Page 30 of The Scarlet Veil

Before revealing two pinprick punctures.

They still weep gently, trickling blood down his collar. “Oh God. You—you are injured, monsieur. Here, let me—” When I press against the wounds to stem the bleeding, he opens his mouth and mutters something unintelligible. With another hasty glance at the doors, I lean closer despite myself.

“Always sleep at nightfall, darlings, always say your prayers.” He slurs the words as his eyes flutter closed, as his head begins to sway to the slow, haunting rhythm. “Always wear a silver cross, and always walk in pairs.”

From somewhere in my subconscious, horror dawns.

I know these words. I recognize them as surely as I remember my sister’s stubborn face, my nursemaid’s lilting voice.Oh God.

Oh God oh God oh God

I drop my fingers from his throat, and his hollow eyes snap open. Except they aren’t hollow anymore. Absolute terror streaks through them—bright enough to blind, toburn—and he seizes my wrist in a punishing grip. A great spasm wracks his frame. “R-Run,” he chokes out, his throat working furiously on the word. “Run.”

Twisting away from him, I gasp and stumble backward, and he collapses like a marionette. In the next second, however, he straightens. His hands resume their mindless carving, and when he blinks, his eyes empty of all emotion once more. Through it all, his throat continues to drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Spinning wildly, I search for the lifeboat, but now that I’ve seen those marks, I cannot escape them. Everywhere I turn, they leer back at me, adorning the neck of each sailor—some fresh and still bleeding, others crusted, bruised, and inflamed. It cannot be coincidence. These vacant-eyed men have been attacked and subdued—just like Babette and the others, just likeme—and these wounds prove it. I clasp a hand to my own throat, shuddering and dashing to the carved handrail. We’ve been sentenced to death, all of us.

I would rather drown than die as these men will die.

With shallow breaths, I lean over the side of the quarterdeck, staring into the black waters below. The waves are fitful tonight. They crash against the ship’s hull in warning, promising retribution for any foolish enough to enter. And perhaps I am a fool. A headstrong, hopefulfoolfor fleeing Chasseur Tower, for believingIcould succeed where Jean Luc and Lou failed. I glance oncemore at the double doors, but it seems my captors are in no rush to pursue me. Why should they be? They know I cannot escape.

My resolve hardens at the small insult.

I’ve never been a strong swimmer, but if I jump, there is a chance—though infinitesimal—that I might survive the water’s wrath, that I might follow the current back to Cesarine. I have met the Goddess of the Sea, and I call many melusines my friend. Perhaps they will help me.

Before I can change my mind, I clamber onto the handrail and send a silent, desperate prayer up to Heaven.

Cold fingers wrap around my wrist. They drag me back to Hell.

“Going somewhere?” Michal murmurs.

I choke on a sob.

“L-Leave me alone.” Though I try to twist away from him, my efforts prove futile; his hand remains a manacle around my wrist, and I slip on the narrow railing, my stomach plunging as I lose my footing completely and pitch over the side of the ship. Shrieking, I claw at his hand—the only thing keeping me aloft—and dangle midair over the icy waves. He holds my weight easily, tilting his head as he watches me flail.

“I’ll admit that I’m curious.” He arches a brow. “What now, pet? Do you plan toswimto Cesarine?”

“Pull me up!” The plea tears from my throat of its own volition, and my feet search blindly, frantically, for purchase against the side of the ship. “Please,please—”

His grip loosens in response, and I slip an inch, screaming anew. The wind thrashes around us. It tears at my hair, my gown, slicing through the thin fabric and piercing my skin like a thousand needles. And suddenly, my resolve doesn’t feel like resolve atall. It feels like the violent and visceral urge tolive. I maul his arm in an attempt to climb up his body, to climbawayfrom certain death below.

It seems I wouldn’t rather drown, after all.

“By all means”—he drops me another inch—“don’t let me stop you. You should know, however, that you’ll freeze to death in seven minutes.Seven,” he repeats coldly, his face a granite mask of calm. “Are you a strong swimmer, Cosette Monvoisin?”

My nails dig into his sleeve, scoring the leather fabric, as a wave rises high enough to kiss my feet. “N-No—”

“No? Such a pity.”

Another scream ravages my throat—another swell snatches my hem—before at last I find purchase against the ship and vault upward. He doesn’t release my wrist, instead catching my waist with his free hand and guiding me over the handrail in a single fluid motion. Though he deposits me gently on my feet, the ice in his gaze belies the movement. His mouth twists in distaste as he steps away.

When my knees give out a second later, he does nothing to catch me, and I crumple at his feet, wrapping my arms around my torso and shivering uncontrollably. My hem has already frozen in the bitter wind. It sticks to my ankles, my calves, and creeping numbness follows.

I hate him. As fiercely and unequivocally as I have ever hated anyone, Iloathethis man.

---