Chapter Forty-Two The Second Maelstrom
Chapter Forty-Two
The Second Maelstrom
Within thirty minutes, Reid Diggory—previously renowned captain of the Chasseurs, decorated war hero, and husband of the most powerful witch alive—has become Mila Vasiliev.
Or at least, he looks a lot like her.
It took several failed attempts—several long, nerve-wracking moments as the maelstrom weakened his efforts—but slowly, piece by piece, Reid coaxed his magic into cooperating. The sharp scent of it still lingers on his skin as he presses the tip of a newly feminine finger to his nose. It breaks beneath his touch, and I wince as he groans, as the flesh of his face contorts and twists into Mila’s features: her pert nose, her full lips, her flushed cheeks. A single freckle dusts the latter—a freckle I never noticed in all the time I knew Mila.
With a pang, I realize I never knew her at all.
I knew the imprint, yes, the illusion, but I never truly met her . Though this isn’t technically her either—this is Reid breaking and re-forming his body to resemble her portrait—it still feels different, seeing her in full and glorious color. Those treacherous tears have not stopped burning since my mother’s departure, and they threaten to spill over again as the final touch of Reid’s transformation falls into place. My relief is a tangled, bittersweet thing.
Her eyes.
Warm and rich and brown, they gaze back at me from across the grotto. The exact shade of Odessa’s and Dimitri’s, yet spaced slightly farther apart and larger, rounder, with thick black lashes lined with kohl. I cannot look away. I cannot stop myself from studying her, memorizing her—the strong profile of her jaw, the delicate bones of her shoulders, the lush sable hair that cascades around her gown. Dove white. Michal described it to Reid with as much detail as possible, and the effect is... breathtaking.
She is breathtaking.
Michal, Odessa, and Dimitri have gone still as statues.
They stare at her like one stares at a shooting star or solar eclipse—like if they blink, they might miss her, and they’ll miss her forever.
When she groans again, however—her voice too deep, too masculine—the illusion shatters, and I force myself to take a deep, steadying breath as Reid clenches her hands into fists. “I won’t be able to hold this forever.” Each word sounds labored, pained. “The maelstrom—it’s too strong.”
“Your voice,” I whisper.
“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, clenches shut his eyes. Her eyes. “I can’t—can’t make it higher. My magic—”
Michal moves to stand beside me then. At the sound of Reid’s voice, his jaw clenches, and his black eyes gleam too bright in the candlelight. Anyone else might’ve mistaken them for tears, but I can feel the anger licking up his ribs. No. The grief. Rather than making Michal look more vulnerable, however, it makes him look somehow fiercer, predatory even. Like a wild animal caught in a trap. “You look just like her,” he tells Reid.
It does not sound like a compliment.
When Reid blinks, startled by his tone, Odessa rests a gentle hand against his arm. “Yes, you do.”
Michal’s lip curls.
Fortunately, Lou and Mathilde descend at that moment—one on either side—the former clutching his chin while the latter picks at his gown. “Her mouth is wider,” Lou says, turning Reid’s new face to examine it. Mila stands only a few inches taller than her, narrowing the height gap between them. “And her cupid’s bow is less pronounced.” She pats his cheek with a feeble hand, her freckles stark. “Yours has gone all pointy.”
Mathilde slaps her hand away. “You saw the girl twice . You are hardly the authority—”
“Yes, well—” Rolling her eyes, Lou dangles a necklace from her fingers, the gilded edges of the pendant glowing slightly as the light catches them. Inside it, a portrait of Mila smiles back at us, serene and beautiful and alive. “I am the one holding the locket, and clearly , her cupid’s bow looks different.”
Michal stiffens beside me, and I run a hand along his arm before tracing circles into his palm. He calms slightly at the touch, though his jaw remains like adamantine.
“That portrait is the size of a thimble”—Mathilde snatches the locket away, though the movement leaves her swaying slightly—“and even if it weren’t, the artist who painted it was a sham and blunderbuss to boot. In a desperate bid for glory, he eschewed civilization and forwent bathing for an entire year , claiming nature as his one true muse. You should’ve smelled him by the end of it—absolutely fetid —with only a handful of lousy landscapes to show for it.” She lifts the portrait to examine it more closely. “All that aside, this might be his best work. Not hard to do with Mila.” With an exaggerated harrumph, she tucks the locket tenderly into her cloak. “You’re still wrong about her mouth, though.”
She punctuates the last by leaning heavily against the bedpost, nudging aside the kittens that claw up her legs.
As with me, they’ve been swarming her feet since Michal freed them from the washroom to stretch their legs before our confrontation with Death. A thoughtful gesture, and not one Mathilde seems to appreciate. Scowling down at them, she mutters, “Mila was my dearest friend, and I undoubtedly knew her best.”
I expect Michal to speak up now, or perhaps Odessa and Dimitri; I expect them to disagree and snap at the witches for claiming any part of Mila, but none of them speak. Indeed, Dimitri doesn’t even turn from the water’s edge, where he stands rigid, staring out at the maelstrom with his hands in his pockets.
Lou clears her throat into the silence, releasing Reid’s face with a furtive glance at the vampires. At Mathilde herself. “You’re probably right,” she says at last. “Her cupid’s bow is perfect.”
With effort, Michal forces a small, cold smile—a man unaffected, a man in control, but those eyes still burn with black fire. Though his sister might’ve chosen to move on—might’ve even passed peacefully, like the moon over the sun—he still misses her, and he always will.
There will be time to grieve later, however, after we deal with Death. Perhaps we’ll even give her a proper funeral; I’ll learn how they lay their dead to rest in Michal and Mila’s homeland, and it will be a beautiful tribute. But for now—
Mathilde snarls in pain, threatening to collapse as a kitten’s claws catch in her knee. “Will someone do something about these damned cats?”
I jolt into motion—determined to save the poor thing before she accidentally punts it into the sea—but hesitate when Brigitte hurries forward with a basket instead. She plucks each kitten up by its nape, tucking them away without a word. I frown at her efficiency. At her agility . Indeed, when I bend to help, she snatches away the last kitten before turning sharply on her heel, her knuckles pale as she clutches the basket to her chest. Her eyes dart toward the curtain.
Toward my mother and Jean Luc.
Understanding sweeps through me immediately. Brigitte might hate us—might hate me most of all—but she hasn’t acted on her feelings; she hasn’t drawn her Balisarda and lodged it in my neck as she so clearly longs to do. No. Instead she has listened, has questioned, has even helped ... and all because of Jean Luc.
Hoisting the basket higher, she brushes past me toward the curtain, but I reach out a tentative hand to stop her. “Thank you,” I murmur when she turns, unsure what else to say.
She tosses her long braid over her shoulder, glaring at me as she scratches a kitten’s chin. “I’m not doing any of this for you. I didn’t ask to be here.” Though her voice sizzles with venom—once, it would’ve filled me with it in response—I’ve been in her position, and it isn’t one I’d wish on anyone. I’ve been stranded in the destruction of a lover’s past too. Worse still, hers has marooned her in a grotto with his ex-fiancée.
Of course she wants to stick a sword in my neck. I cannot blame her for it, so instead I offer a small smile. An olive branch. “I’m appreciative regardless, Brigitte. Truly.”
Instead of reciprocating, she flinches like I’ve slapped her. And that—that’s fine too. Expected. Though I brace when she opens her mouth to speak, she seems to change her mind in the next second, scowling and shaking her head instead. Slipping through the curtain without another word. I can still hear as she joins Jean Luc and my mother, however, and places the basket upon the floor. The faint rustle of fabric as she sits down, the fainter whisper of greeting to Jean Luc. I can hear him take her hand.
I stop listening then and turn to Michal, who meets my gaze across the grotto.
I love you. I mouth the words without thinking, and he stalks forward to pull me into his arms. Without a word, he kisses me, and that bond pulses between us like a heartbeat. And it’s enough. With him, it’ll always be enough.
I still feel the torch he now carries, however. Though I try to ignore it, it presses into the hollow between my shoulder blades, and I swallow the lump in my throat before it chokes me. Because I—I cannot think about that torch now. I cannot think about it ever —cannot acknowledge its existence—until all of this is over, until I can do nothing else but regret it for the rest of my eternal life. We don’t have a choice. We never had a choice.
Remorse pulses through the bond from Michal too—along with sickening dread at what he must do—but I don’t acknowledge it either, and he remains mercifully silent.
Over his shoulder, Lou steps into the water, where she closes her eyes and lifts her hands with Reid as Mila standing sentry beside her. “Are you ready?” he asks in a low, strained voice.
Clenching her jaw, she nods. “No time like the present.”
And we begin.
Mathilde rises from the bed as Lou flicks her wrists, and the water beyond the real maelstrom begins to churn too—slowly at first, so slowly—while Odessa and Dimitri assume their positions on opposite ends of the shore. They’ll be responsible for pushing Death into the waters if I fail.
The thought should terrify me, and it does— that I might fail, that the veil might fall, that everyone here might surrender to Death in the end. Still, other than Reid, I’m the only one Death might allow to get close to him. I’m the only one with the element of surprise.
Leaving Michal to deal with Filippa, if she even comes at all.
She’ll come , I tell myself fiercely. Her future depends on this too.
My stomach twists at that, threatens to empty all over this wretched grotto floor. Her child.
Still, our duplicity comes last, so together, Michal and I watch as the waters build momentum, the second maelstrom beginning to form. Blood trickles from Lou’s ears at the effort, and Dimitri clamps his mouth shut with a groan while Odessa watches him like a hawk. “Stop breathing,” she tells him, hardly moving her lips to prevent anyone from noticing. “Hold your breath.”
He swallows hard and nods.
“And you?” Michal asks just as quietly. “Are you ready for this?”
No , I want to say, but of course I can’t. Of course he senses it anyway.
“After Lou has finished, Mathilde will begin with the veil.” Michal’s arms tighten around me one last time. “If Death takes the bait, he could be here within moments.”
“Within seconds,” I whisper.
“And you’ll have”—Lou’s limbs tremble with strain now, her broken magic still moving an entire ocean —“about that long to push him.”
Waves crash beyond the maelstroms at her words, a storm building—imploding—as the wind picks up too. It catches at our hair, our gowns, whisking the letters from Michal’s desk and carrying them into the sea. Dimitri yields a single step as icy water sprays across his face, and Odessa plants her feet, bracing for the battle to come—because it will be a battle. Once Death realizes our deception, realizes we machinated the entire scene, his wrath will be endless. As Lou said, we’ll have only seconds to push him, perhaps less; Michal will need to dispatch my sister only after Death has fallen through.
Say the word, Célie , her voice seems to whisper, except now I know that voice belongs to me. It always has. To kill your sister. To burn her.
Still the waters churn faster.
Faster.
As if reacting to Lou’s magic, the real maelstrom seems to swell even larger, fiercer, seeking to consume her subterfuge. It spirals deeper until jagged rocks can be seen upon the seafloor. They look like teeth, and blood drips from Lou’s nose now too. Reid holds her steady, anchoring her with Mila’s small hands and gentle frame, as she begins to violently shake.
Whatever magic she is using to create the second maelstrom, she must be pulling it from her very bones. “Easy, girl,” Mathilde mutters, and even she steps forward as if to help. As if concerned.
“I am— fine .” Lou spits the words through clenched teeth. Then, raising her voice over the roar of the waves: “We’re almost”—she gives another great shudder—“there. Is everyone ready?”
“And what if we’re not?” Dimitri nearly shouts to be heard, the wind whipping his hair across his face. “What then?”
“Too—bad.”
Dimitri curses, and Michal releases me at last as Odessa snaps, “Death is the priority. We push him through no matter the cost!” When Lou’s knees buckle in response, she points a finger toward the ceiling, adding wildly, “And I—I owe you a new broomstick, Louise la Blanc! I took yours apart and bathed it in an alchemical solution to make it fly, so don’t you dare die on us—”
Lou forces a laugh despite herself, and lightning forks beyond the cave’s mouth. Her blood trickles faster. “Broomsticks don’t—fly.”
“ Yours might! When this is over, we shall all find out!” Then, fiercer than even the storm— “ Focus , Louise. We are almost there!”
“No one will be flying anywhere until I get my hatbox!” Mathilde’s eyes narrow at the force of the maelstroms, and she nods once to herself as if satisfied. My stomach plummets at the movement, and I watch—frozen—as she battles the wind to march to the center of the grotto. It’s time. “A promise is a promise, you wretched creatures!”
Lou laughs louder, barely standing now, as Mathilde nods again to Reid, and he drags Lou beyond the curtain into the washroom. Hiding her. Death cannot see anyone he does not expect to see, and especially not a witch bleeding from her eyes and ears. She’ll be fine , I tell myself anxiously. She’ll heal with distance from the maelstrom.
Jean Luc and Brigitte will remain hidden too—sequestered with my mother—so as not to spook Death with their human faces and Balisardas. If he suspects our true motive too soon, all will be lost.
When Reid returns a moment later, the maelstroms still rage, and Mathilde fists her hand in the veil. “I hope you all live,” she says, before spearing Michal with a glare. “And if you do, I’m quite serious about my hatbox—and my books! Every single one.” Then she tears into the veil, her gaze flashing molten silver as the spirit realm ripples at her fingers and snow flutters into the grotto. “I’d hold on to something if I were you.”
Swifter than I’ve ever managed, she vanishes through the gap, mending it in the same fluid motion.
The rest of us brace in anticipation as Reid steps into the water. His chest still heaves with pain, his face contorted with concentration. He’ll need to ease his breathing if Death is to believe he is Mila, to believe she has risen from the— wherever ghosts go when they pass from the spirit realm. My own breath hitches at the thought. We didn’t discuss any plausible stories for Reid. He won’t know how to answer if Death asks any questions; I will need to answer for him, and—
And it’ll take a miracle for this to work.
Still, I clasp my hands out of habit, or perhaps in prayer, and close my eyes as we wait for Mathilde’s signal. For one second—for one single, glorious second—I allow myself to think of a better future. A future where we survive, where we banish Death, where Lou flies on a broomstick, and where I help Michal rebuild Mathilde’s cottage before we flee to his home in the ruins. Never to be seen again.
When I open my eyes, however, I see none of those things.
Instead a fat orange tabby bounds out of the washroom, and—to my horror—my mother appears in his wake. “Come back here this instant —” She straightens at the roar of the wind, her pale face frozen in surprise, and I can do nothing but lift a panicked hand before Mathilde sends her shock wave through the veil.
The world implodes.
Seismic pressure shatters the ether, the very core of my being as the veil blasts outward, as it steals my vision, my breath, and I cannot find Michal to grab his hand—cannot find anything except the post of his bed, which I fling myself around to keep from falling. And it feels like Mathilde attacked me instead of the veil—swung a cudgel straight at my knees—as the grotto ripples, as it shudders with wave upon wave of aftershocks. Michal stumbles backward as if he feels them too, and my mother—
I gasp and release the bedpost, falling to my knees. My mother.
With a cry of shock—of pain—she collapses, hitting the ground with an indelicate thud and not moving again. Though the ether still trembles, though the ground still shakes and the sea still roars, I crawl toward her while Michal shouts a warning. I take her cold face in my hand.
Oh God.
“Maman.” My voice comes out a croak as I shake her slightly, determined to rouse her before Death arrives. Through the rippling fabric of reality, Reid, Odessa, and Dimitri stare down at us in horror, completely unaffected by the shock. So why was she ? “Maman, wake up. Please wake up. You must hide because—because Death will be here any moment, and if he—”
But Michal has joined us now; he kneels beside us with a grim expression, taking her wrist to check her pulse. “She’s alive,” he says swiftly. “Her heart is weak, but it’s still beating.”
She’s alive. The words strike me like twin bolts of lightning, and I jolt upright, gaping at him even as I listen to her faint heartbeat. Because why wouldn’t she be alive? What is happening ? And where— “Where is Death?” I look around wildly for any sign of him. “Why hasn’t he come? He must’ve felt—”
Before I’ve finished the sentence, however, an ominous slashing sound erupts behind Reid. The veil ripping, tearing , as Death and Filippa step through. “Well, well, well,” he muses, his eyes widening as they pass from Mila to the maelstrom, to Michal and me on our knees. They skip over my mother completely. “What an interesting turn of events.”
Rising on unsteady knees, I move in front of my mother as the last aftershock fades. I recall the lessons she taught us about maintaining composure while in the aristocracy, and I hold my chin high, fixing a hard smile upon my lips. Reid will not be the only performer in this charade. Sweeping into a perfect curtsy, I say, “Bonsoir, monsieur, and make yourself welcome.”
“ Welcome ”—his brows rise incredulously as I straighten—“is not a word I’ve ever heard from you before.”
I take a small step toward him, waving an errant hand. “Perhaps welcome is a stretch, yet I cannot say your presence here is entirely unexpected.” Another step. “At least you’ve left your revenants at home this time.”
Death’s eyes narrow before flicking back to Reid—to Mila —as a moth drawn to a flame. “My revenants are never far away, darling,” he says softly, and behind him, the veil flutters with their presence. How many wait beyond it, I do not know. Then— “How did you do it?”
Another small step. Another. As planned, Michal remains a safe distance behind me. I just need to get close enough without rousing suspicion; Death has never taken me seriously, and I intend to make him regret it. “As if I would tell you.” Continuing my slow path toward him, I roll my eyes as if irritated. “You’re the one who gave up after La Voisin’s ashes.” Step. Step. Step. “You never tried my blood on an actual body .”
“Ah, my sweet, but Mila didn’t have an actual body.”
I arch a brow, flicking a sly glance at Michal, whose lip curls. “Says who?” he asks.
Even Death looks mildly impressed at that, if not a touch revolted. “You kept your sister’s corpse after Frederic drained her? How terribly... disturbing. But why wait all this time? Why not revive her when you abducted our darling Célie?”
I lift my chin defiantly, and I pray our feeble explanation is enough. “We didn’t yet know what my blood could do.”
“Ah.” Death lifts Mila’s arm to examine it, running his fingers along the inner skin of her elbow. When Michal snarls softly, he laughs. “You figured it out, then. You—brought her back. Your blood has been the key all along.”
It sounds like a question.
“Obviously.”
“It didn’t bring it down.” Death stares out at the second maelstrom before reaching out as if to feel the veil, to test it, while I continue toward him. “How many more will it take? I wonder. Surely the veil cannot suffer much further abuse.” When I do not answer, he tips his head, glancing back at me. Studying my reaction closely. “What changed your mind? Why did you do this?”
Thankful that my heart cannot pound in fear, I lift a shoulder. “You killed Mila. We wanted her back.”
“Ah, yes. Mila. We haven’t heard much from our beautiful friend, have we? I remember her being much more... talkative in life. And in death,” he adds thoughtfully. “The two of us have been well-acquainted over the years.”
Please, please, please , I think.
On either side of the shore, Dimitri and Odessa shadow my movements as surreptitiously as possible, but Death hasn’t yet noticed them. He seems too absorbed in Mila, circling around her now. Drifting closer to the maelstrom as he trails a hand across her back. She trembles, closing her eyes, and his silver eyes flash with satisfaction—he thinks he’s affecting her, when in reality, Reid is struggling to maintain his control. His limbs have locked. His jaw clamps tight. Bile still rises in my throat at Death’s avid, hungry expression, but I swallow it back down. Because this was the plan. Dimitri, Odessa, Death himself—this is all going according to plan.
Except for Filippa.
She tracks the twins’ footsteps too carefully—especially Dimitri’s—her features sharpening with suspicion when I catch her eye instead. “Careful,” she murmurs to Death, moving closer to him too. “This could be a trick.”
Death scoffs.
“You felt the disturbance, did you not? You see her standing before us now?” Though Death speaks to Filippa, he still stares at Mila like his most prized possession, catching a strand of her hair as it billows in the wind. He tips his head toward the waters. “You see the maelstroms.”
“I smell the magic,” Filippa says sharply.
Death waves her anger aside. “You smell me —or perhaps your sister—as we cannot help but smell of the divine.” His nostrils flare, and reluctantly, he shoots a disgusted look at Michal. “Though I notice you’re rather tainting our scent these days. A pity, that.”
Michal growls. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get the fuck out. Now.”
“No, I don’t think I will.”
Michal’s eyes flash as Death brings Mila’s hand to his lips, and Reid shudders again, his breathing shallow. “Don’t touch her,” Michal snarls abruptly.
I hasten forward as Death ignores Michal, a slow and seductive grin spreading across his face. “Mila Vasiliev,” he says, and thankfully, Reid gathers Mila’s features into imperiousness rather than rage. “My eternal damsel. You are so much more beautiful alive . Tell me, darling, how does it feel to walk among us once more?”
Michal stiffens at the question. Odessa and Dimitri halt mid-step. And I need to act , quickly, before Death senses any hesitation. “How do you think she feels?” I interject loudly. “She—”
“I was not talking to you .” His silver eyes remain fixed firmly upon Mila, and he arches a brow in question. Waiting. And I dare not look at anyone else either, lest Death realize something is wrong. Just a few more steps. A few more steps from me—or from Dimitri and Odessa—and we can do it. We can reach him, then Filippa. Energy surges through me, a rush of adrenaline that permeates the air, and the others seem to sense it too. Abandoning caution, they quicken their pace just as Death says, “Well?”
A trickle of blood drips from Mila’s nose in response.
A thud sounds from the washroom.
Though I whirl toward the sound—perhaps my mother rose and she fell again—she remains crumpled on the ground, and that sound —
To my horror, the second maelstrom begins to slow, begins to stop, and the winds die along with it, leaving us in hideous silence. No.
No, no, no.
My heart leaps into my throat as I glance helplessly at Mila, who appears much taller than before—her hair tinted red—with her nose melting into a pale, lumpen shape before re-forming into Reid’s. Straighter. Larger—much too large for her heart-shaped face. Oh God. Realization begins to dawn across Death’s features. Eyes narrowing, he reaches out slowly to wipe the blood away with his thumb. “What...?”
And Reid strikes, unexpectedly punching him into the water.
Death falls as if in slow motion, arms pinwheeling through the air, before landing just short of the maelstrom with an enormous splash. Flicking his wrist at Michal’s torch, Reid tears off toward Lou, and the torch indeed catches fire—as does Michal’s hand, his wrist, his arm. The flames streak up his sleeve as if sentient, and he roars in pain, flinging the torch aside while Odessa, Dimitri, and I surge in unison toward Death. Though Filippa rises up to meet us, Dimitri doesn’t hesitate. He knocks her aside, and she crashes into me, who crashes into Michal, who seizes her collar with a burning hand to hurl her into the maelstrom after Death.
Hair ablaze, she stabs him in the fist with a silver knife. He curses bitterly, but Filippa is already moving.
Wrenching her knife from Michal’s fist, she flings it behind her with preternatural speed and precision, and I can do nothing— nothing —as Death surges from the water, as Dimitri lunges, the tips of his fingers just brushing Death’s sleeve—
And Filippa’s knife lodges deep within Dimitri’s chest.
A scream shatters the grotto. I cannot tell if it belongs to Odessa or me—not with blood rushing through my ears and Dimitri’s eyes widening in shock. Not with his skin desiccating like he’s—like he’s—
He’s dying.
My mind refuses to accept the words even as he staggers back a step, and Odessa tackles Filippa into the water, snarling and shrieking and sobbing. Extinguishing the only chance we might’ve had to kill her. And Michal charges Death, who laughs, but I miss that hideous silence of before. I miss it so much. Because no one else can hear Dimitri’s last gasping breath.
And no one else can see him as he slips—his terrified eyes catching mine—and tumbles backward into the maelstrom.