Page 71 of The Shadow Bride

I hardly hear the last, however, my attention snagging on the two words before it.

Her womb.

They’re running tests on herwomb.

“From what I can tell, Death has also collected his own blood.” When we stare at her, bewildered, she stares back unapologetically. “What? He mightlookhuman now, but he doesn’t seem to be wholly one thing or the other anymore. That rip in the veil must’ve twisted him too.” She gestures to the weeping ferns, and as she does, a dead butterfly flutters through her chest.

“Are they alone?” Michal asks, ignoring it. “Just the two of them?”

Mila laughs without mirth. “Just the two of them, yes—and a veritable army of revenants. Filippa tore a hole through the veil in your childhood bedroom, Célie, and led them all inside.” Nausea churns at the thought, at the idea of corpses like the Archbishop trudging across my nursery carpet. “It appears you passed your abilities to her through your blood, just as you did with Michal.”

My thoughts scatter wildly at that, like pins dropped upon the floor.

It’s just—when two vampires share blood, they—they change.

I smooth the bodice of my gown for something to do with my hands. A knot of emotion obstructs my throat, but I cannot untangle the threads—not as those silver eyes touch my face, assessing my reaction, and Michal says, “I abdicated the throne.”

Mila tears her gaze away. “I heard as much. The spirits have been unable to talk of anything else—and many realized your subterfuge when you did not pass through our realm. We never accounted for that in our contingency plan.” Her eyes narrow. “Where did you go while you feigned death if not our realm?”

A furrow appears between Michal’s brows. “I don’t know,” he says after a moment. “When my heart left my chest, I simply...fell asleep.” His frown deepens. “Idreamed.”

“Your soul remained trapped,” Mila says shrewdly. “It never left your body.”

“Some might argue vampires no longer have souls.”

She gestures down her own shimmering, translucent form. “Surely I am proof otherwise. Either way, it was strange magic, and I fear it will not be without repercussions.”

“La Dame des Sorcières herself cast the spell.”

“La Dame des Sorcières is not infallible. Her magic is just as broken as the rest.”

Michal lifts a careless shoulder. “If there are repercussions, they’ll be mine to bear.”

“You really are a fool, brother, if you think that.” With a scoff, Mila rises several inches above Michal, peering down her nose at him. “Whatever Death is planning, it will affect all of us—and heisplanning something. I can feel it.” Voice growing frustrated, she adds, “He and Filippa are being very secretive about what they say aloud, however, which leads me to believe they know someone is listening.”

Any irritation Michal felt toward his sister seems to vanish with the words. “You need to be careful, Mila. Death is not someone whose attention you want to attract. Perhaps you shouldn’t—”

“I’ve died twice now, Michal. I’ve already attracted his attention.” Her jaw sets with determination, and her eyes—they burn with intensity now, with new and unfamiliar purpose. “I can only hope he soon regrets attractingmine.”

Though Michal opens his mouth to argue, she whirls—hair flicking in his face—toward the witch’s cottage, which grows between the roots of two enormous oak trees in front of us. Blackshingles covered in lichen peek between their twisted branches, and diamond-paned windows glitter like jeweled eyes between weathered black woodwork—arched, ornate, yet slightly gone to seed from the elements and age.

Under different circumstances, I’d feel a rush of excitement at such an obviously magical dwelling, but now dread curdles my stomach.

“I’ll report back if anything changes, but in the meantime...” Mila tips her head toward the cottage before turning away with a smirk, ignoring her brother’s scowl. “Good luck with Mathilde, Célie, and a word of warning—she bites.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Cottage

“Mathilde?” I blink at the name, startled, but—surely it’s just a coincidence. Michal would’ve said if the witch we’re asking about revenants is actually Lou’s long-lost relative—her great-great-grandmother, to be precise—and moreover, why would such a prestigious and powerful witch have left her people to live as a recluse among vampires? “She doesn’t mean—?”

“She does, in fact.” Michal leads me toward the cottage as Mila leaves us, her laughter echoing behind. “Mathilde le Blanc is a very acquired taste on the isle, and I don’t mean her blood.”

“What did Mila mean,” I ask slowly, “when she said Mathildebites?”

In answer, Michal gestures to an enormous cast-iron pot on the top step, and I cannot help it—I peer into its depths apprehensively, expecting some sort of potion, perhaps poison, only to recoil in the next second.

Bones.

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