Page 108 of The Scarlet Veil

“But in the aviary—”

He shakes his head fiercely. “It was an emergency in the aviary. You might’ve died without it. But if something happens to you with vampire blood in your system, yours will be a fate worse than death.”

“What will happen?”

“You’ll become like us. Like me.” He clenches his jaw and glares determinedly over my shoulder. “That cannot happen.”

“Michal—”

“Itwill nothappen, Célie.” Without another word, he lifts me from his lap and returns me to the settee. I fall silent, staring at the rigid lines of him, and nod. Because I don’t know what else there is to do. Because I couldn’t haveactuallypierced his skin—not without wood or silver—yet even the possibility has upset him beyond anything I’ve seen.

Most of all, however, because he’s right—this can never happen again. Thiswill neverhappen again.

Brushing aside a tear, I glance back to check on Pennelope, only to find her standing directly behind the settee. She arches a golden brow, watching us, as a smile plays on her lush, red lips. “It seems I’ve missed the fun part. What a pity.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

A Brief Interview

“Pennelope!” I leap to my feet and curtsy, praying she hasn’t been standing there long. Judging by the amused gleam in her golden eyes, however, she heard every word between Michal and me. I wish the floor would rise up and swallow me whole. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Is it? It sounds as if I’m interrupting something.”

Beside me, Michal rises in stony silence.

“Not at all.” I smooth my gown in a self-conscious gesture, my limbs still trembling. Her own is much simpler with its crimson gauze, but much lovelier too—it floats down her hourglass figure like a cloud, glittering and sheer. Despite the claws of her paramour, the fabric remains wholly intact, probably spelled; the biting scent of blood magic wafts from it. I wipe away another tear. “We’ve been waiting for you, actually.”

“Oh, I’m aware.”

“You—you are?”

She waves a flippant hand. Unlike her cousin, she hasn’t attempted to cover her scars with cosmetics, leaving them bare to glow in the firelight. They wind up her fingers, her wrists, her arms with intention—as if she planned the exact location of each mark—before ending in a delicate filigree across her chest. “I might not be a creature of the night like yourfriendhere”—sheeyes Michal appreciatively—“but I still have ears. The two of you haven’t exactly been subtle. Not that it’s entirely your fault, of course,” she adds. “We always notice when night children come to call. Two more just arrived upstairs.”

Her tone holds no reprimand, merely keen interest. Though beautiful, her face is almost fey-like with its sharp eyes and pointed nose, and when she waggles her eyebrows mischievously, the impression only intensifies. “If you’d like to make an appointment, however,” she continues, “I’m afraid it’ll need to be for tomorrow night. Dear Jermaine is already waiting in my room, and he hates to share.”

I glance around us, looking for the staircase that leads to the courtesans’ chambers, but there isn’t one. No doorways either. Just rough black stone and crackling black fire. And shadows—disembodied shapes that writhe against the walls of the outer rim, unaffected by the firelight. I didn’t notice them before.Can’t imagine why, I think bitterly.

“We aren’t here to make an appointment,” Michal says, his tone imperious once more. “We’re here to ask about your cousin.”

“My cousin?” Instantly, the impish smile vanishes from Pennelope’s face, and the golden glow that surrounds her hardens to flinty silver. Her eyes narrow between the two of us. “Which cousin?”

“Babette Trousset.”

Her lips press flat.

“We want to give our condolences,” I start quickly, but Michal interrupts.

“Tell us about the days before her death.” Ignoring my scowl, he prowls around the settee to close the distance between them. If hemeans to intimidate, it doesn’t work; Pennelope refuses to cower at his approach. No, her golden eyes spark in silent challenge instead. Michal’s reputation as acreature of the nightapparently means very little to her—which means she must know very little about him. Still, I resist the urge to step between the two. Only once have I seen the true wrath of a blood witch, and it isn’t an experience I’d like to repeat.

“Did she share anything that might’ve caused you unease?” Michal presses. “Perhaps introduced you to a new lover, or an old one?”

My scowl deepens. This sort of conversation requires delicate handling, and Michal is displaying as much finesse as a blunt axe. “Our apologies, mademoiselle,” I say before he can speak again. “We realize speaking about Babette must be difficult—”

Michal, however, interrupts once more, his voice growing colder with each word. “Perhaps she spoke of a business arrangement gone wrong, or a family member who needed help.”

At this, Pennelope’s expression twists, and I hasten to smooth the tension, skirting around the settee myself. I knit my fingers together to keep from wringing my hands. Or strangling Michal. “We’re investigating her death, so any information you can give us about her final days—any unusual behavior, any new faces—would be most helpful.”

“Would it?” Pennelope sneers around the question, and even I can tell the expression doesn’t belong on her cheerful face. “I’ll tell you the same as I told your brethren, Célie Tremblay: I didn’t know Babette evenwentto Cesarine, let alone who stole her body.”

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