Page 29 of The Scarlet Veil

“Death,” he breathes, bending low to—toscentthe curve of my neck. Though he doesn’t quite touch me, Ifeelhis nearness like the lightest of fingers trailing down my throat. When I gasp and pull away, he straightens with a frown—unaffected, perhaps oblivious—and glances back at Odessa. “Blood magic doesn’t flow through her veins.”

“No,” she says blithely, still reading her scrolls. Ignoring us completely. “Something else does.”

“Do you recognize the scent?”

She lifts an elegant shoulder. “Not at all. It isn’t quite human, though, is it?”

I stare from one to the other as silence falls between them, convinced I misheard over the riotous beat of my heart. When neither speaks—when they don’t snort in disbelief, or perhaps laugh at their own clever joke—I shake my head and snatch Coco’s cloak from the floor. “You’re both quite mistaken.” Throwing it over my shoulders, I draw my hand into the left sleeve. Cheeks still hot, I press the latch, and her knife slides into my palm.

Lou and the others should’ve arrived by now. Either they cannot find my trail, or I am already lost at sea. The cause, however, no longer matters. The effect remains the same. I am running outof time, and these—thesecreaturescannot be allowed to roam free. If they leave the ship, they’ll undoubtedly resume their hunt for Coco, and here—now—I still maintain the element of surprise. My gaze drifts from Michal’s eyes to his ears to his nose to his—lower parts.

He arches a wry brow.

It doesn’t matter who you’re up against, Célie—everyone has a groin somewhere. Find it, kick as hard as you can, and get the hell out of there.

With a deep breath, I throw caution to the winds and lunge—

Between one blink and the next, Michal moves again, and suddenly, he isn’t in front of me at all, but directly behind, seizing my wrist and twisting, lifting the knife in my hand to my own throat. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he breathes.

Chapter Eleven

Hell Is Empty

In moments of extreme duress, the human body often triggers the psychological response of fight or flight. I remember Filippa describing it to me as a child—the dry mouth, the tunnel vision, the shallow breaths. Even then, I knew Pip would never flee.

I knew I would never fight.

I react now without thinking—eyes, ears, nose, groin—thrusting my head backward, smashing Michal’s nose, whirling to knee him in the nether region. He sidesteps before I can connect, however—his arms snaking around my waist, pulling me with him—and I strike hard thigh instead. I nearlyshatter my kneecapinstead. Sharp pain spikes through the bone, but I tear free of his macabre embrace and race past him, stumbling in the darkness, searching blindly for a door,anydoor—

There.

I throw my weight against the heavy wood—once, twice, three times—and when at last it crashes open, I go with it, landing hard on my hands and knees. They shriek with agony as I claw my way forward, upright, as I bolt up the corridor and around the bend. No cold hands seize my shoulders this time; no silvery voice titters a warning.

They’ve let me go.

No.I push the intrusive thought aside, pushing myself faster,up the stairs, each step between us a breath of relief.No, I escaped. I escaped the room, and now I must escape the ship—

Thrusting open another set of doors, I skid to a halt on the quarterdeck, and my stomach plummets with the temperature.

Moonlight glints upon open water.

It yawns before me in every direction, unbroken and unending—except to the west, where a cluster of lights still sparkle on the horizon.Cesarine.Never before have I thought the word with such longing. With suchfear. We’ve already departed forGodknows where, which means... a hard knot forms in my throat at the realization, making it difficult to breathe.

My friends will never find me.

No.

I dart across the deck to where dozens of sailors work in unison, their movements strangely rhythmic as they handle the sails and steer the helm, as they haul rope and tie knots and scrub floorboards. Unlike Michal and Odessa, their skin flushes with physical exertion, warm and familiar, despite the hollow gleam in their eyes. “Please, monsieur”—I seize the sleeve of the man nearest me—“I—I’ve b-been abducted, and I desperately need your help.” Though my voice climbs steadily higher, shrill now, he doesn’t seem to hear it, brushing past as if I haven’t spoken at all. Glancing back at the double doors, I cling to his arm helplessly. “Please.Is there some sort of lifeboat on board? I must return to Cesarine—”

He shakes free of my grip easily, trudging onward without seeing me. I stare after him with mounting panic before whirling to another. “Monsieur?” This man sits atop a three-legged stool, whittling a piece of wood into a swan—or at least, itstartedas a swan. Where the bird’s body should be, the man flicks his wrist mechanically in the same stroke, over and over and over again. Perhaps recklessly, I pluck the knife away, determined to gain his attention. He does nothing to stop me. His gnarled hand, however—it keeps moving as if he still holds the blade, honing the wood into a wickedly sharp point. “Monsieur, can—can you hear me?”

I wave the knife in front of his nose, but he doesn’t so much as blink.

Something is very wrong here.

When I slip a hand beneath his scarf to check his pulse, it beats weakly against my fingertips. Alive, then. Relief crashes through me in a violent wave, except—

I recoil, dropping the knife, before wrenching the scarf from his throat.

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