Chapter 21

Feral Creatures

Honoré Côte had gotten good at dressing wounds over the years: Meat from the icebox for bruises. A splash of spirits in a gash. A needle over flame. Never mind that embroidery nonsense—her mother had taught her a different kind of stitching. Showed her just how much hurt a human body could take.

The slice in Céleste’s hand was clean, but it hardly felt that way.

Honoré’s feelings seethed through the ring, shivering where the metal ribboned its way into her veins. Flecks of her friend’s blood had dried on her dragon’s fangs. The bite had happened too fast to tell if Honoré had truly lost control of the beast. Or not. Both possibilities scared her. She’d never thought she’d face someone worse than her father—who’d thrashed and hit and broken the people she loved. But this new Terreur, the way he twisted loyalties… How could you fight demons if they were your friends? Your family? Yourself?

Honoré tucked her dragon hand in her pocket and watched La Fée Verte examine Céleste’s wound.

“You don’t need magic,” the Sanct told them. “Only time.”

Céleste sank back into the front room’s settee and stared at the ceiling, where Sylvie had grown a hammock nest in the vines, empty at the moment.

“Please,” Honoré pressed. “I— The wound was my fault.” It felt dangerous, saying this, looking from La Fée Verte’s amber eyes to Céleste’s sterling ones. “I don’t want Céleste to suffer. Can you heal her? Is that even possible?”

“It is,” the Sanct said.

Céleste straightened in the settee. “But?”

“There’s a cost.”

Her friend paled then. “I’m guessing it’s not a pair of painted pants.”

“No.” A faint hint of amusement danced across La Fée Verte’s face, before her expression grew dark. “One person’s flesh can only be mended with another’s.”

The memory of blood across the Caveau des Terreurs’s sandy floor came slithering back. Honoré shut her eyes, trying to unsee that terrible image of Terreur’s empty chest wound closing. He hadn’t needed a needle or thread to sew himself back together—only Rémy. And La Belle. And countless other corpses, left out to dry like a tanned cow’s hide.

“It’s not a pretty magic.” La Fée Verte’s voice echoed against the delicate glass ceiling. “I’ve watched other Sancts travel too far down that path—taking lives to strengthen their own. I find it best to avoid the temptation altogether.”

When Honoré opened her eyes again, she saw Céleste staring. You see? Her gray eyes seemed to say. It’s not so easy, mon amie.

“Use my hand,” Honoré said. “Use my hand to heal hers.”

“Are you sure, my dame? Her wound is so small.”

If only it were…

“Yes.” Honoré was sure about this because she was so unsure of everything else. Eleanor’s note was still bleeding ink in her pocket, and despite Honoré’s best efforts, no one had been saved today. La Fée Verte was weaker than ever. Gabriel was a shadow puppet. Rafael too, albeit in a less obvious manner. Céleste was dying. The new Terreur couldn’t. And the harder Honoré fought, the worse things got.

Fuck.

Her ring hand started to shake, but it was the other palm that La Fée Verte lifted. She placed it over Céleste’s wound and then put her own hand on top of it. There was a wash of golden light from her face—and a moment of candle-warm peace. Then, the sting. Honoré gritted her teeth.

Céleste did not look relieved.

She was waiting for Honoré to tell La Fée Verte the truth of why they were really here. But that cost? It was more than a scratch. It was lungs. A life. It was more than even Honoré was willing to pay.

“There.” La Fée Verte stepped back. “All better.”

Honoré let her hand slide away. She looked up at Sylvie’s hammock, her own stomach fluttering again, sick with the thought of the happy ending she’d started to believe in: La Fée Verte at her side every dawn. Céleste healed. The salon safe. Paris too. So that Sylvie could fly over the city’s streets without landing in a morgue—her only name replaced by a question mark on the toe tag. What a terrifying thought. Honoré had only been able to keep it at bay because she’d believed Céleste and Rafe were entertaining Sylvie in the salon every evening, painting rainbows and… shit. They’d been lying about that too, of course. And if they weren’t keeping an eye on Sylvie at night, then the girl was almost certainly out playing explorer.

Or worse.

La Fée Verte’s green wings fanned wide. “What’s wrong, my dame?”

Everything. Everything is wrong, and the worst thing is, I can’t tell you…

Honoré tried not to clench her wounded hand. Harder still? Keeping her face blank. She’d shared so much with La Fée Verte in their golden sunrise moments, now a secret felt like sacrilege. What kind of knight used armor against their lady?

What kind of Enchantress abandoned her friends to die?

“Have you seen Sylvie recently?” It was hard to keep her voice level, to stop her thoughts from spiraling. Her last pink-hair sighting had been several nights, several days ago, but Honoré had just assumed the girl was in some hidden corner of the Quartier Secret.

“I don’t sense her in the salon.” La Fée Verte’s wing feathers began to swirl, a gust of green joining the leaves on the ceiling. “I can send birds to the other Sancts and ask if they’ve seen her around their establishments.”

“She’s probably camped out at Stohrer.” Céleste’s declaration sounded light, like powdered sugar, but Honoré wasn’t fooled.

Not anymore.

This search was different from Honoré’s usual patrols.

She did not fly, for one thing. Instead she kept the dragon close at hand, hardly trusting it in the air, much less with Céleste at her side. The other Enchantress had followed her out of the salon and over the Seine, staying silent until they reached Notre-Dame de Paris’s doors. The lobster gargoyle wasn’t dancing. Nor were the many saints next to it. Honoré stopped and stared at them, trying to muster up some kind of prayer. Please, please, don’t let anything happen to Sylvie…

But the kid shouldn’t count on saints to protect her.

That was Honoré’s job, and she’d failed.

Again.

She looked over at Céleste, who was taking in the height of the bell towers, her hair gleaming under the lamplights of the surrounding square. It was so easy to be angry—so often—but Honoré was finding it hard to fault her friend. She knew how persuasive Rafael García could be. She knew how far he’d go to get what he wanted. She’d almost followed him there herself, even though she knew next to nothing about Constantinople or artists’ colonies or what have you. The only thing that had stopped her was Gabriel.

She sometimes wondered what their lives would’ve become if she’d dared to dream, as Rafael so loved to say. What if she’d run to catch that train with her brother, instead of staying another few disastrous days at the Caveau? What if she’d left the note for her father to find? SEE YOU IN HELL—FEAR’S FIRST BASTARD. She thought of this and then, immediately, of Sylvie’s scowl: You shouldn’t say that in front of a church.

Honoré knew better. Sculpted saints didn’t give a shit about curse words. They didn’t seem to care much about her prayer either.

“Sylvie’s going to be all right.” Céleste’s voice chiseled at the ancient stones.

Honoré shut her eyes. She wanted to believe this, but even if she did, what difference would it make? Her father was in hell, while the devil was in Paris, and no amount of hope was going to change the fact someone she cared for would die soon. Céleste’s survival depended on La Fée Verte’s demise. And vice versa. The choice was impossible, and it was hers, and goddamn if she didn’t just want to step up onto the church and become a statue herself.

But really, this just made her think of La Fée Verte standing on the south bell tower at sunrise, those wings fanned wide and her smile so bright and her shoulder so warm against Honoré’s, so that nothing about the Enchantress felt like stone at all. No. She was flesh and blood and magic…

“Oh,” Céleste murmured beside her. “I think the gargoyles are whispering.”

Honoré might have mistaken the sound for wind, if she’d felt a breeze on her face. It was faint and gray, too gravelly for her to make out many words. “What are they saying?”

“I’m not sure… something about a door?”

“Great.” Honoré cracked an eyelid, sounding wry. “That narrows down our search.”

“Maybe the bookstore has a guide to gargoyle speech?” Céleste suggested.

But when they reached Libris’s shop, the Sanct shook his head. “Statues don’t usually speak enough to warrant a translation—but if it’s Notre-Dame’s statues you’re listening to, I can tell you what they’re saying. They repeat the same story over and over about the devil door—”

Lore meowed.

Fable hissed.

Libris frowned. “You’re searching for the daydreamer, yes?”

“Word must travel awfully fast, by cat,” muttered Honoré.

“It does,” the bookseller told her. “Your friend hasn’t been here since she tried to steal her story, but if you do track her down, tell her I found the lilac fairy book she was asking after.” Libris pulled the volume from a nearby shelf. Its binding was similar to the color of the Easter egg hair the imaginers had wanted Honoré to wear. Embossed wisteria blossoms scattered across the cover, along with a golden fairy dancing on the tail of a shooting star. “It’s a first edition, and one of the last…”

“What makes you say that?” Céleste asked.

“Andrew Lang died last year.”

Of course, he fucking did, Honoré mused darkly.

“I’ll hold it here until Sylvie returns,” Libris promised. He glanced again at the two cats perched on the locked glass case. Meow, meow. “Do you know a tom by the name of Marmalade? They tell me you should talk to him about the daydreamer.”

Of course, they fucking do. “Where can I find him?”

“Ha!” The bookseller laughed. “You don’t find cats. Cats find you.”

“Well, that didn’t simplify anything. Now we’re searching for two feral creatures,” Honoré grumbled as she and Céleste departed the bookshop. The other Enchantress turned toward the second arrondissement. “Where are you going?”

“Stohrer.”

“I doubt they have Marmalade there. Jam, maybe.”

“Sylvie goes to that bakery every single night,” Céleste said. “If we ask its Sanct when he last saw her, we’ll know how long she’s been missing, at least.” The other Enchantress no longer sounded so sugary—or sure—and Honoré realized then that Céleste’s declaration in front the cathedral had been her own version of a Hail Mary. She was quite talented at hiding her fears, even from herself, but Honoré had always known her friend’s habit of talking to statues after their fiddle games spoke to something deeper. More than just your typical lapsed-Catholic guilt. “We should pick up a pastry while we’re at it. It’ll soften the blow when we tell her about Monsieur Lang.”

And what about you? Honoré couldn’t bring herself to ask this question because she knew the answer depended on her. Honoré Côte, Defender of Dreamers.

The Shit Knight.

None of this is your fault, Honoré.

No, but it would be, if she didn’t sacrifice her best friend. Losing one Enchantress for a single evening was bad enough, and to make matters worse, it sounded as if Sylvie had been missing even longer than that.

“Ah, yes, the daydreamer. She’s got quite the spark!” said the Sanct behind Stohrer’s pastry cases. “She gave me an idea for this most curious cake three nights ago! A pie filled with candy butterflies. It’s been a joy to make—their wings are like stained glass, only made with melted sugar. I haven’t had such fun baking since my days as a pâtissier for the Beloved King himself! ‘Son of the sun,’ we called him. Well, a great-grandson, in truth, but he had enough shine to hold the throne. Couldn’t say as much for his own son—”

“Three nights ago?” Céleste interjected. “Has she been back since?”

The Sanct shook his head. “I’m surprised. I’ve been saving the first bite of this cake for her, but perhaps it was meant for you two instead—you both look like you could use some cheering up.”

He wrapped up the butterfly pie and handed it to Céleste. The other Enchantress made no move to open it. Why would she? No amount of sugar could coat the fact Sylvie had been missing for three whole nights. Honoré couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Her dragon ring was shaking too, when she stepped out of the shop, enough for Céleste to keep her distance when she followed suit.

Honoré didn’t blame her.

She didn’t even trust herself to move, so she stood on the curb. “What do we do, mon amie?”

Céleste—who always had a plan, who’d once talked her way out of a gendarme’s handcuffs—simply shook her head. Brown paper crinkled under her newly healed hand, and if Honoré squinted just right, she could pretend they were preparing for a picnic. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to go back to the mausoleum, to cut Sylvie a great big slice of tarte au chocolat and listen to the most ridiculous of her stories.

They could return to Père Lachaise, she realized.

If only to search.

“We should go home,” said Honoré. Céleste’s face pinched at the word, reminding her that they no longer lived there. Together. “Back to our grave, I mean.”

“I can’t,” the other Enchantress told her, her eyes foggy with worry. “It’s too dangerous. Rafe will be missing me, and so will Terreur if I stay much longer.”

And yet, Céleste seemed to be waiting. She’s waiting for me to stop her, Honoré thought faintly. But if I take her to the grave with me, it will bury her…

It wasn’t her dragon hand she reached out with. “You should probably leave the cake with me, then.”

Honoré Côte’s tomb was not empty.

She’d fully expected it to be—but there was movement behind the doors when she stepped over her alarm bells and into the clearing. Light shone from the mausoleum’s roof as well—the rosy shimmer of a lantern.

“Sylvie?” Honoré’s voice was hopeful as she called out into the crisp air, but she had her knives ready—both dreamed and steel. “Is that you?”

No answer.

A shadow darted beyond the entrance.

Honoré crept up the steps and kicked in the scrolling iron door.

“OWWWWWWWWWWWWT!”

The noise was ghastly. If she’d been the more superstitious sort, she might have expected to see her namesake sitting on his tombstone. Instead, Honoré found herself facing down the orange tomcat.

That explained the movement, at least, but the lights… Honoré halted, trying to understand what she was seeing. Dreams. Dreams stuffed into mattresses and hanging under the glass stars. She knew Sylvie had said she was saving her imaginings, but she’d claimed the same thing about a bag of bonbons she’d once wheedled Céleste into buying. The sweets were gone in less than an hour, so Honoré had assumed the girl’s dreams would suffer a similar fate.

She’d been wrong.

The mausoleum had been transformed. It reminded Honoré of a smaller—much smaller—version of La Fée Verte’s cave.

“OWWWWWT!” The tomcat hissed again when she stepped inside.

The beast looked larger than life against the dreams’ reflections—almost tigerlike.

“You’ve made yourself at home here, haven’t you?” Honoré caught herself. “Mon Dieu, I’m talking to a cat.”

Marmalade looked even less pleased than Honoré at this turn of events. His tail stub twitched irritably as he let out a long, low, continuous growl.

“You haven’t seen our mutual pink-haired friend lately, have you? Fable and Lore asked me to ask.”

The tomcat fell silent and tilted his head. Orange eyes narrowed.

“She’s been missing for three days.” Honoré felt the youngest Enchantress’s mattress for any stray sign of warmth. Her hand came back covered in cat fur. “I’m worried.”

Marmalade let out a plaintive meow. With all the magic of this place, Honoré could’ve sworn she heard a me too tucked inside its echo.

“That girl acts as if she has seven lives or something!” That was the saying, at least when it came to cats. Honoré knew it wasn’t true, but this hadn’t stopped her from wishing it when she was younger.

Marmalade hopped down from the tombstone and wound himself around Honoré’s ankles. The fur was as soft and warm as she remembered. If not brighter. Honoré stood very still as her trouser legs became flecked with orange.

There was no flash of teeth.

No sudden sink of claws.

The cat seemed to be… comforting her.

Slowly, slowly, Honoré knelt and scratched Marmalade between his ragged ears. “You’re not such a nasty old bastard after all, are you?”

The moggy began to purr.

“He says he’d like you to move just a little bit to the left, thank you very much—”

Honoré spun around, and Marmalade darted between her legs, straight into Sylvie’s waiting arms. The girl stood in the doorway. It looked for all the world as if she’d grown. Her hair was still garishly pink but mostly covered by a hat. The style was strange—earflaps lined with fur. Honoré had a feeling the headpiece hadn’t been made in Paris.

“Where the hell have you been?” she asked tartly.

“Oh, Honoré!” The girl sounded breathless, as if she’d run a very great distance in a very short time. “You’re never going to believe what happened… I met a princess!”