Page 86 of Feathers From the Sky

“Talleyrand, Alexander…” I can barely make sense of the words, and I feel sweat form on my brow when I rifle through the memories of French history lessons with him. The burning headache I’d get from standing out in the sun while he made me recite the history he’d lived. “Are you…Are you saying I’m Napoleon?”

“Oui, mon grand.” His lips curl downward into a pout. “Which makes your friend a traitor, unfortunately. For the greater good, but still. No one remembers a traitor fondly, do they?”

My fists unclench, and I’m numb with disbelief as I look past him at Margot.

“He’s lying, Roman!” She calls out before Zada presses the knife closer to her throat. A drop of blood rolls down her neck, and my thirst rides my senses for only a moment before I’m focused on my uncle’s words once more.

“What did she tell you?” A black pit opens up in my stomach.

“She shared her location from her phone about thirty minutes ago. There was a picture attached.”

Margot had been in the pizza place with Nico, had even sent me a text. If he can prove it came from her phone, can she refute it? I’d thought she was more than an assistant. A friend, even. And I’d thought she’d felt the same about our relationship. But perhaps she figured Emile could give her more pull within the coven. Or perhaps he offered her a place outside of the compound. Margot is pulling against Zara, about to slit her own throat, eyes wide. I refuse to look at her. “Please, Roman,” she sobs.

When Emile hands me his phone, I don’t bother looking at the number; I don’t have Margot’s memorized, and I’d have to pull out my phone to compare. I don’t even read the text message she sent, eyes skipping straight to the photo. All I see isher. Laughing in my lap, Gwyn’s beautiful smile takes up her entire face. The picture had clearly been taken at Last Drop, and it tells me Margot has indeed betrayed me. But I can’t find it in me to care when I look at this image. When I see the two of us, it stops me in my fucking tracks and flips my world on its head. She’s wearing that tiny black dress, and it’s ridden up around her thighs. There’s a trail of blood on my neck, a single red drop on the collar of my shirt. With her fangs clearly visible, the image is damning, but it feels the opposite.

It feels divine.

My tender eyes and soft smile are reverence. Holding her in my lap is worship. Her blood is my communion, and her voice calls me to prayer. Her curves are a holy place to which I’d build an altar. As I look at this picture, her name repeats in my head, a sacred mantra growing faster as it matches the beat of my heart. My body holds no tension, my face holds no fear, and I hadn’t yet realized the cost of confession. When I’d admitted in my quietest of moments, within the deepest parts of my mind, that I needed her, that I couldn’t bear to lose her, I hadn’t known the price.

To have her, I will have nothing else.

“We can fix this,mon grand. Tell me where she is.”

No home, no family, no friendships, no coven. To have her is to forsake the rest.

“No,” I say. When my uncle pulls the phone away, I see his mask slip. The ugly horror which pulls his mouth into a grimace takes over, and his rage runs red as it tints his pale face. I take a step away from him as his eyes bulge. I’m expecting him to hit me, brace myself for the blow, when he surprises me, punching a number into his phone instead. Putting it up to his ear, someone answers before the first ring.

“Kill her when you find her. Bring the heart back.”

No.

My chest tightens when I hear it on the other end of the line. It’s quiet, but I would recognize her voice in the deepest of dreams. “Non, Tonton, je te supplie.” I drop to my knees, grasping his hand in mine. I don’t know what else to do. Gwyn’s faint gasping sobs crackle through the speaker and reverberate through my entire being. I don’t know how far she got, and I don’t know how many people he sent to find her, but it doesn’t matter anymore. All I can do is barter for a few more moments. “Let me swear to you. Whatever you want.”

“Attendez!” he snaps before ending the call. His lip curls as he looks down at me, my desperate hands wrapped tightly around his wrists. “Pitoyable. Mon Dieu, tu l’aimes?”

I say nothing, pulling his wrist to my lips. “Let me drink. Please. Just…throw me in the cells with her until Bjorn returns. That’s all I want.” When he doesn’t move, merely blinking at me, I lose my patience. “I have asked very fucking little of you my entire life. Give me this one thing. Give me a chance to say goodbye before he kills her.”

There’s a hitch in his breath, and I know I struck the nerve I intended to. Though he didn’t tell me more about her, I doubted Emile had a chance to say goodbye to the woman he loved before my father took her from him. All I have to do is get him to agree. And then I’ll figure it out from there. I have to. I have no choice.

“Fine,” he says, lifting his arm. When I bite down, I close my eyes. One more person who can hold me under their thumb for the rest of my life. But, at least by doing this, I might be able to free Gwyn. It’s my only hope.

31

GWYN

A spideror some other bug crawls over my ankle, and I brush it away before pulling my legs up and crossing them.

It’s pitch black, and even my improved vision isn’t able to penetrate the overwhelming darkness. It stinks of mildew and dust. I doubt anyone has been down here for a very long time. The blackness is suffocating, pressing close, making me feel claustrophobic. The cell is small as it is, more like a small closet than anything. I don’t think I could stretch out if I tried. The bone-deep chill I feel seems heavier, and I suspect it has something to do with what lays beneath me. The air is dense with what I can only describe as dread.

I am walking on a beach. The sand is hot beneath my feet and hard to walk through. I think of burning calves, the rough sand slipping between my feet and sandals. Imagining dropping my bags full of towels and sunscreen, I remember that feeling of wet packed sand beneath my feet. Digging my toes in it. Walking to the water and standing still as I let the incoming waves wash the ground out beneath my feet, making me sink lower and lower. Cool, frothy water comes up higher and higher on my ankle the longer I stand there.When the smell of blood interrupts the ocean breeze in my mind, I open my eyes. There’s a faint beam of light coming from the direction of the stairwell, but it’s not enough for me to see anything; it’s still too far away.

The blood I smell isn’t just any blood either. It belongs to Roman. I know it better than is fair.

I slam my head back against the wall behind me. It hurts, and I relish in the ache. I don’t want him here. I don’t want to see Roman while I await Bjorn’s return from Iceland. I don’t want to speak to him, don’t want to be near him. And the fact I smell his blood makes my stomach twist.

He's hurt. Though probably healed by now, I imagine Emile punished him. I wish I didn’t care about that.

As the light gets brighter, illuminating the bottom step enough for me to see, I watch a rat skitter away. Bile rises in my throat alongside my thirst. I can only imagine how tempted I’d be to drink from a rodent if he kept me down here for an extended period. As it is, I am keenly aware of the creature's heartbeat, and I hear a few others in close vicinity. I'm repulsed when I lick my lips. I can only hope Bjorn is not so sadistic. Swallowing, I turn away from the stairs. Two sets of footsteps keep time with my pounding head. Leaning against the wall, I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them. I try not to let my thoughts spiral, try not to entertain anything having to do with Roman or what he said to me or what I wish he’d said instead. As the light gets brighter, I watch the shadow the bars cast onto the floor. In the shadow, it's impossible to see the detail; the points carved like thorns into the bars aren't visible in their silhouette. Tiny and sharp, it makes it impossible to grab the bars without pain.

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