Page 8 of The Shadow Bride (The Scarlet Veil #2)

Chapter Eight

Absolution

Darkness still shrouds the city as I gaze up at Cathédral Saint-Cécile d’Cesarine. The sky itself seems heavier than usual, thick with gloom and exhaustion. It rests upon the spires of the cathedral as if it can no longer bear to support itself, obscuring the beautiful stained glass and gargoyles as thunder rumbles halfheartedly in the distance.

Chasseur Tower looms directly above me.

I cannot remember making the decision to come here—or even how I came to be here at all—but now that I’ve seen the Tower, I cannot bring myself to leave. Stark and severe, it rises like a fist to strike at the heavens, and my eyes search the familiar stonework hungrily. They strain to see through the clouds, to count each window until I find the third from the right, directly beneath the gargoyle with wings like a bird. Through it, I might find Jean Luc.

I swallow hard, and my stomach rolls with hunger.

Perhaps he is already awake, marshaling initiates to the training yard or meeting Father Achille about the grave robbers. Or perhaps he’s eating breakfast—porridge with two sliced apples—surrounded by friends in the commissary. Depending on the night watch, he could still be sleeping, dreaming, alone in his room. He never feared the dark as I did, so he wouldn’t have lit any candles. He wouldn’t have needed them. His room would still be dim and peaceful, a touch cold, as the Tower gradually woke around him.

I can picture it all so clearly now. This life we would’ve shared.

Clutching my elbows, I glance to the east, where a band of grayish light marks the sunrise. The clouds show no sign of breaking, however. Rain still mists upon the empty street. It sparkles upon the lampposts and cobblestones, clings to my nightgown until the ivory silk sticks to my skin. I suppose I should feel cold—my feet bare in November—but truthfully, I feel nothing except hunger. When another pain wracks my stomach, I bend abruptly and struggle not to retch in the street.

I need to eat.

Deep down, I know that. Of course I know that. I can even envision it, yet it is something else entirely to do it. Straightening, I wrap my arms around my middle, wishing their embrace alone could sustain me. Because I cannot sink my teeth into another person any more than I can sprout wings and fly.

Fly.

My eyes clamp shut at the silly, errant thought.

After my initiation into the Chasseurs, Jean Luc had twirled me round and round until it felt like I was flying, my pristine blue coat rippling behind me.

The two of us had crept into the antechamber by the sanctuary; we could still hear the deep rumble of voices beyond the door as the other Chasseurs lingered with Father Achille. Male voices. All males. Pride swelled in my heart at the sound of them, and I pressed my forehead to Jean Luc’s. My shoulders shook with quiet laughter, and Jean Luc—he laughed too, brushing his nose against mine. “I’m so proud of you, Célie. You really did it.”

My happiness punctured slightly at his words. Because I didn’t really do it—not like he did. Too many huntsmen had perished in the Battle of Cesarine, and Father Achille had granted a temporary moratorium; any initiate who’d proven his courage during battle had been sworn into the brotherhood without a tournament. Except me. I hadn’t been an initiate before the ceremony— couldn’t have been an initiate, even if I’d wanted to be.

Before that day, the Church hadn’t allowed women inside Chasseur Tower except as wives.

Giving myself a mental shake, I’d kissed Jean Luc on the cheek.

This was, after all, the start of a bright new future for the Chasseurs.

And for me.

“Thank you, Jean.” Unable to help it, I brushed my lips against his other cheek before abandoning all restraint and peppering his face with kisses. “Or should I call you Captain Toussaint?”

He returned me to my feet with a sly smile. “I have something else in mind.”

“Oh?”

“Look in your pocket.”

Curious, I reached into my coat pocket, my fingers brushing something small and round—a ring. Instant warmth suffused me, and when I pulled the ring from my pocket—diamond sparkling in the afternoon sunlight—Jean Luc had already dropped to one knee. The sunshine cast half his face in gold, and he looked so handsome, so hopeful, that my breath caught. “Célie.” Taking my hand in his, he brushed his thumb across my bare ring finger. “I’ve loved you from the moment I fell out of the orange tree in your garden.” He laughed softly at the memory and shook his head. “You—you elbowed Reid and Filippa out of the way, and you demanded to see my bloody knee. Do you remember? I knew then—even before you pushed up my pant leg, before you rushed off to find a bandage—that I’d never seen anyone so beautiful. So good .” My heart lodged in my throat as he took the ring from me, as he held it poised on the tip of my finger. “Would you make me the happiest man in the world, Célie? Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

I hadn’t even stopped to consider.

I simply nodded through my tears, and when he stood, sliding the ring onto my finger, I wondered if a person could die from happiness. A harried-looking Father Achille burst through the door in the next second, however, before either of us could say a word. “ There you are, Captain Toussaint. Where have you been?” He shook his head irritably without waiting for an answer. “It doesn’t matter. A riot has broken out around Soleil et Lune. Apparently, a handful of Dames Blanches set the entire place aflame. Louise is containing the scene, but we should’ve dispatched a unit half an hour ago—”

“I’ll go now.” Jean Luc moved to release my hands with an apologetic expression, and Father Achille ducked swiftly from the room. “Stay here, Célie. I’ll be back in an hour, and we can celebrate. I promise.”

I clung to his fingers with the tips of my own. “But shouldn’t I—?”

“No.” He shook his head curtly, his eyes already looking through me. Past me. “It’s your first day on the job, and anyway, you heard Father Achille—Lou has everything under control. Our presence is more a show of support than anything.” Kissing my forehead, he added, “I love you.”

I love you.

I’ve loved you from the moment I fell out of the orange tree in your garden.

I’d never seen anyone so beautiful. So good .

Slowly, bitterly, I return to the drizzle outside of Chasseur Tower, staring up at the third window from the right. That bright afternoon feels like a lifetime ago. I shouldn’t be here anymore—I know that—yet I cannot go anywhere else either. I cannot endanger my friends by returning to Lou and Reid’s flat, and I cannot endanger the kingdom by seeking shelter at the castle with Beau and Coco. I cannot ask my parents to keep me, not like this, and Michal—

No.

Vision blurring in the rain, I stumble forward.

I just need to—to talk to Jean Luc, to see him. The two of us never found real closure, and everything I’ve touched since leaving him has crumbled at my fingertips. Everything , my mind echoes wildly. Even the street beneath my feet seems to shift, to pitch with each step, and I stumble again, bracing myself against a lamppost as thunder rolls in the distance. Jean Luc has always felt so steady. He always felt so safe. Pushing away from the lamppost, I stagger toward the cathedral steps with growing desperation. Because now he hates me—he loathes me—but he cannot hate me more than I hate myself.

Perhaps if I could just hear him say it—if someone in this wretched kingdom could tell me the truth —it would absolve all the terrible things I feel. All the terrible things I’ve done . Perhaps I could move forward if Jean Luc would just treat me like the monster I am.

Or perhaps I could ask him to end it altogether.

The thought, small and quiet and terrible, creeps from the darkest part of my mind. I dare not look at it too closely, however, even as Frederic’s voice slithers out to join it. It should’ve been you all along.

“No,” I whisper.

In a burst of speed, I streak toward the cathedral steps—determined to reach Jean Luc before other voices join—but the instant my bare foot touches the stone, it burns like I’ve stepped on red-hot embers. Stunned, I jerk backward, landing hard on my backside and watching as angry red blisters split open the ball of my foot. My tears fall faster now. Thicker. I can scarcely see through them as I crawl to my knees, incredulous, and lift trembling fingers to the lowermost step.

They begin to sizzle as they near the stone. They begin to smoke .

Just like my throat did when I spoke the name of God.

Snatching them away, I hold them against my chest and weep as the gravity of my situation finally descends. As it passes through this fetid new skin of mine like a disease, like a plague—except I am the disease. I am the plague. Never again will I speak His name, and never again will I enter His house. I will never enter His kingdom because I am damned. I will never again walk in the sun, never again speak to my parents, never again eat chocolate with my friends or escape into dreams or even flirt with the bookseller up the street, because I am undead.

Because I am a fool, and I cannot fly. I never could.

And there is nothing here for me any longer.

Slowly, I place my scalded palms upon the cool, wet cobblestones. My brethren will be waking soon, if they haven’t already. Any one of them could look down from their dormitory windows and see me—the she-devil who once haunted their hallowed halls. The demoness.

The vampire.

Even Jean Luc cannot absolve that.

As if I’ve summoned him with my thoughts, his deep, familiar voice drifts toward me from the alleyway behind the Tower.

I close my eyes, unwilling to believe what I’m hearing at first. It wouldn’t be the first time my mind has played tricks on me. When a second voice joins his, however—this one sharp, feminine, and unfamiliar—my eyes snap open.

Jean Luc often starts his mornings with exercise.

Scrambling to my feet, heedless of my wild hair and translucent nightgown, I dart around the corner. My lips have already formed his name when I skid to a halt, frowning at the scene before me. Because there is Jean Luc, of course—dressed in the lightweight clothing he wears to exercise—but behind him stands a tall, pale woman with golden hair. I frown, ducking into the shadows before either of them notices me. The woman wears the same lightweight clothing as Jean Luc, performs the same leisurely stretches, as if she is about to... well, join him.

He never allowed me to join him before.

I peer at the woman closer, forcing myself to focus through the blurred edges of my vision. Someone has lit the two torches flanking the side entrance to the Tower. The flames flicker slightly in the drizzle. Though the woman appears to be around my age, she holds herself with more confidence, her shoulders straight and proud despite her height. Her bright hair pulled tightly away from her face. It elongates her already foxlike features, emphasizes the high lines of her cheekbones.

Though she is not traditionally beautiful, I cannot look away.

“This is getting pathetic, Toussaint.” With a smirk, she pulls one long arm across her chest, stretching the muscle, before moving on to the next one. “If you want to spend more time with me, you need only ask.”

Though Jean Luc rolls his eyes, a small smile plays on his lips too. “You flagged in the training yard yesterday, Brigitte. Henry almost bested you. I thought you could use a little extra time to wake up this morning.”

She snorts. “I still kicked your ass.”

“Language.” He doesn’t sound angry, however. He doesn’t sound exasperated or disappointed either. No. He sounds almost... pleased with her.

I stare at the young woman hungrily.

Still smirking, she falls quiet and bends to stretch her legs. She watches Jean Luc from the corner of her crystalline eyes, however. Like a moth drawn to the flame. And I cannot even blame her—Jean Luc has always been beautiful. Not like a vampire, of course, but... like a man. I can hear the steady beat of his heart, can practically feel the warmth and vitality radiating from him even from my hiding place. And suddenly, I can’t stay hidden any longer. Stepping into the torchlight, I murmur, “Jean.”

Both he and Brigitte turn in unison.

Though his gaze widens at the sight of me—his pupils dilating, his mouth parting on a slow exhale—his entire body hardens as if preparing for attack. My own body tenses in response. He looked the same when he visited last week—like he’d never seen anyone so beautiful, and like he never wanted to see me again. “Célie,” he breathes.

At the sound of my name, Brigitte glances warily between us, and the light in her eyes seems to harden. She’s heard of me. I don’t know whether to feel better or worse about that. No one in Chasseur Tower would’ve said anything complimentary—not that it matters what they say anymore. I shake myself internally, and the world seems to shudder with me. My thoughts remain scattered, distant. Impossible to catch.

I focus instead on the sound of Jean Luc’s heartbeat.

It beats in time with the dull pounding in my head. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. I never noticed his heartbeat when I was alive—never realized how important it would be. How precious. Though I try to ignore it, nausea spikes in my stomach again. Because now he has another’s heartbeat to match.

“Who is she?” I whisper, swaying on my feet.

When my eyes flutter, Jean Luc’s narrow, and he inches closer reluctantly, thrusting an arm out to prevent Brigitte from following. “Go inside,” he says sharply.

Brigitte doesn’t move. Instead she watches me coldly, her gaze clear and sharp and blue. “I think I’ll stay here.”

“ Now , Brigitte.”

Lip curling, she retreats slowly, not turning her back until she reaches the door. Even then, she hesitates, opens her mouth as if to speak. At the last second, however, she seems to change her mind, exhaling harshly before turning on her heel and disappearing inside, her long hair whipping out of sight behind her.

“Célie?” Jean Luc lifts his hands cautiously, as if preparing to steady me, or perhaps to ward me off. “Are you all right? Is something wrong?” He glances behind me. “Where are the others?”

I want him to touch me.

Please don’t touch me.

“I came alone.”

“Why?”

I have no answer for that. I have no answer for anything anymore, perhaps never had them at all. There is only his heartbeat. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Instead I say, “I think I might be dying.”

“What?” His brows furrow in confusion—in alarm—and he takes another step forward. Distantly, I realize he shouldn’t. He should follow Brigitte inside, should go somewhere I cannot ever touch him again. His gaze tracks over my pallid skin, the hollows beneath my eyes, the sharp protrusions of my collarbone. I do not need a reflection to see how great and terrible I look. How beautiful. “Reid and Lou—they’re supposed to be helping you. They told me they would help you. Do they know you’re here?”

Slowly, I shake my head.

His jaw clenches. “Of course they don’t. What about that—that vampire ”—he spits the word like the curse it is—“who followed us from Requiem? The insufferable one? Why isn’t she with you?”

Odessa.

“It isn’t her fault. It isn’t any of their fault.”

We let the unspoken truth swell between us: It’s mine.

To my relief, he doesn’t argue this time, doesn’t lie to protect my feelings like the others do. Because he knows. Jean Luc knows every hideous thing I’ve ever done, and he despises each one of them. He despises me . Instead of saying the words aloud, however, he takes another step, and the column of his throat bobs at whatever he sees in my expression. “Why did you come here, Célie?”

“I needed to see you.”

Emotions flit through his eyes in rapid succession—hope, disbelief, rage, and finally, caution. Good. Caution is a good thing. Caution is necessary. “You shouldn’t say things like that to me,” he says, voice low.

Still I do not leave. “Why not?”

“Because it isn’t true. You need—other people now.” Shaking his head, he forces himself to look away, to look toward the door through which Brigitte just disappeared. When he scoffs, the sound drips with self-deprecation. It distracts me from the heady drum of his heart. “Who am I kidding? You’ve never needed me at all. This— whatever this is between us—has always meant more to me than it does to you, but you already know that, don’t you? You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

“Jean, I—”

His eyes flash with fury, and the hollow words collapse before I can speak them.

“Don’t lie to me, Célie,” he snarls, “and I won’t lie to you.”

Petite menteuse, Michal calls me.

Little liar.

Jean Luc and I stare at each other through the rain, an ocean of unspoken hurt between us.

“How can you even look at me?” I ask quietly. “I—I rejected you. I left you. I wh-whored myself to a vampire, and now I—now I’m—” Unable to continue, I gesture down my terrible, beautiful body, but without a word, he closes the distance between us and seizes my hand. His feels too warm in my own. Burning hot. My eyes fall to the pulse leaping in his throat. Just like the others, he doesn’t realize the danger of being near me—perhaps cannot —because he still thinks I’m Célie. He still thinks I’m his.

He bends, bringing his face directly in line with my own, as if to prove it.

“None of that matters. Can’t you understand? There is nothing you’ve done that we can’t fix together. Please.” He swallows hard again, and my eyes track the movement, the strong line of his throat. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Célie, this can’t be it for us. After everything, we—we were supposed to be together forever.”

Like so long ago, his thumb sweeps across my bare ring finger, and he stares at me like a man famished.

This isn’t right. He shouldn’t be saying these lovely things—not to me—and forever can no longer exist between the two of us. I am dead , and he—he remains in the prime of his life. Years, decades, still stretch out before him, and they should be filled with love and laughter and light. Jean Luc has never been the type to yield. He will not simply succumb to his circumstances, which means he will find someone to love instead of me. He will build a life with them, grow old with them, and that hideous, hopeful light in his gaze—it doesn’t belong to me anymore.

“Who is she?” I whisper again, and I hate myself. I hate myself for asking. I hate myself for caring.

Jean Luc pulls my hands to his chest, cradling them in his warmth. In life. Though instinct warns me to pull away—to leave before I do something I’ll regret—my feet remain rooted to the cobblestones, even as he brushes a kiss against my knuckles. “She isn’t you, Célie.”

“You’re right. She isn’t a monster.”

Summoning the last of my strength, I turn to leave, but Jean Luc refuses to let me go. Grip firm, he pulls me back toward him, and—in a move that damns me straight to Hell—I allow it. Head spinning, I fall against his chest, and his scent washes over me in a delicious wave. I should leave. I should go. Instead I rub my cold cheek against the steady beat of his heart until it’s the only sound that exists. “You aren’t a monster.” He tangles his fingers in my damp hair. Tha-thump. “I could never love a monster, and I love you.”

Tha-thump. Tha-thump.

“Say something,” he breathes, “please.”

I’ve loved you from the moment I fell out of the orange tree in your garden.

My hands curl in his shirt. He feels just as he always has, except different too—softer, warmer. Better. Desperate to capture the heat of his skin, I slip my hands through the buttons of his shirt, watching as if my fingers belong to someone else. I never allowed myself to touch him like this before. I shouldn’t allow it now. It isn’t fair to him. Still, I inhale deeply, pressing my palms against his heart. I never allowed myself to savor the sweet, clean scent of him either—

Without warning, my arms snake around his waist, and I draw him closer, holding him flush against my body.

Tha-thump tha-thump tha-thump.

Transfixed, I drag my tongue along the rapid beat of his pulse. He tastes like salt, slightly bitter from his soap, but beneath it all, something richer lingers. Something darker. My entire body shudders in time with his. With a groan, he tries to pull away, his breathing ragged and his eyes unfocused. “Célie, what are you—?”

The Tower door bursts open, and Brigitte snarls, “Get away from him!”

Too late.

My fangs have already lengthened, and—though weak, though faint—I am still a vampire, and perhaps all the more dangerous for it; neither can move fast enough to stop me. Brigitte’s shout still hangs in the air as I sink my teeth into Jean Luc’s throat.