Page 21 of The Shadow Bride

Though my body shivers and aches with real hunger, it takes several seconds to realize the dream was just that—a dream. I stand on wood floors now instead of undergrowth, and the thick shadows around me are no longer trees, but a nightstand and candlestick. An armoire. Pillows. I clutch my elbows and glance around, taking deep, calming breaths I no longer need. Because I’m in my bedroom.

It was just a dream, I tell myself firmly.It wasn’t real. I’m in my bedroom, and it was just a dream.

Awareness does little to ease the tension in my shoulders, however. No. It makes everything so much worse.

Because until this moment, I have never known true fear—not when Frederic slit my throat, not when I stabbed Morgane, not even when she trapped me with my sister’s corpse. It grips my heart in an icy fist, crushing it, as my gaze lands directly below me.

Because I haven’t woken inmybedroom at all.

I’ve woken in Lou and Reid’s.

The last vestiges of the dream vanish in a dizzying wave at the sight of them, at the realization that I hover over their sleeping forms like a silent specter, mere inches from their bed. Meresecondsfrom—from—

Tears spill down my cheeks as Lou turns slightly, her eyes still closed, and seeks Reid even in her dreams. As his hand responds by tangling in her hair. Both breathe deeply, peacefully, unaware of the danger because they trust me.They trust me.I lift a handto my mouth in horror. In shame. Though my teeth throb, I bite down hard until I draw blood, relishing the pain, the sharp, aberrant taste of myself.

If I’d woken a second later, Lou and Reid would be dead.

With one last, shuddering breath, I commit the sight of them to memory. My dear friends.

Then I turn on my heel, and I flee into the night.

Chapter Eight

Absolution

Darkness still shrouds the city as I gaze up at Cathédral Saint-Cécile d’Cesarine. The sky itself seems heavier than usual, thick with gloom and exhaustion. It rests upon the spires of the cathedral as if it can no longer bear to support itself, obscuring the beautiful stained glass and gargoyles as thunder rumbles halfheartedly in the distance.

Chasseur Tower looms directly above me.

I cannot remember making the decision to come here—or even how I came to be here at all—but now that I’ve seen the Tower, I cannot bring myself to leave. Stark and severe, it rises like a fist to strike at the heavens, and my eyes search the familiar stonework hungrily. They strain to see through the clouds, to count each window until I find the third from the right, directly beneath the gargoyle with wings like a bird. Through it, I might find Jean Luc.

I swallow hard, and my stomach rolls with hunger.

Perhaps he is already awake, marshaling initiates to the training yard or meeting Father Achille about the grave robbers. Or perhaps he’s eating breakfast—porridge with two sliced apples—surrounded by friends in the commissary. Depending on the night watch, he could still be sleeping, dreaming, alone in his room. He never feared the dark as I did, so he wouldn’t have lit any candles. He wouldn’t have needed them. His room would still be dim andpeaceful, a touch cold, as the Tower gradually woke around him.

I can picture it all so clearly now. This life we would’ve shared.

Clutching my elbows, I glance to the east, where a band of grayish light marks the sunrise. The clouds show no sign of breaking, however. Rain still mists upon the empty street. It sparkles upon the lampposts and cobblestones, clings to my nightgown until the ivory silk sticks to my skin. I suppose I should feel cold—my feet bare in November—but truthfully, I feel nothing except hunger. When another pain wracks my stomach, I bend abruptly and struggle not to retch in the street.

I need to eat.

Deep down, I know that. Of course I know that. I can even envision it, yet it is something else entirely todoit. Straightening, I wrap my arms around my middle, wishing their embrace alone could sustain me. Because I cannot sink my teeth into another person any more than I can sprout wings and fly.

Fly.

My eyes clamp shut at the silly, errant thought.

After my initiation into the Chasseurs, Jean Luc had twirled me round and round until it felt like Iwasflying, my pristine blue coat rippling behind me.

The two of us had crept into the antechamber by the sanctuary; we could still hear the deep rumble of voices beyond the door as the other Chasseurs lingered with Father Achille. Male voices. All males. Pride swelled in my heart at the sound of them, and I pressed my forehead to Jean Luc’s. My shoulders shook with quiet laughter, and Jean Luc—he laughed too, brushing his nose against mine. “I’m so proud of you, Célie. You really did it.”

My happiness punctured slightly at his words. Because I didn’treallydo it—not like he did. Too many huntsmen had perished in the Battle of Cesarine, and Father Achille had granted a temporary moratorium; any initiate who’d proven his courage during battle had been sworn into the brotherhood without a tournament. Except me. I hadn’t been an initiate before the ceremony—couldn’thave been an initiate, even if I’d wanted to be.

Before that day, the Church hadn’t allowed women inside Chasseur Tower except as wives.

Giving myself a mental shake, I’d kissed Jean Luc on the cheek.

This was, after all, the start of a bright new future for the Chasseurs.

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