“Selene,” he choked. She loosened the vines around his throat. “I didn’t know that they’d kept him from you. I swear to you.”
She wished he were culpable. There was so much of the king in his face. If she wanted to, if she pretended, she could exact her revenge. Take away another heir. Burn this city to the ground. But he was innocent of this, and she knew it. The fury inside her turned to ash.
The vines browned and broke and crumbled.
“All of these years wasted.” She fell to her knees. “Some stars burn bright; some stars burn out.”
Victor was there beside her. There was blood on his wrists and throat, leaving ruby droplets in the snow. She was sorry she’d hurt him. This wasn’t his fault. He brought her to his lap, his arms around her, and she tried to breathe, but she could not fill her lungs. Her chest compressed. She tried to remember what it was like to breathe. She couldn’t. She didn’t know how.
Victor held her. He whispered words to her, sang the waiting song. After a while, she was able to match her breathing to his. Slow and even. She felt dizzy and sick.
“You’re wrong about the stars,” he said gently, face nestled in her hair. “The death of a star is not a winking out of existence. When it runs out of fuel, it collapses into itself and explodes. Brighter than ever. More than it ever was. A supernova.”
Selene let out a shaky breath. What did that make her? What did that make her father? His star wasn’t gone. It was merely shadowed, forgotten. She had to do something to help him. She remembered the way the ghost—Dante—had bled to burn away her migraine. How much it had taken out of him. How much more would the cost be for a shattered mind? She’d pay it. She’d find a way to pay the price.
Could magic undo what magic had done? She had to hope. The ghost would know. The ghost always knew.
And now she had his name.
Victor pressed his lips to her forehead. “I’m sorry. I would have done all of this differently if I had known.”
“It’s not your fault,” Selene said, certainty settling into her bones.
It was the king’s fault. Hatred for him burned in Selene with overwhelming certainty. He was the center of everything that had gone wrong in her life.
Victor caught the tears on her cheeks with his thumb and brushed them away. For three slow breaths, Selene let herself savor this moment and the softness of his touch. There was a world in which she could be this girl: uncomplicated and savable. A girl waiting for a triumphant rescue by some lovely prince. But she didn’t know how to be that girl. She broke free of him and stepped away. All of her secrets seemed so small. She didn’t care about anything, except what she had to do next.
This time, it was pain, and not music. She took hold of the thorns and let them sink deep into her flesh. The blood turned to shadow in an instant. She was present in her pain, no need for memory. A force of wind strong enough to carry her up and over the city. She didn’t care who saw her. She didn’t care for the consequences or cost.
She crossed the sky like it was a dance floor, her cloak whipping behind her. She flew, bleeding shadows and singing a requiem for a dream.
Chapter 37
In the moment where misery crossed into despair, Selene knew she’d found the heart of the magic. She could use this for an endless supply of magie du sang. There was no place in her that didn’t hurt. Her father was alive, and she’d wasted all these years. Her father was alive, and she’d been lied to again and again. Her father wasalive.
The air was cold and crisp and cut against her skin. The blood turned shadows held her aloft over the city. There was little regard for the cost. The magie du sang could take all of her. She wasn’t afraid. There was no room for fear. There was only rage.
The roof of the opera house settled beneath her feet. The shadows rose like steam from her still-bleeding hand. She wanted the ghost. She needed the ghost.Dante Dumas.Once he was out, he’d know the magic to piece together a broken mind. The mirror would let her in. It had to. She had her father’s painting. And his ruined dream.
She kept her bleeding hand aloft, ready to use the flowing blood and a thousand miseries to push anyone out of her way. But the hallways were clean and empty. Selene saw no one, save for King Renard, dusty on his tapestry.
There was no time for the boat. She sang a bridge of ice, running across it with an impending sense of finality. She didn’t care about L’Opéra du Magician anymore. She didn’t want to serve a king who had lied and kept her from her father. The bioluminescent creatures lit the mirror in a dazzling, dreamy blue. The mirror stood sentinel to it all, the shape of Dante behind the glass. He was there and he was waiting for her. She was afraid if she stopped to catch her breath, she’d lose her resolve.
She hit the mirror at full force, bloody hand stretched out.
There was no collision.
Only darkness.
It caught her up in its web, so close to her skin that she was sure it was taking parts from her. She sang the light of a thousand stars. But the shadows didn’t burn away as they had before. They lingered, suffering the light a moment longer to stay close to her before they slithered off.
The ghost stood in a scattering of light, his eyes pale and endless as mountain ice. He looked surprised to see her, and then horrified. Maybe it was all the blood. Standing in the mirror, all her cuts started to heal. If only the mirror worked the same for the wounds inside.
“Dante,” Selene said softly, tasting the magic on her lips. His eyes widened, his perfect mouth forming his own name. “Dante Dumas!”
It was like a flash of lightning. The shadows shrieked and wove around them. He was all light, his eyes brighter and brighter. He remembered. She knew, she knew, she knew. She could see the blue in his eyes blur with the force of it. He brought his hand up to his cheek. A single, shadowed tear had slipped free.
He was whole.
