Grim Lovelies

by Megan Shepherd

Viggo stood in the doorway. His hair was entirely black now, a reminder that midnight had come and all of Vittora’s spells were broken. For a second, Anouk thought of the Goblin girl cursed to fall in love with a yellow mail van. At least now she was free. Everyone who had been bound by Vittora’s spells was.

  “Viggo.” Her breath quickened. She’d cast a spell on him without his permission—​she’d made a slave of him, forced him to do all sorts of humiliating things. The Viggo she knew would have been plotting an elaborate revenge that involved many sharpened spikes. Hunter Black was behind him, the ever-present shadow. She eyed them both closely. “What are you doing back here?”

  “If you mean am I going to try to kiss your feet again, no. The spell is done. I’m not happy about that love spell, by the way. I think we all know that I never would have done those things if not under the influence of magic beyond my control. Just so we’re all clear.”

  No one answered. Anouk wasn’t entirely positive he wasn’t plotting revenge.

  “I didn’t go to Rennar,” he said, guessing at their silence. “I didn’t tell the Royals anything. Oh, I considered it. As soon as December broke the curse, Hunter Black and I stormed out of here and I had every intention of returning with an army of crows at my heels. But I didn’t.”

  “Then why the hell did you come back?” Cricket snapped.

  His dark eyes flashed to hers. “Because you need me.”

  “Ha.”

  “No—​you do. If you’re going to go through with this insane plan to storm Montélimar and fight off both Zola and Rennar, you’ll need powerful magic on your side. Blood magic.” He looked theatrically over his left shoulder and then his right. “I don’t see any other humans around here willing to siphon off pints of blood for you.”

  He was right, Anouk realized. They had Goblin numbers, but the Royals were experts in manipulating magic. The few simple whispers she could do would be nothing against them. The contra-beastie spell required powerful ingredients, the most rare of which was six pints of blood. Which meant there was only one way they might prevail: by exploiting the fact that Rennar’s and Zola’s magic had limits. The vitae echo. She didn’t have that limit.

  “But we’d need half your blood,” she said. “That could kill you.”

  He tossed back a lock of dark hair. “Possibly.”

  She narrowed her eyes at his cavalier attitude. “Why would you risk that for us? After everything I did to you—​the spell?”

  “Yes, the spell,” he said, his dark eyes cold. “That damn spell that wasn’t about love at all, but manipulation. True love has to be as equals. Two people who come together willingly. Love isn’t about possession.” He paused dramatically. “It’s about sacrifice.”

  He was staring at Cricket, and she didn’t look impressed.

  She said coldly, “Is this when you tell me that through the curse of the spell, you’ve actually learned the true meaning of love?”

  “Well—​merde. I’ve been planning that speech all the way down here.”

  She rolled her eyes. “He hasn’t changed at all.”

  “I have,” he said, and for once, he sounded sincere. “I understand now that what I felt for you wasn’t love. It was obsession. It wasn’t until Anouk made me her love captive that I realized that’s never what I’d want for you. Do I really love you? Alors, I don’t know. I’m not certain I’m even capable of love. Mommy issues and all.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, this is what I’m offering. My blood, maybe even my life. And you’d better say yes before all that wine I drank twenty minutes ago wears off and I stop feeling so damn heroic.”

  Cricket still didn’t smile, though she hadn’t reached for her blades, which was at least one promising sign.

  “I’m sorry, Cricket. I was an ass.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Apology accepted, but if you think there is even a slight chance that I’ll love you back after all this is over, you’re wrong.”

  “Well, chances are high that I’ll be dead anyway.”

  “So what does this mean?” Tenpenny said.

  Anouk turned to him. “It means you have about an hour to wake the rest of the Goblins and be ready. We have an errand to run. Pick us up outside 18 Rue des Amants in one hour.”

  Tenpenny consulted his watch.

  “One hour, dearie. Tick-tock.”

  Chapter 34

  Twenty Hours of (New) Enchantment Remain

  It was still raining in the streets of Paris. A light mist cast an orb around each of the streetlights, and as they hurried along the thoroughfares, Anouk felt how fiercely she loved this city. All those nights sitting in her turret window and watching the Pretty World outside, she had wondered if she’d ever be a part of it. If her feet would ever stroll these streets, if she’d ever look up at the glowing moon. She had wondered if it could possibly be as perfect as she imagined or if a rock would always be in her shoe on that stroll, if smog would always obscure the moon.

  And it was true, there were rocks and there was smog, but there were also stars. The city was like life itself: good and bad, pretty and ugly, kindness and cruelty all in one. But most important, it simply was. And that felt like a kind of magic too.

  Rue des Amants was quiet in the early-morning hours. A wealthy neighborhood filled with townhouses used only part of the year by residents who also lived in Switzerland and New York and Monaco. It lacked the vibrancy of the Latin Quarter, where students quoted Descartes at all-night cafés and music hummed in the street.

  Their footsteps echoed off the quiet townhouses as they passed rows of black cars. Anouk stopped at the sad little tree in front of number eighteen.

  “No one bothered to water it?” Luc asked accusingly.

  “I couldn’t cross the threshold,” Anouk reminded him.

  It felt strange to reenter the townhouse. She had never come in through the front door, and as she stepped inside with the oubliette in hand, she pictured herself here just three days ago, eager to serve and stow away the oubliette. She marveled at how simple life had been then. How little she’d known. And yet how wildly she’d dreamed.

  She bent down and picked up her old hair ribbon.

  “Her body?” Luc asked.

  “Taken care of,” Viggo answered without elaborating. He pushed past them up the steps, heading to the bloodletting room. Hunter Black followed at his heels, but Anouk took her time, looking at the townhouse with new eyes. It had been her home as much as it was Mada Vittora’s. She had cared for it. Cooked in the kitchen, swept the floors, convinced Beau or Luc to make any repairs that were needed. Beau went to the kitchen to scarf down whatever leftovers he could find in the icebox, and Cricket went with him in search of a whetstone to sharpen her blades.

  “I should change clothes,” Luc said, and he climbed the stairs to his attic. Anouk followed slowly, up the turret to her own bedroom, where she ran her hand over the baby shoes, the playbills, the little things from the Pretty World she had so loved. A sheen of dust covered her desk, and she grabbed a cloth to clean it as she’d done countless times, but then stopped. All those little tasks, sweeping and polishing and cooking, belonged to another person’s life now. No matter how hard she scrubbed, she’d never be that person again.

  She went back downstairs, pausing at Mada Vittora’s room. The door was open a crack. A sense of foreboding overcame her as she remembered the last time she’d stood here and mistaken the blood for red wine. She inched open the door. No body, as Viggo had said. Even the bloodstain was gone. She knelt down, ran her fingers over the rug. None of her cleaning products could have gotten it out so well—​someone had done this with magic.

  And then she whipped her head around to the portrait above the bed. Prince Rennar. She could feel his lingering presence. Smelled a trace of his cologne. He’d been here. Viggo must have invited him in for the day. Rennar had taken care of her mistress’s body. She wondered if he’d gone into her room too, if he’d touched her things as she had once touched his.


  Could Rennar see her from the portrait now? She climbed up on the bed and turned it around to face the wall. The townhouse was protected by ancient magic that not even he could break—​he couldn’t set foot beyond the front step without an invitation—​but she didn’t want his eyes in the house either.

  Outside of the bloodletting room, she heard the hiss-hiss of the chair’s machinery. She pushed open the door hesitantly. Hunter Black was seated on a wooden bench by Viggo’s side. Viggo had his eyes closed. His lips were very pale. The jar was fuller than she had ever seen it before—​it held four pints, at least.

  Hunter Black didn’t look up when she came in. His gaze stayed focused on Viggo’s pale lips.

  Anouk sat next to him. “He’s asleep?”

  “He passed out after three pints.”

  “He might make it,” she said. “It’s possible to survive with only six pints left. His chances of surviving are probably better than ours will be at Montélimar.”

  Hunter Black didn’t answer.

  Anouk hesitated, unsure how to ask the question on her lips. “You love him, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  She considered her words carefully, thinking of Luc’s fairy tales, the prince and his footman. “I mean, you’re in love with him.”

  His back jerked upright as though he’d been attacked. His dark eyes flashed. He looked ready to deny it, but then he let out a long growl of a sigh. His silence said everything.

  “The love spell,” she said. “It wasn’t real. You know that, right?”

  “Of course it wasn’t,” he snapped. “He would never love you.”

  She didn’t take offense at his words—​she knew a wounded animal when she saw one. And she also knew hopelessness. A boy in love with a boy who liked girls. A cruel twist of fate.

  “He can’t love you back,” she said quietly. “Not romantically.”

  “Thank you for reminding me of such a painfully obvious fact.”

  “But he cares about you. You’re his best friend. His only friend.”

  Hunter Black grunted for an answer. They sat on the bed, watching the machinery continue to pump Viggo’s blood. Five pints now. Anouk tried not to think about having to drink it, instead focusing on how strong it would make her. Both Mada Zola and Prince Rennar had told her that she was capable of amazing things. She was going to get her chance to prove it. But as she watched Viggo grow more and more pale, it sat uneasily with her. Beasties weren’t susceptible to the vitae echo, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that magic would still have a cost. No life was taken without consequences. If Viggo died, that magic wouldn’t have come for free.

  “That blue-flame spell,” she said quietly to Hunter Black. “Do you still want to learn it?”

  He looked away from Viggo at last and gave a single nod.

  Anouk found a pouch of borage herb in the attic, and they consumed leaves of it and she taught him the words of the Selentium Vox spell and the accompanying hand gestures. Hunter Black tried again and again to master the right tone. As an assassin, he was used to being quiet—​he wasn’t used to being calm.

  At last the pump clicked off, and Hunter Black stuffed the borage in his pocket and checked Viggo’s vital signs. Anouk unbuckled him from the machine. Six pints. When she lifted his arm, it felt alarmingly light, like a limb without bones.

  “His pulse?”

  “Still there,” Hunter Black said. “Weak, but steady.”

  Viggo suddenly gave a slight moan. “Need . . . wine . . .”

  “How about water,” Anouk suggested gently. She went to the bathroom to pour him a glass while Hunter Black carried him from the bloodletting chair to the bed, pulled off his shoes, and laid the blanket over his body. Viggo was shivering slightly. She paused in the bathroom door as Hunter Black smoothed Viggo’s hair off his forehead. It felt like something she shouldn’t be watching.

  She cleared her throat and set the water on the side table. “Viggo, how do you feel?”

  “Like I’m missing half my blood.”

  “You are.”

  “Well, that explains it.”

  A car horn blared outside—​the British anthem, unmistakably the Goblins. Anouk checked the clock. Six in the morning. The sun would be rising soon. One last day.

  “What the hell are you waiting for?” Viggo’s voice was raspy, his eyes closed. With a weak hand, he slapped away Hunter Black. “Get out of here already and turn that flower witch into potpourri.”

  “Hold on until tomorrow. We’ll be back,” Anouk promised.

  “Hopefully without tails,” Viggo murmured.

  Anouk squeezed his hand. She took the pints of blood, hid them away in the oubliette, and slung it over her shoulder. “Thank you, Viggo.”

  The car honked again.

  Beau appeared at the doorway. “Anouk, Hunter Black. Time to go.”

  “Give them a minute,” Anouk said, and she herded Beau down the stairs. In another second, Hunter Black joined them in the front foyer dressed in his black coat, his hair slicked back and knotted at the nape. If he felt any sadness or worry for Viggo, by now he knew how to hide it.

  “You think you’ve mastered the blue-flame spell?” she asked.

  “I learn fast when it comes to new ways to kill people.”

  They stepped into the front garden. A fleet of Goblin motorcycles filled Rue des Amants. There had to be a hundred motorcycles, most of them carrying two or even three Goblins. There was much honking and cheering, and Anouk thought that maybe cappuccino was magic.

  Beau, Cricket, Hunter Black, Luc, and her. The five of them together at last. They stood on the front steps as a team, a family. Someone from across the street yelled about the early hour and threatened to call the police, but Anouk just grinned.

  If there was anything to fear in the streets of Paris, it was her.

  Chapter 35

  Seventeen Hours of (New) Enchantment Remain

  They rode without stopping, speeding past villages and fields, tearing down curving roads, honking at any car that dared to drive too slowly. Clutching Tenpenny around the middle, Anouk felt distinctively queasy. She had drunk every pint of Viggo’s blood, slowly, giving it time to digest. And now it sat heavy in her stomach, and Tenpenny’s driving didn’t help. But as the hours passed, she began to feel a change. The blood felt less like a greasy puddle in the pit of her stomach and more like sunlight spreading through her body, warm and bright and life-giving. She felt marvelously daring, like she’d drunk too much champagne or was walking on the edge of a rooftop.

  Six pints of blood. Enough to cripple a witch.

  Mada Vittora had been careful never to add more than a thimbleful of blood to her potions. Any more and the vitae echo would start to take effect. Her skin would turn brittle, her back would stoop, dust would be shed from her clothing and collect in her wake as though she were desiccating from the inside out. But Anouk felt the opposite.

  Young. Vital. Alive.

  She slid on a pair of black sunglasses, and from the next motorcycle over, Cricket gave an approving nod.

  Anouk grinned. Being on the back of the motorcycle was a bit like flying. She could feel the pulsing energy of the Goblins, their determination and hope. This battle meant everything for them, too. The first step toward regaining the city they loved. And ever since dancing atop the Black Death with the Goblins, she’d wanted that for them. Throw out the London witches. Install a new leader, preferably one in a top hat.

  The sky darkened. She looked up, expecting a cloud, and her mood dimmed at the flock of crows that had moved in overhead.

  “Crows!” she called in Tenpenny’s ear.

  He nodded grimly. “There will be no element of surprise for us. What of the contra-beastie spell? Are you ready?”

  Viggo’s blood kept pulsing like lightning bugs in her body, making her feel light and strong, and she nodded.

  “And the witch’s girl of the dubious loyalties?”

  It was impossible to
guess what Petra might do when they arrived. At first blush, Petra had seemed content living with Zola and tending the gardens, but Anouk knew from experience that just because a witch’s servant looked happy didn’t mean she was.

  “Let’s hope that soft spot in her heart extends to Goblins.”

  She smelled the lavender long before they saw the fields. Pine-like and rich, a smell that was intoxicating even now that she’d learned about the dark secrets that might be buried beneath the soil. They crested a hill and the first lavender rows appeared in long arcs that stretched toward the midday sun. It was a clear day, but there was a chill in the air. She was glad for her jacket. She patted the pockets where she had stashed a knife and the contra-beastie spell.

  Beau pulled ahead of the pack and signaled to the others to follow him down the road to the estate. The Château des Mille Fleurs’ topiary hedge rose along both sides of the road. The leaves looked sharper, more like slick green blades. Had the hedge always been so high? It was tall enough now to block out the sun and plunge them into shadow.

  Beau slowed to a steady crawl as he led the procession of motorcycles down the gravel lane, but he didn’t bother to cut his engine, dismount, and walk his bike. There was no reason for stealth—​the crow spies had made certain they would surprise no one. He stopped ten feet from the gate, signaling for the Goblins to go no farther.

  “The hedge is dangerous,” he called. “Don’t let anyone get too close.”

  “So how do we get through?” December asked.

  Beau dismounted and waved over Anouk and the others. In Luc’s fairy tales, armies always brought a vast array of weapons: pistols, armored horses, missiles. But the most threatening-looking things in this Goblin army were a few sharp hatpins. They were as bound by the vitae echo as the Royals. This battle would be fought with magic, not firearms.

  Anouk and Luc and Cricket and Beau gathered beside the call box. Hunter Black, in typical Hunter Black fashion, had separated himself from the crowd and was inspecting the hedge as closely as he dared. From the corner of her eye, Anouk saw a Goblin take cautious steps to the nearest branch and poke it hesitantly with an umbrella. She was about to call for him to back away when Luc said, “We could dig under.”