michal and I stand in awkward silence for several seconds. Or rather, I stand in awkward silence while he stands in what I assume is his best impression of a marble statue—tall and cold and perfect—waiting for me to speak.

“Well?” My voice comes out higher than usual, almost shrill, and I clear my throat hastily. “Did the harbormaster agree to rearrange his departure schedule? Can we leave?”

“Yes.” Michal opens the door, gesturing for me to precede him—which I do, wrapping his cloak tighter to hide the bloodstains down my front. He doesn’t touch me this time. His hands remain clasped firmly behind his back.

“And did—” I clear my throat and start over. “Did you happen to keep my trousseau? Do I have—er, clothing on Requiem?”

“Everything is exactly as you left it.” His gaze drops to my feet, where his too-long hem hides my bare toes. “Though the harbormaster has agreed to wait if you’d like to collect your things from West End. We can retrieve them before we—”

“No.” I shake my head instantly. “My parents can never see me like this.”

He gives me a cool sidelong glance. “Never,” he repeats.

“Well, not never never. Just not—not right now.”

He looks away again. “I see.”

“No, you don’t.” Even to my ears, the words sound a touch desperate, but they spill between us before I can stop them, perhaps because I still can’t read his expression; I can’t discern what he’s thinking behind that impassive stare, only that he is thinking something, and I want to know what it is. Is it amusement? Judgment?

At that thought, an inexplicable need to defend myself rises. “My parents think I’ve eloped, or otherwise whored myself to a man who is not my betrothed. They think I’ve been compromised. To them, it’s the worst thing that could’ve possibly happened to me, and I—I don’t want to prove them wrong. Not yet, anyway.”

Another beat of silence. Then—

“As you wish.”

He dips his chin without another word, continuing toward the ship, but I snatch his shredded sleeve before he can outpace me, irrationally agitated by his lack of response. It shouldn’t matter what he thinks. I shouldn’t care , yet I can’t stop myself from saying, “If you have something to say—”

He arches a brow at my hand on his arm. “Oh, I have many things to say, pet, but you aren’t ready to hear them.”

“I told you not to call me pet ,” I snap, “and you don’t get to decide when I’m ready to hear things, Michal. I’m not a child. I can handle a few unpleasant words from you .”

Despite my bravado, warmth still creeps into my cheeks beneath his full, undivided attention, and when I rescind my hand—flustered—he says, “Fair enough.” He still doesn’t touch me, however. Instead he leans low, his black eyes glittering with something that looks suspiciously like hurt. “How about this? A sadistic witch tortured and killed your sister last year. Your parents know the worst that could happen, and it isn’t you whoring yourself to me.”

He turns abruptly on his heel then.

He leaves me standing there gaping after him like a fish.

It takes several seconds for me to clamp my mouth shut, to bite my tongue and remember I did ask for those unpleasant words. I wanted to know exactly what he was thinking, and he kindly obliged. Now I have no choice but to chase after him and demand an explanation—for his callous regard, yes, but also for that strange look in his eyes. That slight crack in his wall of ice. “What does that mean? You can’t just proclaim these things and flee into the night, Michal—”

“It’s dawn.”

“Flee into the dawn, then.” Though I dare not catch his sleeve again, I hurry to step in front of him, blocking his path and searching his face for—well, I don’t know , exactly. “Do you think I should visit my parents? Do you think I should tell them what happened to me?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.”

“What if it did?”

The question surprises even me, and I blink up at him, alarmed by my own nerve. This is Michal, after all—ancient and powerful, the cruelest of vampires—and we’ve never exactly been open with each other. Not like this. I resist the urge to squirm beneath his appraisal.

“We aren’t friends, Célie Tremblay. You’ve made that very clear.”

I swallow hard. “What if we were?”

“ That you would even think of friendship while you plan to maim and murder my loved ones proves you are quite incapable of it. ” He recites the words as if verbatim, his voice flat, and with a shock, I realize they belonged to me. He—he memorized them. As before, he waits for me to respond, and as before, I have no idea what to say. Did I ever apologize for accusing him of murder?

Did I ever thank him for defending me in the aviary? In this very harbor?

“Things have changed since then,” I say instead.

“Have they?”

“We aren’t—” I clear my throat, forcing myself to hold his cool gaze. He warned us about the revenants this morning. He didn’t need to tell us—didn’t need to sail all this way—but he did, inadvertently saving Lou and Reid from the Archbishop in the process. He saved Jean Luc too, despite those chilling last words: I myself do not care if you live or die. I exhale a slow, measured breath at the thought of him in the alley, biting his wrist before offering it to me. Stroking my hair as I fed. “We aren’t enemies anymore, Michal.”

“And that makes us friends?”

“I don’t know what it makes us.”

We stare at each other for a long second, neither willing to give anything else—and it’s enough. For now, not being enemies is enough. As if reading my thoughts, Michal gives a terse nod. When he steps around me, however—his gaze sliding back toward the ship—his entire body stills.

“What is it?” Instinctively, I freeze too, and the hair on my neck lifts as Michal’s lip curls. I glance around us. “Michal? Do you smell something?”

He shifts slightly in response, turning his face into the wind. My body does the same, as if it senses something beyond my awareness. Something dangerous. “Do you ?” he asks.

“I—” Another gust of wind blows past at that second, and with it, the faint scent of decay brushes my cheeks, sweeps down my nose. I recoil instantly, whispering, “Revenants.”

Michal nods. “What else do you smell? Focus on the scent.”

“But I can’t—”

“Yes,” Michal says, his voice hard, “you can.”

Make it so, and it will be.

Closing my eyes, I inhale deeper now, try to catch that faint tendril of miasma and follow wherever it leads. There are so many smells here, however—too many smells, an overwhelming amount—and it takes several seconds to ground myself beside him, to sift through the salt and sweat and stink of the harbor. And then—

There.

My eyes snap open at the first waft of that scent on the breeze: sharp and metallic and heady. My fangs descend without warning. “It’s blood,” I tell Michal in dawning realization. “I smell revenants and blood.”