Page 82 of The Scarlet Veil

I stare at the dead vampire as if from underwater, a terrible ringing in my ears. His innards remain on my skin. I cannot acknowledge them. Cannot acknowledgehim. The entire scene is so familiar—sogruesome—that my mind simply... withdraws. Between one blink and the next, the outside world stills, and I fold into that small, quiet place I discovered in my sister’s coffin. That place where I cease to exist.

No one is coming to save you.

The other vampires freeze instantly, their eyes darting in unison to the aviary door, where Michal leans casually against it.

“Forgive me.” In the dark leather surcoat from earlier—not a single hair out of place, his boots polished and his tie pristine—he pushes from the doorjamb with the grace and repose of an aristocrat. If not for the lethal glint in his eyes, he might pass as one. “Loath as I am to crash the party, I must say, I felt quite distressed at not receiving an invitation.” He pauses to pick a nonexistent speck of dirt from his sleeve. “I am the host, after all. And as such, a hostmighttake offense to his guest being stalked, cornered, and terrorized in the street like common prey. A host might seek... restitution.”

Slowly, the vampires begin backing away—from him, fromme, from each other. Madeleine’s eyes flit to the nearest window, while the raven-haired vampire lifts placating hands. “We meant no offense, Michal, of course. We would neverdreamof harming your esteemed guest.”

“Of course,” Michal repeats silkily, shadowing his steps.

The second gentleman bows, careful not to break eye contact. “We meant only to save her from the clutches ofYannick, Michal. The poor creature was unhinged.” He gestures to the ceiling, shaking his head with regret. “You did us all a service, really, by ridding the isle of such boorishness.”

Michal nods almost pleasantly. “No one will miss Yannick.”

“Exactly—”

“You are, however, wrong about one thing, Laurent.”

The second gentleman’s eyes widen. “I—I am?”

“The curve between neck and shoulder”—suddenly, Michal stands directly in front of him, lifting a hand to caress the slope of the gentleman’s neck—“is where blood tastes the sweetest.”

Laurent is going to die.

The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once, as Laurent’s pallid face loses the last of its color. He knows it too. The predator has become the prey, and Michal—he relishes this moment, relishes the wild, panicked gleam in this weaker vampire’s eyes. Part of me relishes it too. Indeed, something dark stirs in my subconscious as I watch Laurent go completely and utterly still.

Part of me hopes Michal will not be quick.

“Michal.” Though Laurent’s voice drops to a whisper, the aviary has fallen quiet enough to hear every word. Even the birds sense imminent danger. “Please, mon roi. We just wanted to play with her.”

We just wanted to play with her.

Toplaywith her.

The words are like needles, pricking my subconscious and jolting me back into my body. Yannick’s blood drips from my fingers as I tighten my grip on the stake. “I am not a doll,” I say quietly.

Frowning, Michal turns his face toward mine—just the slightest tilt of his chin—and in that split second, Laurent moves. He lifts his arms with lightning speed, breaking Michal’s hold on his throat, and lunges with bared teeth. Michal, however, moves faster. He plunges his fist into Laurent’s chest like a knife through butter, twisting, and when he pulls it back out again, he holds Laurent’s beating heart.

I stare at it in mute horror. In disbelief.

The raven-haired vampire bolts for the door, but Michal is somehow there too, repeating the process with brutal efficiency. Both bodies—shriveling, desiccating—fall to the earth in unison. The birds nearest them shriek and strain against their chains, collide with the bars of their cages, but Michal ignores them all. Tossing the hearts aside, he turns to the last remaining vampire, Madeleine, who still hovers across the aviary. Perhaps she knows better than to flee. Perhaps she knows she is already dead.

With alarming ease, he tears a wooden tread from the staircase, snapping it in half with his bare hands. It forms two crude stakes. “Please,” Madeleine begs, backing into the wall. “I’m sorry—”

“As am I, Madeleine.” Michal shakes his head in disappointment. “As am I.”

Apprehension flutters in my stomach.

Because Madeleine—she isn’t Laurent.

“Wait!” Before I realize what I’m doing, I lunge after him,grimacing at the fresh bolt of pain up my leg. It instantly crumples. The ground rises up with alarming speed, but then Michal is there, catching me. He doesn’t glance down—doesn’t acknowledge our embrace at all—his eyes instead narrowing on Madeleine, who risks a quick step toward the door.

“Do not move,” he warns her. Or perhaps me. Black blooms in my vision as I try and fail to escape his hold. My broken arm dangles uselessly at my side, the other trapped between us. My head throbs in time with my heart. Recognizing the battle lost, I collapse against him and nod weakly toward Madeleine.

“This woman—she told them not to hurt me. She respected your—yourclaimon me. She told the others there would be consequences.”

His arms tighten slightly around my waist. “She was correct.”

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