Page 121 of The Scarlet Veil

“Of course my friends would—”

“Are you sure?” At last, he turns, moving so quickly the sheet eddies behind him. His black eyes bore into mine. “Have you proven yourself kind enough? Selfless enough? Perhaps you should stick your head in a hungry loup garou’s mouth next. The poor thing has a toothache, after all, and wouldn’t that just show everyone how brave you are? How competent?”

I stumble back a step. “That isn’t—”

“And if it bites you—because deep down, you knew it would—well, at least you tried to help someone in need.” His voice grows louder with every word, angrier, and he stalks toward me like a storm building on the horizon. “Perhaps your friends will remember that at your funeral. Perhaps they’ll cry and realize just how stupid they were to underestimate you. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Their approval?” Though I open my mouth to deny such aridiculousclaim, he speaks over me once more. “Or perhaps it’syourapproval you’re so desperate to earn. Perhapsyouare the one who sees yourself as a pretty doll, not them.”

“Stop it.” The trunk presses into my calves now, and my hands slide over the wood, clammy and cold, as poisonous hatred rollsthrough my stomach in waves. Never before have I felt like this—like a malignant creature has cracked open inside me, and if I don’t attack, if I don’t strike, bite,wound, its poison will kill me instead. “You will not treat me like this,” I seethe. “Everyone treats me like this—like I’m small and stupid—but I’m not. If the choice is between my life or the life of a friend, I will always choose my friend.Always.But you wouldn’t understand that, would you? You’ve never had a friend in your entireexistencebecause you’re too cold, too cruel, just too powerful to ever care about anyone but yourself. It’spathetic—and where has it gotten you? Your rule is weak, your sister is dead, and your cousin probably killed her.”

He draws to a halt mere inches away, effectively trapping me against the trunk. “My cousin?”

“Yes, yourcousin.” I relish the vitriol in my voice, relish the fact that I know more about his family than he does—me, silly little Célie, the doll, the fool, themartyrwhose greatest ambitions are hard stones and a hot grill. “Dimitri tried to steal the grimoire after Odessa whisked you away. He knew Babette somehow. He’s involved in this—right under your arrogant nose—but you’re too busy tearing out hearts to see it.”

“Says the woman whose sister gave that cross to Babette,” he snarls.

“For the last time, my sister didn’t—”

“Enough, Célie. That cross belonged to your sister—”

“—we have absolutelynoproof of that—”

“—and it somehow ended up in the hands of Babette, the blood witch who faked her own death, admitted to killingmysister, and tried to abduct you for a man called the Necromancer, who needs your blood to raise the dead.” His hands twitch as if he suppressesthe desire to physically shake me. “FT.Filippa Tremblay. This cross calls to you for a reason, and—as we have little chance of finding Babette again—your sister has become our next person of interest.”

With all my might, I thrust out with both hands, pushing him hard in the chest, but he remains like stone. Like adamantine. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even shift his weight against the onslaught, as I lunge again and again andagain, nearly screaming in frustration. “My sister isdead.”

He snatches my wrists when I lunge for the knife in my pocket. “As was Babette.”

“Pippa’s body didn’t vanish from amorgue, Michal.” Though I writhe and twist to break his grip, he refuses to let me go. Hot, bitter tears burn in my eyes at my complete and total helplessness, but I cannot—will not—wipe them away.Let him see, I think viciously. Let him see just how silly I am, howstupidfor chasing after vampires and ghosts andmagicwhen I am just Célie. “We buried her—Iburied her—and I lay beside her corpse for two weeks as proof. Do you not remember why I fear the dark? Why I feareverything?”

Michal’s brows draw together at something in my expression, and his grip relaxes slightly. “Célie—”

As with Babette, however, I seize my advantage and wrench away from him. “Nevertouch me again. Do you understand? If you do, I’ll—I—” The strength of my rage chokes me, however, and I cannot finish the threat. Truthfully, I don’t know what I’ll do. As Michal has so succinctly proven, I have no natural weapons, no great skill or strength beyond disregard for my own life. My throatconstricts to the size of a needle at the admission, and—without another word—I whirl toward the door, unable to bear his presence for another second.

To his credit, Michal does not touch me. He simply reappears between the door and me, halting my advance. “Where are you going?”

The tears now spill so thick and so fast that I cannot see his features. “Away from h-here.”Away from you.

“You shouldn’t leave the house, Célie.”

“Orwhat?” I grind my palms into my eyes, desperate to unsee him somehow. Desperate to escape this situation—just for a moment—but hopelessly, tragically unable to do so. And I hate it—Ihateit—but I hate him more for making me feel like this. Like everything anyone has ever said about me is true. “What will you do, Michal? Will you drag me back to Requiem in shackles? Will you lock me up and throw away the key? You’redespicable.”

He doesn’t speak for a long moment, and when I finally drag my hands away from my eyes—scrubbing the tears from my cheeks—he seems to have taken a step closer. His arms hang slack at his sides. “No,” he says quietly.

“What do you meanno?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He simply stares at me, his expression rather lost, and it’s all the hesitation I need. I dart around him. Though he makes no move to stop me, I can feel his eyes on my back as I race through the door and down the stairs, nearly skidding into Odessa and Dimitri in the hall below. From the looks on their faces, they heard every word between Michal and me, but I can’t bring myself to slow.

“Célie!” Dimitri tries to catch my arm, but Odessa drags him back as I bolt toward a second staircase. “Célie,please, I need to talk to you!”

“Leave it, Dima,” she murmurs.

“But she needs to understand—”

I lose the rest of their conversation, however, barreling through the entry and out of sight. The front door crashes shut behind me before anyone can follow, and—for the first time in almost a fortnight—sunlight streams down from crystalline skies overhead, painting the cobblestones of the street a bright, lustrous gold. It warms my damp cheeks, my wild hair, and brings fresh, stinging tears to my eyes. I inhale painfully at the unfamiliar sight of it.Sunlight.

Then I crumple to my knees and sob.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

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