Page 22 of The Shadow Bride (The Scarlet Veil #2)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Mila Returns

The forest Michal leads me through whispers of an age before even Les éternels.

Great cragged rocks jut forth from the misty ground, interspersed with ancient and moss-covered trees: beech, I think, and firs and maples. A freshwater stream cuts through the undergrowth to our left. Raindrops still glitter upon the ferns, but for the first time since my arrival, the clouds have calmed over Requiem. No rumble of thunder punctuates the early morning air. No flash of lightning.

As if sensing our presence, the wildlife around us cease their chatter. Only the gentle burble of water meets our ears. Indeed, the eerie presence in the harbor and castle doesn’t yet seem to have reached this part of the island. It feels peaceful. Calm. Still—

I frown at the ferns nearest us, where water continues to trickle steadily from their fronds as if rain still falls from the sky. Instinctively, I swipe at one of the droplets and bring it to my nose.

Salt.

The water smells of salt.

“Step lightly,” Michal says into the silence. “Stick to the rocks along the bank if possible and try not to disturb the vegetation. This forest is rife with magic,” he explains at my questioning look, tucking his hands into his pockets and strolling forward. “We don’t want to disturb it.”

“Really?” Curious despite myself, I hasten after him, picking up my skirts and cursing myself for not changing my shoes—thin satin slippers with delicate ribbons up the ankles. They’ll be ruined within a mile. “More so than other parts of the isle? Why?”

“Because the witch in residence doesn’t like visitors. Those are tears, by the way.” He nods toward the foliage, toward the trees, which all continue to gently drip, drip, drip . “The entire forest started to weep after All Hallows’ Eve.”

“Oh.” I glance around at the jewel-bright droplets, and I wonder at how something can be so beautiful yet so unnerving at the same time. “How... comforting.”

Michal grins, and at the sight of it, I stumble upon the pebbled bank. Though the forest is strange, this new Michal is stranger still. Since staging his death, he seems... lighter, somehow, almost relaxed , which makes no sense at all; he might’ve shirked his crown, but the stakes have never been higher for any of us. His devastating grin widens at my reaction—because he notices the stumble, of course—and I nearly choke at the dimple in his cheek. Just the one, so different yet so similar to Dimitri’s. How have I never noticed it before?

Slowing to walk alongside me, he says, “You needn’t worry about a witch, Célie. You’re a vampire now. Your strength equals any threat she might leverage against us.”

I snort indelicately, my cheeks flushing for no apparent reason. “Strength has never exactly been my forte, Michal.”

He arches a brow. “And you’re against trying new things?”

“Of course not—”

“Have you, then?” he asks steadily. “Tried them?”

“Tried what ?”

“Your newfound skills as a vampire.”

If possible, my flush deepens as I look away, and Michal makes a low noise in his throat. “Not yet,” I say stiffly. “There hasn’t been... time.” At the last, I cast him a quick, furtive look from the corner of my eye, but such subtlety proves unnecessary. Between one blink and the next, he steps directly in front of me, blocking my path and forcing me to look at him.

His own eyes have narrowed. “We have time now.”

“But you said—”

“This is important too.”

My hands fist in my skirts—because it isn’t, not really, and there are a hundred things more important than exploring vampirism. We’ve abandoned Lou and the others to battle the undead in Cesarine, my mother insists on cohabitating with bloodthirsty monsters, and I still haven’t told Michal about Death and Filippa. The last twists like a knife in my chest. No. In Michal’s back . I need to tell him. I know I need to tell him, but he just died; he sacrificed everything without hesitation, yet I’ve done nothing but hesitate when it comes to him.

I don’t think he’ll hurt my sister, but—but what if he does ?

What if he has no choice?

The isle—the entire world —is breaking, and at the center of it all stands Death and his revenants. That much is clear. This forest would not be weeping without them. The harbor would not be bleeding, the paintings dying. Worse still—Death seems to be scheming something more, and he seems to be scheming it with my sister.

I made a promise, my sweet, to exhaust every option.

Every option to what ?

If only I knew; if only I could reveal Death without endangering Filippa, who clearly isn’t herself.

“Aren’t you curious, pet?” Michal tilts his head and watches me patiently. “To test your limits? To discover all this eternal life might offer if you give it the chance?”

“ No ,” I say sharply—too sharp. I cringe internally at the vehemence in my voice.

A flicker of emotion crosses Michal’s features at the word, there and gone again in the blink of an eye. Disappointment? Remorse? It doesn’t matter , I tell myself firmly, but even I almost laugh at the lie. Nothing has ever mattered more.

“Are you sure?” he asks in that dangerously soft voice. “The Célie I know relishes knowledge. She craves the thrill of new experiences, of adventure, and she never allows fear to keep her from chasing it.”

I scoff on impulse. This Célie of whom he speaks is much greater than I, but he needn’t know that. He needn’t know anything of this battle raging in my chest. “Don’t be ridiculous, Michal. Of course I’m not afraid—”

“Prove it.”

His black eyes glitter with challenge now. With burgeoning excitement. And though it makes me the worst sort of coward, I am afraid—of indulging my own treacherous curiosity, yes, but also of indulging him .

With a valiant attempt at indifference, I sweep past him. “We’ll disturb the forest if we race across the isle.”

He appears in front of me again, refusing to be deterred. “Not if we run on the water.”

“But my gown—”

“I said on the water, Célie, not in it.”

His hand snakes out to catch mine when I skirt around him again, and his eyes—they flick to our left for the briefest of seconds as if detecting movement. Instinctively, I follow his gaze to find a small tear in the veil between two saplings. The shorn edges ripple slightly in a nonexistent breeze, and snowflakes drift upon the earth below it. I frown as Michal turns my chin back toward him. Did he just see —?

“You needn’t fear for your gown, pet,” he says as if nothing happened. “All vampires can move with exceptional speed, but the fastest among us can outrun nature itself. You will not sink.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Michal, but I am not you. I very much doubt I’ll be able to—to walk on water—”

“ Run on water,” he corrects me. “And you might be surprised. Will you at least try?” When I still look wary, he grins anew, and from his pocket he withdraws a very frayed, very filthy, very familiar emerald ribbon. My heart leaps at the sight of it.

“Is that—?” I lunge for it instinctively. After the events of All Hallows’ Eve, I thought my ribbon lost, gone forever, and no small part of me regretted exchanging it with the silver ribbon of my costume that night. Frederic’s knife irrevocably ruined that ribbon, of course, so perhaps it’d been for the best. “How did you find it?”

“It was never lost.” He jerks the ribbon overhead when I swipe at it, and the tail dangles just out of reach. “I suppose you’d like it back now, wouldn’t you?”

I glare up at him. “Yes.”

“Fantastic.” Quick as a flash, he tucks the ribbon back into his pocket. “Indulge this little whim of mine, and I’ll give it to you. It could be useful, you know,” he adds in a lower voice, and my belly clenches like a fist at the sound. “To learn the limits of your new body.”

“Why is this so important to you?”

And it is important, I realize with a start. Despite his casual demeanor, his gaze blisters with an intensity that burns. “You need to know your advantages in order to press them. The revenants certainly will.” An idea sparks in his eyes before I can argue. “If the revenants and ribbon aren’t incentive enough, I suppose I could simply... flee.”

My brow furrows. “What?”

He doesn’t explain; instead that idea solidifies into a knowing, mischievous gleam, and—the split second before he turns on his heel—I remember his warning outside L’ange de la Mort: Never run from a vampire. My frown deepens. Because he can’t possibly think—

In a streak of black and silver, he bolts up the stream, and my body reacts without conscious thought.

It bolts after him.

If a small, distant part of my mind—the human part—realizes what I’m doing, it remains wholly silent in wake of the instinctive, all-consuming rush of power down my spine. As before with Brigitte, my vision sharpens. It bleeds red as blood pounds through my ears. Each stone on the bank, each frond of bracken, each teardrop and each fiber of moss and grass and earth—it all rises before me with crystalline clarity before my eyes lock on Michal.

I can hear his laughter. Swift as I am—my hair blowing, gown billowing, feet weightless upon the water—I can still see each tremor of his shoulders, each stride of his legs, as he pushes farther away from me, faster and faster still. A snarl tears from my throat. I forget the emerald ribbon. I forget everything but the sight of his retreating back. Because I will have it. I will have him , and my own strides grow longer in response. I lean forward, and I lift my chest, practically flying across the water until Michal grows larger in my sight—until he glances back at me in surprise, in delight , and I brace without breaking speed, bending my knees and catapulting myself at him.

We collide in a crash of limbs, and he twists, wrapping his arms around my waist before we hit the ground. His back takes the brunt of the impact. Skidding through the rocks, he holds me tightly—laughing—as we finally slow to a halt. “I can’t believe you caught me,” he says, breathless, before dropping his head on the bank. “No one has ever caught me before.”

I stare up at him, my chest tightening to the point of pain. “Do you often flee unsuspecting women?”

“Only the ones I steal from.” He releases my waist, bringing one hand between our faces. My emerald ribbon winds through his long fingers, and when I touch it this time, he allows the silk to slip from his grasp. As it dangles down my wrist and tickles his cheek, he grins and blows it against my nose. “I knew you wouldn’t sink.”

Of course he did. All this man has ever done is believe me, help me, save me. Perhaps I don’t need to hide things in order to protect my sister. Perhaps if I tell him, Michal will help her too, and together, we can extricate Filippa from Death’s clutches.

Slowly, he brushes a strand of hair away from my cheek, his thumb lingering on my jaw. And with that single, unguarded movement, the last of my hesitation falls away.

“The man you saw with me in Cesarine was Death,” I blurt out, wincing at the tactless delivery. Instant heat sears my cheeks as Michal blinks, startled, and the moment between us shatters. “I should’ve told you earlier, but my sister made some sort of deal with him, I think, because he promised her—well, something —”

“Death promised her something?” Michal’s hands seize my shoulders, and he wrenches me upward, the warmth in his eyes freezing to black ice. “As in Death , the incarnation of a life-destroying power? Death, the entity that claimed you as its Bride?”

“Well, that isn’t precisely how he introduced himself, but... yes,” I finish in a small voice, and with a savage curse, Michal hauls me to my feet.

“What happened?”

Quickly, I recount all that occurred after we separated in Cesarine: how Frederic and Filippa found me in the rose garden, how Frederic threatened to kill me, how Filippa watched as Death tore out his heart. When I tell him about Death taking Frederic’s blood and the grimoire, he turns away. When I tell him of the mysterious deal between Death and Filippa, he lets loose another stream of curses, and I hasten to reassure him. “But he honored their bargain! He left me alone.”

“For now, Célie. Death has left you alone for now .”

I wrap my arms around myself, unease prickling my neck. “You sound like you’re acquainted with him.”

“We’ve met,” Michal says shortly.

He still faces away from me, so I can only see the hard line of his cheek, the corner of his jaw; it clenches as he glares down at the stream in an effort to master himself. “But how can that be?” I ask. “He just manifested a body on All Hallows’ Eve.”

“I met him before he acquired a body. He—did me a favor once, probably similar to the one he promised your sister.” Though I burn with curiosity, I keep my mouth shut, and he surprises me by adding, “I’ve regretted it every day since. He is not someone you want to know, Célie, and not someone Filippa should trust. It’ll only end badly for both of you.” At last, he turns, and my astonishment soars at the subtle silver glow emanating from his usually black eyes. He blinks at whatever he sees in mine, equally startled. “Your eyes are glowing,” he tells me.

I gasp and step closer, lifting a hand as if to touch the combined light of our eyes. “ Your eyes are glowing.”

We stare at each other for a beat, mystified, before I force myself to lower my hand. To glance around for any sign of the spirit realm. No ghosts have joined us, however—none that I can see—so I take a deep breath and whisper, “I really am sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

He studies me with an inscrutable expression. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because I’m a coward.”

His jaw clenches at that, and I’d give anything to read his thoughts as he recaptures my hand, staring down at my knuckles without truly seeing them. At last, he brushes a kiss against my fingers, though shadows remain in his expression. “You’ve forgiven me for much worse.”

I stare up at him, willing those shadows to dissipate. “Michal—”

“Sorry to bother,” Mila says wryly, poking her head out between two weeping trees, “but this seems as good a moment as any to interrupt what I am sure would’ve been a tender interlude.”

Michal and I break apart, whirling, yet his eyes continue to glow as he focuses on his sister. I shake my head in an effort to clear it. “Can you see —?” But he nods before I finish the question, so I nod too, disoriented and confused. “Oh. Right. Of course you can. That’s perfectly—perfectly—”

“Expected.” Mila grins at us in a deprecating sort of way that reminds me of Dimitri. “Blood sharing is never something to be taken lightly—not that we have time to discuss such a delicate situation now. I just slipped away from your sister, who has holed up with literal Death in your old town house, Célie. Kind of you to mention him , by the way—”

“Agreed,” Michal murmurs.

“Oh, I heard.” Gesturing purposefully, Mila motions for us to continue toward the witch’s cottage, and I try not to look offended by her eavesdropping. “They’ve built quite the luxurious laboratory for themselves. Even Odessa would be envious.”

“A laboratory?” Michal asks in a sharp voice, and it’s almost as if his dimple never existed. I slide the emerald ribbon into my pocket. “What sort of experiments are they conducting?”

“The sort with Frederic’s blood. I couldn’t discern their exact purpose, but they’ve also been running—tests, I think, on Filippa. Strange tests too,” she adds with a grimace, “on everything from her blood to her brain to her womb. Death even collected a sample from the stitches on her cheek.”

I hardly hear the last, however, my attention snagging on the two words before it.

Her womb.

They’re running tests on her womb .

“From what I can tell, Death has also collected his own blood.” When we stare at her, bewildered, she stares back unapologetically. “What? He might look human now, but he doesn’t seem to be wholly one thing or the other anymore. That rip in the veil must’ve twisted him too.” She gestures to the weeping ferns, and as she does, a dead butterfly flutters through her chest.

“Are they alone?” Michal asks, ignoring it. “Just the two of them?”

Mila laughs without mirth. “Just the two of them, yes—and a veritable army of revenants. Filippa tore a hole through the veil in your childhood bedroom, Célie, and led them all inside.” Nausea churns at the thought, at the idea of corpses like the Archbishop trudging across my nursery carpet. “It appears you passed your abilities to her through your blood, just as you did with Michal.”

My thoughts scatter wildly at that, like pins dropped upon the floor.

It’s just—when two vampires share blood, they—they change.

I smooth the bodice of my gown for something to do with my hands. A knot of emotion obstructs my throat, but I cannot untangle the threads—not as those silver eyes touch my face, assessing my reaction, and Michal says, “I abdicated the throne.”

Mila tears her gaze away. “I heard as much. The spirits have been unable to talk of anything else—and many realized your subterfuge when you did not pass through our realm. We never accounted for that in our contingency plan.” Her eyes narrow. “Where did you go while you feigned death if not our realm?”

A furrow appears between Michal’s brows. “I don’t know,” he says after a moment. “When my heart left my chest, I simply... fell asleep.” His frown deepens. “I dreamed .”

“Your soul remained trapped,” Mila says shrewdly. “It never left your body.”

“Some might argue vampires no longer have souls.”

She gestures down her own shimmering, translucent form. “Surely I am proof otherwise. Either way, it was strange magic, and I fear it will not be without repercussions.”

“La Dame des Sorcières herself cast the spell.”

“La Dame des Sorcières is not infallible. Her magic is just as broken as the rest.”

Michal lifts a careless shoulder. “If there are repercussions, they’ll be mine to bear.”

“You really are a fool, brother, if you think that.” With a scoff, Mila rises several inches above Michal, peering down her nose at him. “Whatever Death is planning, it will affect all of us—and he is planning something. I can feel it.” Voice growing frustrated, she adds, “He and Filippa are being very secretive about what they say aloud, however, which leads me to believe they know someone is listening.”

Any irritation Michal felt toward his sister seems to vanish with the words. “You need to be careful, Mila. Death is not someone whose attention you want to attract. Perhaps you shouldn’t—”

“I’ve died twice now, Michal. I’ve already attracted his attention.” Her jaw sets with determination, and her eyes—they burn with intensity now, with new and unfamiliar purpose. “I can only hope he soon regrets attracting mine .”

Though Michal opens his mouth to argue, she whirls—hair flicking in his face—toward the witch’s cottage, which grows between the roots of two enormous oak trees in front of us. Black shingles covered in lichen peek between their twisted branches, and diamond-paned windows glitter like jeweled eyes between weathered black woodwork—arched, ornate, yet slightly gone to seed from the elements and age.

Under different circumstances, I’d feel a rush of excitement at such an obviously magical dwelling, but now dread curdles my stomach.

“I’ll report back if anything changes, but in the meantime...” Mila tips her head toward the cottage before turning away with a smirk, ignoring her brother’s scowl. “Good luck with Mathilde, Célie, and a word of warning—she bites.”