Grim Lovelies

by Megan Shepherd

  Such a simple phrase, thrown out like day-old bread crumbs for the birds. And yet a cold feeling washed over Anouk that was frigid enough to turn her blood to ice water.

  Those words.

  The voice was different—​it had been raspy before, filtered through the wires and speakers of Luc’s scryboard, but it was the same.

  She almost let out a cry.

  Prince Rennar had been the man she’d heard through the scryboard.

  Her mind started to whirl. Prince Rennar and Mada Zola were the scheming pair that Luc had written about in his secret log. But if that was the case, why would Mada Zola have sent them here, to the den of her accomplice? To the very man whom she conspired with to take control of the Haute?

  She felt the prickly sensation of eyes on her and saw that Countess Quine was subtly watching her from across the room. Her sharpened fingernails click-click-clicked anxiously on the glass vial of powder around her neck. Her lips were now stained with a pale blue color. She’d swallowed some powder.

  She knows, Anouk realized. They all know.

  What a fool she was.

  Prince Rennar had recognized her. Of course he had—​he’d even been expecting her. He had known she was coming because Mada Zola had told him, probably as soon as they’d left. And now they had done his work for him, rounded themselves up tidily like pigs trotting together to the slaughter pen.

  Shocked, she let the tea tray slip from her hands.

  Beau.

  The tray seemed to fall impossibly slowly, as though time were broken; she was distantly aware of Viggo jumping in surprise, but her eyes were on the window. Rain pounded against it, and beyond was the incessant flapping of crows.

  Beau.

  And then time resumed and the tray smashed to the ground with the crashing of china. Hot water scalded her feet. Countess Quine cried out, and Lord Metham choked on the smoke from his pipe, but Anouk didn’t flinch.

  She didn’t care about the boiling water at her feet. The smell of lavender, sickening now.

  Prince Rennar looked at her.

  Really looked at her. No casual glance, no side-eyed peek. He saw her for what she was, what he had always known she was: the prey that had walked straight into the trap he had set for her.

  For all of them.

  She turned to Cricket and Hunter Black and Viggo.

  “Run.”

  Chapter 26

  Eight Hours of Enchantment Remain

  It was too late.

  Lady Metham lifted her hands up and, with a single whisper, made the salon doors slam shut. Cricket threw her shoulder against the joists, then fiddled with the lock, but not even she could pick it.

  “A trap,” Cricket said. “A putain trap.”

  Viggo shoved himself to his feet, tugged his hat off, and raked his hand through hair that was now streaked with black. His eyes found Anouk’s. She knew that look—​he was going to do something stupid. Heroic, but stupid. Her heart pounded. It was wrong, all of it. Especially that heartsick expression. If a boy ever looked at her like that, she wanted it to be real, not the result of magic.

  “If you touch her,” Viggo threatened the prince, “I’ll break every bone in that pretty face of yours.”

  Rennar raised an amused eyebrow.

  Anouk ripped off the veil that hadn’t disguised anything anyway. “Be quiet,” she whispered to Viggo. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

  Through all of this, Hunter Black remained perfectly still on the sofa, hands resting on his knees, his expression masked by the high collar of his coat and the dark hair falling in his eyes. But ice-cold energy radiated off him. A winter storm on the horizon, building in strength, and for an uncertain second, she wasn’t sure which she dreaded more—​the wrath of the Royals or Hunter Black.

  Rennar tented his hands together and turned to Lady Metham. “The driver?”

  “The Marble Ladies captured him and brought him upstairs. He’s locked away.”

  Anouk felt the air rush out of her. Beau. The only one who might have escaped, but it was too late now. Dizzy, she became all too aware of clocks ticking from all sides. On the mantel. The grandfather clock in the hallway. Lord Metham’s pocket watch. Every clock in the penthouse simultaneously chimed five o’clock.

  A cry rushed up her throat.

  Too late.

  There would be no drive back to Montélimar now. What had she been three days ago? A starry-eyed girl who’d dreamed of grander things. And now all those beautiful dreams would be within her grasp, if only midnight wouldn’t come.

  She grabbed the broom from Cricket and brandished it like a weapon.

  “You set us up,” she spat at Rennar. “You and Mada Zola. She was never on our side. She sent us here knowing she was delivering us straight into your arms.”

  He smiled, but there was no pleasure in it. “Everyone in the entire Haute is searching for you—​you must know that. And you’ve done well. But there’s only one certain way to catch something that doesn’t want to be caught: they have to willingly trap themselves.”

  Anouk’s knuckles were white on the broom. Why had she ever thought of him with any reverence? The light caught the edges of his briar-thorn crown, flashing like stolen pieces of stars, but he was no god.

  “Put down that broom, little beastie.” Rennar beckoned with long, graceful fingers. “The spell inside won’t help you without someone to whisper it to life.”

  “You said I wasn’t made for sweeping floors.”

  “You weren’t. But you should never have been made at all—​none of you. It was a cruel, stupid twist of fate, what Vittora did to you. Gave you human life, and now I must be the one to take it away. Believe me, I take no pleasure in it.” He went to the rain-streaked windows, gazing out over the city. “You’ve evaded my crows, you made it past the Marble Ladies, you proved that you are just as capable as you were intended to be. But it’s over now, Anouk.”

  And then he was next to her. Had it been magic or had he crossed the room that fast? He touched her arm. There was no violence in the gesture; rather, it was the contact of a herdsman on a skittish horse. His skin was cold from being near the rain-chilled windows.

  “I. Said. Not. To. Touch. Her.”

  Prince Rennar seemed to have forgotten Viggo’s existence. Viggo wasn’t a beastie, and the Royals had no use for a witch’s boy with no witch. But Viggo refused to be ignored. He threw himself hard at the prince, and his fist connected with the prince’s jaw with a resounding crack.

  For a few startled seconds, no one moved.

  Had anyone ever struck the prince of the Haute? Probably not, if that person valued his life and had any sense. But it wasn’t clear that either case applied to Viggo.

  Lord Metham swallowed a smear of orange powder and jabbed a spindly finger in Viggo’s direction, his stained lips already moving in a whisper that would no doubt cause blood to erupt from all of Viggo’s orifices. But just as fast, Hunter Black was on his feet.

  To the Royals, Hunter Black was nothing but a lapdog in a black coat.

  Their mistake, Anouk thought.

  This was what Hunter Black had been waiting for, Anouk realized. A distraction. And Viggo, God love him, excelled at causing distractions. Hunter Black moved like a rolling clap of thunder. One second he was shoving Viggo to the floor, out of danger; the next he was stepping onto the sofa, one boot on the cushions, the other resting on the sofa back, then using its momentum as it toppled over to hurl himself at Lord Metham. He struck so quickly that the lord hadn’t even lowered his finger. Unfortunately for him. Hunter Black grabbed the man’s finger. A snap sounded as the bone broke, but it was lost amid Lord Metham’s howls.

  Hunter Black whirled on Lady Metham next, who had more sense and speed than her husband and ducked behind a desk just as Hunter Black flung the teapot at her head. It smashed into the fireplace, sending sharp china pieces raining down.

  “They can’t even cast spells, you idiots!” Countess Quine cried.

/>   She aimed her hands in Hunter Black’s direction. The sharpened blades at her fingertips sparked with energy as her pink-stained lips moved in whispers. Bolts of white-hot light crackled out of her hands and struck Hunter Black on the shoulder. He grunted, barely acknowledging the pain, and ducked to evade the next strike, but Lady Metham was coming at him from the other side of the divan.

  “Lancae, lancae, scintilla morta . . .” she whispered.

  “Oh, shut up.” Cricket leaped onto the coffee table, darted out a nimble hand, and grabbed the long pearl necklace around Lady Metham’s neck. She jerked it backward, pulling it taut to choke the woman before she could finish the whisper.

  Hunter Black snatched up the shards of broken teapot and hurled them at Countess Quine. Half of them caught her sparks, deflecting the magic away from him. One spiraled off and struck Lord Metham, who howled louder.

  Hunter Black turned to Anouk. “Get Viggo. Run.”

  “We’ll be right behind you,” Cricket added. “Find Beau and get to the elevator. Hold it open for us.”

  With a cry, Countess Quine brandished her sharpened metal claws at Cricket. Cricket jerked back and drew her own blades but was a second too late. The countess’s claws slashed at Cricket’s side, but something caught them. They both frowned. The metallic claws had glanced off the gardening wire holding her dress together, and now both the countess’s metal claws and Cricket’s blades were tangled in the wire.

  Without taking a breath, Cricket whispered, “Incisha coup . . .”

  A red line of blood appeared on Countess Quine’s left cheek. Her eyes flared as she pressed a hand to it but her expression became confused when she saw her hand coming away with blood. Cricket whispered again and another cut sliced down the right side of the countess’s face.

  Cricket cried out in triumph.

  Anouk fell to her knees next to Viggo, touching his back. He’d hit his head when Hunter Black had pushed him down, and now he held his hand to a nasty cut on his forehead.

  “My love . . . I have to . . . get you out of here,” he said.

  “I think it’s the other way around, actually,” she said. “Can you stand?”

  She wrapped his arm around her shoulders and helped him up, but just as they turned toward the door, Rennar took a step and blocked their path.

  He was touching his jaw. Part of him still seemed shocked that anyone had dared to strike him; the other part looked poised to turn Viggo to dust. He held the knife from the tea tray but didn’t come closer. His lips started moving. Anouk heard the start of a whisper she’d heard before.

  “Versik, versik sang . . .” Bleed, bleed.

  He jabbed the knife in the air in precise movements. And though half the room separated the two men, Viggo gasped and clutched at his face. A thin line of blood poured down his cheek. Rennar slashed the knife in the air again, and Viggo clutched at his stomach. The tang of blood filled the room. Rennar was going to drain Viggo of the only thing he’d ever been valued for—​his blood. And maybe Cricket was right, that Viggo had made his own bed. He wasn’t part of their pack. But maybe he is, she thought. Even now, he didn’t seem to fully process Rennar’s vicious whispers aimed at him. His eyes, glassy and lovesick, were on her. But it wasn’t real love. Only a trick she’d played on him.

  “No,” she whispered.

  Her whisper might not have been a spell, but it was powerful just the same. She did the only thing she could think of: she swiped a finger over the blood dripping from Viggo’s face and licked the blood off.

  “Incend comme lapis.”

  Her voice was as soft as moth wings, and yet all the Royals whipped their heads around as though she’d shouted. The knife in Rennar’s hand turned bright orange, the smell of flesh sizzled in the air, and he dropped it and clutched at the burn mark on his palm.

  He seemed confused. He kicked at the knife as though unable to determine how it had burned him, but then he looked from Anouk to the knife and back.

  Lord Metham took the opportunity to swallow a draft of powder and whispered with blue-stained lips, “Lancae, lancae—”

  Magic was still crackling in Anouk’s skin. It tore through her, possessing her, consuming her thoughts, twisting them into one single demand: Stop him.

  “Ak ignis bleu.” She cast the whisper without thinking. It was a spell buried deep in her memory. It shot out of her in the form of blue fire that blazed across the carpet straight to Lord Metham. Flames licked up his fine suit. He whispered protection spells, but the blue fire moved too fast. Though the flames didn’t burn fabric or flesh, they robbed the oxygen from the air around him. He clutched at his throat. Gasped. Collapsed on the carpet. By the time the flames subsided, he was dead.

  “Mon Dieu,” Hunter Black said, breaking the silence. “I want to learn that spell.”

  Lady Metham’s head was cocked at a too-acute angle, her eyes too wide, as though she were a doll that might break. Countess Quine turned sharply to Anouk, one of her eyes twitching and wary.

  Prince Rennar was as much at a loss for words as anyone else, and his eyes settled on Anouk. He searched her hungrily with his gaze, her arms, her neck, her face, the broom she clutched in one hand, looking for something—​what?

  “My love,” Viggo whispered, “we have to go now.”

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the door. The movement made Lady Metham snap back to herself and she let out an anguished cry and hurled herself toward them, but Hunter Black jumped to block her. Cricket fought off Countess Quine, metal fingernails to knives, slicing whispers to cutting ones.

  But Rennar didn’t chase. He only stood and watched Anouk with that curious look on his face, almost the hint of a smile.

  And then Viggo pulled her into the hallway. She couldn’t catch her breath. She looked one way, then the other, trying to recognize the hallways. But the hour had changed, and with it the floor plan.

  “We have to find Beau,” she said.

  Both jumped at the sound of footsteps. “True, but staying alive would also be ideal.”

  They ran down the hallway. She clutched the broom tightly. She tried to find some reference point, the kitchen or the hallway with the artifacts under glass. But maddeningly, everything had shifted around, and they ran under a stone archway she certainly had never passed before.

  “Beau!” Anouk called. “Where are you?”

  Only the ticking clocks answered.

  Viggo stumbled, and she caught him before he fell. Her hand slid against his stomach and came away slick with blood—​his black clothes had hidden the severity of his wounds.

  “Merde,” she said. “We have to get you out of here.”

  And then the faintest sound: “Anouk.”

  “Beau!” With one hand she helped Viggo steady himself, feeling her pulse picking up again. “Viggo, did you hear that? He’s close.”

  She called Beau’s name, making her way through the maze of hallways toward his calls as fast as she could help Viggo hobble.

  She threw open a glass door she’d never seen before, but then—​yes. It was the hallway with all the strange little mundane artifacts under glass. To the left, the wide gilded doors led to the spell library. To the right—​zut—​Rennar’s apartments.

  Viggo stumbled again and sank onto one of the benches outside the library, clutching his cheek. “Leave me, my love. Get Beau. Just don’t . . . forget . . . to collect me on the way out.”

  “I can’t leave you,” she said, though she could hear Beau calling her name from somewhere close. “I might never find you again.”

  “Cricket will . . . be able to find the library. Don’t worry, I won’t . . . go anywhere.”

  Anouk had never felt any affection for the witch’s boy until that moment, but against her every instinct, she pressed her lips to his cheek.

  “I’ll come back. I promise.”

  And then she ran past the glass cases, calling, “Beau! Beau!”

  “Anouk!”

  Closer no
w. She pounded on a wooden door inlaid with gold filigree. The knob stuck, but it wasn’t locked. She slammed the broom handle against it and it opened at last. She stumbled into a dark room and blinked until her eyes adjusted. Heavy curtains were drawn over the windows. She grabbed one and tugged it back to let in light, murky though it was from the storm outside.

  A bedroom.

  Grander than any bedroom she’d ever seen, even Mada Vittora’s. Heavy wooden furniture with red brocade upholstery had been pushed to the sides, and the once-expensive rug was worn where someone had paced back and forth enough to wear it nearly through. Other than the fine wallpaper, the walls were mostly bare. There were no portraits here. No busts or statues. A piece of paper fluttered on the wall, and she took a step closer, smoothed a hand over it. A . . . playbill. For a production in Paris. And beneath it, a branch from a tree with dying orange leaves.

  Things from the Pretty World.

  “Anouk,” a hoarse voice called.

  “Beau!” She threw open a small door. He was in the next room—​a meeting chamber, by the look of it, but the table had been moved aside to make room for five cages. They were identical in size. Heavy iron padlocks on the bars. Beau was in the first cage, the top of which was low enough to force him to his knees. He clutched the bars. A bruise bloomed on his temple.

  She rushed inside and fell to her knees by his cage. She set down the broom. They clasped hands through the bars.

  “Those entrance guards, the ones made of stone . . .” He winced. “I didn’t even see them coming.”

  Anouk’s stomach shrank as she thought of marble fists on his flesh. The Marble Ladies must have dragged him from the car, their earless heads not even hearing his screams.

  “I’ll get you out of here.” She tugged on the padlock. Rusty. Ancient. Unbreakable, except perhaps by a master thief. “We need Cricket—”

  “No—​the trunk by the doorway.” Beau was breathing heavily, his hand pressed to his head. “Lady Metham put the keys in there.”