Chapter 17
LA FIN
Poppy
Bronte strides beside me in the dark and musty archives of St. Aurelius’s Liberal Arts.
Our phone flashlights pan the tall racks stuffed with unorganized boxes thrown down here without a care for order.
His footfalls are as noiseless as mine, which made trespassing onto the grounds of St. Aurelius’s easier than it would’ve been with anyone else.
To my chagrin, his past remains an enigma. Emi is confident the Bourbon brothers have criminal histories after her last visit shed a sliver of light on Margot’s disappearance. Too much of my past week has been spent obsessing over countless theories and one blaring question:
What happened to them?
I’ve been dreaming of him, this maddeningly mysterious coroner. He’s in my every thought, as permanent and permeating as ink bleeding on a page. Staining every crevice in my mind. I need to know more.
Emi bought us all night for this mission, feeding a pre-recorded loop through the cams. We have until campus security’s shift changes in the morning to find what we need and get out. Now may be my only chance to get answers straight from the source.
“Did you go to school, monsieur?”
Bronte cocks an eyebrow. “Of course I did.”
“How far? College? Graduate?” At his escalating frown, I shrug. “Just making small talk.”
“I’ll answer yours if you answer mine.”
A harmless deal. He knows enough of my secrets already to put me behind bars for life. “I’m listening.”
“What was school like for you?”
My head tilts as I consider, watching motes of dust swirl in the beams of light.
“I’ve never stepped foot inside a classroom.
Knives were my crayons, people were my canvas.
My peers were mostly other Morgensterns.
I didn’t make any noteworthy friendships until after I moved out.
At that point, there was no use seeking a degree.
I already had a PhD in cold-blooded murder. ”
“Yet you were overpowered by two out of three Volkovs.”
“I have to have some kind of Achilles’ heel, don’t I? Otherwise, I’d be perfect, and perfect is boring.” He snickers and I elbow his ribs. “Your turn.”
“I’m originally from Texas but attended university here in Salem.”
“Texas? You don’t have an accent. How long did you live there?”
“That’s two questions asked out of turn, Poppy.”
I scoff, pausing mid-step and flinging my light in his face. “You already know the highlights of my childhood. It’s only fair that you share yours.”
His jaw flexes, clearly reluctant. “It’s not pretty.”
“Thank all the stars for that. Pretty pasts are as boring as perfect people.”
Bronte sighs, tapping my phone with his. “Lower the interrogation lamp, Nancy Drew. I’ll spill.”
We fall back into step, gazes roaming the shelves that are as disorganized as a hoarder’s home. Minutes crawl by as he considers his story and how to spin it. I watch him from my periphery. His shoulders are high, his movements stiff.
“Not easy, is it? Trying to figure out where to start.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Do you start a book at the end or the beginning?”
“Who taught you such wisdom?” He snorts at my beaming smile.
“Back to the beginning, then. I was born in a small Texas town called Valentine. Dante and I are sons of Noah Abernathy, a Marine with a Purple Heart for taking shrapnel to the chest shortly before we were born. Our half-sister, Virgil, is three years older than us. She shares the same mother, Genevieve Bourbon. We never knew V’s father.
Only that his death drove Mama from her own home in France when V was still in diapers.
Mama had been a scholar in religious studies, but she got sick when the three of us were young.
When she died, she took the best parts of my father with her.
He was your stereotypical trauma-case-turned-widower: drunk by dawn, out cold most of the day, ruthless by dusk.
On the worst nights, he’d throw us into homemade mazes with rabid bloodhounds, handing us limited rounds and testing our survival skills.
“One night, while V was at a friend’s house, Dante knocked over a picture of Mama by mistake.
Next thing I knew, our father had him by the throat.
A single squeeze separated my brother from death, and I acted on instinct.
I grabbed the shotgun our father had left on the kitchen table with his empty bottles.
I didn’t even give him a warning before I aimed at the back of his head and blew his brains all over the walls.
It was on me, on Dante…it was everywhere.
When V got home, the three of us ran. Took our mother’s name, traveled across the country.
Eventually, we built a new life here in Salem and found Mama’s family overseas.
We visit them when we can, usually around the holidays. ” He shrugs. “La fin. The end.”
I stare at him, unblinking as we trek down another cluttered aisle. “I have so many questions.”
“I’ll answer one.”
“…That’s it?”
“That’s it.” Bronte chuckles at my disgruntled huff. “Unsatisfied, Petit Diable?”
Very. “No.”
He grins mischievously. “Lie.”
Unexpected heat blooms low in my belly. Why is that hot?
“One answer is better than none, no?” When my frown gouges lines into my cheeks that I’m sure will leave permanent creases, his shoulders shake with a throaty laugh. “That face.”
I scoff, sifting through my mental list and landing on a crucial plot hole. “What happened in the time between Valentine and Salem?”
His lighthearted laughter fades into the oppressive shadows. “My siblings and I got ourselves involved in shit no one ever should.”
My interest piques. “Like what?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s your turn. Not mine.”
A lesson my father taught me long ago: deflection defines guilt.
I stomp on Bronte’s boot, halting him. “Are you afraid I’ll find out you got yourself involved with shit like Leviathan?”
Victory sings in my veins as he flashes his teeth at me in a silent snarl. “Don’t, Poppy.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t push me. Not on this.”
“Why? What are you hiding?”
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
“Is that so? Because it seems to me that you could be another mole.”
“I’m not.”
“Bullshit.”
Bronte inhales a long breath and exhales through his nostrils. If he were a dragon, smoke would be billowing from his mouth. His rage is a wildfire, sinful and scorching. It fuels my own, my fingertips heating as blood pumps into the farthest reaches of my body.
“Nothing to say for yourself?” I taunt, my grin growing serpentine. “Was that story bullshit, too?”
His pupils slowly expand to encompass the colors. His rising wrath is a deep, dark void of black fire. I want to see it ignite.
“Let’s skip to the end of this book, shall we? You show me your brand, and I’ll make your death swift. Maybe I’ll try my hand at bookbinding. Wrap you around the Devil’s Bible. An ode to mommy dearest—”
Bronte grabs my throat, forcing me backward. I gasp, shoving the butterfly knife from my pocket under his chin. A trickle of blood slides down the rainbow blade from his stubble to my trembling fist. His fingers pulse, his nose brushing mine as his lungs heave with adrenaline.
It takes me a long beat to realize his hold on my neck isn’t as tight as it should be.
“I am not your enemy, Poppy,” he whispers, rogue strands of his hair tickling my brow.
“I’ve saved your life twice when I could’ve taken a seat and watched you die.
I bear no brand, nor am I associated with Leviathan.
Your skull is as thick as a fucking brick wall, but you’re not stupid.
Stop mining for gold in a trench full of nothing but bones. ”
I gulp, my body trembling with an unhealthy dose of relief and excitement. Relief, because he’s proven my theories about his intentions wrong yet again. Excitement, because I now know how to crack his icy exterior and burrow under his skin.
How fucked up is it that I crave this man who turns corpses into books to rip my pants down and choke me while he fucks me in the dark?
“Don’t,” Bronte warns again, like I’m a cat pawing a cup toward a table’s edge. This time, though, he’s not hostile; he’s disturbingly somber. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know what.”
A teasing grin toys with the edges of my lips. “Your hand is around my throat, monsieur. How else am I supposed to look at you?”
His mouth opens for a retort, but it closes when his eyes flick over my shoulder. “What are the odds?”
My eyebrows pinch as he guides me aside then releases me. I rub the phantom feel of his fingers on my neck as he lifts the lid off a box labeled: Lovecraft. Chills slither up my spine.
What are the odds we find Margot’s belongings by pure chance?
Bronte rifles through manila folders and knick-knacks the sorority advisor left behind. Most of it is meaningless: a name plaque, potted succulents still clinging to life, pastel pens and colorful highlighters. Then he plucks an object woven with twine, raven feathers, animal bones, and blood.
Drawing an invisible pentagram over my heart, I breathe, “Stars bless me.”
“The fuck is it?”
“A death sentence.” I take the poppet, shivers wracking my frame as the bones prick my skin. “I’ve only ever heard of these in Grandpapa Lucian’s stories. Leviathan sends them to those who they want dead, marking their prey before hunting them down.”
“Why the hell would Leviathan target Margot?”
“Lions don’t concern themselves with lambs until they grow claws and teeth.”
Bronte blinks. “Are you still concussed?”
I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean. Leviathan wouldn’t have bothered Margot unless she was a threat.”
“Margot was harmless.”
“No one is harmless.” My chin tilts as I consider the possibilities. “You mentioned before that Sebastian was related to a Leviathan member. Maybe Margot learned about the connection and got herself mixed up in cult business?”
Bronte’s expression steels over as he scans the stacks we have yet to peruse. “We’ll cover more ground if we split up.”
Hours and miles of walking later, we find nothing. My feet are dragging as we meet at the exit with sagging shoulders. Tapping his phone light off, Bronte reaches for the door.
Before he can touch it, the lock slides loose, and the handle turns.
I trade my phone for my knife, but then Bronte throws me over his shoulder and sprints for the farthest reaches of the room. Plopping me down in the corner conveniently located behind the messiest shelf in here, he flattens himself against me, pancaking me to the wall.
“Ouch! What are you—”
Bronte claps a hand over my mouth, a finger to his own lips as footsteps methodically pace the stacks. Light flickers back and forth, keys jangling noisily over the faint sound of music and off-pitch humming. A badge glints from between the shelves.
Security. We must’ve stayed past shift change.
If we’re caught, Leviathan will be the least of our worries.
My heart rebels against the fear leaking into its chambers. I can’t stop shaking, my breath bursting from my nostrils in audible blasts.
Bronte, reading me like a book, gives me an incredulous look. I shake my head, unable to contain my growing fright. I’ve avoided the back of a cop cruiser my entire life. It’s not the police I fear. It’s the crown on my head painting a target on my back in the cement blocks after.
Slowly, his hand moves from my mouth to cup my nape.
His eyes don’t stray from mine as he lightly massages the tense muscles.
I wince as he works a knot free, and his other hand curls around my fist clenching the knife.
He thumbs my knuckles, sweeping in soothing strokes.
He’s as close as he could possibly be, yet he finds a way to get closer by dipping his chin and pressing his cheek to mine.
His warmth caresses me like a blanket, wrapping me in comfort.
My lashes flutter as my nervous system relaxes. Years could’ve passed, and I wouldn’t feel it. All I know is the darkness and him.
I hear the door close. I don’t move.
“Poppy?” Bronte peels back. “Are you all right?”
No, I’m not all right. I thought staying in bed for a few days while nursing a concussion would’ve lessened the chances of another panic attack happening.
But I was clearly dead wrong.
The admission is prancing on the tip of my tongue. I should tell him about my losing battle with anxiety. Not to necessarily confide in him, but to warn him that my slipping mental state could become a liability neither of us can afford while on these covert, high-stakes missions.
“I…” My brain falters as I glance over his shoulder and spy a familiar name scrawled across a box: Bonaparte. “This is getting too weird.”
He follows my stare, grunting in agreement. “Up jumps the devil.”
Unlike Margot’s box, Sebastian’s is empty.
How quaint. Another dead end.
As Bronte drives me home, his focus periodically shifting from the road lathered in dawn’s darkest blues to the Leviathan poppet in my lap, my phone buzzes. I croak a zombified, “Hello?”
“Long night, printsessa?”
My world goes gray. “Nik?”
Bronte brakes too hard at a red light, aiming an apologetic glance at my scowl.
“I heard Kai is dead,” Nik says as casually as if speaking of the weather. “I heard it was you and your sidekick coroner who did it. Is this true?”
No point in lying when that’s exactly what he’s expecting me to do. “It’s true. He left us no choice. Is this a courtesy call before you take your shot, too?”
Nik chuckles, the sinister sound scraping over my skin. “Friday, midnight. Meet me at V and V. You remember which room?”
A coffin unearths from the darkest corner of my mind, cracking open and showing me scarlet blood oozing into gray eyes blazing like silver flames as I choke the life out of my phone. “I remember.”
“See you then, printsessa.”
Click.
I stare at my cell, the screen blurring.
Bronte says something, but I barely hear him.
His voice is muffled, like I’m underwater.
I look up to see him parking us in the lot at Beelzebub’s and turning to me.
His hand lands on my bouncing thigh, unease in his frown.
It’s almost like he can see the stress eating me alive.
“Talk to me, Poppy.”
I shouldn’t ask him to help. I don’t need it. I’ve been on my own for so long, serving at Papa’s side with no one else as my sword and shield. I’m no damsel, but even I can admit when I’m scared.
Twice, I’ve faced the Volkovs. Twice, I’ve almost died.
Nikolai is the deadliest of them all.
“What are you doing Friday night, monsieur?”