Grim Lovelies

by Megan Shepherd

  “Yes, but which one?” Anouk said.

  Beau and Cricket looked at her as though they’d almost forgotten she was there.

  “Well, it’s Hunter Black, of course,” Cricket said. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  But Anouk kept eyeing the different pelts uneasily. It was impossible to tell. None had Beau’s tan skin or Cricket’s curly hair. Any of the pelts could have belonged to any of them.

  “I guess so,” Anouk said.

  But it didn’t feel right. Hunter Black was decidedly detached, yes—​the very picture of a lone wolf. Except for his fierce devotion to Viggo. Wasn’t that more like a loyal hound clinging to his master’s heels?

  Then her eyes fell on the burlap sack on the ground.

  “Beau?” Her head started to feel too light. “Where did you get that bag?”

  He toed it with his shoe. “It was in the mistress’s closet.”

  She approached the sack warily. “On the floor? Or on the shelf?”

  “I don’t know. The shelf, I guess. Why? Isn’t it the same one we used to catch the Corpus crows?”

  Anouk shook her head. “No. It’s not just any bag.” She crouched down and touched the sack slowly, as though it might bite. She should have recognized its almost imperceptible shimmer when Beau had first grabbed it to carry the pelts. But she’d been unable to think about anything other than Mada Vittora.

  The minute her hand grazed the fabric, it changed, and she jerked her fingers back. It shrunk and folded in on itself, burlap darkening and growing glossy and smooth, silver buckles pushing out from the seams, a snaking black leather strap slithering from the opening.

  A beautiful, perfect Hermès purse.

  “It’s her oubliette.”

  Beau jumped backward and almost knocked over a chair. “That’s it? You’re certain?”

  “It shimmers, regardless of its form, if you know how to look at it.”

  Cricket reached out for it, but Anouk held it back protectively.

  “Come on,” Cricket urged. “There could be all kinds of things in there we need. Money. Gold. Spells we could trade for!”

  “It isn’t that simple.” Anouk opened the bag and turned it upside down. Nothing came out. Cricket’s face fell.

  “It’s empty? That’s impossible.” Beau grabbed the bag and pawed through the space.

  Anouk took the bag back from him. “It isn’t empty, but its contents are protected. We’ll need a witch to truly open it.”

  Something outside caught Anouk’s ear. A certain familiar rev of an engine. She went to the window. The sun was rising above the tall buildings, casting the city in bright, clear morning light.

  The rev came again.

  A motorcycle pulled up in front of the apartment, and the driver shut off its engine. The gunmetal color winked in the sunlight. Two figures were on the back, helmets shading their faces. But Anouk didn’t need to see their faces. Only Hunter Black’s coat.

  She spun away from the window. “They’re here.”

  Beau swore as he looked down at Hunter Black’s motorcycle. “We have to run.”

  “Where?” Anouk said. “We’re five stories up and there’s only one staircase.” She went to the door and pressed her ear against its peeling paint. The other residents were up and about now; she heard the canned sound of a radio and the clatter of pans. The downstairs neighbor must be making breakfast.

  And then footsteps on the stairs. Two sets.

  She recoiled from the door. “They’re coming.” Her hand went to her necklace, needing the soothing touch of Luc’s coin but finding nothing, just skin and bone and an empty chain.

  Gone. In the bottom of the fountain.

  She dropped her hand. “We have to hide.”

  “Are you mad?” said Cricket. “Hunter Black was literally made for this. To hunt. He’ll find you in seconds.”

  But Anouk was already searching the room for possible hiding places. She and Beau and Luc had played hide-and-seek whenever Mada Vittora was away and they’d had the full run of the townhouse, a place where entire ballrooms were hidden within closets, staircases led to floors that shouldn’t exist, cupboards opened to secret tunnels.

  But Cricket’s apartment was tiny and sparsely furnished and not magic in the slightest, leaving only a handful of options: Under the bed. Beneath the kitchen sink. In the closet.

  “She’s right. We don’t have any other choice.” Beau threw back the shower curtain, eyed the tub. “I parked the Rolls-Royce around the corner, and they didn’t see us come in, so they might not know that we’re here.”

  Footsteps thundered up the stairs. One flight down now.

  “Zut.” Cricket started to throw the scattered pelts into a pile on the floor. “We have to hide these too. Help me.”

  The musty smell of pelts and stomp-stomp-stomp of approaching boots made Anouk lightheaded. “The closet. It’s the only place big enough.”

  The three of them dragged the pelts to the closet and threw them over the messy piles of clothes just as the footsteps stopped short on the landing.

  Someone knocked, hard.

  “Quick, get in!” Cricket whispered, herding Beau and Anouk toward the closet.

  “The oubliette . . . where is it?” Beau hissed. “If Viggo sees it, he’ll recognize it.”

  Anouk scanned the room. “There, beneath the table.” She snatched it up just as Viggo jiggled the knob from the outside, trying to force his way in. Beau threw himself headfirst into the forest of Cricket’s clothes, sending the coat hangers clattering, and Anouk tumbled in after him.

  “Cricket!” Viggo yelled. “Open the door!”

  Anouk fought against coats and towels and the musty pelts that sent up a scratchy cloud of dust and made her eyes water. She stifled a cough as Beau eased the door closed.

  Darkness.

  She heard the little puffs of her own breathing. Clothes rustling as Beau moved closer. Pounding again on the front door.

  “Let us in, Cricket. Now!”

  Cricket hit the music again.

  The low beats blared, pulsing in time with the thumping of Anouk’s heart. She pushed a dress out of her face. Her eyes were starting to adjust. The closet door was made of thick frosted glass, the kind that was easier to see out of than into. She could just make out Cricket’s blurry figure crossing the room.

  She heard the lock slide open and the clatter of a chain.

  “What the hell are you two doing here?” Cricket demanded. “It isn’t even ten o’clock in the morning.”

  Anouk pretended she was made of stone, trying not to move an inch. A belt was swinging from a nail, clanking softly, and she cringed and prayed for it to stop.

  “You changed your locks,” Viggo accused. Anouk could partially make him out through the frosted glass, his unmistakable slouch and fair, mussed hair. He raised his hand, jingling his set of keys. “This apartment isn’t yours. It’s mine. You can’t keep me out.”

  “What do you want?” Cricket spat.

  “Are you alone?” Viggo was leaning close to Cricket, nearly pinning her against the kitchenette sink, while Hunter Black’s dark shape set to prowling around the room.

  “Of course. Who else would be here?”

  “I thought you were supposed to be out of town. A mission in Dordogne.”

  “Yeah, well . . . I was, wasn’t I? Just got in a few hours ago.” The music increased a few notches in volume. Cricket must have hit the controls again. Maybe she’d heard the clank from the closet. “Why? What’s this about?”

  Viggo didn’t answer right away. Anouk kept her eyes on Hunter Black’s shape moving beyond the frosted glass like some underwater monster as he stalked over to the bathroom. She heard the bathroom door open. The clatter of tin rings as he drew the shower curtain back.

  Beau’s hand found hers in the darkness; his fingers squeezed hers protectively.

  “Hey!” Cricket called. “Tell your trained monkey to keep his hands off my stuff. What does he think he’s goin
g to find under that bed, his missing couilles?”

  It was just a matter of time before Hunter Black looked in the closet. The smell of their pelts was nearly choking. Anouk squeezed Beau’s hand back.

  Cricket was right. They had to look out for one another. No one else would.

  Viggo said something too low for Anouk to hear, but Cricket answered sharply, “Beau and Anouk? No, Beau hasn’t been by in weeks, and Anouk? I didn’t think that little bird was allowed to leave her cage.” She paused. “Why, what happened? Is it Mada Vittora?”

  Anouk tried to ignore the memory of blood on her hands, wiped clean now, though a little was still caught under her fingernails.

  “She’s fine,” Viggo answered. His voice drifted to a higher octave. He’d always been a bad liar. “In fact, she wants to see you. Tonight. She’s summoning all four of you to the townhouse for a meeting. No exceptions.”

  He tapped her computer and the music stopped.

  It was quiet. Too quiet. Anouk could practically hear her heart beating.

  “And Luc?” Cricket asked sharply. “Where’s Luc? I haven’t heard from him in days.”

  “We don’t know where he is,” Hunter Black said. “No one does.” His hand went to his neck, where, just last week, Luc had had to give him stitches. If Hunter Black had an affinity for any of the other beasties—​and Anouk wasn’t convinced that he did—​it would be for the boy who sewed his wounds and never breathed a word about it.

  Viggo shot him a nasty look, like he’d revealed too much. “Don’t worry about Luc,” Viggo purred, turning back to Cricket. “Pack a bag. You’ll need to stay at the townhouse for a few days. Maybe longer. Things are about to get dangerous in the city. There’s soon to be changes within the Haute. You’ll need my protection.” He took his time putting his hands all over her things, her teapot and candy bowl and the black-cat clock and bright yellow headphones. “You’re so alone out here. What’s it been, four years? Not a lot of time to learn how the world works.” He slowly wound the headphone cords around his palm. “All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be safe.”

  They were too far from the closet for Anouk to make out much. Blurry movement of Viggo setting down the headphones and reaching for Cricket’s shoulders.

  “Get your fingers off me,” Cricket hissed.

  “You’re beautiful when you’re angry like this, love.”

  Anouk squeezed her eyes closed. She hated seeing this. Hated the feel of Hunter Black prowling around, his footsteps so calculated and slow, and hated that possessive note in Viggo’s voice. Love? No, what she was listening to wasn’t love. Viggo wasn’t capable of loving anything, as far as she had seen. Not even his own mother. He must have gone to the townhouse. He must have seen the Mada’s body. And yet here he was, pawing at Cricket while his mother’s blood emptied into the Persian rug. He was probably already planning how he could take over her empire. If Anouk had to guess, that’s what this supposed meeting was about.

  Hunter Black’s shadow moved away from the bed. He turned toward the closet.

  Beau’s hand squeezed hers, hard, as though he feared being ripped apart.

  Chapter 10

  Anouk pressed one hand against her mouth, clutched Beau’s hand with the other. Hunter Black was just on the other side of the door. It was so stiflingly hot in the closet. The musty pelts choked her. Fur and particles, their old life, catching in her nose. She couldn’t breathe.

  But then Beau’s fingers intertwined with her own. She could hear his breathing, slower than her own and more steady. He inched over the pile of pelts to wrap his arm around her back. He didn’t dare speak.

  She leaned her head against his chest.

  “I don’t need your protection.” Cricket’s voice in the living room was strained. “I’m not yours. I never will be.”

  For Viggo’s whole life, his mother had showered him with gifts from both the Haute and the Pretty World. Fast cars, expensive clothes, tickets to secret places only magic could access. He’d never been denied anything.

  Hunter Black’s shadow fell over the frosted glass. Anouk clutched Beau harder, wanting to shelter them both.

  Keep us safe, she wished.

  Like a coin tossed in a fountain.

  Like magic.

  She closed her eyes, barely knowing what she was doing. How many times had she been dusting the house and overheard Mada Vittora do a simple diversion whisper? Enough that she could recite the Selentium Vox words in her sleep.

  “Omni terra das royale oscura, omni figuras das visine etan absconsia,” she whispered, lips moving quickly. The taste of mint was still fresh on her tongue.

  She felt Beau twist to look at her, but she didn’t open her eyes. She knew beasties couldn’t do magic. But neither could Pretties, and look at how beautiful their world was. Look at all the things they had built, the roundabouts and the cafés and the glittering department stores. What was that if not magic?

  “Voc, voc eta commandet suma suspirras.” She whispered faster. “Non avis nos . . .”

  She heard Hunter Black’s hand on the closet doorknob, then the metal clicking softly as it twisted. The door opened a crack. She felt a terrible rush of air on her face. The smell of Cricket’s tea. The murmur of Viggo whispering declarations of love to Cricket by the sink.

  “Non avis nos, non avis nos, spero . . .”

  She didn’t stop whispering the words.

  Don’t see us.

  Don’t see us.

  Please.

  The door stayed like that, open a crack. And then, just in the moment when she knew Hunter Black would find them, a sharp smack came from the kitchenette. Cricket had slapped Viggo.

  Anouk’s eyes flew open.

  Hunter Black was across the room in three strides to defend his master. The closet door shut, the frosted glass rattling softly. Closed. Anouk stared at the knob in disbelief.

  “Hurt him again,” Hunter Black snarled, “and I’ll put you in your grave.”

  “No!” Viggo’s voice was sharp. “Don’t threaten her.”

  Cricket spat out, “I’ll be there tonight. Just get out of here. Just go.”

  Viggo started pacing. He raked his fingers through his flaxen hair. “Did you find anything, Hunter Black?”

  “They aren’t here.”

  Not here? Wasn’t he going to check the closet? Anouk felt Beau stiffen by her side, as confused as she was. He mimicked the gesture of the slap and shrugged as if to suggest the altercation must have distracted Hunter Black. It was true, Hunter Black always went a little wild at the idea of his master being hurt, but still. He was a hunter, like his name. He didn’t get distracted.

  Anouk pressed her fingertips to her lips. She was shaking. It couldn’t be the magic, could it? Her whisper? It had been only a desperate try. She hadn’t expected it to work.

  “Tonight, then,” Viggo said. “At the townhouse. And if either of those little beasties comes crawling to you, you drag them along with you, understand? Or there will be consequences.”

  Heavy footsteps thumped away, followed by the slamming door. She heard Cricket fasten the chain lock and mutter something unrepeatable.

  Had they really not been found?

  The closet door flew open. Cricket stood in the doorway. “We’ve got to get out of Paris. Far away from those dangerous lunatics. Put as much distance as we can between us and them before tonight comes and we don’t show up at whatever deranged trap he has set for us at the townhouse.” She looked at Anouk strangely. “You must be the luckiest two people alive for him not to have found you in there.”

  “The f-fountain,” Anouk stuttered, feeling the blood hot in her face, her hands starting to shake now that the danger had passed and it was sinking in how close they’d been to getting caught. “In the alley at the end of Rue des Amants . . . the little gargoyle . . . I dropped a coin in the water and made a wish for us to be safe. Maybe it worked.”

  Cricket scoffed. “That’s just a legend.”

 
; The muscles of Anouk’s arms were twitching now and she couldn’t seem to make them stop. “I . . . I also cast one of Mada Vittora’s diversion whispers.”

  Everyone went quiet. A car drove by, honking, and a baby wailed from the apartment overhead.

  “That’s impossible,” Beau said at last. “Even if you know the whisper’s words, it takes a magic handler to cast spells.” He rubbed his chin for a long time. “It had to have been a coincidence. You saw how he leaped to defend Viggo. His mind was elsewhere.”

  Anouk expected Cricket to chastise her more; Cricket, who was practical and ironic, who believed in the power of knives, not whispers. But Cricket was oddly quiet. Her long fingers drummed against the desk, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, as the swirling colors of her computer screen threw rainbows over her features.

  She leaned forward, hands tented together. “Do you really think you worked magic just now, Anouk?”

  Something about Cricket’s firm gaze threw her. “I don’t know,” she said honestly.

  Beau looked from one to the other with a scrunched-up face. “Are you two seriously considering this?”

  Silently, Cricket slid her desk drawer open and set out the candle and matches and journal that she’d hidden when they’d first arrived. She struck a match with a sizzle of smoke and lit the wick. She gestured to everything, chewing on her fingernail. “All of this, the drawings in the notebook too. I’ve been trying to do magic on my own.”

  Not just any magic. Dark spells.

  Anouk searched her face. “Can you?”

  “No.” Cricket dropped her hand. “Not yet, at least. But—​I know this sounds crazy—​I can feel it. I can feel that it’s possible.”

  Beau scratched his chin, eyeing the flickering candle warily.

  Cricket pointed to it. “It’s a fire trick. Extinguishing the flame with whispers alone. I’d rather start a fire, but I can’t find that spell.” She gestured to the computer. “I found this one on the Internet.”

  Anouk had heard Viggo talking about the Internet. It had to do with technology of the Pretty World, but unlike electric lights, which always turned on, and cars, which could be relied on to go forward, the Internet was tricky. Hard to tell what was lies and what wasn’t.