Grim Lovelies

by Megan Shepherd

  “Leave it!” December dragged her away toward the open window. “It’s too late. The wolf is gone.”

  “No!” Anouk dug in her heels. “We can’t!”

  “Oh, we can.”

  December embraced her in a macabre bear hug, pinning her arms so she couldn’t fight back, and before Anouk could get another word out, before she could look one last time at Hunter Black dying, the Goblin tipped them both out the window and they were falling, falling into a world that smelled of ash.

  Chapter 39

  Seven Hours of (New) Enchantment Remain

  Ouch.

  For a few breaths, all Anouk could do was stare at the sky and try not to throw up. Waves of pain radiated through her body. She didn’t dare move, afraid that she’d discover that her bones had snapped. She could even feel spindly, sharp bones protruding and poking at her legs . . .

  Twigs.

  She lifted her head and found she wasn’t broken at all. She had landed on a pile of branches that had once been a topiary soldier that the Goblins had killed. She sat up, wincing. December was fishing twigs out of her tangled blond braids.

  “You shouldn’t have done that!” Anouk coughed.

  “You’re welcome.” December brushed leaves off her jacket, pushed herself to her feet, balanced precariously on the pile of hedge clippings, and extended a hand to help Anouk up.

  They clambered free of the hedge, and Anouk pitched her head back and looked at the bell tower, hoping for some indication that Hunter Black wasn’t dead. But it was awfully, deafeningly silent, and her hopes slipped away. There was no sign of the prince either, but she could feel his presence; it was like knowing you weren’t alone in a dark room. He was close. He was coming. Nothing she’d seen so far could stop him, except . . .

  “What was that magic dust?” she asked quickly.

  December tugged the small bag out of her pocket. “It comes from the Pretty World. I figured the prince wouldn’t know what it was and so he’d freak out.” She handed Anouk the bag and added, “It isn’t magic. We use it for parties.”

  Anouk squinted at the words on the package. “Glitter?”

  December waggled her eyebrows. “It’s sparkly.”

  Voices came from somewhere within the château. Anouk caught a flash of movement behind the curtains of Mada Zola’s storerooms. She tossed aside the glitter. Dread built itself around her, stacking up like bricks. All they could do was run.

  Movement near the fountain caught her eye. Someone was trying to sit up.

  “Beau!”

  She and December ran across the garden and crouched next to him. Blood poured from a gash in his shoulder, and his right arm looked unnaturally loose, like it was missing half its bones. A merlot-colored bruise covered his jaw, spreading down the sinews of his neck, as though something had grabbed him by the throat and lifted him clear off the ground.

  “I’m okay,” he said, though he cringed when he sat up. “At least, I will be. The others?”

  She cringed too.

  How could she tell him? She could barely hold on to the knowledge herself without shattering like a broken teapot, and then there was the guilt, the awful guilt. She’d brought them all here. She was responsible.

  “We have to get out of here,” she choked out. “Any moment, the lesser Royals are going to throw open those doors and grill us like toast. I’ve used up all the strength I had from Viggo’s blood. We have to run.”

  “And go where?” he asked.

  She paused. “Back to Paris. To Viggo and the townhouse. The spell that protects it is ancient magic, not the kind that dies with a witch. The Royals won’t be able to enter. We’ll be safe there. The Goblins will too.”

  “You’ll need this.” December tugged on one of her brass chains connected to a small pouch. She shook out a vial and pressed it into Anouk’s hand. “The antidote to Tenpenny’s elixir. You have to drink it before you go from dead-ish to full dead. It will restart your hearts. Slowly—​you won’t turn back right away. But it can’t protect you against midnight.”

  “And when midnight strikes,” Beau said, “without a witch or a Royal to recast the spell . . .” He didn’t have to finish.

  Anouk handed him the vial. “When that happens—​if it happens—​we’ll be together, at home.”

  He looked as though he might protest again, but then she saw the exhaustion in him. He was hurt. Bleeding. He might be lucky to make it to midnight at all.

  He uncorked the vial, drank down a dram, and then handed it to Anouk. It tasted foul—​that came as no surprise—​and yet it had a subtle, sweet herbal aftertaste that lingered on her lips, making them tingle, and the sensation traveled all the way down her throat.

  She pressed a hand to her chest, rubbing life back into her newly awakened heart. “December, spread the word among the Goblins who can still drive. Tell them to carry as many wounded as they can back to Paris and meet us at 18 Rue des Amants. They can take shelter there.”

  December left to tell the survivors, and in seconds, the first revs of engines began. Anouk rested a hand on Beau’s bruised cheek.

  “We don’t have the Rolls-Royce.” He coughed.

  “No.”

  “And my arm . . . I can’t steer a motorcycle with only one hand.”

  “No.”

  “And you can’t drive, and the Goblins are going to be overloaded with the wounded. So what do we do, cabbage? Hot-air balloon?”

  She laid a hand on his shirt and smoothed out the wrinkles. “I have a better idea. There’s a garage hidden behind the chapel.”

  He leaned toward her so fast that they almost bumped heads. “Cars?”

  She nodded.

  “Cabbage, I could kiss you.”

  “There’ll be time for that if we get out of here.” She grabbed the lapels of his shirt and pulled him to his feet. His face twisted in a grimace as he hobbled on his left leg, clutching his left arm, which hung too low from his shoulder, the joint protruding unnaturally. Piles of ash billowed columns of smoke that they weaved between, pressing sleeves to their mouths as their eyes burned. Dozens of Goblins rushed in a dizzying mob toward the motorcycles, which roared to life one by one. But it was hard to feel relief for the survivors as they hobbled past dozens more bodies on the lawn, limbs twisted like switches of ivy, and glistening white stone statues of Goblins who had once danced among gravestones beneath the streets of Paris.

  She looked up at the bell tower. Empty now.

  “What happened to Luc and Cricket and Hunter Black?” Beau coughed out. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  She concentrated on the pillars of smoke. On the dirt path to the garage. Anything but those awful animal howls.

  “Anouk?”

  “Turned.” She had to spit the word. “All of them. And Hunter Black . . .” She swallowed back bitter heartache. Ironically—​tragically—​it hadn’t been until he’d become an animal that he’d been his most human. “I don’t think he made it.”

  Beau’s feet stopped on their own. A look of surprise passed over his face, and it seemed like he had to force himself to start walking again.

  “And we just leave them?”

  It pulled at her like tiny little thorns in her skin, scratching her up inside. What would the hero in one of Luc’s fairy tales do? Charge back in to save his friends? This wasn’t a fairy tale. This was a graveyard.

  “Rennar put them in cages. If we go back for them now, we’ll never get out. But we’ll come back for them,” she promised. “We’ll find a way out of this, I know we will. For us and for them.”

  Beau didn’t remind her that they themselves were only hours away from turning. He didn’t have to; it was a noxious, dense cloud over the both of them.

  A bolt of light suddenly shot from an upper window. Anouk tugged Beau behind a Goblin statue a second before the bolt shattered against the stone. Dust and pebbles rained over their hair and clothes.

  “The lesser Royals.” Anouk gasped.

  Anoth
er ripple of light was lobbed past them, close enough to graze Anouk’s arm. She cried out. Heat throbbed in her shoulder. But when she pressed her palm to the pain, it came back clean. No blood. The metallic threads in the Faustine jacket had deflected the attack.

  “Tenpenny was right,” she said. “Fashion is magic.”

  Two more flashes of light erupted from the upper windows, shattering the two nearest statues. One after the other, Beau and Anouk darted from shelter to shelter, crouching behind a fountain, then hiding behind the potting shed.

  “The garage is just to the left of the chapel,” Anouk said, her breath shallow. “We’ll have to make a run for it. Are you ready?”

  “No. Come on!”

  Together they ran across the final exposed stretch of garden between the potting shed and the château. White-hot streaks lit up the grounds like summer lightning. Fountains exploded in spectacular sprays of rubble that clattered on their backs, and for a second she glanced at the château and saw them there, lesser counts and duchesses and baronesses, each one framed in a window, proud and arrogant, like their portraits.

  “Anouk, watch out!”

  Beau shoved her with his good shoulder as another flash burned the place she’d been a half a second ago. She tumbled to the grass and crawled forward with her heart in her throat until she felt the cool press of stone at her back, the air once more in her lungs.

  “There.” She indicated a row of garage doors. “That’s it.”

  Beau was already standing on tiptoe and shading his eyes to peer through a window. He made a soft exclamation. “Ils sont si belle.”

  “You’re talking about the cars?”

  “Well, and you, cabbage.”

  He pushed open the window and then made a stirrup of his hands to help her up. She climbed ungracefully through on her stomach, swung a leg over, and dropped down into the garage. Beau climbed in behind her, dusting off his hands.

  “Which one?” she asked.

  In the faint light from the few windows, the cars were like shadowy things from a dream world. His eyes devoured car after car as he ran between them, reverently touching their hoods. “The Aston Martin . . . no, the Bentley . . . mon Dieu, is that a Huracán?”

  She dragged him to the first car.

  “Right,” he said. “The Aston Martin it is.”

  Mercifully, it was unlocked. Beau slid into the driver’s seat and, with his good arm, searched for the keys behind the visors. In the passenger side, Anouk checked the glove box.

  Beau cursed. “No keys.”

  “They have to be here somewhere.” Anouk rifled again through the glove box, pulling out crumpled receipts and unpaid speeding tickets, and looked under her seat but found only a muddy pair of combat boots.

  A knock at the passenger-side window made them both jump.

  Petra.

  In the dim light, her face looked spectral on the other side of the glass. She dangled a set of silver keys.

  Anouk and Beau exchanged a look.

  “She could still have the gun,” Anouk whispered.

  “I can hear you,” Petra said, then tapped on the glass again. “These are old ’68 pane windows. The glass is not exactly soundproof.”

  With a held breath, Anouk cranked down the window. “Petra,” she said. “If I can just explain—”

  “Don’t bother.” Petra tossed the keys into Anouk’s lap. She did it so simply, so effortlessly, that Anouk was left with blankness on her tongue. She’d expected to spend precious minutes they didn’t have making desperate bargains, but—​

  “Take the N Seven along the Rhône,” Petra said. “Traffic’s awful this time of day on the E Fifteen.”

  Anouk’s thoughts crashed back to her, and she sputtered, “Just like that?”

  Petra leaned on the open car window, her eyes hooded. “You put me in a tough place, Anouk. You wanted me to betray my mother for a group of beasties I barely knew. But she’s gone now and it’s Rennar’s fault.”

  Anouk held up the keys. “So you’re helping us escape to get back at Rennar?”

  Petra didn’t deny it. There was a shadow behind her eyes—​she’d lost the person she’d loved most in the world, a particular pain that Anouk knew well. “Revenge is as good a reason as any. And like I said, I like you.” She jerked her chin at Beau as Anouk handed him the keys. “Put it in fifth gear on the highway. Purrs like a kitten.”

  She let go of the car and started to go, but Anouk grabbed her wrist. “Wait. The others.”

  Petra looked away sharply, and for a second, Anouk saw her mask fall, revealing a well of deep emotion there. “Yeah. I’ve seen the cages.”

  “Promise me you’ll take care of them.”

  Petra didn’t answer.

  “Promise.”

  Petra’s wrist was thin, like Anouk’s own, but that didn’t mean strength didn’t flow through both of them. In the quiet of the garage, Anouk could feel the steady pulse-pulse-pulse of the girl’s heartbeat.

  Petra nodded. “I’ll do what I can for them. Now get out of here already.”

  She tugged on a cord hanging from the ceiling, and the nearest garage door rose. Beau turned the key and the Aston Martin roared to life. He threw it in reverse, then pressed the gas. And then they were tearing out of the garage into the garden. Sparking bolts of white-hot magic hurtled at them from all directions, singeing the hood ornament, cracking against the windshield. As they sped through the dirt path between the lavender fields, Anouk dared one last glance in the side mirror at the château. A figure stood in the bell tower, silhouetted against the fading sun, heavily favoring one leg.

  Prince Rennar had survived, which meant that Hunter Black probably hadn’t.

  He remained perfectly still as he watched them leave, and even long after they were on the highway back to Paris, Anouk felt velvety tapeta eyes on the back of her neck.

  Chapter 40

  Three Hours of (New) Enchantment Remain

  They spoke little on the drive back to Paris. What was there to say, Anouk thought, except I’m sorry?

  I’m sorry, Hunter Black.

  I’m sorry, Cricket.

  I’m sorry, Luc, and Tenpenny, and all the Goblins who died.

  I’m sorry to you, Beau, and to me—​because I can’t stop midnight.

  That damn black-cat clock was still ticking away on the dashboard, and somewhere around Grenoble, Beau grabbed it with his good hand and threw it out the window. Anouk said nothing. She was glad to see it go. No more clocks. No more ticking. She didn’t want to know the countdown to the end. If this was truly it, then she wanted to spend their last night free of the weight of time. She wanted to curl up in an enormous bed full of soft pillows, just Beau and her and Viggo—​if Viggo was okay—​and drink Mada Vittora’s champagne and drape herself in diamonds and kiss Beau and, oh yes, kiss Beau. That most of all.

  She squeezed the franc-coin necklace, keeping it safe in her fist.

  When she’d dropped a coin in the fountain at the end of Rue des Amants, she’d made a wish to keep them safe. Had the coin worked? Or had it been her whisper in the closet that had protected them? Or perhaps simply luck?

  But a coin was all she had now.

  She leaned forward, looked up through the windshield at the moon.

  “We’re almost there,” Beau said, as though reading her worries. “We’ll make it before midnight.”

  They entered the city, and Paris didn’t disappoint. The clouds had lifted, and the night was velvety black and beautiful. The more she saw of Paris, the more dreamlike it was; she wasn’t sure where the streetlights ended and the stars began. She leaned her head against the cool window, watching the blocks roll by one by one. Cafés and boutiques. Pharmacies and patisseries. And above the shops, lights were on in apartments where families watched television, and couples snuggled on sofas, and mothers taught their daughters to cook coq au vin.

  She pressed the pads of her fingers to the glass, wanting to touch the city, to taste it, to
know all there was to know about everything in the world.

  They passed a church with a spotlighted spire that drew her eye up, up, to the very top, where a clock presided over the streets.

  She jerked upright abruptly: She couldn’t help but see the time.

  “Beau. It’s ten minutes to midnight.”

  The Aston Martin purred beneath them as he whipped around corners, dodging other cars with an easy grace. And then the houses were more familiar; she recognized that gabled rooftop. That dented mailbox. They were on Rue des Amants.

  Beau started to park and Anouk was out of the car before they’d even fully stopped. She ran around to his door, threw it open, and tugged him out, away from the house and toward the far end of the lane.

  “Where are you going?”

  With her other hand, she clutched her franc necklace. “The fountain.”

  An odd look crossed his face, and then his eyes fell to the coin and a kind of heartbroken sadness filled them as he realized what she hoped—​foolishly—​to do. “Anouk . . .”

  “It might work, Beau.”

  “It might not.”

  “But it might.”

  The street lamp threw a halo of light over his face. A face she knew nearly as well as her own—​full lips that were like heaven to touch, his almost too-big nose, sandy hair that had a way of curling in the damp. His features were heavy with doubt. But then, little by little, the doubt melted away. Before her eyes, he became just a boy again.

  He grinned. “All right. Screw it. Let’s make a wish.”

  Hand in hand, they ran for the wishing fountain at the end of the lane. Past the townhouses Anouk had stared at dreamily through the windows. Past a tiny bulldog with big ears and an even bigger bark. Their feet skidded as they ducked into the fountain alleyway.

  It was darker here, away from the streetlights.

  Blue-black shadows encased the fountain; starlight reflected on the tinkling water. The gargoyle spat water into the pool, that mischievous half smile on his face, the one that had once repulsed her but now filled her with affection.