Chapter 33
MOZART
Bronte
Poppy’s childhood bedroom is a graveyard of dead dreams.
The musk of old parchment and incense smoke lingers in the air.
Ebony wood bookshelves crammed with old romance books and knick-knacks similar to those at Beelzebub’s decorate each wall.
Tinted windows shield an unparalleled view of the moonlit Atlantic.
Feathered quills and leather bound notebooks rest on a desk beside the crackling hearth across the room, untouched.
I wonder if that’s what she wanted to be when she grew up: a writer. I can picture her so clearly, wrapped in a blanket and drinking coffee by candlelight while escaping her shadow life in the middle of the night.
“How is she?” Dante asks as he enters the room, patting Jezebel lying at the foot of the bed and handing me a mug breathing steam.
“The same,” Virgil answers from the chair to my right, still nursing her tea.
Emi’s tired gaze lifts to my brother as he lowers into the wingback chair beside hers and passes her a fresh mug. “But at least she’s not…”
Dead. She doesn’t say it.
She doesn’t need to.
We all know it’s still a possibility for the woman fighting for her life between us.
I sip the bitter black brew, squeezing Poppy’s limp hand. With sore eyes, I watch her chest rise and fall in stable, rhythmic breaths. The gauze on her lower abdomen audibly crinkles in the quiet space beneath the metronomic chirping of medical monitors.
For days, her heartbeat has lulled me asleep and lured me awake. Nightmares feast on my fear, torturing me with the sound of gunfire and Poppy’s screams. Of being utterly powerless as she fades away.
I miss her so deeply that the roots of my heart ache with every broken beat.
There isn’t much I remember beyond operating, stitching her up, and bringing her to the only safe place I knew. Vaguely, I recall debriefing Alexander and Rin on what happened. Emi brought Jezebel over before showing us the feed from the street cams outside Indigo.
All of it was completely scrubbed.
Since then, I’ve been sitting here, at Poppy’s bedside. Hearing people come and go. Not quite registering their presence. Pumping my veins with caffeine, humming my childhood lullabies to her when no one else is around. Praying.
I don’t believe in a single higher power, but rather what Mama told me and my siblings when we were young and afraid as she laid on what would become her deathbed.
“The angels watch over us all, mes petits chérubins,” Mama said as we clung to her, desperate to keep her from leaving us forever. “Whether you believe in them or not, they will always believe in you.”
“Petit Diable,” I whisper. “Reviens vers moi.”
Poppy remains as unresponsive as marble.
It doesn’t matter how many times I say it, my plea falls on the flat surface of a frozen ocean. I can’t reach her from my side of this glacial wall. I keep banging my fist against it anyway. I made her a promise, and I’ll fight any god or devil to keep it.
Emi’s sudden sob cracks the silence. Tears that only stopped an hour ago pick back up again.
“Remiel,” Dante murmurs, reaching for her. “Come here—”
“I-I need some air.”
Emi surges to her feet and bolts. Her footsteps clamor down the hall, fading into the manor’s silent heart.
My brother remains stuck halfway out of his seat, trying to decide if he should risk making her feel worse by staying behind rather than offering comfort, or risk crowding her space when she clearly wants to be alone.
Damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t.
“Give her a chance to breathe,” Virgil advises quietly. “If she’s not back in ten minutes, go find her.”
Dante plops back down with a heavy sigh, yanking his hood up. Fatigue smears purplish bruises beneath his lashline. He’s been sitting here nearly as much as me. Feeding me caffeine. Caring for Jezebel. Working with Emi and Virgil to keep everyone updated on Poppy’s status.
There was no more hiding from him when I arrived home with the princess of Salem’s underworld bleeding out in my arms, barking at him to help me save her life.
After stabilizing Poppy and bringing her here, I told him everything from the day I continued to look into Margot without him to the attack on Poppy at Indigo.
Not once has he snapped. I owe him so much more than I can ever give him.
“Merci,” I say. “I wouldn’t have been able to do this without you.” I shoot a grateful glance at Virgil, who’s been clearing her schedule to be here. “And you.”
She rests a comforting hand on my arm, her peach lips tipping up. “Always, brother.”
Dante nods in agreement and scans Poppy, a silent pain in his carmine eyes. “We were supposed to be done with this shit when we got out.”
“Seems Leviathan has roots everywhere,” V utters, her gaze distanced. “If only we’d stayed long enough to know who saved us instead of running from them, too.”
I nod. “Agreed.”
If any of us had connections with the group who demolished Leviathan’s limb in Sleepy Hollow, we’d have called in the cavalry by now.
“Maybe this is divine punishment for the shit we did.” Dante sighs, leaning back and resting his head against the chair. “To children in collars and chains. To men and women drugged out of their minds and foaming at the mouth. We did nothing to stop any of it. We thrived in it.”
“We were young, scared, and vastly outnumbered, Petit Fant?me,” V says softly. “If we hadn’t donned those personalities and garnered the kind of reputation we did, we would’ve ended up collared, chained, and foaming at the mouth, too.”
A tear trails down Dante’s porcelain cheek. “Do you think Margot is still alive?”
A stilted silence weighs down on us, casting our memories in blood and shadow.
“For her sake,” I murmur as Poppy’s steady heartbeat keeps me grounded, its music as powerful as Mozart, “I pray not.”