Quickly, I find the file of Sebastian Bonaparte—the criminal whose hide has wrapped a dozen copies of the same classic novel now sitting in homes across the globe. I’m a thorough man. There wasn’t a single mark on his skin. I don’t find any evidence of branding in the post-mortem photos, either. The remaining report contains the same information Scull initially provided: relatively young, professor of occult studies, employed by St. Aurelius’s Liberal Arts.
My brow furrows. I flip to Margot’s resignation letter, addressed to St. Aurelius’s Liberal Arts. My brother’s runaway fiancée worked at the same academy as a criminal who was more than likely related to a dead member of Leviathan. A member who was murdered during the Morgensterns’ war with the Volkovs.
I immediately dial Emi.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” answers a voice thatisn’t hers.
“Petit Diable?”
“Disappointed?”
“Not at all.” Poppy has been recovering this past week, resting as per my instruction. My world, though, has strangely dimmed in her absence. “Where’s Emi?”
“Masturbating in the bath. May I take a message?”
I choke on a swallow, dragging a hand down my stupid smile. “I found a lead on Margot. Possibly Leviathan, too.”
“Thank fuck. I’m going insane in this bed.”
Insane.The lighthearted jest reminds me of our last encounter, when I’d been dropping her off at Beelzebub’s. Something wasn’t right with her on that ride back from Indigo after speaking with her parents. She didn’t hear a word I’d said, like she wasn’t even next to me. She was just staring at her tattoo, gaze glazed as if in a trance.
I’d be lying if I said it isn’t starting to scare the ever living shit out of me. If she keeps throwing fuel onto the flames of her impending burnout, there’s a high chance she’ll start to unravel into panic attacks. Maybe even hallucinate. Possibly hurt herself and others she doesn’t truly mean to harm.
Just like my father.
“Well?” Poppy snaps, cutting through my thoughts. “That’s your cue to tell me more,monsieur.”
As I catch her up on what I’ve found, my mind wanders back to that night, turning over every word she spoke and expression she wore for the signs I so clearly missed—the stress, the anxiety, the episode of complete dissociation.
Slowly, I reach a harrowing conclusion: Poppy isn’t drowning; she’s trapped at the bottom of a crumbling empire as the weight of expectation crushes her into oblivion.
“Brontë,” Poppy barks, startling me. “Are you still there?”
Angels, nowI’mthe one dissociating. “Oui,still here.”
“I asked if St. Aurelius’s would have a storage area for staff that are no longer employed.”
“Like an archive? I would think so.”
“Parfait.Are you free tomorrow night for a little adventure?”
Checking my work schedule, I frown at the graveyard shift penciled in for tomorrow night. Easy enough to switch, though. A few of my colleagues owe me favors for covering their past shifts when I didn’t have a life outside work and the studio.
“Depends,” I tease, if only to keep her on the line a moment longer. “Does this ‘little adventure’ involve breaking-and-entering?”
“Is that a problem?”
It should be, but the fact that she’s asking for my help means if I agree, I’ll be with her if shit goes south. Or worse—if she’s attacked by her anxiety and gets caught by campus security.
“Not a problem,” I say. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”
Poppy chirps, “It’s a date,” and promptly hangs up.
“Angels above, bless my soul.” I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair and suddenly fiending for a smoke. “I have a date with a fucking devil.”
LA FIN
Poppy
