Chapter 40 Cold
COLD
The horror of what I had done settled in: I had killed Viscount Erik de Barras.
I had killed my ex-lover’s father. I may not have been responsible for the deaths the night of the chandelier disaster, but I was certainly responsible for this one.
The viscount’s blood warmed my hands, the dagger still clutched between my sticky fingers.
I couldn’t stop watching as his blood poured from his lifeless corpse.
It was horrifying and fascinating and terrible.
More and more of it, pooling on the floor of the seventh and final level of the Bowl.
I admit I had never considered what it would be like to take a life.
I had never considered the possibility that it would be necessary.
If I had, I suppose I would have assumed it would feel horrible.
That I would have felt instant regret or sadness.
But I felt nothing as the viscount’s body crumpled to the ground, his vacant eyes staring up at the raw rock ceiling.
The sounds of fighting quieted around me as my friends ended the lives of the gendarmes. They could not be allowed to survive now that they knew of the existence of this city. It was an unfortunate and necessary series of executions.
I sensed Rory’s approach as he sidled up to me—he had bested the brute of a gendarme he had been grappling with.
He swore, low and quiet, reaching down for the Pentacle.
It was sitting in a puddle of the viscount’s blood.
Somewhere, distantly, in my mind, I thought that was probably a bad thing; if the viscount had been planning a sacrifice, this was surely not what he had in mind.
But I didn’t have the clarity or focus to consider the ramifications now.
Ciaran appeared at my side. We hadn’t spoken a word to each other since I stormed out of his bedroom. It felt like eons had passed since that moment, when reality had shifted—had slid out from under me. I didn’t even know what I would say to him. I didn’t know what I felt.
But Ciaran didn’t say anything or demand any explanation from me. He simply stood beside me and took my blood-soaked hand in his as we stared at the body on the ground before us.
We walked in silence, back to Ciaran’s apartment. The tiny one, where we had spent so much time, cooking, reading, laughing—living together. It was full of phantoms. And I felt nothing. I went into the tiny bedroom and sat down on the bed—I was so dirty, and covered in blood, but I didn’t care.
Numbness spread through my body as the reality of what had happened sank in.
The identity-shifting, life-altering reality of what had happened.
I was Seraphina Dallier: ballerina, opera singer, killer.
I waited for the regret. I waited for the shame—the guilt.
But they didn’t come. I only felt numb. Only cold.
I had pushed myself beyond the limits of my reserve of magic, and I was exhausted in my bones. I started to shake as I sat there on that bed. Seeing nothing but the blood that was now drying on my hands. Feeling nothing but the cold.
Somewhere in the distance, I could hear running water. I could hear the shuffling sounds of someone doing busy work in the apartment. Someone. Ciaran. I didn’t bother to ask what he was doing. I just didn’t care.
“Come on, love, let’s get you cleaned up.” Ciaran appeared in the doorframe. His angular features were pinched with concern. I was shivering so hard—I couldn’t remember ever feeling this cold.
“I’m going to get you undressed and put you in the bath, alright?
” Ciaran approached me, slowly, cautiously.
“You’re going into shock, and we need to get you warmed up.
And get all that blood off you. Is that alright, love?
” His voice was so low, so tender. It cut through the numbness, offering a tiny spark of warmth in the frozen wasteland of my mind.
I nodded, too tired to speak.
Gently, and with utmost care, Ciaran peeled off my clothes, which were soaked through with the viscount’s blood.
Had it really only been a few hours since he had taken them off with frenetic need?
It felt like that had been another lifetime.
The memory felt warm, and I tried to cling to it in the frigidness.
Then, I was being scooped up, strong arms holding me bridal-carry style. I slumped against Ciaran’s chest, naked and shivering.
“Your lips are turning blue. Fuck.” He exhaled as he carried me to the bathroom. Inside, the air was humid and steamy, the mirror fogged up as the tub filled with hot water. Ciaran lowered me into it with heartbreaking tenderness.
I hissed as the heat of the water hit my skin.
The numbness in my body started to melt, replaced by pins and needles all over my skin.
A memory flashed in my mind—of myself, as a child, swimming in the sea until my toes went numb and my fingers were pruned.
My mother, who’s trust I had also betrayed, ran a scalding hot bath to warm me up.
The way my feet prickled and itched and tingled as the blood ran back into them.
It was at that memory, that moment, that the tears began to flow.
Not sobs. Not cries or wails. Just silent salty tears tracking down my face, dropping one by one into the bathwater.
Ciaran scrubbed the blood off me while I sat silently crying in the tub. And when the water ran pink with all the blood, he drained it and filled it again, scrubbing me until there wasn’t a trace of the viscount left.
We didn’t say anything. Whether it was because he could sense that I wasn’t ready to talk, or because he himself couldn’t get the words out, I didn’t know. Either way, we continued on in silence until I was dressed in clean, dry, comfortable clothes.
“Seraphina…” Ciaran paused in the doorway of the bedroom. I was so bone weary that I was going to fall asleep before my head hit the pillow.
“Yes, Ciaran?” It was the first thing I had said since I opened my throat and sang, blasting a hole in the viscount’s chest. My throat was hoarse.
“I’m sorry,” he said, so quietly. I could feel the shame and guilt pouring off him.
“Me too.” It was all I could get out.
Ciaran flashed a weak smile, closing the bedroom door behind him. I fell onto the bed and into a deep, deep sleep.