“There you are, Little Prince.”
Lucien’s voice breaks through my agony. I look up to see him descend upon me, his lips curled back into a satisfied smirk. There are two drops of blood on his starched collar. He gives no indication that he saw what happened.
He picks me up by the arm and dusts off my suit.
“Are you determined to embarrass me, Little Prince? You shouldn’t have run from the brasserie, but I forgive you. It’s been a long time since the bloodlust was new in me. I’ve forgotten the thrill of it. You’ve been hunting, I see. There’s blood all over you, and you smell sublime. Are you sated?”
I shake my head, too numb to register what he’s asking.
Arabella tried to have me killed by a monster.
I thought I could make her see the truth of why I took the collar, but we can’t come back from this.
“Then we must begin our lesson.” Lucien claps a hand on my shoulder, shoving me forward. “I know just the place. A perfect hunting ground.”
I follow him like a dog trotting after its master. Lucien chats amicably about the gift he’s given me, the life I can expect to enjoy at his side. I don’t hear a word, so lost am I in memories of gold-rimmed eyes and the taste of raspberries. So lost that I don’t notice until it’s too late that Lucien has led us to a familiar Montmartre neighbourhood.
“Come and see what’s become of your courtesan!” Lucien laughs, tugging me along.
Even before we reach the old church, I know something is wrong. My vampiric senses pick up a tang of smoke in the air. Arabella’s ginger and myrrh scent clings to the pavement, but it’s sickly with fear. Lucien laughs to himself as we round the corner.
No.
I don’t believe what I’m seeing. It’s a trick of this disease Lucien infected me with. It’s the magic trying to seduce me to ruin. I’m seeing my nightmares come to life.
But it’s real. The stone facade of La Petite Mort is a pile of rubble and charred wooden beams. The statue of Jesus peeks out from beneath the broken remnants of the stage. Fire-stained air stings my throat. The blaze has long since been extinguished. The exposed guts of the building remain – a carcass strewn across the ground.
La Petite Mort is no more.
The street is eerily silent, no revellers or bohemians lined up outside, no haunting music or moans of ecstasy from the VIP confessionals.
Where is Arabella?
What did Lucien do to her?
She wished me dead. I should hate her.
But I can’t bear to see this place she loved as a charred ruin.
My fangs dig into my lip. I taste blood. I tasterage.
The magic whispers a single, intoxicating word.
Vengeance.
Lucien looks like the cat who found a bowl of cream. He touches the necklace beneath his shirt. “Your littlecocotte’sluck ran out.”
This can’t be because of the necklace. That’s impossible. That would mean that its magic is real—
But monsters are real, because I am one, and magic is real, because I taste it on my tongue, because it’s whispering to me that Lucien doesn’t deserve to be my master.
I have to find Arabella.
Even if she wants me dead, even if she hates me for what I did, even if she never felt anything for me other than pity or scorn, I need to know she’s okay.
I have to make sure she knows what Lucien is, and what the scarredcreature who claimed her as his own truly wanted from her. She is surrounded by monsters and if I do nothing else with my wretched life, I will keep her safe from them.
A crisp breeze gusts from the direction of the river, sending ash and debris billowing down the street. Something slippery and golden wraps itself around my leg. I reach down to free it.
