“Yours! You hold too much power!”
His lips parted. He took another step forward. “Anouk. I thought you understood . . . when I said I had to make difficult decisions about whether to hold on to power or let it go, I meant that I had to hold on. At all costs. Power belongs to whoever takes it. That is the way of the Haute. That is the way of the Pretty World. That is the way of everything.” He licked his dry lips, his hair whipping in the wind. “And it’s yours too. You are one of us now, Anouk. Princess. We rule the Haute together. This is why I wanted you at my side, because you would temper my ambitions. Even your misunderstanding came from a good place. We’ll take London together, but you can show me how to rule it fairly. Damn the terms of our marriage—you can fall in love with that chauffeur if you must, but it won’t last. In the end, we’ll be faithful to each other, regardless of who else ends up in our beds.”
She gripped the rails of the Ferris wheel with white knuckles. Below, the Thames kept churning. She could still hear the lingering screams as the last Goblins drowned.
“This is never what I agreed to. You’re robbing this city from the Goblins.”
“The Goblins? They can’t be trusted to feed themselves at a reasonable hour! They’re barely more than children. It is our mandate to care for them. Show them what is right and wrong. We can do that together.”
Bile rose in her throat. “The Goblins survived being thrown out of their city. They built a new life in Paris. They didn’t have much, but what they had, they shared. So what if they make a few mistakes? What they do or don’t do isn’t any of our business, don’t you get that? They’re entitled to forge their own paths!”
There was longing in the way he looked at her. In a few steps he crossed the perilous framework of the Ferris wheel and crouched beside her. Impulsively, he touched her cheek.
His voice was a whisper. “This is why I need you. To show me the wisest course.”
She jerked her head away from his hand. “You’re killing Goblins who fought alongside you. You don’t need me to tell you that’s wrong.”
“I’ve lived centuries, Anouk. Do you know what that feels like? Of course you don’t. You’ve barely lived a single year.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And in that year I’ve learned more about the world than you have.” She paused. “Or maybe you knew once, but you’ve forgotten.”
His face turned grave. The wind whipped at their hair, threatening to push them off of the Ferris wheel. “Anouk.” His voice had changed. “Let’s drop these games once and for all. You are alive because of a spell I wrote, but you’ve proven yourself to be so much more than I ever envisioned. I don’t care what you started life as. I respect you all the more for how far you’ve come. You were never handed anything. You didn’t come from royalty, and yet here you are at the top of the world with me.”
He paused and then continued. “I’m no fool, like that bumbling chauffeur of yours. You think I married you because it would bring the other Royals in line? Of course not. I married you because I, too, have dreams late at night, dreams that I do not dare tell another living soul. Dreams of a girl with a broom in her hand who might one day touch me as she touches the ones she cares about, who might smile at me as she does those she loves. A girl who is capable of loving the witch who raised her, even if she was a monster. A girl whom I would fall to my knees for. Whom I would serve, as she has served others. Command me to sweep and I will sweep. Command me to cook and I will cook. How else can I tell you that I am yours, Anouk? Heart, soul, body, mind. All of it has been yours since the moment I saw you on the steps of Mada Vittora’s townhouse.”
Her palms were sweating. Below, the waves of the Thames rose and fell peacefully. It would be so easy to forget the boat he’d capsized. The bus he’d crashed. The innocent people he’d killed.
She closed her eyes. “It was you, wasn’t it? You burned down Mada Vittora’s townhouse. It wasn’t an accident.”
“And what if I did?” He spoke quietly.
She could imagine him standing on Rue des Amants, whispering a spark into the dry bushes in front of the house, blaming it on the Goblins and Viggo. He didn’t want her to have a home unless it was with him.
There’d been a time when she’d seen a possible future with him. Beau had still been a dog, would possibly never be human again, and Rennar had been by her side, telling her everything she’d ever wanted to hear. How easy it had been to overlook his ambition.
Below, Beau was standing on the bridge, waiting for her.
She jerked her head to the side. She knew what she had to do, but it didn’t make it any easier.
“Anouk.” Rennar whispered into her ear. “I’ve done so much to bring you into my world. To give you what you deserve: luxury, power, wealth.” He pulled back to meet her eyes. His were wide open, and for a second she saw the boy that he had been. “I’ll do anything you ask of me.”
But he wouldn’t. She knew it as well as she knew her own heart. He’d twist the truth; he’d find a way to install himself back on top, as he always had.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Drew in a deep breath, let it out, and then opened her eyes and looked up at him.
“I might have loved you, Rennar,” she said softly, “but you see, it’s wrong, all of it.”
Before he could process her words, she swallowed the last of Saint’s blood. It churned in her belly with the remains of the owl feathers, spreading power through her entire body. Blood and crux. Suddenly it didn’t matter that she was perched high up above the world on a wheel of matchsticks.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out.
He cocked his head, a question on his lips, but he couldn’t get it out before she whispered, “Des forma humana, fiska ek skalla animaeux.”
Chapter 49
For the middle of January, there was warmth in the air. Anouk made her way from the spinning London Eye, full of Pretties laughing in their glass orbs that crested over the city skyline, and ran her hand along the railing of Westminster Bridge. She felt herself swaying slightly—she needed to hold on to something. She’d lost a lot of blood from her fight with Saint. And performing the contra-beastie spell had taken all the remaining strength she had.
She paused to catch her breath. Below, ducks bobbed along on the Thames. The breeze was light. Any trace of clouds that had once hung in the sky was gone now, and it was blue, blue, blue overhead. She closed her eyes and felt the sun on her face.
The warmth vanished for a moment and her eyes snapped open. A shadow flew over the water. It was of a bird with wings that were compact but powerful. It glided on a gust of air, seeming to hover just above her, its shadow a perpetual twin to her own.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to keep walking.
Now, sounds of merriment came from the Ferris wheel, but just moments ago, she’d been perched high above the city, facing a prince who ruled a shadow kingdom that commanded every aspect of the known world. It was almost touching, how deep his sentiment had been. Living with a witch, she’d learned a thing or two about sincerity, and despite how little he’d told the truth in his long life, Rennar hadn’t been lying when he’d said he loved her. If she’d given him her hand, they would have ruled the world together, Prince and Princess of the Haute, seated in the glittering capital of Paris.
But that was before he’d murdered every Goblin in sight. Before that, she thought his soul could have been saved. And maybe it could have been, once upon a time, when he was twenty years old, or fifty, or two hundred, when there’d still been a pure heart beating within his chest. But power corrupted so completely.
The shadow of the falcon glided above her. She hadn’t expected Rennar to turn into a falcon. Was it because she’d used Saint’s blood as part of the spell? Or because there was something piercing and regal about Rennar, like a bird? Or was it just a twist of fate? That was the trick about beastie spells—you never knew what you would get. One would think that a sly person would become a snake and a burl
y person would become a bear, but that wasn’t how it worked. In the end, it was the magic that decided, and when she’d whispered the contra-beastie spell to turn him into an animal, the magic had chosen a falcon. His skin had turned in on itself until radiant gray feathers burst from the seams, and he’d doubled over and twisted entirely around and then there was simply no man anymore. His handsome clothes fell away. There were only wings and talons. At first she thought he might have become an owl. It wouldn’t have been altogether surprising—they were similar in so many ways. But then she saw the sharpened beak, the piercing eyes. The falcon had let out a cry and flown high over the city.
She’d thought that might be the last she’d ever see of him, but then on the walk back to Pickwick and Rue’s, the shadow had fallen over her.
She crossed Westminster Bridge and, amid the tourists snapping photos of Big Ben and Westminster Abbey, she spotted some familiar faces rushing toward her. Petra, champagne sunglasses glittering like diamonds, dressed in her fabulous black coat. Cricket guiding Beau by the elbow. And Hunter Black behind them, ever the bodyguard.
“The Goblins!” Cricket cried, her eyes filled with the horror of it.
“I know.” Anouk’s voice broke.
Petra searched the streets, scowling. “I knew Rennar was a monster! Where is he?”
Anouk glanced over her shoulder hesitantly. The shadow wasn’t right behind her as it had been on the bridge, but when she scanned the trees, she saw the falcon perched on a branch, black eyes fixed on her.
“Let’s . . . say he’s on an indefinite vacation. He won’t be harming Goblins or anyone else for a while.”
Cricket followed her gaze to the falcon and barked a laugh. “Anouk, you didn’t! You turned him into an animal! Oh, bravo.”
“I had to. He was going to take London from the Goblins.”
Beau made a moderately satisfied grunt.
Anouk sighed anxiously. “Yes, but now I’m afraid of what’s going to happen with the Royals. The Nochte Pax is over and they’re released from their bonds. Rennar was the closest thing standing between us and an all-out war.”
Beau ran a hand over her shoulder. “Let them fight. Let them kill one another. We’ve nothing to do with their wars.”
Anouk was silent. Cricket shifted uneasily at his side. Hunter Black’s face was an even deeper scowl.
“What?” Beau asked. “Why is no one saying anything? Merde. You all want to get involved, don’t you?”
“We aren’t subject to the vitae echo,” Anouk explained. “We can kill. We could kill entire realms if we wanted to and if we learned the right spells. We have to face the fact that there is a rift in this world. We trapped the Noirceur in a new vessel, but technology is still growing. The balance is still tipping. And as magic shrinks, the Haute will continue to fight over whatever remains. It’s going to get ugly, Beau. That’s where we come in. We can keep the peace. We’re the only ones who can.”
He let out a long breath, shaking his head like he was about to be drawn into something he knew he didn’t want to get involved in.
She took his hand. “I saw strawberries in the market back there. We’ll go home. I’ll make a cake. Talk of war goes down better when one has pastries in one’s belly.”
They turned and made their way back through the winding streets toward Castle Ides. She thought of the kitchens there, the library, the enormous bedrooms and bathrooms. A princess could live a comfortable life there. A witch could study magic for centuries in that library. But the beastie in her craved only a cozy bed and a good book, Beau at her side, the smell of herbs and the scent of adventure in the air.
Cricket sighed sadly. “Luc would have turned this into a fairy tale.”
“He still might,” Beau said. “We just have to wait for the next snow.”
Hunter Black walked ahead of them, scanning the street, always protecting his motley family, and behind them was the shadow of the falcon. Anouk had a feeling it would always be hanging just over her shoulder wherever she went.
They made their way through London, passing Pretties going about their Pretty lives, passing the occasional Goblin roaring by on a motorcycle, to Omen House. Hunter Black checked for any signs of ambush, then gave them the all-clear. Cricket rolled her eyes, telling him what a paranoid salaud he could be. Anouk led Beau to the door but paused before following him inside.
A strange string of words ruffled through her mind, the ones she’d whispered under her breath while trapping the Noirceur in its new vessel. Cricket seemed to notice and fell in step with Anouk.
Cricket spoke in a low voice. “You’re certain that it worked? Our . . . plan?”
Anouk remembered the feeling she’d gotten when the Noirceur had been transferred out of the clocks and into the new vessel—like the world had become a giant kaleidoscope that radiated out its power in a burst of colored light.
“It worked.”
“Word will spread. Everyone within the Haute will soon think that the Noirceur is trapped in the Heart of Alexandrite, barricaded within the museum. Let anyone try to steal it. Ha! I’d like to see them get past the spells I put up. Even if they did, imagine their faces when they realized the Noirceur wasn’t contained in the jewel at all. Only you and I know the truth.”
Anouk nodded. On the rooftop, she’d suggested a crazy plan to Cricket: In order to truly contain the Noirceur, it needed to be trapped in something that could never be stolen. Not an object. Rather, in a concept. The original Royals had been clever to trap it in time, but time manifested itself in too many ways. Anouk had a better idea. Trap it in language. She’d always been fascinated by spells, and at the Cottage she’d learned powerful words of the Selentium Vox. She realized it was possible to trap the Noirceur in specific words, nothing that might accidentally pop up in a book or conversation and once more awaken the chaos. It wasn’t until Hunter Black had shared his vision with her that she’d realized what words to use. He didn’t know what Queen Mid Ruath’s song to the stones meant, but she did.
Baz perrik, baz mare, baz teri,
en utidrava aedenum sa nav.
Words only she knew, a song unique to her. In that way, she was the guardian of the Noirceur. And meanwhile, if everyone believed it was trapped in the Heart of Alexandrite, no one would bother to look for it elsewhere.
“Thanks for your help,” Anouk said.
“That’s what thieves are for.”
Ahead, Beau stood in the open doorway, head turned toward her but eyes distant. “Are you two coming?”
Behind her, the falcon cawed sharply. She stared at the bird’s fathomless dark eyes. He stared back.
“Yes, Beau. I’m coming.”
They entered Omen House and joined the other beasties in the elevator. She was the highest-ranking Royal of all the Haute now. Kings and queens would bow at her command. The elevator dinged on the top floor, and they stepped out, leaving London behind and crossing the enchanted threshold back into the penthouse floor. Paris. The glittering skyline showed the Eiffel Tower and a sea of rose-colored lights. She couldn’t help but feel that even though she was a princess and a witch now, they would still be bowing to a maid. But maybe being a nobody wasn’t so bad. What had power ever brought anyone except ruin?
She pressed her hand against the window.
It was a beautiful city. A beautiful world. Maybe there were more beasties out there, living beyond the oversight of the Haute. Maybe they would find them. Maybe they’d figure out what path was theirs to walk. Or maybe, as Beau kept insisting, they would simply pile into the kitchen, he and Anouk and Cricket and Hunter Black, cut fat slices of strawberry cake, summon snow in the dessert pantry, and listen to Luc tell them stories about animals who turned into servants who turned into heroes who forged themselves into a family.
Acknowledgments
A special thanks to Megan Miranda for her keen insight into the heart of this story, to Ashley Lauren Rogers (the original Ash Witch!) for her wisdom, and to my marvel
ous beastie team: Josh and Tracey Adams, Emilia Rhodes, Tara Sonin, Tara Shanahan, Cat Onder, Veronica Wasserman, and everyone at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. I’d also to thank the bookstores and libraries that have embraced beasties of all kinds, and to these special supporters with the hope that some magic leaps off these pages and into your lives: Nancy Lane, Corey Daniel, Corey Dingess, Liz Cozart, Christy Bass, Ben and Daisy Crosswell, Courtney Lix, Justin and Anna Laman, Janet Kim, Rebecca Weston, Shelley Waldon, Madeline Jones, Joy Neaves, Rebecca Knoche, Brian “The Man” Woodward, Cathy Goden, Sabra Stewart, Cindy Miskowiec, David and Karen Shepherd, Laurel Jernigan, and Meredith Schonfeld-Hicks.
Merci tout le monde.
hmhteen.com
About the Author
Kristi Hedberg Photography
MEGAN SHEPHERD is the acclaimed author of Grim Lovelies, The Madman’s Daughter trilogy, The Cage trilogy, and the middle grade novel The Secret Horses of Briar Hill. She lives and writes on a 125-year-old farm outside Asheville, North Carolina.
Visit Megan at meganshepherd.com
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