Crown of Whispers

by Isabella August

  “I don’t understand,” she said slowly.

  “I am not sure how I could have been more clear,” Dorian said. “I have important matters to occupy me, other than a relationship. Surely, you understand how much attention you require. I cannot afford to be constantly reassuring you whenever your anxiety bothers you.”

  Beatrice’s head pounded strangely. The words passed through her oddly now, refusing to sink in properly. A distant discomfort began at the bottom of her mind, seizing upon the situation; she felt the panic attack threatening, swelling like a wave. But Dorian’s assertion that her anxiety was a problem struck her to the core. Beatrice reached up toward one of the aluminum earrings along her ear, worrying at the metal with her fingers from sheer instinct.

  I’m fine, she thought at herself dully. I can deal with this. I’m a mature adult.

  The lies spread themselves silently across her skin, flickering into a comforting mask.

  “I didn’t realize I was such a bother to you,” Mature Adult Beatrice said coldly. Breathless misery threatened just beneath the surface of her magic—but she shoved it ruthlessly down. The silver dollar found its way between her fingers nearly on instinct, flipping back and forth between her knuckles.

  Dorian glanced away. “I have been trying to spare your feelings,” he said. “But I can see now what a mistake that was.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll be taking a more permanent position at the law firm. Perhaps you should consider doing something similar. You have had more than one offer.”

  Anger flickered through Beatrice at that. “You mean the job offer I had in France?” she said. “You fucking coward—it’s not enough to be rid of me? You want me to travel across an ocean so you don’t even have to look at me anymore?”

  Dorian flattened his lips to a line. “C'est ta décision, bien sûr,” he said. It’s your decision. “But you have burdened me with a secret which I did not want, Trix. I am confident in saying that if you do not remove yourself from my vicinity, there is a risk that secret might come out.”

  Beatrice’s blood ran cold.

  “…are you threatening me?” she whispered.

  This, she thought, was even more surreal than being dumped. How recently had Dorian kissed her? How long ago had he whispered that he loved her? The idea that he might use her worst secret against her was… unthinkable.

  “I am observing probabilities,” Dorian said.

  Beatrice swallowed. Her mask was already threatening to come undone. She could feel the cracks worming their way across her face. “Tu m'as promis,” she said. “You swore you would never tell anyone.” Tears blurred at her eyes. “I believed you.”

  Dorian considered this with a smooth, empty expression. “Perhaps that was a mistake on your part,” he said. He reached out abruptly to still the coin between Beatrice’s fingers. His hand was warm, but his eyes were empty.

  Mature Adult Beatrice developed another dangerous crack.

  Beatrice slapped him across the face. It was not a theatrical slap; there was strength behind it, and she saw Dorian’s head snap back from the force of the blow. He staggered back with a stunned expression on his face.

  “T'es dégueulasse,” Beatrice whispered. You’re disgusting.

  Dorian did not respond this time.

  Beatrice turned abruptly on her heel. The mask fell apart just as she reached the door, shattering into a thousand little miserable pieces. She slammed the door behind her, choking on the fear and the anger and the shame of it all.

  Ominous whispers tickled at the edge of her senses… but she was far too upset and distracted to notice them.

  PRESENT DAY

  For the first time in more than a decade, Beatrice woke up in Dorian’s arms.

  It didn’t feel as though it had been a decade. Rather, the situation felt so utterly natural that Beatrice didn’t even recognize the strangeness of it until she’d fully woken up. Dorian had his arm thrown across her stomach; the heat of his body soaked into her from behind. Chocolate and cologne suffused her senses, dredging up a confusing array of memories and emotions.

  At first, Beatrice thought Dorian was still asleep—but his thumb traced an absent-minded circle on her stomach, and she remembered what an early riser he was. He had probably been awake for at least an hour longer than she had… though why he hadn’t gotten up to brew a coffee yet was beyond her.

  “Bon matin,” Beatrice muttered awkwardly. “Can I help you with something?”

  Dorian let out a breath. The warmth of it ghosted across the back of her neck, sending a shiver down her spine. “That is quite a question,” he murmured. He disentangled himself from her—slowly, Beatrice thought, and with a hint of reluctance. “I think some coffee is in order before that discussion.”

  Beatrice burrowed deeper into the covers as Dorian left the bed and began searching out some clothing. Somehow, in spite of the night they’d had, she found herself uncomfortable with the idea of dressing in front of him. She waited until he’d disappeared out the bedroom door before scrambling to pull on her clothes from the evening before.

  There was coffee brewing by the time Beatrice headed out into the kitchen. Dorian had leaned himself against the counter, pressing his fingers to his temples again.

  “You’re trying to remember,” Beatrice observed hoarsely. The day after a major panic attack was always something of a hangover for her, and she knew her voice would be wrecked for at least a few hours.

  “J'essaye,” Dorian murmured. “I am trying. So far, I have managed only to discover a new sort of migraine.”

  Beatrice started opening cupboards, searching for a proper mug. She settled on an altogether-too-cheerful Christmas mug with pine trees and mistletoe. Someone else definitely bought this one for him, Beatrice thought wryly. “You know I gave you a secret,” she observed. “But you don’t know what the secret was? How does that work?”

  Dorian sucked in a breath. “I have… a sort of spatial awareness of my mind,” he said. “Imagine that there are many doors, all arranged in some semblance of order. I know the nature of what is behind each one… but behind this particular door, there is nothing.”

  Beatrice snatched the coffee pot and filled her mug nearly to the brim. “You encrypt your secrets,” she said. “I thought so before. You keep external labels on them, like a hash map—but to decrypt them and understand them, you require a key.” She frowned at her mug. “Do you use the same key for every secret, or is every key slightly different?”

  Dorian blinked slowly. “I understood maybe a quarter of what you just said,” he told her. He grabbed Beatrice’s mug from her and took a long swallow. A second later, he sighed. “The caffeine is not helping. You will have to pretend that I am stupid and explain it again.”

  Beatrice snatched the mug back from him with a scowl. “Pas besoin de faire semblant,” she growled at him. I won’t need to pretend. She sucked down a few swallows of coffee herself, ignoring the way it burned on the way down. “You’ve locked all your secrets behind different doors. I’m asking you whether the lock on every door is the same—if you can use the same master key for each one—or whether you’ve got different locks and different keys for every door.”

  Dorian knitted his brow. “I… suspect that there is just one master key,” he said slowly. “It would all be very difficult to keep straight, otherwise.”

  Beatrice nodded at that. “Well… I hate to break it you,” she said, “but that makes your head pretty easy to decrypt. I know one of your secrets already, since Jean Belmont gave me access to it. Theoretically, if I can get a look at the locked version of his secret, I could compare the two versions and guess the key you used. From there, I could unlock any other door I wanted.” She frowned. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. Are you really saying there’s nothing behind the door that has my secret? It’s definitely empty—it doesn’t even have a bunch of gibberish or anything?”

  Dorian rubbed at his forehead again. “Not empty, exactly,” he said. “It’s…
raw. As though something was there, but it was torn away.”

  Beatrice pressed her lips together, shoving down a hint of nausea. Torn away, she thought. That doesn’t sound promising. That almost suggests… someone stole my secret.

  “I think it’s fair to say I still need into your head,” Beatrice told him.

  Dorian gave her a sharp look at that. “I did not agree—”

  “I don’t care what you agreed to,” Beatrice said coldly. “This isn’t about Jean Belmont anymore, Dorian. This is about me, and the secret you threatened to give away.”

  Dorian looked utterly confused by that. Beatrice narrowed her eyes. “You don’t remember,” she told him. “But you still did it, Dorian. You all but blackmailed me into leaving.”

  “I would not—” Dorian began a protest… but partway through, he cut himself off. His expression went carefully blank, and Beatrice knew he’d discovered the uncomfortable possibility somewhere in his mind.

  Beatrice leaned toward him. “Ah, non?” she asked softly. “But you definitely did. For what reason, Dorian?”

  Dorian closed his eyes. There was now a flicker of guilt on his features. “Ever since you arrived,” he said softly, “I have felt that there was something wrong. I know that you’re in danger. It’s not just monseigneur and his secrets; this city is a bad place for you to be, Trix. I am more worried for you than I ever was for Zoe… but I don’t know why.”

  Beatrice knitted her brow. An angry dread crept up from within her stomach now, curdling the coffee she’d already drunk. “You were trying to chase me out of town,” she whispered.

  “I am not certain of that,” Dorian said quietly. “Mais c'est possible.”

  Beatrice closed her fingers into her palms. All of the fear and uncertainty had fled her for the moment; her system was too shot, her mind too tired. But now, a red-hot fury stole into her veins, tightening her muscles. “Salaud,” she choked out. “You arrogant, self-absorbed prick. Do you have any idea what you did to me—”

  “I don’t.” Dorian opened his eyes again. There was a weary regret in his features now. “I wish very much that I did.”

  Beatrice swallowed down a knot of impossible frustration. She wanted to scream at him—she wanted to slap him again, to make him hurt the way that he’d hurt her. But Dorian didn’t even remember what it was he’d done. That was the worst part by far—she would gain only so much relief from punishing him for an unknown crime.

  Beatrice took a long, shuddering breath. “You are letting me into your head,” she told Dorian. “Today—right now, in fact.” A flicker of protest began in his expression, but she didn’t give him the chance to voice it out loud. “Turnabout is fair play, Dorian,” Beatrice said. “Either you let me into your head now, or I tell Jean Belmont that your secrets might not be so secret. He’s a civilized sort of vampire, but I’m sure even he would be tempted to pry a few more secrets loose from you once he finds out.”

  Dorian went absolutely still at that. It was a deadly threat, and Beatrice knew it. In fact, she had little intention of following through on it… but Dorian didn’t know that for certain.

  His face was blank. But Beatrice thought she saw him swallow minutely.

  “You have me at a disadvantage,” Dorian said finally.

  “You have a talent for stating the obvious,” Beatrice replied. She jerked her chin toward the floor in front of the couch. “Sit down. I’m finishing this coffee—and then, we’re going through your memories.”

  “Catch,” Beatrice said.

  Dorian blinked as she flicked the Canadian loonie at him. He caught it only barely, with a delayed reaction. He knitted his brow at the coin. “And what am I supposed to do with this?” he asked carefully.

  “Put it in your mouth,” Beatrice told him. “Don’t worry—I washed it.”

  Dorian’s face didn’t change, but there was more than a little bit of disgust behind his eyes. Still, he slid the golden coin into his mouth with only a hint of discomfort.

  “Étouffe-toi pas dessus,” Beatrice advised him. Don’t choke on that. “I’ve got plenty more to say to you once this is all over.”

  Dorian, quite wisely, did not attempt to respond.

  Beatrice settled onto the floor in front of him, cross-legged. She opened up her Witchsight. Predictably, she saw nothing of note in front of her—even the glimmer of magic on her coin had disappeared into Dorian’s empty aura.

  I know it’s there, though, Beatrice thought. Slowly, she brought her electric orange magic to bear, searching out the coin anyway. The power snagged upon the coin… and this time, she became aware of the man in front of her. It was a faint awareness—Dorian’s magic still struggled to conceal him—but it was far more than she was used to feeling from him.

  “Jean Belmont gave me his secret,” Beatrice said. “I want you to decrypt it for me, right now. Lentement, s'il te plaît. I’ll want to watch the process.”

  Dorian dearly looked as though he wanted to mutter something at this—but the coin in his mouth fulfilled a dual purpose. In addition to acting as a focus for Beatrice’s magic, it also kept him pleasantly quiet.

  This time, as Dorian reached for the knowledge he had locked away into his mind, Beatrice felt the process unfold. Dark whispers rose around them, hissing and writhing like a thousand snakes. Dorian breathed out… and as he did, a soft gray mist escaped from between his lips.

  The process unveiled the man behind the aura once again. Beatrice was nearly distracted from her purpose entirely when she saw him this time. The hideous dread in Dorian’s aura had only grown stronger and more certain—even as Beatrice watched, it became tinged with panic. Dorian had agreed to do as she asked… but even now, there was a large part of him that expected things to go horribly wrong.

  Beatrice shoved the thought ruthlessly down. Maybe he’s right, she thought. Maybe things will go horribly wrong. But I’m not leaving this city without some goddamn answers.

  Beatrice returned her attention to the gray secret that trembled before them both. Even as she watched, the secret rewove itself, rearranging its contents into a coherent format. She tried to memorize the sinuous movements, but they were far too complex to understand all at once, even though Dorian was clearly slowing down the process. Thankfully, Beatrice didn’t need to memorize the key—the coin on Dorian’s tongue kept track of every small magical adjustment, storing the information within itself for later.

  The secret before her finally settled, coalescing into a solid whole. Beatrice reached out to touch that gray secret with one hesitating hand.

  “I swear to hold Jasmine Basak’s well-being to be every bit as important as my own,” Jean Belmont’s voice whispered. “For the space of a year and a day—on my blood and on my power.”

  Dorian watched Beatrice apprehensively. She knew that he was blind to her magic—that he had no real conception of what she was doing. She wondered if he could feel anything at all as she worked her magic around him. Maybe Dorian felt a faint tingle of power, like most mortals… or maybe his aura dampened even his own sense for magic.

  Beatrice let her hand fall back to her side, breathing out slowly. “I think I’ve got it,” she told Dorian quietly. “You can take back your secret.”

  The reversal of the process was far more abrupt. The gray whisper turned in upon itself in a flash, hissing and sputtering as it curled itself back into a different shape entirely. Beatrice knew just by looking at it that the only thing she would hear if she touched it now was a flash of awful, ear-splitting white noise.

  Dorian breathed in. As he did, Beatrice saw the secret waver, flitting back toward him.

  She closed her eyes and reached out with her power… and followed the secret back inside his mind.

  Dorian Moreau’s mind was a well-ordered place.

  Beatrice had been expecting as much, of course. But as her own mind rearranged what she was seeing into some semblance of a concrete representation, she became aware just how organized Dorian kept his thou
ghts.

  The description that Dorian had given her had stuck in her mind. Beatrice’s brain conjured up a long, dark hallway, full of neatly-labeled doors. The one in front of her was a heavy wooden door; there was a copper placard attached to it, with the name Jean Belmont engraved in tight, neat handwriting.

  This is the secret I followed here, Beatrice thought. She reached out to run her fingers across the placard. Jumbled, meaningless whispers stirred in her mind. Dorian had encrypted the secret once again.

  Beatrice looked down at her palm and concentrated. Slowly, the golden loonie she’d handed to Dorian coalesced in her hand. It wasn’t really here with her, of course—but then, everything in this place was just a constructed vision, used to make the navigation easier. In real life, Beatrice knew, she was still sitting cross-legged in front of Dorian, with her eyes closed and her breathing slow and steady.

  “Time to test some theories,” Beatrice murmured. The door in front of her had no visible lock or handle—but as she pressed the golden coin against its surface, the door swung slowly open.

  The room beyond wasn’t a room at all. In fact, the area beyond the door opened up into a broad night sky, cut through with just a sliver of moonlight. The evening wind breathed through impossibly tall trees, rustling between their branches. The scent of fresh rain and lilies wafted toward Beatrice. She found herself staring, in spite of herself.

  This is the Briars, Beatrice thought. I’m looking at a faerie realm of Arcadia right now.

  A movement just beneath one of the trees caught her eye. There were people sitting there, against the overlarge tree trunk. Voices murmured over toward her, but she was only able to catch bits and snatches of the conversation.

  “…swear that you’ll never do anything to consciously hurt Jasmine Basak.” This was Zoe’s voice. Her tone was tired. Beatrice picked out the secretary’s figure; she was leaning against the tree, just next to Simon Leclair. The Lady of Briars was there, as was Jean Belmont.