Page 37 of The Shadow Bride

Michal.

Fear twists like a knife in my chest at the possibility, and unbidden, my fangs descend. Death doesn’t seem threatened by them, however. Instead his smile widens, and he laughs at me.

He laughs at me.

I look past him, chest tightening as the disturbance in East End reaches a cacophony. The shouts seem to be moving closer. And is that—steel on steel? Horse hooves? Though I concentrate with all my might, I cannot distinguish the individual sounds. Even so,somethingis happening over there, and all signs point to Michal and Jean Luc, perhaps even Brigitte. I clamp down on a scream of frustration. How absolutelyidioticof me to assume she wouldn’t follow through on her threat in the alley.

“If you won’t give me the grimoire”—I attempt to wriggle past him once more—“get out of my way.”

Before he can answer, however—before either of us can do anything—the shouts pitch abruptly louder, and Michal’s voice detaches itself from the rest, speaking calmly, quietly, despite what sounds like a horde of huntsmen at his back. “Where are you, Célie?”

My heart leaps to life in an instant, and I don’t stop to think, to examine my profound relief, instead shouting at the top of my lungs, “I’m here! Michal! I’m over here!” Instead of wriggling, I now shove Death squarely in the chest, and he yields a single step.When I wave my arms, rising to my toes in case Michal cannot see me, the man before me grins in wry amusement.

“Please, Célie, you must stop this incessant flattery, or I’ll have no choice but to take you with me.” He steps in front of me again. “Your sister won’t like that.”

Hardly hearing him, I wave my arms anew just as Michal rounds the corner, and my mouth dries at the sight of him, whole and unharmed andfurious, moving faster than I’ve ever seen him. Lethal in his focus on the garden. On me. Several streets behind him, Brigitte shouts terse commands to the huntsmen, and in front ofher—

My mouth falls open, and my vision narrows on Dimitri’s face.

Dimitri.

He moves in a blur of amber skin and crimson velvet, laughing openly as he goads Brigitte, sidesteps Henry, trips Basile with a carefully placed foot.He’s distracting them, I realize in disbelief.He’s—helping us. Why is he helping us?

I cannot dwell on my confusion, however, not with literal Death standing before me. “My sister?” I ask him distractedly. “What are you talking about? She won’t likewhat—?”

“I made a promise, my sweet, to exhaust every option, and my word is my bond.”

He lifts an almost affectionate hand to brush a strand of hair away from my cheek. I recoil instantly—from both him and his bewildering words. “Good luck, mon mariée. I daresay you’ll need it. How does that expression go—something about friends like these and enemies?” He clicks his fingers. “No, no. It’s about keeping your enemies close. Yes, that’s the one.”

My face snaps toward his at that.

But with a polite bow in my direction, Death turns away, thrusting his hands into his pockets, strolling up the street, and whistling that same merry tune. Disappearing through the veil between one step and the next.

Chapter Thirteen

Taboo

Michal doesn’t speak as I follow him through damp alleys and side streets. We avoid the main roads to the harbor, doubling back and circling around Dimitri and the Chasseurs, but before we can board the ship, I whisk into the consignment shop and thrust a handful of couronnes at Yves. Ignoring his baffled expression, I seize the basket of kittens and dart past Michal without offering either of them an explanation.

These kittens deserve better than a life at sea.

They’recats. They loathe water.

Undeterred, Michal follows when I flee across the gangplank, his expression rather frightening as I heft the basket of kittens higher. Though he says nothing, his silence reeks with the promise of a rapidly approaching conversation, and quite frankly, I don’t care to have it just now—or perhaps ever. I don’t care to answer his questions about Frederic and Death either, and Iespeciallydon’t care to talk about my sister.

Filippa.

Her name is a knife in my ribs as I hasten belowdecks, the blade digging deeper with each step.

Filippa. Filippa, Filippa, Filippa—

“Célie.”

Gritting his teeth, Michal reaches for my arm at the bottom ofthe stairs, but I jerk away from his touch, pushing forward blindly with my basket of kittens. “Everything is fine,” I say in a horribly light voice. “Nothing even happened, really—”

Michal snarls in an uncharacteristic display of emotion. “The hole in Frederic’s chest says otherwise, and Isawyour sister—”

“What do you mean you saw her? Sheleft—” I cringe at the slip, cursing myself mentally. Filippa must not have left at all, but how had Michal seen her? Why on earth had she sought him out? “Did she... say anything to you?”

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