Chapter 40

Safe and Sound

Céleste Artois sat atop of one of the tallest palaces in Paris. Up here, she couldn’t help but think of her father and wonder what the man might think of her now—with all the world’s wealth at her fingertips. And wings too. There was no danger in falling from the Palais Garnier’s famous wedding cake dome. For her, at least.

It doesn’t matter if you’re six feet under or on top of the goddamn world. Corpses can be stripped, and kings can be beheaded. There is always more to be taken, so it’s best to be the taker.

The prayer looped through her head. It was getting harder to believe lately. Harder to keep up the mask… and her masque. Terreur had taught her to knot shadows and blot the sun—only a few days ago, she’d plunged the daytime sky into absolute black. He’d also taught Céleste how to wring enough power out of dying men so she could do such deeds. She didn’t kill them—the bullets did that—but she did stand over their broken bodies and watch their eyes go as dark as her eclipse. She leaned in close as a kiss and let her own gaze darken.

Céleste hated what she saw in the dressing room mirrors these days.

Her opera gowns were often covered in mud and blood after she returned from the battlefield, and the costumes she found to replace them were… well, costumes. She dressed like Egyptian queens and tragic Italian lovers and whatever else had been left inside Mademoiselle Leroux’s wardrobe. She sat in front of the mirror, hoping for glimpses of the other Enchantresses hunting for Terreur’s elusive heart, but often all she saw was the undoing of the prima donna. That, or the swirl of her own black masque. It looked as if someone had taken a tattoo needle to her cheekbones—piercing the skin with ink again and again and again.

It fit a bit too well.

This was one reason why Céleste had chosen to raid the dead soprano’s closet. If she dressed theatrically, she could remind herself that she was playing a part, without Terreur getting suspicious. He rarely read her thoughts these days, but every once in a while, Céleste would catch the Sanct looking. Watching her from his opera box or regarding her through a battalion of bleeding men or appearing behind the mirror like some unholy apparition, as if trying to scare her. She did not flinch. An Egyptian queen would simply smile instead.

Terreur was starting to smile back.

It wasn’t love behind his gaze; Céleste understood the Sanct was not capable of that. But admiration?

Perhaps.

She’d have to wait and see.

Eight months in and no end in sight. It wasn’t ideal, but desperate times called for desperate measures. They also called for a forger. Céleste had taken great care to copy what she’d found in Terreur’s original vision: the shuttered shops and bleak streets. It was only after she’d imagined these things that she slipped her own thought in. The tiniest seed of a suggestion: I will give Céleste Artois my heart.

She’d buried it deep in the dreary dream.

Too deep, perhaps.

Sylvie’s wigs hadn’t taken this long to manifest. Pants for women hadn’t become fashionable at all, despite Honoré’s best efforts, and damn, Céleste missed her friends more than she could say, more than she could even think—

“Hey!” One of the Apaches was clambering up to her perch, the wind licking his red scarf around his straining neck. It ruffled Gabriel’s blond hair too as he scaled the roof. “The boss is looking for you!” Céleste didn’t move when the young man settled next to her. “Damn!” He huffed and took in the view—one could see all the way across the Seine on a good evening. “I always wondered why you sat up here so much.”

She tried not to stiffen at this.

Tried not to notice how much the boy resembled Honoré. Gabriel even sat the same way—hunched like a gargoyle, his hands never still. He didn’t fidget for knives though. Céleste sometimes saw him tinkering at the grand piano in the studio where the ballerinas rehearsed, but he’d stopped playing bar tunes. He’d stopped playing much of anything when Terreur was around. Up here, though, at the top of the opera house dome, Gabriel Durand started to hum.

Céleste raised her eyebrows. “What song is that?”

“Oh.” The gangster pressed his knees to his chest, his fingers going still. “Nothing.”

A lie.

Interesting.

Céleste tilted her head, for she knew the tune. It was his sister’s hymn. The ballad of the Battlefield Angel. Judging by the way Gabriel was watching her now, he knew this too.

“You should take more care, Monsieur Durand,” she said, nodding at the patinaed zinc slope he’d just scaled. “It would be a nasty fall.”

The young man shrugged. “I might not have wings, but I got a second chance. And a third.” The necklaces, he meant. Gabriel wore saints, same as the rest of Terreur’s disciples, but he didn’t seem to go through them at quite the same rate as someone like Rémy. He hadn’t harvested much power from Belgium’s battlefields either. Céleste figured the only reason the boy wasn’t a husk himself was because Terreur knew his value to Honoré, knew she would die for her younger brother.

“It would still hurt a hell of a lot,” she told him.

“Not if I had my father’s ring.” Gabriel’s mouth twisted to the side, the way Honoré’s did whenever Sylvie said something terrible yet funny. “Hard to believe there was magic under my nose all along… Pa always said his dragon was lucky, but there was something about it. Something…” He paused, his eyes hardening. “Well, you never did know when it would turn on you.”

“Everything has a cost. Especially magic.” Céleste thought of the dragon climbing up Honoré’s neck, the way her friend had sobbed about leaving her brother behind in the catacombs with the rest of the dead. “I’m not sure the pain is always such a bad thing. We’d get too careless without it.”

“Like your friend Monsieur García?”

Céleste bit her lip; she couldn’t tell if the boy was baiting her or not. “He wasn’t a friend.”

“He was plotting with my sister though, no? And you were close with her?” Gabriel wrung his hands together. “When Anne’s dragon ring tried to swallow me in the catacombs, I saw things. I felt them… I always figured she was a liar. She lied all the time when we were little, see, telling me she bruised her ankle falling down the stairs or that Maman’s closet was a door to a secret world where no monsters could go or that my knights had ridden away on our black kitten’s back to have an adventure…”

That did sound awfully whimsical for Honoré.

“I thought she was lying about Rafael too, but after I got back to the Caveau, I started seeing things… things that had always been there. The fox carving on the bar. That train poster in the supply closet. Stuff that matched my new memories…” He shook his head, hard as a dog trying to get dry. The shadows on his face flickered.

Céleste wondered if he’d stumbled across Eleanor as well, wondered if he understood the risk he was taking just speaking to her now.

“You saw what happened to Rafe García too,” she said, her voice low. “There’s no second chance with Terreur—doesn’t matter how many saints you’re wearing.”

Gabriel fell quiet, his hand going up to his charms.

“You said he’s looking for me?”

“Oui,” the young man said. “He’s waiting in the main theatre. He seems… on edge.”

“I’d better see to him, then.” Céleste’s wings stretched as she stood. She didn’t dare wear feathers—but she’d copied the color of crows under sun. The same oil-spill shade of that first gown Jean Cocteau had dressed her in. When they were folded against her back, they looked like an iridescent cape.

Gabriel eyed them with a mixture of awe and envy.

“Do you need help getting down?” she asked the boy.

“I think I’ll stay up here,” he said, shaking his head. His fingers had gone back to playing unseen keys. His gaze strayed toward the horizon, flanked by the Palais Garnier’s angelic statues. “Enjoy the view a while longer.”

The Palais Garnier was strangely empty as Céleste flew over the grand staircase. At this hour, there were often performers about, or stagehands at the very least, but tonight the theatre’s curtains would not rise. Ballets and operas had dwindled since the start of the war—there was the matter of a smaller audience, yes, but Céleste had also overheard the workers complain that they thought the opera house might be haunted.

That phantom has returned…

What? The one from thirty-four years ago?

Oui! Haven’t you felt those strange drafts? Wind from nowhere? Smells like shit. And then there are the screams from empty rooms and the mud marks they got us scrubbing from the carpets.

It ain’t the old phantom. Ghosts don’t take holidays like that. My guess is it’s Jean-Luc’s restless soul. You know, that understudy? I heard he got himself killed in Belgium a few weeks back.

Both custodians were correct. Neither of them could see Céleste stepping out of the battlefield portal onto their freshly mopped floor, but they would have to wash the tiles again. And again. And again. Rémy was the worst offender, slapping dirt off his yellow boots at all hours of the day and night, drunk on blood. He was a hungry one too. Céleste sometimes caught him looking at the seams of her dress and the skin beneath—wanting to rip. The gangster wasn’t in the main theatre now, thankfully. None of the Apaches were. Terreur sat alone in the vast room, taking in the empty stage from his private box. It was one of the hidden corners of the Palais Garnier that never got dusted. The angel carvings that guarded the ornate balustrade wept with cobwebs. Some fell as Céleste flew up to them, drifting to the sea of crimson seats below. More work for the custodians, she supposed.

Terreur’s box had a spectacular view: just close enough to the curtains to see the beautiful details of the set—hieroglyphs on temple pillars and jewels at the soprano’s trembling throat—without seeing the ugly mechanics of it all. Only Céleste, landing at the very edge of the balcony, could glimpse a tangle of pulleys and counterweights. She could see strings around Terreur too. He was always pulling someone’s shadow these days. There was plenty of fear to play with.

Céleste felt her own edges tug.

Terreur was seated in an ebony armchair, his decanter within easy reach. He wanted Céleste to sit too. It was a fine balance—knowing when to move at his whim or when the Sanct really wanted her to push back. She could have stood her ground, what little she had, on the narrow ledge by the weeping angel, but one look at Terreur warned her not to. He seemed agitated. His cheeks were red, redder than they normally were after a glass or two of some poor poilu.

Céleste folded her wings and slipped to the adjoining seat. “The Durant boy said you wished to see me?”

“Where have you been?”

“Getting some fresh air.”

“You seem to be doing that a lot.”

“Yes, well, it’s a requirement for those of us who still need to breathe,” she told him. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but it smells like hell where the portals are open. Even the un-Enlightened theatre staff are catching whiffs.”

“I have taught you to extinguish the sun. Surely you can use your powers to mask those scents.”

“What? Make death smell like roses?”

“Why not?”

Céleste closed her eyes and crafted the spell. It wasn’t difficult, not if she didn’t think about the dying soldier who’d powered it.

“There,” Terreur said, followed by the slithering sound of his inhale. “Much better. You’ve come a long way, Mademoiselle Artois. I’m curious: Have you seen any strange happenings in your walks around Paris?”

“I’ve hardly seen anything,” Céleste answered as she opened her eyes. “Half the city has fled because of the Germans. Almost all the shops are closed.”

“Not all.” Another inhale. She wondered if he was searching for a different scent—sugar maybe.

“Are you worried about that Stohrer baker? He’s simply selling cakes—”

“I’m not worried about Nicolas, no.” Terreur reached over to the side table and grabbed something from behind the decanter. “I’m more concerned about La Fée Verte’s knight. You’ve heard the tune about her, I assume?”

“Once or twice,” Céleste said.

“It’s quite catchy.”

“It’s just a song.”

The Sanct’s hands tightened over whatever it was he was holding. “She seems to be drawing strength from its verses. She’s drawing closer to Paris as well, matching the movements of the troops. The French soldiers are retreating, but I don’t think that’s the case with the knight.” Terreur paused, and Céleste caught a glimpse of wood between his fingers. “She is coming for us.”

“You fear her?” she asked, after a moment.

“I didn’t at first. But that relic makes her a formidable opponent. As long as she’s wearing it, she’s untouchable.” Terreur’s own grip shifted to show it was a box he was holding. A jewelry box. “The knight came too close to killing me in Russia. I cannot risk her hunting down my heart again. I must guard my life more carefully. Keep it where Honoré Côte would not dare place a blade…”

Céleste measured her breaths. Roses, roses, and more roses.

Terreur opened the lid.

There was no diamond nor gold bar nestled inside. What Céleste saw instead was a dark lump. Coal, maybe? Or iron ore? It didn’t look like a heart. It didn’t look like much of anything.

“I considered using her brother for this purpose, but his loyalty seems to be wavering lately. Yours has proven true.” Terreur picked up the dark stone and held it between his fingers. He leaned closer to Céleste’s chair and swept her hair back from her shoulder. “I had my doubts, certainly. There were concerning strands… enough connection between you and La Fée Verte’s knight to make me wary. But you’ve shown me that you value your life above all else. Even some enchanted sisterhood.”

Roses and more roses.

Terreur’s hand wandered down to Céleste’s chest.

His masque flared.

Her flesh gave way, and for a horrifying moment, she glimpsed her own pulpy insides—so soft against the stone he set there. I will give Céleste Artois my heart. She’d feared she’d buried this seed too deep, but, no, the notion had grown, and now Terreur was burying himself in her. His heart sat just over Céleste’s, and she knew there would be no stabbing one without the other. They were too close. Close enough that she could feel an extra weight with every breath. Her chest felt so heavy. Like an anchor dropping to the ocean floor, pinning Céleste to the bottom, water smothering her…

Bone closed back over the wound.

Then skin.

“There,” Terreur said, with a smile. “Safe and sound.”