Chapter Thirty-One Broken Butterflies
Chapter Thirty-One
Broken Butterflies
After five more minutes of staring down at the foul concoction, my breathing starts to ease, and the trees—they draw back as if satisfied. It didn’t work. The realization feels surreal—unbelievable, even impossible after all the horrible things I’ve seen, yet even Death cannot claim his experiment has succeeded.
Josephine’s ashes remain just as lifeless as ever.
Just as dead.
“It didn’t work,” Death echoes softly, and despite the relief coursing through my body, I still tense in response to that lethal note in his voice. He turns slowly to look at me, and I cannot read the emotion in his too-bright eyes. Then— “ You didn’t work.”
Ah.
Swallowing hard, I choose my next words with great care. As powerful as Death might be, he also feels... fragile, somehow, just as porcelain as the fairies on my music box. Just as easily shattered too, and all the more dangerous for it. Unbidden, my eyes drift to the disintegrated pot across the grove. “The ritual required my blood, but my blood no longer exists—not as it did, not undiluted.”
Death’s face splits into a truly frightening smile. “I suppose I’ll need to find another Bride, then, won’t I?”
“There are no others.” Speaking in a low and calming voice, I pull my hand away, and I edge backward as surreptitiously as possible. “I’m the last one.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s true.” Though his eyes flash at the lie, he allows my fingers to slide from his, bending down to pick up a shard of Josephine’s pot. Then—equally slowly, equally calmly—he grasps my wounded hand, drawing one jagged edge across the cut there. Deepening it. I bite my tongue to keep from crying out at the sting of Coco’s enchantment. “ Most of my Brides have crossed over, yes, but not all—not all, Célie.”
You should’ve taken a leaf out of my book, petal, and stayed hidden.
His eyes never leave my face as he crushes the pottery shard and sprinkles the powder between us. His tendrils of rot creep over my bare feet. They feel like ice, like the darkness of my sister’s coffin. Clenching my chin to keep it from trembling, I force myself to straighten, to meet his gaze directly. Because I am not Mathilde. It is too late for me to hide. “Perhaps you missed something in the grimoire. Perhaps there’s another spell—”
He jerks the hateful black book from his pocket, snarling, “Do not patronize me, darling . As I said before”—he rips the first page from its spine—“this book”—he flings it at my face before tearing another—“is as useless”— another, another, another —“as you. ”
True fear spikes in my chest as the pages cloud my vision, as that rot climbs higher, as I sense the revenants moving closer. Though I can feel their hunger, I cannot see them; I cannot see anything , and I strike out at the next page blindly, catching it between my fingers. “Stop! Stop— ”
I stumble forward as Death wrenches the page away. “No, no,” he says, laughing darkly and crumpling it with the others in his fist. “You don’t deserve these, so you don’t get them—and while we’re at it, neither does your precious sister or your darling Dimitri.”
Every other thought falls away with my hand, and I leap away with a hiss of pain as the wind lifts, as the branches shift, and as sunlight bathes my shoulder.
Dimitri.
There is only one reason Death would connect Dimitri to this grimoire. And with the realization comes a wave of resignation, an oppressive heaviness in my limbs as the pieces finally click into place: Your sister found a cure , Dimitri told me in the grotto.
Whatever that cure might be, it must involve Death.
“Dimitri is your spy,” I say. “You made a deal with him too.”
A rather sinister smile spreads across Death’s face as I slide down the trunk of the nearest tree, settling among its roots. “Oh, Dimitri isn’t so terribly bad. He painted part of the portrait for me, yes—and quite a vivid one too—but he must’ve missed something important on All Hallows’ Eve. Filippa was not conscious for it, and regrettably, I killed Frederic before I could ask for details.”
I refuse to cower as he drops into a crouch before me, the silver of his eyes still gleaming malevolently. “Perhaps I do not need La Voisin after all. You can fill in the gaps for me. We must start with you and your sister, of course, but the two of you weren’t the only siblings involved, were you? Dimitri and Odessa played their roles too, and also Michal and Mila Vasiliev—the respective black sheep and golden goose of the family. Did you know their father was a drunkard?”
I know I shouldn’t rise. I know a reaction is exactly what he wants—to unsettle me and to fluster me, to trick me into revealing something I shouldn’t—but I also cannot help it. Not when Michal and Mila aren’t here to defend their family. “Their father was a cleric,” I say tightly.
Death inclines his head. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize the two were mutually exclusive. You won’t want to hear, then, about how his father drank them into destitution.”
My hands curl into my skirts, nearly tearing through the fabric at his politely mocking expression. I should tell him to stop. I should tell him to shut up because this has nothing to do with All Hallows’ Eve. It has nothing to do with my sister or the revenants either, yet when I open my mouth, it isn’t condemnation that spills forth. “How do you know all this? How do you know him ? Michal said you did him a favor—”
“And I did.” Death speaks the words with relish. “Dear Mila fell quite ill after the turn of her family’s fortunes, and her dear brother grew quite desperate. They couldn’t afford a healer, nor the medicine required to treat her. Michal tried to steal some, of course, but a soldier caught him in the act and beat him with hot rods in the town square—a luckier fate than most. At least he kept his hands.”
Nausea threatens to rise at the images taking shape: Michal beaten, Michal broken, Michal young and frightened and human as he tried to save his little sister. And though I long to tear the insufferable smirk from Death’s face, I need to hear the conclusion of this story. I need to hear it more than I’ve needed to hear anything else in my life. “And then?”
“He found me,” Death says simply.
I blink at him in confusion. “What do you mean he found you? How?”
“The same way everyone does. I am not difficult to find.”
His meaning doesn’t penetrate at first, as if my mind refuses to even consider such a thing. When it does, however, all the air leaves my lungs in a painful rush, and I clench my eyes shut at the onslaught of fresh images. Michal.
“A reckless plan, to be sure,” Death says idly, as if we’re chatting about the weather and not the most horrific of tragedies. “He’d learned about me from his late mother, who worshipped the old gods in the old ways. And when I came for him, he did not embrace me like the others. No. He bargained for his sister’s life instead—a new approach, even for me. I’ll confess I was intrigued.”
My eyes snap open in realization, and the sickness in my stomach turns to ice. “You turned him into a vampire,” I whisper.
“I gave him the power to save his sister at the cost of everyone else—including that hapless soldier in the square, and the pretty family next door, and the lonely woman up the road, and his father’s entire congregation. And you , Célie,” he adds. His eyes swirl brighter and brighter still, alive with that something I cannot name. I also cannot look away. “When Michal made his choice all those years ago, he sacrificed you just as assuredly as he sacrificed all those other innocents. Infuriating how things turn out, isn’t it? Your great-great-grandparents hadn’t even been born when Michal Vasiliev sealed your fate.”
I push to my feet, hands trembling with emotion. With fury, yes, but also with another I dare not look at, cannot look at, for fear of it ruining everything Michal and I have built. “He didn’t mean to hurt anyone. He—he was just trying to save his sister—”
“He was selfish,” Death says, and he too rises, looming over me like a pillar of smoke, of shadow. “He did not think of his sister. He did not think of you , and he will reap his just rewards until the end of time—that was part of our deal, after all. It’s why you couldn’t sustain yourself on animal blood. To possess immortal life, vampires must take it. Life,” he clarifies darkly. “Just like me.”
When I still don’t speak, he steps closer for emphasis.
“Now,” he breathes, and it sounds almost like a plea. “Tell me of All Hallows’ Eve.”
His appeal falls on deaf ears, however. Not since Morgane tortured me have I felt such animosity at the loss of my own free will—not when Michal kidnapped me, not when Odessa compelled me, not even when Frederic sacrificed me. Perhaps this corrosive hatred stems from Death laying the foundation for every single one of our catastrophic problems, or perhaps he is the breaking point. Perhaps instead he is simply the inevitable, and I’ve grown so tired of the inevitable that I want to scream. I want to scream, and I want to scream until my throat is raw, until someone explains why these horrible things keep happening to us. To me . Am I truly the one to blame? Or is it Frederic because he slit my throat; Filippa because she loved him?
Does it even matter?
Casting blame will not change the past. It will not right the wrongs. From all directions, every road seems to lead me exactly here , yet my life is just that—mine. It cannot be inevitable. It is not inevitable. And so a single word escapes through my tightly clenched teeth.
“ No. ”
Death blinks at me, clearly startled, but recovers just as quickly, his silver eyes narrowing as I struggle against our connection. “No?” He tilts his head in polite confusion. “Did you just— Célie, my sweet, did you just refuse me?”
“I do not belong to you. I do not belong to anyone .”
“Is that so?” A dangerous smile touches Death’s lips, and his eyes pulse brighter. “Shall we test this brave new theory of yours? An education is clearly in order, so what will it be, Célie? The sun or the revenants? Wait. ” His eyes pulse with excitement. “I know—let’s take a little field trip, shall we?”
He seizes my nape, and I cannot stop him from forcing my head upright and making an odd grasping motion with his free hand. In response, the scene around us—the pots, the grove, the very forest —seems to ripple, bunching together like fabric. And it is , I realize in growing horror. Because Death is—he’s gathering the veil in his palm. He’s pleating it. Sure enough, in the next second, he releases me to punch through the folds, and a dark and familiar room appears on the other side. It smells of Requiem, of the castle. Of my mother.
All the air leaves my chest in a painful rush.
She sleeps fitfully in our bedroom, shivering despite the flames in the hearth. Though they bathe her face in golden light, she still appears pale and small against the stark black sheets. I count each of her breaths instinctively, anxiously, tracking the rise and fall of her chest for several seconds before tearing my gaze away to confront Death. “What do you think you’re doing? Ivan and Pasha are just outside, and when they—”
“She looks a bit peaked, don’t you think?” He doesn’t spare her a single glance, instead watching me with something like hunger. “A bit... unwell. Listen to that rattle in her chest.”
“If you touch her—”
“I won’t need to touch her to stop her heart.” When my eyes flash in shock—in rage —he shrugs and leans closer, his own eyes glowing brighter than ever. He lowers his voice. “I don’t want to do it, Célie. I don’t even want to suggest it, but if you insist on rebuffing my better nature, perhaps my worser one will persuade you. I need to know what happened on All Hallows’ Eve, and I will do whatever is necessary to procure that information.” A meaningful pause. “Do we understand each other?”
His grip returns to my neck when I refuse to answer, and he squeezes hard. Gasping, I snarl, “You will not hurt my mother.”
“Good. Agreed. Then we have a bargain. You give me what I need, and your mother remains unharmed. Of course...” He hesitates with theatrical flair, tilting his head to consider us before bending low to murmur in my ear. I can feel his slow smile against my neck. “If my terms aren’t acceptable, you could start feeding her your blood. She needn’t ever know. Just a drop of it in her breakfast every morning, and even I could not part her from you.”
“You’re sick .”
He chuckles darkly before releasing me at last, turning away to kick over La Voisin’s ashes. “Just something to consider.”
And I do consider it—as he strolls away, I consider my mother, and I consider him; I consider how free movement has returned to my limbs, how this might be my only chance. It cannot be inevitable. And—without considering anything else—I jump.
For a split second, my feet leave the ground, and hope dispels my despair, swelling like a bubble in my chest as I stretch a hand toward the veil and the bedroom beyond it. Toward my mother. Toward Michal . Death snatches my wrist before I can clear it, however, and he yanks me backward with that same cruel amusement, except now it doesn’t look much like amusement at all.
It looks like fury.
“I find myself rapidly losing patience with this entire enterprise, so you will tell me about All Hallows’ Eve.” He mends the veil with a curt swipe of his hand. “You will tell me about your sister , and you will do it now.”
It always comes back to my sister.
Like why the hole Frederic and Filippa tore through the veil is so... different from the others.
But I can’t understand why —not entirely. Not enough to satisfy Death and his macabre fascination. And even if I did understand, I wouldn’t tell him. I couldn’t. “Look, I don’t know what makes Filippa special, and I don’t know why she created a door instead of a window. I wish I did, but the only person who might’ve been able to tell us is dead. You killed him. Frederic and my sister—they shared something, the two of them. And that sort of love is dangerous. It isn’t for the likes of you .”
Though he still scowls fiercely, Death tilts his head as if also intrigued. “I am going to bring it down.”
Seven simple words, yet the ground seems to fall away as they land. Clutching another tree for balance, I pray that I misheard him. Misinterpreted him. “Bring what down?”
With a hard smile, he slowly steps over the shards of clay. “The veil, Célie. Imagine it—merging the realms of the living and the dead into one kingdom. You and your friends will no longer need to fear my embrace, will no longer need to grieve your departed loved ones after they rise again.” Despite his smile, his entire body radiates intensity as he stalks toward me. “Evangeline will sing to you once more; Filippa will reclaim Frederic, and Michal will truly reunite with his sister, as will Lou with her mother, Reid with his patriarch, Cosette with her mother and aunt. Together, we will create a world without need of a reaper—”
“—but in need of a king instead,” I say sharply, stepping behind my tree to halt his approach. “I assume you’re willing to fill the role.”
His smile turns sleek, and in lieu of an answer, he waves a hand toward the revenants again. “Burn it all to the ground.”
“What? No— ”
I whirl toward the village, horrified, but he folds the veil with another grasping movement, punching through it and seizing my arm at the same time. His grip only tightens when I struggle. “Do not fret at our parting, my sweet. I’m sure we’ll see each other soon.”
Though I scrabble at the veil for purchase, it tears beneath my fingers, and I pitch forward precariously, halfway between each realm but craning my neck to plead, “You cannot do this. Please, think about what you’re trying to—”
Death laughs and pushes me through.