Crown of Whispers

by Isabella August

  The past wasn’t coming back—no matter how desperately Beatrice wanted it to.

  “I want to think he’s changed too,” Beatrice said quietly. “But what’s done is done. He was very thorough when he ended things, Zoe.” He’s ended things twice now, she thought tiredly. Once before they could even really begin.

  Zoe looked away. Sadness flickered across her features. “That’s a shame,” she said softly. “I get it. I just... I wish Dorian could have the sort of thing I have with Simon. It’s kind of silly and meddling of me—but after everything he’s done for me, I want to see him happy.”

  Beatrice smiled faintly. “That’s very sweet of you,” she said. “And I’m sure that he will, one day. It just... it can’t be me.”

  No matter how much I sometimes wish it was, she thought.

  Zoe pursed her lips. She clearly wanted to say more—but something about the finality in Beatrice’s statement must have convinced her it wasn’t the time. She ran ahead to open the door to the office instead, holding it open.

  “Thank god,” Beatrice sighed, as she felt the air conditioning hit her face. “No offense, but I thought I was going to die in that hothouse.”

  Zoe coughed. “Er,” she said sheepishly. “Yeah. It’s not normally like that. The Lady must have fiddled with the air conditioner and opened all the windows.”

  Beatrice was briefly entertained by the image of a faerie lord trying to figure out how to work a thermostat. Her amusement vanished, however, when she walked in and found Dorian sitting at Zoe’s desk.

  Dorian’s fingers were pressed to his temples; there was another pained expression on his face. As the two of them entered, however, he quickly snatched his hands back from his head and forcibly smoothed over his expression.

  “Bon,” Dorian muttered, shoving to his feet. “Please go through our messages, Zoe. We have more than a few.” He glanced coolly toward Beatrice. “Is there still something you require from me, madame?”

  Beatrice gritted her teeth against the latest spike of hurt and anger. For just a little bit, she’d allowed herself to feel bad for the bastard—but Dorian seemed quite determined to ruin what little pity or nostalgia she had left for him. “As a matter of fact,” she said. “I do have something I need from you, monsieur.” Beatrice smiled thinly. “I have ruled out the Lady and her warlocks as potential leaks—as far as I am able to manage such a thing. But I have discovered a potential problem with your own procedures.”

  Zoe shot Beatrice a bewildered look. “You have?” she asked.

  Dorian’s expression flickered with unease. He knew better than anyone that Beatrice didn’t bluff. “And what problem might that be?” he asked slowly.

  “I believe I can defeat your magic,” Beatrice told him. “And, according to the contract we all signed—that means I will need to try and break into your mind.”

  Chapter 6

  For once, Dorian seemed incapable of hiding his astonishment.

  “Répète ça?” he asked. Repeat that?

  Beatrice fought to hide the triumphant smile that spread across her face. For once, she realized, she had Dorian Moreau at a clear disadvantage. “I believe I can break into your mind and steal your secrets,” Beatrice said slowly. “You agreed to let me test every mundane and magical defense you have in your office. Toi inclus, Dorian.” That includes you.

  Dorian’s expression shuttered again, becoming blank. “That is not acceptable,” he said. “I will not agree to it.”

  Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “Tell that to Jean Belmont,” she said. “I’m meeting him again tonight. He asked me to invite you.” Rather, Jean had seemed resigned to Dorian’s presence, but she didn’t see any upside to phrasing it that way.

  Dorian’s eyes flashed. “This is petty, Trix,” he hissed. “And you will have cause to regret it. You have no idea what you’re asking—”

  “Fine,” Beatrice shot back. “I am clearly missing information. Explique-moi ça.”

  Dorian’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. He glanced past Beatrice, toward Zoe.

  “You’re not getting any help from this quarter,” Zoe said. “Not unless you want to explain it to me.”

  Dorian hardened his jaw. “I do not entirely control my magic,” he said flatly. “There are rules.”

  “I know your rules,” Beatrice said acidly. “You made them quite clear to me. I can’t think why any of them might make it problematic to go diving into your head.”

  Dorian took a long breath, clearly trying to steady himself. “Chaque secret a son prix,” he quoted. “I do not know what will happen if you successfully steal a secret, Trix. Maybe something will happen to me. Maybe something will happen to you.”

  Beatrice rocked back on her heels, considering that. She was relatively confident in her ability to protect herself. But if meddling around in Dorian’s head triggered some kind of blowback on him... she wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Much as she found Dorian frustrating, that didn’t mean she wanted to be directly responsible for something terrible happening to him.

  A thought occurred to her, and she smiled pleasantly. “Bon,” Beatrice mocked him. “Then I’ll steal a secret that’s already mine. Jean Belmont already gave you leave to share his secret with me, and you did so. That should satisfy your rules, Monsieur La Voûte.”

  Dorian shoved to his feet. Beatrice wondered whether that clinging worry still seethed beneath his empty aura. “...we will discuss this with monseigneur,” Dorian said finally. There was a tightness in his voice that suggested he intended to argue against it with every fiber of his being.

  “I suppose we will,” Beatrice agreed. “I’ll call you tonight, then. Wear something nice.”

  “Shouldn’t that be my line?” Dorian retorted.

  Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Can I pay you by the hour to go away?” she drawled. “At least until tonight.”

  “I will not even take your money,” Dorian told her. He gestured toward the door. “You can leave whenever you would like.”

  Zoe groaned. “Okay,” she said to Beatrice. “I see it. He’s being an ass.”

  Dorian shot his secretary an astonished look. Zoe raised her eyebrows in return. “What?” she said. “You are. I swear, I have never seen you like this. I feel like I should be sending you to your room until you can act like an adult again.”

  Beatrice shook her head and turned for the exit. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll call you.”

  The door closed behind her with a heavy sense of finality.

  Beatrice found herself striding through the city with an aimless but oddly determined sense of purpose. It was her purpose, she realized, to get as far away from Dorian Moreau as possible. Any direction seemed equally helpful toward that end, such that she eventually found herself staring at a set of train tracks that led off the island entirely.

  Beatrice turned on her heel, more frustrated than ever before. As the sun set over the Saint Lawrence River, she searched out some small rocks nearby, tossing them into the water one by one. Somehow, the gesture did make her feel better. Soon, she found herself sitting next to the river, staring out over its red-orange surface.

  A soft vibration alerted her of a text. Beatrice pulled it out; the message was from Jean Belmont. Its contents made her frown.

  Something has come up, the text read. I cannot meet tonight. Call me tomorrow evening, when the sun sets.

  Beatrice hissed with renewed frustration. “Great,” she growled. “Fine. It’s your money, asshole.” She clipped off a text message to Dorian, letting him know that dinner had been cancelled, and started the long walk back toward her hotel.

  As the sun dipped into twilight and downtown slowly came back into view, an uneasy realization sank into Beatrice’s stomach. This wasn’t me being careful, she thought, cursing herself. I’m walking around the city after sundown, with no one to watch my back. If there is a vampire out there with a score to settle, I’ve just given them the exact opportunity they’re looking for.
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  A soft whisper breathed past her ear, like something out of her restless nightmares.

  Beatrice whirled, opening her Witchsight and searching for the source.

  The spirit of the streets of Montreal unfolded to her like a flower. Laughter overwhelmed her senses—a remnant from the comedy festival that had criss-crossed the avenues here. A bright, hazy insensibility rushed through Beatrice, bringing with it the sense of the hundreds of lightly-buzzed drunks that had stumbled through the area over the last few weeks.

  Somewhere behind her, a black whisper stirred.

  “What the hell?” Beatrice murmured. She backed up against the nearest wall, flicking the silver dollar from her pocket. Her electric orange magic surged, seeking out that tiny shred of whispers.

  A cacophony of wild static screamed in her ear. Beatrice cringed, fumbling her coin. She caught it just before it could slip through her fingers, glancing around breathlessly for the source of the foreign magic.

  The street was dark and empty; there were only the ghostly memories and emotions of the city to keep her company.

  Beatrice continued backing warily along the wall. What is this? she wondered. Had she somehow dragged a shred of Dorian’s magic with her when she left? But this magic had felt darker, she thought—the feel of it lingered against her skin, just a shade more ominous and sinister than the gray whispers that Dorian sometimes carried.

  A cab meandered down the street toward her; Beatrice hailed it down belatedly, with a slightly manic wave. Thankfully, the cab slowed to a stop. She shoved her way into the back seat, offering up the address to her hotel.

  She kept her Witchsight open the whole way there, feeling oddly on edge.

  The whole thing must have been some bizarre magical fluke. It was the only thing that made any sense. Surely, Dorian hadn’t followed Beatrice out of the office himself—and even if he had, why would he leave a shred of his magic behind for her to find?

  Beatrice clawed her phone back out of her bag as the cab slowed to a stop outside her hotel. She dialled Dorian’s number, shoving a few bills at the driver as she stepped outside.

  The phone rang a few times, as though to showcase its owner’s reluctance to answer. Another ring, however, and the line picked up.

  “I am off the clock, Beatrice,” Dorian informed her in a cool voice.

  “Yeah?” Beatrice asked. She meant the word to come off as a challenge, but a waver clipped at her voice instead. Shit. “And where exactly are you off the clock right now, Dorian?”

  There was such a lengthy pause that Beatrice nearly checked the phone to see whether Dorian had hung up on her. But finally, he spoke again. “Are you drunk, Trix?” he asked.

  “Quoi?” Beatrice spat out the word, flustered, as she slipped through the downstairs door of the hotel and headed for the stairs to her room. “Jesus, no. I just want to know where you are, Dorian. You’re not following me, are you?”

  “Someone is following you?” Dorian’s voice became alert at that. “Where are you? Can you get behind some wards?” Beatrice heard movement on his side of the line, and the rustle of car keys.

  “I don’t know that someone’s following me,” Beatrice said, frustrated. Damn it, she thought. Now I’ve triggered his big fear. Dorian won’t leave off until he’s sure nothing’s going on. “I just felt something weird with my Witchsight. And I’m literally walking into my hotel room—my warded hotel room—so tu peux te calmer.” She tucked the phone against her shoulder and squinted at the shivering orange magic that blanketed her door. It responded eagerly to her touch, reassuring her that no one had entered since she’d left.

  “Get inside,” Dorian ordered her. “Stay put. J’arrive.”

  Beatrice groaned audibly. “God damn it, Dorian,” she said, shoving open the door. “This is literally the last thing I need right now. I’d appreciate it if you could make up your mind whether you’re going to be a frigid prick or an overly-concerned mother hen—”

  She stopped dead in the doorway.

  “—Trix?” Dorian demanded. “Trix, say something.”

  There was something on Beatrice’s bed. She hadn’t left anything on her bed.

  Beatrice stepped forward, her body tight as a bowstring. There was an old instant camera sitting out on the bed. On top of the half-mussed pillow where she’d slept was a simple picture.

  A picture of her. Asleep, in that very same bed.

  The Beatrice in the photo was wearing the beaten-up t-shirt she’d used as pajamas the night before. Her pink hair was mussed, splayed over a towel she’d used to keep it from staining the pillow. Her eyes were closed; whoever had taken the photo had been so close to her at the time that even a few of the freckles on her skin were visible.

  Beatrice choked, backpedaling from the sight. The small bench at the foot of the bed caught her foot, and she tumbled backward, dropping her phone. Dorian’s voice murmured through the receiver, but she couldn’t make out the words.

  Nausea twisted at her stomach, tinted with hideous disbelief. Panic thundered inside her, more terrible than ever before. It submerged her so completely that she couldn’t bring herself to breathe.

  Beatrice wanted to run. She wanted to fight. She wanted to do... anything, anything at all, but her body refused to move. If it had been a vampire, or another witch, she would have had no problem summoning up a plan of action. But the sheer horror of her worst fears thrown back in her face made her tremble uselessly on the floor.

  She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, frozen to the spot. Her blood rushed in her ears; her Witchsight blurred around her, keen and painful and overfull with abstract sensations. But no obvious danger presented itself.

  Eventually, footsteps headed up the stairs. Beatrice’s heart thudded sickly in her chest with each one, terrified at who they might belong to. But her wards flashed a warning, sending her an abrupt impression of gray whispers, just before Dorian jerked back from the doorway with a hiss of pain.

  “Tabarnak!” he swore. “Trix! Are you all right? Invite me in, for god’s sake!”

  Invite him in? Beatrice thought dimly. Her wards were still working? The strangeness of the realization jerked her briefly from her terror.

  “Come... come in, Dorian,” Beatrice rasped.

  He was through the door then, kneeling next to her—checking her over for injuries, distress. His hands were warm on her arms. His face was frantic with concern.

  He smelled like fresh hot chocolate and cologne.

  Beatrice threw herself forward, clinging to him in desperation.

  Dorian wrapped his arms around her, holding on tightly. “I have you,” he whispered. “Je suis là pour toi. Are you hurt?”

  Beatrice shook her head mutely. It took her more than a few seconds to force her thoughts into a semblance of words. “I... someone’s... been here,” she managed, in a shaky voice. “They were in the room with me last night, oh god. I don’t know how, Dorian. My wards, they’re still working, but nothing triggered them—”

  Dorian hauled her up to her feet with a strength she’d somehow forgotten. Beatrice’s knees buckled instantly, but he kept his arm around her back, supporting her. He caught sight of the camera, and the photo on the bed. He tightened his arm around her, and Beatrice heard him suck in his breath.

  “I am going to call someone,” Dorian told her shortly. “But I will need to sit you down for a moment, Trix. Touch as little as you can.”

  Beatrice nodded, still trembling. There was a stiff authority in his voice that helped to calm her, though she still felt as though she’d been running some kind of awful mental marathon.

  Dorian lowered her into the hotel chair and pulled out his phone.

  “...Detective Basak?” he said. “I know that I am not your favorite person right now. But I require a favor, and I expect that you could badly use one in return.”

  “You know I don’t investigate burglaries,” Jasmine snapped. Not twenty minutes later, the copper-skinned woman had appeared in the
doorway of the hotel room. Detective Jasmine Basak was wearing a nearly-identical expression of irritation to the one that Beatrice remembered from the bistro—though she was wearing sweats instead of her tank top tonight, and she looked somewhat better put-together than she had been before.

  “Would you please invite the detective inside?” Dorian murmured to Beatrice. His hands remained on her shoulders, warm and comforting.

  “Come... come inside,” Beatrice managed. It was barely a whisper—but the intent was more important than the words.

  Dorian nodded, then turned back toward Jasmine. “I know of no other detective in this city who would willingly investigate a matter involving bypassed wards,” he addressed her calmly. “Would you like to try explaining the matter to a proper burglary detective, or would you rather handle it yourself and skip the mandatory psychological review that would result?”

  Jasmine shook her head in disgust. “You’re still not in my good books, La Voûte,” she said. She emphasized his nickname in an acid tone. “You’re lucky you have a handful of useful secrets in that head of yours, or I’d have told you where to shove your burglary.” Jasmine’s dark eyes swept downward toward Beatrice—and instantly narrowed. “Both of you?” she asked. “I don’t know who this woman is, but I swear, if this has something to do with Jean Belmont, I will feed your stupid, expensive tie to you before I go—”

  “—it does, and it does not,” Dorian interrupted Jasmine coolly. “Beatrice is a contract employee. She has no long-term dealings with monseigneur. Assuming that one of his enemies did this, however, you will find me much more amenable to your longstanding grudge against him.”

  A sharp, unfriendly smile crossed Jasmine’s face at that. “Well,” she murmured. “Why didn’t you say so?” Jasmine stepped over the threshold and turned her attention toward Beatrice, who had settled herself carefully on the edge of the chair, unwilling to move. “Walk me through everything you know,” the detective ordered.

  Beatrice shuddered uncontrollably. Something about the situation, the cop, the tone of authority, had dug in under her skin and refused to leave. The panic was deep inside her, as fresh and unrelenting as it had been more than ten years ago.