Chapter 43

The Beginning of the End

Who knows what dreams may wake at the Carnaval des Merveilles?

Come and See:

• Shadow Puppets

• A Menagerie of Imaginings

• The Double-Headed Firebird

• La Fée Verte

• The Battlefield Angel

One Night Only

Admission Is Anything You Can Think Of

The posters went up overnight. They were bright and quite noticeable—even in the city’s shadowier corners—making people pause in the ivy-lined Passage de Dantzig or in the stairwells of Métropolitain stations. Even Rémy Lavigne stopped to study the scene, with his one good eye, before ripping it from the wall and returning to the opera house.

“What are they playing at?” he spat as he laid the paper at Terreur’s feet. “Circus?”

Céleste sat close, close enough to recognize the art of the advertisement. It was much like the poster she’d seen on the drifting island, with the same blooming letters and swirling birds, but there were new additions too. Instead of a trapeze artist, it was a pink-haired fairy girl walking on a razor-thin tightrope. A two-headed firebird soared above her. And at the bottom left of the poster?

Rafe’s signature. Not Raf, but a shadow.

The fox chasing his own tail.

Her heart squeezed when she saw this. Not too noticeably, since it already felt so crushed against Terreur’s.

The other Sanct leaned forward in his seat. Céleste saw the recognition flicker behind his face as he studied the flourishing fairgrounds. His lips curled with disgusted amusement.

“It is a carnival,” he told Rémy.

“Same difference,” the gangster said, his yellow boots kicking the poster’s edge. “Looks like they’re trying to attract a crowd. Idiots! It’s like eating cake while the world burns.”

“I think the saying is about playing fiddles,” Céleste told him.

Terreur’s own gaze flickered as he picked the advertisement off the floor—the piece where Sylvie balanced on the tightrope tore beneath Rémy’s boot. The Sanct stared very hard at the list of attractions, his eyes boring into La Fée Verte’s name.

“The bitch found a way to survive then,” he seethed. La Fée Verte started smoking. The Battlefield Angel did too. A ragged line of embers began to eat through the rest. “I’ll have to be more thorough this time around. Bring me the brother,” he told Rémy.

“Gabriel?”

Again, Céleste’s heart squeezed.

“He can strip the knight’s armor, can he not?” Terreur asked. “Or were you lying about what happened in the catacombs?”

Rémy shook his head. “Gabriel did grab that dragon. I swear it on all my saints! The ring really belongs to him, you know—”

Terreur’s hand made a jerking movement, and Rémy’s jaw snapped shut.

“It will be mine by the night’s end. Bring me the brother and prepare the rest of the Apaches.” The Sanct looked down at the burning carnival in his hands. His eyes cut back to Céleste. “You should get yourself ready for the Carnaval des Merveilles too,” he told her. “I want you close.”

One final costume.

The dress Céleste picked from Christine Leroux’s armoire was red as sin. It must have been designed for a demon, for there was a pair of bat-like wings sewn to the back, but Céleste paid them no mind. She was more focused on the front of the gown. How low-cut the neckline was. How exposed her cleavage would be. She wore no corset to cover the view. She wore no necklaces either. There would only be a small window of opportunity… She couldn’t risk a chain falling in the way.

She swept her hair from her shoulders as well, studying the prima donna’s collection of decorative combs. Beautiful but sharp. Céleste paid more attention to the teeth than the designs, and it was only after she slid the hairpiece in place that she realized which symbol she’d picked.

An ouroboros.

The circular serpent didn’t match her gown. It must have been meant to go with one of the Egyptian costumes, but when Céleste stared at her reflection, she found it fitting. Poor snake, bit off more than it could chew, and now it’s right back where it started.

At the beginning of the end.