Page 124 of The Scarlet Veil

He convulses again in response, and slowly but surely begins to tow me down the cobblestone street, muttering all the while,Cold as frost. Something is wrong. I am wrong.

“Célie,” Michal says sharply. “Your knife.”

I dig in my heels, panic clawing up my throat. The knife stilllies heavy in my pocket, yes, but it won’t—I don’t think it’ll—Tears Like Stars isdead, and something indeed has gone very wrong. The realization rattles in my chest, too shocking and too terrible to ignore any longer. He isdead, yet he still holds my arm, still walks and talks among the living, still carries out his master’s orders with the strength of a creature twice his size. What did Babette say in Les Abysses?

The Necromancer came upon your blood by chance, and we tested it on a whim.

Did they test that single drop of my blood on Tears Like Stars? Is this—this creature before me the result of their experimentation? Does therealTears Like Stars still exist within it, or has his soul already departed this world, leaving only a shell behind? Can he still feel pain? I twist my wrist harder, abrading skin, but still he doesn’t release me. “Tell me how to help you,” I say desperately. “Please, I can’t give you my blood, but—but I could hide you from him. Would you like that? I could take you back to your family.”

My master is near. We must go to him. We must meet him.

“Where is he?” I look around wildly, half expecting the Necromancer to drop out of the neighbor’s cherry tree. “Whereis your master?Tell me!”

Wrong, wrong, something is wrong.

Somewhere behind us, Michal is shouting now—Dimitri and Odessa too—but I cannot hear them; I cannot heed their lethal commands. Because I am not a vampire, and this isn’t Tears Like Stars’s fault. I cannot hurt him, and even if I could— Gritting my teeth, I sink my nails into his hand deep enough to wound, but no blood seeps from the tiny crescent moons. No blood, and no shrieks of pain. My hysteria spikes at the realization.

Even if Icouldhurt Tears Like Stars, a simple knife won’t do the trick. No, I’ll need to—to—

A knife.

My thoughts catch on the silver blade in my pocket, on the blade that shone so brightly earlier it almost blinded me.Lutins appreciate the finer things in life. I painted twenty cages gold to attract Tears Like Stars and his kin at Monsieur Marc’s farm. Perhaps I don’t need to hurt him now either. Perhaps I just need to distract him.

Plunging my free hand into my pocket, I withdraw the blade and flash it in the morning sun, which blazes even brighter and higher in the sky than before. The silver gleams almost white—brilliant, dazzling—between us, and when Tears Like Stars’s eyes fall upon it, they widen infinitesimally. “Do you like it?” I wave the knife above his head when he stretches out to seize it. It throws sparkling lights upon the cobblestones. “It’s pretty, isn’t it? You may have it if you can reach it.”

At my words, he snaps his teeth and stretches up on tiptoe, but I’m much taller; he cannot even touch the handle while he still holds my wrist, which I strain to keep low at my side. “Go on,” I tell him, nodding encouragingly. He stretches a bit taller, his frail arms trembling now. “You’re almost there.”

At last, his fingers slip—just an inch—from my wrist, but it’s all the slack I need. Hurling the knife down the street, I twist away from him, turning and sprinting toward Michal and the others without looking back. His long hands do not find me again, however, as I leap into Michal’s outstretched arms, as Odessa slams the door closed behind me, as Dimitri peers through the curtains into the street.

“He’s gone,” he says incredulously. “The little scab disappeared!”

Still breathing heavily, I disentangle myself from Michal and push Dimitri out of the way, gazing through the gap in the curtains to where Tears Like Stars just stood. Only cheery sunshine and orange maple leaves remain. Even the silver knife has gone—vanished—as if I imagined the entire scene.

Chapter Forty

The Clucking Hen

We huddle at the edge of Cesarine that night, peering out at the docks from a rather damp and putrid alley. It smells of fish. Or refuse. My nose wrinkles in distaste. None of the vampires comment, however—except for Odessa, who grimaces like someone shoved pins in her eyes—so I say nothing either. If they can endure such stench, I can too.

“Hood on, I think,” Michal murmurs at my ear. “They’ve almost finished their inspection.”

He loaned me his traveling cloak before we departed Amandine. Though Dimitri offered, we both ignored him, and a silent truce passed between us in that moment—mutual distrust of Dimitri, of course, but also mutual understanding that neither would mention what transpired between us in the attic. I cannot decide if I’m grateful. Now that my anger has ebbed, only a hollow sort of shame remains, one that I cannot examine too closely.

And certainly not right now.

I pull the cloak over my hair, where it ripples in the midnight breeze along with the reward notices. Torn from wind and discolored from rain, they litter every available inch of this alley, thicker here than they’d been in Amandine. As if my father suspected that I’d return home eventually, or perhaps that I never left Cesarine at all. Unable to help it, I resume pacing, the cloak billowing aroundmy feet in the muck and mire of the alley. Too long. Too large. I roll the sleeves up my hands irritably, feeling like some sort of reaper, an eternal harbinger of bad luck. All I need is a scythe.

I take care not to glance at the docks.

“This sketch doesn’t look a thing like you,” Odessa muses, plucking a notice from the dirty brick and scrutinizing my face up close. “You look much too... regal. Like a rather crotchety dowager empress I used to know.” When I snatch the notice from her gloved fingers, ripping my face in two, she arches a bemused brow and flicks her half away dispassionately. “Why, Célie, whatever is the matter? You seem upset.”

“Shall I peruseyourface from an inch away?”

“I would welcome it, darling. I have nothing to hide.” With a smirk, she lifts a shoulder and turns away. “You should know, however,” she says, “chronic anger twists the human body up inside—high blood pressure, heart and digestive problems, headaches, and even skin disorders.” She reaches out to smooth the furrows between my eyes, her own glittering with mischief. Though she hasn’t yet tried to trap me in conversation about her brother, she seems more determined to engage me than before, more determined tolikeme, but Iknowshe heard my suspicions. “I studied medicine several years ago.”

“You’re practically a healer, then.” I swat her hand away, irritated, but she merely laughs and sweeps across the alley to Dimitri, who’s been trying and failing to catch my eye for the greater part of four hours. When I accidentally look at him now, he pushes forward with fervent determination.

“Célie—”

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