The Shadow Bride (The Scarlet Veil #2)

Chapter Thirty-Four A Gesture of Friendship

Chapter Thirty-Four

A Gesture of Friendship

The Chasseurs didn’t find Filippa until three days after she disappeared. Her body washed up on the shores of L’Eau Melancolique—throat slashed and skin withered—and a fisherman alerted the local authorities, who sent word to the Archbishop in turn. I still remember the moment I heard the news; I’d been sitting in a dark corner of my mother’s bedroom, flipping through the pages of The Winter Queen and Her Palace without truly seeing them. The curtains drawn. The candles doused.

When a knock sounded on the front door, I glanced up at the shadowed shape of my mother. She hadn’t left her bed since waking to discover her eldest daughter had vanished in the night. She didn’t move now either, even as the quiet knocking continued. With my father away on business and no servants left in the household, she should’ve been the one to rise, to dress, to invite the guests below into our home. She did none of those things, of course. Instead she stared at the ceiling with heavy eyes and matted hair, her nightgown rumpled and her sheets unkempt.

It hurt so much to look at her.

I loved her too much to leave.

Knock, knock, knock.

I closed my sister’s book carefully, as if breaking the silence might somehow break our mother too. “Someone is at the door,” I murmured, but she said nothing in return. I waited another moment, unsure how to manage the situation delicately. I’d never experienced an illness such as hers—never experienced such sickening apathy, such bone-deep exhaustion. For three days now, it had felt as if someone had hollowed out my mother and forgotten to fill her with something else. She simply... existed. “It could be news of Filippa,” I added tentatively.

“And what news might that be?”

“That—that they found her.”

“Oh? What do you think they’ll have found?” When I frowned at her, confused, she closed her eyes as if unable to look at me, even in her periphery. “Your sister is dead.”

She spoke the words with such flat acceptance that I pushed to my feet abruptly, trembling all over, and sent The Winter Queen tumbling to the floor. Hastening to retrieve it as the knocking continued, I said, “Or—or it could be Pére instead. He might’ve sent a letter, or a—a gift. He hasn’t sent one in ages, and you’ve been asking for a token of his travels—the pearl necklace, remember? And I asked for a new book—”

Get up , I pleaded privately. Please, Maman, just get out of bed —

Her gaze found mine at last, and in her eyes, derision flickered. Disgust. The first emotions I’d seen in days. “He is not selling his wares, you foolish girl. He is purchasing those of another—a whore by the name of Helene.”

Whore. Though I’d heard the word whispered in passing, I’d never encountered it like this—spat in my face like venom, startling and acidic. I recoiled from it, from her , blinking in shock and stammering, “But he wouldn’t—he’d never—”

“Get out.” Her voice emptied of all feeling again as she returned her gaze to the ceiling, as the knock, knock, knock ing continued downstairs. I remained rooted to the spot, however, desperate to somehow reach her, until she snapped, “Now.”

So I did.

Still clutching that book of fairy tales, I walked down the stairs alone, and I pulled open the front door. When I saw Reid and Jean Luc standing on the steps in their freshly pressed uniforms, I knew—with a sick, swooping sensation in my stomach—that my mother had been right. That this was not good news. Filippa. Her name caught in my throat even as I saw it in their eyes. Though Jean Luc tried to hide it—averting his gaze, studying the parquet pattern of the dusty floor—Reid never hesitated to perform his duty. How many times had I held his hand after he delivered tragic news to unsuspecting relatives? How many times had he collapsed beneath our orange tree, pale and shaken, after consoling fresh widows and orphans? “They need someone to sit with them,” he’d told me when I suggested one of his brethren do the job instead. “No one likes to sit in another person’s pain—not when there isn’t anything to be done about it.” At my pursed lips and skeptical expression, he would pull me down in front of him, wrapping his arms around my chest and resting his chin atop my head. “And there is nothing to be done about grief.”

I hadn’t understood then, but I did now.

And when he stepped forward to hold my hand this time, a terrible ringing started in my ears. Without a word, he led me inside the foyer as Jean Luc hesitated behind us. “Célie—” he started, but I hardly heard him.

The entire scene had taken on a surreal, nightmarish quality, and I no longer felt part of my own body. This isn’t real. This cannot be happening.

Too late, I realized the book had fallen again. I’d dropped it, left it there on the threshold, and now Reid was guiding me to the bottom step of the grand staircase. He was kneeling in front of me, waiting for me to meet his gaze, but I couldn’t meet his gaze—because as soon as he spoke, everything would change, everything , yet also nothing at all. My sister would be gone, and I’d be alone; this cold and empty room would never belong in her book of fairy tales, and neither would we.

As if I’d ever let anything happen to you, Célie.

And suddenly, I couldn’t stand to hear those last, damning words from anyone but me. I owed her that much. I owed her everything—should’ve followed her, should’ve dragged her back and bolted the window—but I refused to betray her now by cowering again. My sister never cowered.

Locking eyes with Reid, I said, “Filippa is dead, isn’t she?”

Behind him, Jean Luc shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps we should get your father—”

“My father isn’t here.” My voice sharpened to a knifepoint as I glared between them—abruptly angry, so angry—and dared either to dissent as the situation crashed back to reality with brutal and blistering clarity. Whore , my mother had said, and the word stuck with me in a way no other word did. Because my sister was dead, my mother was broken, and my father was gone, unaware, cavorting with another woman while our family splintered like a mirror, distorting our reflections. “He left over a week ago on another business venture, and my mother refuses to leave her bed. If you bring news of my sister, I am the only one to tell.” Pushing to my feet, I strode past them to the threshold, seized the book, and clutched it fiercely to my chest. “So I’ll ask again, and I implore you to answer me this time: Is my sister dead?”

A beat of silence met my outburst. Then—

“Yes.” Reid shattered the illusion of our family with a single word. “I’m sorry, Célie. I’m so sorry.”

I refused to cry until they left an hour later, until the door clicked shut and I slid against it, hurling The Winter Queen across the room and cursing Morgane, cursing witches, cursing Reid and Jean Luc, my father and his whore, my mother and this empty, godforsaken house. I even cursed my sister, who went where I couldn’t follow and who I’d never see again.

Most of all, however, I cursed myself.

And when the tears came, they did not stop—not for a single moment, not even now.

I am so sick of crying.

“He wants us to fight,” I say now to Michal and Dimitri, who both listen with rapt attention. “Death wants to distract us while he finds a way to destroy the veil. He wouldn’t have mentioned your arrangement otherwise. He knew I would tell Michal, and he knew what would follow—a rift in your relationship, your family.” Before anyone can speak, I pivot to appeal to Odessa, whose hand still trembles slightly upon Panteleimon’s head. “I know I cannot ask you to trust your brother again, but can you trust me instead? Please? This isn’t a fight we’ll win while fighting among ourselves.” At Michal’s scowl, I add, “Dimitri needs to drink Death’s blood, but perhaps we can use their deal to our advantage—”

“Or we could simply kill him,” Michal says.

Dimitri scowls, crossing his arms. “Haven’t we just established I need his blood to survive?”

“You assume I meant Death.”

“I don’t think we can kill him,” I interrupt swiftly, stepping between them once more. “At the grove, his wounds healed instantly, and he also”—I shoot Michal an apologetic glance—“he felt much stronger than me. Faster too.”

Michal’s face hardens. Before he can speak, however, Odessa asks, “What other powers does he possess? What else did you learn?”

“Not much.” Shaking my head, I wrack my thoughts for any detail I might’ve missed, any chink in Death’s armor. “Obviously we know he can bleed, but his blood—it smelled ancient, yes, but also strangely like...” My gaze flicks to Dimitri, who looks resigned.

“Ours,” he finishes in a grim voice. “I assume it has something to do with his hand in our origin all those years ago—probably where vampires’ speed and strength comes from too.”

Odessa frowns, clearly unimpressed with the conjecture. “Yes, well, that’s all very good, but Death is not a vampire. Death is death . In his true form, he is all-powerful, infinite—he steals life with the touch of his finger, reaps souls with the slightest of breath.”

“That’s just it, though, isn’t it?” Michal’s eyes turn inward, narrowing slightly as he considers her words. “Death isn’t in his true form. If he still possessed the ability to steal life and reap souls, wouldn’t he have done it by now?” Though Odessa opens her mouth to argue, he shakes his head, interrupting her. “No. Think about it, Des. He attempted to resurrect La Voisin with Célie’s blood tonight. In re-creating the events of All Hallows’ Eve, he hoped to bring down the veil—”

Both Odessa and Dimitri gasp in unison. “ What? ”

“I’ll fill in the gaps later,” Michal says firmly, “but my point remains—Death told Célie that he’d find another Bride when her blood didn’t work. Wouldn’t it be easier to create another Bride instead? He could choose anyone.”

Dimitri’s brows furrow. “And if power is what Death wants, why not simply... kill everyone? You know, with all that touching and breathing business you mentioned.” He shoots a furtive look at Odessa, who rolls her eyes, and shrugs unapologetically. “What? The veil wouldn’t need to come down if he reaped all of us, and we would cross into his realm a lot faster that way.”

“I don’t think he can.” The words fall from my lips as if they’ve been waiting all along—because the simplest explanation is usually the right one. If Death still possessed great and cosmic powers, he would be using them; instead he struck a deal with my sister and created an army of revenants. He murdered Frederic quite rudimentarily, slashed open my hand with a knife before burning down the blood witches’ village in a fit of pique. “He seems to be caught somewhere in the middle—part human and part Death. I don’t know if we can kill him, but I do know we’ll regret it if we fail.”

Michal’s eyes fall to my injured hand. “Célie—”

“I’m fine, Michal.” I hide it behind my back, fingers clenching over the bandage. “Either way, I think our greatest chance of defeating Death lies in tricking him somehow. Maneuvering him. If we can just lead him where he needs to go—”

Dimitri’s brows furrow. “Which is where?”

“The grotto,” Odessa says simply.

I should’ve known she’d already fit the pieces together. Indeed, she probably fit them together long before the rest of us.

Our eyes meet across the chessboard, and I nod, swallowing hard at the palpable anguish—and anger—in hers. Perhaps I asked too much of her in regard to Dimitri. Him snapping her neck on All Hallows’ Eve is probably the least of her hurts, and I wish we had time to sit together in that pain. I wish Dimitri had found a cure outside of Death. I wish my sister hadn’t aligned with him, and I wish Frederic had never torn open that hole.

The time has come, however, to stop wishing and start acting .

“Death needs to go back to his realm,” I say, “to the true land of the dead. Frederic created a door—which in turn created the maelstrom—when he resurrected Filippa. I don’t know why their tear is so different than the other revenants’, but it stands to reason we can reverse the damage they caused by sending Death back through it. We just need to decide the best way to lure him here. Any ideas?” When no one speaks, when the tension only thickens at Filippa’s name, I plunge onward with determination. “All right—well—perhaps we can stage a meeting via Mila, or perhaps Dimitri can arrange their next meeting to take place—”

“—inside Michal’s bedroom? That isn’t suspicious at all.” Rolling his eyes, Dimitri pretends to consider this before adding dryly, “Though if you really want to lure him to the bedroom, I’m sure we could find a way. You are his Bride—”

“Finish that sentence,” Michal says in a cold voice, “and I will tear out your throat.” His hands descend on my shoulders, and he gently turns my body toward him. His eyes remain tight, however—wary, almost apologetic—and I tense, knowing what he means to ask. “How do we close the door, Célie?”

As expected, the silence snaps taut, fraying with the pressure of everyone knowing this answer. No one wants to say it, however; no one wants to condemn my sister to another casket—no one except Odessa, who scowls and says, “We all know what must be done, Michal, and dancing around the subject will not make it any easier. This door might be different than the others, but in essence, it is still a tear in the veil. The only definitive information we have is that which you delivered yourself—when a revenant dies, they restore balance to our realm, and the hole they created repairs itself.” She shunts her bishop diagonally to take Panteleimon’s queen, and I hold my breath, praying for another solution. Please, please, please.

Neither God nor Odessa hears my prayer, however.

“The simplest way to check the king,” Odessa says without looking at me, “is to eliminate the queen. If we want to close the door, Filippa must die.”

Filippa must die.

Michal lightly kneads my shoulders in the silence that follows—bracing me, I think. Perhaps because my mouth tightens and my hands curl into fists. Perhaps because I’ve been seized with a sudden vision of throttling Odessa. Filippa must die. The words reverberate through my head; they pound through my blood with visceral heat. She spoke them as if stating the obvious, as if solving the simplest of equations, but there is nothing obvious or simple about executing my sister. Not to me. “We don’t know that,” I say evenly. “Filippa isn’t like the other revenants—”

“—which isn’t necessarily a good thing. I’m not at all sure fire will work on her.” Odessa strides through the chess pieces with an inscrutable expression, pulling a piece of folded parchment from her robe. She thrusts it toward me, and—seeing little choice—I open it with stiff fingers. Slashes of black ink mark over a dozen locations on an intricate map of Requiem: the forest, the theater, the aviary. The largest X, however, crosses the castle. The grotto. Odessa taps it with a sharp nail. “If you require proof, Guinevere has been reporting holes closing all afternoon as my sentinels dispatch revenants.”

Michal’s hands slide down my arms. He does not shy away from me, however; instead, his dark eyes burn with regret. They need someone to sit with them. “The rip we saw in the forest,” he confirms. “It was closed when I brought you back to the castle. Mathilde was right—killing the loup garou mended it.”

Sharp, debilitating emotion weakens my knees. It hammers against the mental barrier I’ve constructed—that familiar and wretched knock, knock, knock ing—but I barricade the door with trembling fingers. I cannot open it again. I cannot succumb to grief, to despair, and I cannot— will not—bury my sister again.

Odessa shakes her head. “Once is an anomaly. Twice is a coincidence. Any more than that establishes a pattern.” A pause. “I’m sorry, Célie.”

I’m sorry, Célie. I’m so sorry.

Shrugging away from Michal’s hands, I ignore Panteleimon’s threatening stare and stalk across the chessboard, unable to look at any of them—even Dimitri, who has kept damnably silent beside his sister. Though I long to shake him, I meant what I said before; Death is trying to divide us, and we cannot let him.

Every person in this room found a loophole, which means I can find one too.

Breathing deep, I appeal to each of them through clenched teeth: “You kept your brother, Odessa, despite his affliction.” Next I gesture to Michal, acutely aware of how he tracks each step, each turn of my heel, his eyes narrowed as if thinking hard. No one likes to sit in another person’s pain—not when there isn’t anything to be done about it. Michal is not the type to sit, however; he is the type to do , and until now, he has always held the cards. I can almost hear his brilliant mind whirring, scheming, grinding in frustration.

“You kept your sister,” I tell him. “She has died twice , yet you can still see her, speak to her, as a spirit.” To Dimitri, I say, “And you kept your life , to be quite frank. Each of you found a way to escape Death, but my sister didn’t—until now. If there is a way to keep her alive, I am going to find it, even if that does make me a foolish girl .” I exhale a harsh breath at my mother’s insult, still pacing. “Did I mention my sister built an ice palace in the spirit realm? It looks just like the one we dreamed of as children, and she keeps Frederic’s and Evangeline’s souls trapped inside it. And her deal with Death? She asked for her child back. Her baby. Does that sound like a monster to you?”

“ Yes. ” Odessa tugs the map from my clenched fingers, tucking it back into her robe with a valiant stab at patience. “Célie, she imprisoned her lover’s soul —”

“Because she still loves him, Odessa,” Dimitri says with a sigh. “Isn’t it obvious?”

I whirl to face him at that, hardly daring to hope. Though he shrugs back at me in a noncommittal sort of way—hands still buried in his pockets—he also doesn’t backtrack as his sister snaps, “Oh? And did she love him while she watched Death rip out his heart?”

Michal joins us at the center of the chessboard now, coming to stand directly behind me. “With the intent to bring him back. She knew she’d see him again when Death brought down the veil. It wasn’t goodbye forever—just for now.”

That glimmer of hope sparks.

Catches.

“Exactly—and that is the crux of the issue.” Odessa throws up her hands and glares between us, clearly disliking the direction our conversation has taken. “She needs the veil to come down to reunite with both her daughter and lover. Our only avenue of preventing that is to remove her from the board. The door cannot close while she lives.”

Throwing caution to the wind, I say, “Help me find another way, then. Please.”

Though she hesitates—staring back at me with bright apprehension, and perhaps a touch of obstinance—Michal does not. His voice rumbles up my spine, and I shiver at the sheer weight of it. The finality. “Of course we’ll help you.” Turning slightly, I catch the ominous look he sends in Dimitri’s direction. “Just as you’ve always helped us.”

Dimitri rolls his eyes. “To be clear, that appalling display of dominance wasn’t necessary. Obviously I agree; I was always going to agree. Célie is my friend.” Though he turns to speak to me, I cannot help but feel he means the words for someone else. “If you’ll still have me, that is,” he adds quietly, ducking his chin.

Michal and Odessa share a tense look.

Instinctively, I unwind the bandage around my palm. Three pairs of eyes snap to the thin line of scarlet revealed in its wake, but I ignore everyone but Dimitri. “Are you sure you’re in control?” I ask him, waving my hand below his face. “Inhale. Don’t hold your breath.”

He does just that, drawing in a slow and measured breath. Though his pupils dilate slightly at the scent of my blood, he remains at ease, leaning against the rook once more. A rueful grin twists his lips. “As delectable as I find you, mon papillon chérie”—Michal’s low growl interrupts—“I am in complete control.” Ignoring Michal, he leans closer with a wink, yet his eyes don’t sparkle quite as brightly as before. “And I promise not to bite unless you ask me. Are you asking?”

My fingers close around my bloody palm as Michal appears at my side. “No,” I tell them both sharply. Then— “What do you think, Michal? Can you work together again?”

A muscle feathers in Michal’s jaw as he stares at his cousin, and his cousin stares right back. At last, Michal nods tersely, and as one, we all turn to Odessa. She sighs heavily before shaking her head in defeat, crouching before Panteleimon to stroke his brilliant head. “I suppose a broken clock is right twice a day—but there is a clock, and we don’t know how much time is left. Even now, Death could be finding the answer he seeks.”

Movement sounds from the corridor outside, and instantly, the four of us tense, each whirling to face the door and listening hard. Footsteps. Those are definitely footsteps. Too late, my stomach plummets with awareness. We’d forgotten to keep our voices down, forgotten the entire castle—the entire kingdom —believes Michal to be dead and me to be imprisoned. If anyone finds us here, it’ll be anarchy—true anarchy this time. I doubt even Michal, Odessa, and Dimitri could defend themselves against an entire isle of murderous vampires. Dimitri curses bitterly in agreement, pulling me behind him as Michal and Odessa step forward. As they shift slightly, their stances widen and tension coils in their torsos.

Positioning themselves , I realize in belated panic, clutching Dimitri’s sleeve.

Though my eyes dart for a place to hide, Michal shakes his head as if sensing my flight response. “It’s too late. Whoever it is will have already heard us. Stay with Dimitri,” he adds sharply, “unless they overpower us. If that happens”—now he turns his head to meet my eyes, which widen at the malevolence in his expression—“I want you to run as fast and as far as you can. Go to Mathilde. She’ll shelter you from the likes of Léandre and Violette until—”

The door bursts open before he can finish, however, and it is not Léandre and Violette who stand on the threshold.

“Pasha?” Odessa asks indignantly. “Ivan? What did I tell you? Célie’s mother is not to be—”

She breaks off at the sight of their stiff and lumbering movements, and Dimitri curses again, dragging me behind an enormous bishop. With a trill of fear, Panteleimon vanishes up the staircase. It takes another second for me to understand why—for me to recognize the yawning pupils and clouded surfaces of Ivan’s and Pasha’s once-crystalline eyes, to detect the rot that wafts from their ashen skin. Dark blood has dried upon the slashes at their throats; it stains the golden foxes of their uniforms a gruesome black.

Revenants.

Inhaling reflexively, I fight the urge to retch. Their scent mingles with another, this one familiar and herbal and slightly bitter. I cannot place it, however—not as Michal and Odessa converge, blocking their path into the room. “Can you understand us?” Michal asks grimly. “Can you speak?”

Ivan lifts his hands with a rattling breath. When he speaks, his voice resonates much deeper than in life, harsh and guttural and terrifying. “A—gift.”

Craning my neck, I peer around Dimitri and the bishop to see what he carries, but Dimitri thrusts me behind him again with a surreptitious shake of his head. It matters little, however, as Ivan raises his hand higher in the next second, revealing La Voisin’s tattered grimoire between his fingers. The pages have been haphazardly sewn back together.

Ivan stares directly across the chessboard at me.

“ Shit ,” Dimitri snarls, but I’ve already ducked out beneath his arm and darted toward Michal, toward Odessa, toward Pasha and Ivan and his gift from Death—because only Death could’ve done this to them. Only Death would’ve tried to make the grimoire whole again.

“What do you want?” I lurch to a halt between Odessa and Michal with Dimitri hot on my heels, his fingers fisting in the back of my nightgown. Though Michal looks likely to eviscerate both of us, I cannot bring myself to care; Ivan and Pasha have not come to attack, or they would’ve done it already. No, this reeks of something else—something altogether more sinister. I jerk my chin toward the evil black book. “Why are you giving this to me?”

“Gesture—of—friendship.” Blood has congealed in Pasha’s long black hair, but he doesn’t seem to notice; he doesn’t seem to recognize any of us either. From his pocket, he extracts a matchbox. My sense of foreboding deepens, and cold fingers of dread trail down my spine, raising gooseflesh in their wake.

“Don’t take it, Célie.” Dimitri’s fingers tighten, contorting in the fabric at my back. “That book—nothing good can come of it.”

“I don’t think we have a choice.”

Slowly, I reach for the grimoire as Michal and Odessa brace, as Dimitri inches so close I can scarcely move for the wall of vampires all around me. I am a vampire now too, however, and with a pointed step forward, I tug the grimoire from Ivan’s rigid fingers. Extending my other hand to Pasha, I add, “The matchbox too, if you please. I—I think your master would want me to have it.”

Pasha and Ivan both shake their heads in unison, and another wave of that peculiar scent washes over me with the movement. It burns my nose, my throat, and triggers memories of caskets in the belly of a ship, of Michal’s silhouette in the grotto as he told me about his transition. And the split second before Pasha pulls out a match, striking it against the flint, I finally place it.

Absinthe.

Without a word, he sets himself and Ivan ablaze, and I can do nothing but watch—horrified—as they erupt, the fire licking up their clothes, their skin, before they collapse to the floor in twin pillars of flame. Michal seizes my elbows when I leap backward, spinning me away from them, while Odessa snatches wildly at her propagated cuttings. Though she dumps water from the half-filled jars over their bodies, it isn’t enough. The fire only blazes hotter, higher , until Dimitri shouts and throws a blanket over the two, diving atop it to smother the flames. After another moment, he jumps away too—searching wildly for another means to save them—before sick realization descends, twining through the smoke and screams.

Ivan and Pasha are revenants now. If we douse this fire, we must light another; they cannot be allowed to live.

Do not fret at our parting, my sweet. I’m sure we’ll see each other soon.

Death’s message has been received.

“Fuck,” Michal says.