Page 52 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter

He shoved me, and I fell to the floor, knocking my head on the edge of the bed. Tiny white spots danced before my eyes. I pressed my fingers to the side of my head, and they came away with blood.

René kept searching, muttering, turning over the table, and slamming books around.

“They told me I couldn’t trust you. I knew it. You’re a witch, Marguerite! A damned witch!”

“René, stop!”

“Tell me the truth!” He came over, grabbing me by the shoulders. The smell of his unwashed body rose, cloying, as his fingers dug into my shoulders. I knew I could do nothing to stop him. “You’re the same, the exact same as the day I painted you. How are you unchanged, while I have this?” he asked, waving his palsied right hand. “Have you bewitched yourself?” His eyes glossy with unwept tears. “Or cursed me? Tell me!”

“René, it’s not that. I made a deal—”

“A deal with who? Satan?” His eyes grew wide, and he shook me even harder. “Who is your master, you lying bitch?”

“René, you’re hurting me!”

“You, you damned whore of Satan.” He grabbed my face, fingers squeezing into my jaw, his nails cutting into my skin. “You are still young and perfect while my arm wastes away!”

“Stop it!”

“They told me. They told me you’re sucking me dry for your youth.”

Spittle formed at the corner of his mouth; his irises disappeared, and his eyes went black.

My René was gone.

He launched himself at me, hands on my throat, squeezing, his ragged nails tearing through my skin. I sagged to the floor, scrambling for anything to defend myself. When my hand connected with a thick wooden palette, I grabbed it and thrust it toward him.

The first blow glanced him, but the second one connected with his temple with a sick thump, and he slowed, blinking once before he collapsed forward, crumpling on top of me.

I heaved beneath him, hands shaking as I pushed up, shoving him off, oil paint smearing us both, the lead white mixing with the red of his blood.

He breathed, but only just.

I gathered myself, the room in a state, and backed away.

No matter how much I loved him, there was no coming back from this. Never in my life would I forget the emptiness in his face or the pain of my lungs yearning for breath. He was unrecognizable.

Nothing good would be found in the bottom of that vial or with René ever again.

After more than half a century, my time in Paris had come to an end.

A Visit From Death

Death found Nella in her room, in the hour between the deepest night and the first glimmer of morning. She was huddled in the sheets, face still red from René’s blows. He bent quietly over her. He hadn’t planned on visiting that night, intending their next meeting to take place a few years off, but given the night’s events, he had to see her.

He straightened his human form. He’d thought perhaps she’d finally seen the truth and would be ready to end their deal.

Whathehadn’t been ready for was the sight of her.

Large purple bruises bloomed across her light-brown throat and a spate of scratches marred her jaw, sparking a black feeling in the center of his being. He didn’t have a word for the feeling, but he was glad the man who’d done this would soon be collected, his time on earth nearly up. He thought about collecting him sooner in punishment for harming her, but that was not the way of things.

Nella didn’t acknowledge Death as he sank onto the bed. She stared steadily at the wall, the silence thick between them.

“Youwouldchoose tonight,” she said, tone bitter.

“Given the events, I thought I’d check in—see if your position has changed.” He almost said,See if you’re well. But how could she be well?

“Should I always expect these visits when something terrible happens to me? That you’ll come here, goading and gloating? That you desire a front-row seat to my suffering?”