Page 133 of The Scarlet Veil

“What are you talking about?”

“You aren’t ready to have a conversation. Just now, you were rifling through my desk, and I can smell you all over my books too.” His eyes narrow as he studies me. “You’ve been looking for something.”

We stare at each other for several seconds. Wariness seems to creep into his expression as the silence between us deepens, or rather, a sort oftautness, and I wonder just how poorly his very long discussion with Michal went. At last, I gesture to the bric-a-brac all around us. “Whatisall this?”

His eyes dart to the row of shoes beneath his footboard. “I didn’t kill Mila, Célie.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“And you don’treallythink I killed her either, or you wouldn’t have risked coming in here alone. I’m not the Necromancer. I don’t”—he hesitates, swallowing hard—“want your blood for some dark rite.”

Something in his voice shifts with the words, however, and the hair lifts on my neck as I once again remember Michal’s warning.Dimitri is an addict. He has thought of nothing but your blood since he made your acquaintance yesterday.

Suddenly, I feel incredibly foolish for coming here, and suddenly, I have nothing else to lose. Seizing the knife from my boot, I thrust it between us and snarl, “Did you know my sister?”

He doesn’t recoil from the silver, doesn’t acknowledge it at all, instead blinking at me like I’ve spoken in a foreign language. “Who?”

“Mysister,” I repeat through clenched teeth. “Filippa Tremblay. Morgane murdered her last year, but I want to know—I needto—youwilltell me if you knew her.”

His eyes widen slightly at whatever he sees in my expression, and he lifts conciliatory hands. “Célie, I’ve never seen your sister before in my life.”

“You aren’t exactly alive, though, are you? And I didn’t ask if you’d seen her. I asked if youknewher.”

“Is there a difference?” he asks helplessly.

My knuckles clench white around the knife as I study his face, as I search for anything—anything—that might reveal potential subterfuge. “You can know a person without ever seeing them—letters, for example.”

“I never kneworwrote to your sister. The only person to whom I’ve ever written a letter is La Dame des Sorcières.” He shrugs weakly and drops his arms. “She’s a friend of yours, isn’t she? Louise le Blanc? I wrote to her last month.”

Now it’s my turn to blink. “You wrote a letter to Lou?”

Shoulders slumping, he edges around me—I lift the knife higher as he passes—and collapses into a leather chair near his bed. A golden necklace dangles from its arm. He takes care not to disturb it as he scrubs a weary hand down his face. “You have to listen to me, Célie. I know you—you think the worst, but you couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m not the Necromancer,” he repeats, more forceful this time. “I’m not in league with him—I didn’t kill any of those creatures—and the only thing I want from Babette is the grimoire. Ineedthat grimoire.”

“You’ve made that exceptionally clear.”

“You still don’t understand.” With a groan of frustration, he tips his head backward, staring at the bundles of flowers near the ceiling and searching for the right words. “Michal told you aboutbloodlust,” he says at last. Though it isn’t a question, I still nod, and his mouth sets in a grim line. “Then you know I’m an addict. I may not kill in cold blood like the Necromancer, but my hands are equally stained—no, my hands areworse.” He closes his eyes as if the words have cost him something, as if they’ve caused him incredible pain. “I deserve your suspicion, your hatred. Though I haven’t always been this way—the affliction grows harder to control with each passing year—I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve killed. I can still see their faces, though,” he adds miserably, motioning around the room. My mouth goes dry. “I can still taste their fear the instant they realize I won’t stop, Ican’tstop, and that—thatis the true addiction.”

When his eyes snap open, I stumble back a step, knocking over several bottles of perfume. They shatter upon the floor. “Do you mean— Are you saying—?” I glance wildly at the clutter all around us, my stomach rising in realization. But this cannot be true. It cannot be happening. “Dimitri”—my voice drops to a horrified whisper as I lift the tattered doll—“are thesekeepsakes?”

“To remember them.” A disturbing gleam enters his eyes as he stares fixedly at the doll. “Every single one.”

“But there arehundreds—”

“You’re right to fear me,” he says darkly. “If not for Michal, I would’ve killed you the moment I walked into your room. I wouldn’t have been able to help myself. You smell... delicious.”

Something in his expression reminds me forcefully of Yannick, and I retreat another step, remembering the rest of Michal’s warning.

When Dimitri feeds, he loses consciousness. Many vampires forget themselves in the hunt, but a vampire affected by bloodlust goes beyond that—heremembers nothing, feels nothing, and inevitably kills his prey in gruesome and horrific ways. Left too long, he becomes an animal like Yannick.

“Stay away from me.” My voice trembles slightly as my gaze darts to the door, and Dimitri rises slowly to his feet. “Don’t come any closer.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Célie.” His voice breaks on the last, and just as swiftly as the shadow crossed his features, it vanishes, leaving him small and alone and miserable. “Iwon’thurt you. I promise I won’t.”

“That doesn’t sound like a promise you can make.”

“But don’t you see?” Though he wrings his hands desperately, he makes no move to close the distance between us, and I relax infinitesimally. “That’s why I need the grimoire. That spell is the only thing that can cure bloodlust—without it, I’ll kill again and again and again until Michal is forced to rip out my heart. And I’ll deserve it. Célie, I’lldeserveit for all the pain I’ve caused. When you first met me, I—the blood in the corridor—I’d just—”

“Stop.” I shake my head frantically, backing into the door now. “Please, I don’t want to know—”

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