That dizzy, confused feeling rose within the air, pushing back at the whispers that surrounded them. A hot flash of fever stung at Beatrice’s forehead, and she found herself briefly disconnected from her own thoughts. What was I just thinking? she wondered. What am I doing here—
“Stop.”
Jasmine Basak’s voice spoke from one of the doorways behind them. Beatrice turned and blinked. The detective was clad in a rumpled tank top and jeans; her hair was mussed from sleep, and her eyes were red-rimmed from weariness.
“Stop whatever it is that you’re doing,” Jasmine told Jean bluntly. Her dark eyes fixed upon him as she spoke. “You are losing your mind. I’m far from your biggest fan, monsieur—but this isn’t who you are. It’s time we dealt with that.”
That violet flicker in Jean’s eyes strained for a moment. The strange fever-madness subsided. Dorian tugged Beatrice sharply back, and she stumbled into his grasp with a shaky breath.
“I did not request your input into this matter, detective,” Jean said coldly.
“Bin là,” Jasmine scoffed. “I didn’t volunteer to sleep in your guest room. As long as I’m here, you get my input anyway.”
“I think we’ll take our leave,” Dorian observed. “It is always a pleasure, detective.”
Beatrice blinked at Dorian. “Wha—are you sure it’s a good idea to just leave?” she asked. Her eyes flickered worriedly toward the detective. Jasmine is just mortal, Beatrice thought. What exactly is she going to do if the seigneur of the city loses his mind and feeds on her—
“It’s fine,” Jasmine said. She smiled sharply. “He can’t hurt me. Isn’t that right, Jean?”
Jean Belmont narrowed his eyes at the detective. Beatrice stifled a soft groan.
“You see what I mean about figuring things out from context?” she muttered toward the vampire.
“You are dismissed, Madame Martel,” Jean said stiltedly. He didn’t look at Beatrice as he said it. “I will expect your report in my inbox soon.”
Dorian pulled Beatrice gently toward the door. This time, she let him lead her out.
Chapter 11
There was a message from Zoe waiting on Beatrice’s phone as they stepped outside of the condo building.
Place des Arts, it said. Meet inside.
“We are not so far away,” Dorian observed. “We can make the walk from here.”
“The seigneur of Montreal is losing his mind,” Beatrice observed, as she tucked her phone away. “You don’t seem very bothered by that, Dorian.”
Dorian shook his head helplessly. “One disaster at a time,” he murmured. “For the moment, I am heartened to know that the detective has things in hand.”
Beatrice sighed. “One disaster at a time,” she agreed darkly.
Depending on perception, one might assume that downtown Montreal was centered around Place des Arts—certainly, most of the open-air festivals took place in the square in front of the building, and Beatrice had never seen the streets anything less than busy. A small barricade blocked their path as they approached today, and Beatrice opened her side-bag with a roll of her eyes. “Pas d'alcool,” she muttered to the man at the barricade. He still gave a cursory look over the inside of her bag, searching for alcohol. After a moment, he nodded her and Dorian through.
“I don’t know why they bother,” Beatrice muttered at Dorian. “Do people really buy the overpriced drinks at these booths? There’s an SAQ right beneath our feet.”
“Are you planning on getting drunk, Trix?” Dorian asked her mildly.
Beatrice found herself blindsided by a memory from the night before—his whisper in her ear, his body against hers. She flushed. “I think I’ve had enough alcohol for a few days,” she mumbled.
Dorian curled his fingers around her arm. He was silent for a moment. “Are we going to discuss the obvious?” he asked finally.
“The obvious is not obvious to me,” Beatrice retorted. “I know that being forthright is not your strong point, but I think we’re well past beating around the bush, Dorian. Just tell me what you mean.”
Dorian sighed. “I am… not human,” he said. “You seem less bothered by that then you should be.”
Beatrice kept her eyes on the people around them as they slipped their way through the crowd. “I was more bothered by the idea that you might be an asshole,” she said. “You may still be an asshole, in fact… but not in the way that I thought.” She reached out to close her hand around his and squeezed. “You’re still human enough to flip off a faerie lord. That’s good enough for me.”
Dorian tightened his hand back, and Beatrice knew that he was far more shaken than he appeared. “I stole someone else’s life,” he said in a low voice.
“She stole someone else’s life,” Beatrice told him shortly. She kept her eyes straight ahead. “You didn’t choose this, Dorian. You’re not going to convince me to blame you for it.”
“I thought you weren’t interested in playing forgive and forget,” Dorian observed quietly.
Beatrice stopped in her tracks.
I said that, she remembered. The very first day I got here.
Beatrice turned to look up at Dorian. He’d startled at her sudden halt, but he was already regaining his composure—burying any hint of that dread he’d carried since the very beginning and turning himself back into ice.
“I loved you once,” Beatrice told him in a thick voice. “You made everything in my life better, Dorian. When you did… what you did. I had to fit that into my brain in a hundred little ways.” Tears pricked at her eyes, and she pressed her lips together. “I never thought for a moment that I would find out there was a reason for it—not one I could accept, anyway. But now there is a reason, and I don’t want to live my life pretending that there isn’t.”
Dorian’s gray eyes fixed upon the tears in her eyes. “There was a reason,” he said softly. “But that doesn’t undo what happened… or what it did to you.”
Beatrice looked away. There was that soft look on his face again—the one she’d once had to convince herself was a lie. Maybe I could have that back, she thought. All of it.
“I want to talk, after this is all over,” she said hesitantly. “Maybe over dinner.”
Dorian’s hand tightened on hers again. “If there is an after,” he said, “I would like that.”
A group of college students nudged past them pointedly, and Beatrice realized that they had stopped in the middle of the block. She stepped aside toward the entrance to Place des Arts, with a shaky smile toward Dorian. “We’ll get to after,” she said. “Don’t worry about that part.”
The inside of Place des Arts was broad and dark, even during the daytime. It always had the hush of a stage before production, even while it bustled with people descending into the metro on the lower floor. Beatrice glanced around inside, searching for Zoe, but she didn’t see the secretary immediately.
“There is a Hidden Path just ahead,” Dorian told her. “I expect that’s where Zoe will be waiting.” He pointed up an incline, toward a tunnel that led deeper into the building. Screens on either side of the tunnel wavered with surreal images and twinkling lights. The video art exhibit switched its subject on a regular basis; as they approached this time, Beatrice saw that it was currently comprised of a few dozen different women with their backs to the viewer. One looked out over an ocean-scape; another stood upon a hill, staring down at a picnic below. It was probably meant to be thought-provoking—but Beatrice shook her head with a shiver.
“Creepy,” she muttered. “They had cheerful cartoons here last time.”
Dorian’s mouth twitched at that. “Artists,” he murmured back.
Beatrice looked up and down the dark, crowded hallway with a sense of growing unease. “I don’t see Zoe,” she said quietly. “Could we have gotten here before she did?”
Static threaded through the television screens that surrounded them. At first, Beatrice wondered if it was part of the art exhibit—but whispers soon rose around the
m, and she stepped back in alarm.
Arms reached out from the television screen behind her, closing around her shoulders. Beatrice tried to let out a loud shriek—but before it could escape her, she found herself dragged sharply back.
The world fell away... and Arcadia rushed in to replace it.
“What the hell was I just doing?” Beatrice mumbled. The room was far too bright; her head pulsed with a dull ache. She glanced down at her lap, trying to remember herself… and saw that her wrists had been handcuffed to a stainless steel table.
“I think you need to focus, Madame Martel,” a hard male voice advised her. “You are in an awful lot of trouble, young lady.”
Beatrice froze. Her heart leapt into her throat with sudden fear.
I’ve been detained, she thought. The feds brought me in. They know what I did. A hazy whisper murmured at the edges of her senses. For a moment, Beatrice struggled to remember why it was important—but the rising panic in her stomach blotted out her more rational thoughts, wiping them away beneath a wave of sheer, helpless terror.
“I can’t…” Beatrice choked on a trembling breath. “I can’t think. P-please, s’il vous plaît, can’t you take these off?” Beatrice looked up toward the man in front of her. She should have been able to see his face—there was no reason for him to be so blurry. But his features swam hazily in front of her. Was he a tall, blond man? No—he looked darker-skinned now, with brown eyes. Now his hair had a faint tinge of red to it.
“If you answer my questions,” he said, “I’ll consider it.”
Those sinister whispers rose softly around her.
I need my coin, Beatrice thought wildly. But it was in her blouse pocket, just out of reach of the give in her handcuffs.
“You thought no one would ever catch you,” the blurry figure said. “But that’s not how this works. Secrets always come out, Madame Martel. It’s just a matter of time.”
Beatrice clenched her fingers together over the edges of her handcuffs. Another wave of miserable panic clenched at her stomach. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered.
The room spun around her. The figure on the other side of the table leaned in. “I know what you’ve done,” it murmured. “But your crimes are ultimately unimportant. Tell me what I want to know, and all of this will go away.”
I can’t do this while I’m panicking, Beatrice thought. A lead weight settled into her chest, and she closed her eyes. Slowly, she reached out her magic for one of the aluminum earrings she was wearing, searching for a mask to wear.
Consummate Professional Trixie responded.
Beatrice’s magic flared silently—with uncharacteristic eagerness. The mask came more easily than ever before, burying her panic deep beneath the surface. Cold logic took its place… and Beatrice frowned.
Where is this mask from? she wondered. I’m not a professional anything. I’m not even out of university yet. I’m just an amateur hacker in over my head.
“Qu'est-ce que tu veux?” Beatrice asked breathlessly. What do you want?
The strange figure leaned closer. “Dorian Moreau gave you his secrets,” it whispered. “Where is the key that unlocks them?”
The unreality of the situation strained against Beatrice’s magic. Why is a federal agent asking me about Dorian? she thought. The panic just beneath the surface of her mask throbbed with unnatural fear—pushing her to search for answers, to give the figure in front of her what it wanted. But Consummate Professional Trixie wasn’t afraid.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Beatrice said. She allowed a note of fear to escape her mask, and her voice trembled on the words. “Dorian didn’t give me any secrets. And I don’t have a key.”
The whispers at the corners of the room leaned in upon her.
“The key could be anything, Madame Martel,” the man across the table murmured. “Is it something you have on you? Do you have it with you now?”
Another part of Beatrice struggled to make its way to the forefront of her mind. This isn’t happening, it insisted. This never happened. Something is wrong.
“You haven’t told me what it is I’m accused of doing,” Beatrice said suddenly.
The man across from her paused—in fact, he went so still that she wasn’t entirely sure he was still breathing.
“What are you charging me with?” Beatrice pressed him. She closed her fingers around the edge of the table, leaning up out of her chair. “Come on. Tell me. I’ve got legal training, asshole. I can represent myself just fine.”
The eyes across from her flashed black. “I am the one asking the questions, madame,” the creature growled.
Black whispers licked in from the corners of the room, winding their way around Beatrice’s wrists. Her mask wavered beneath their onslaught. What was I just doing? she wondered again.
The room was bright. Her head ached—
“I need you to focus, Madame Martel,” the man in front of her advised calmly. “You are in an awful lot of trouble, young lady.”
Beatrice tried to press her hands to her forehead—but handcuffs restricted her movement, and she found herself breathing harder and more quickly.
“This is a joke,” Dorian said in a frigid tone.
Beatrice looked up sharply. The door had opened while she wasn’t paying attention. Dorian leaned against the frame—tall, grim, and coldly furious. His gray eyes flickered oddly in the overly-pale light of the room, shifting like smoke.
Thank god. Beatrice’s shoulders relaxed abruptly at the sight of him. “Dorian,” she whispered. “I didn’t… did they call you?”
The blurry figure across from her turned to regard Dorian with its black, inhuman eyes. “You should not be here,” it said.
“I do many things which I should not do,” Dorian replied. He turned his gaze toward Beatrice, ignoring the creature in front of him. “This isn’t real, Trix,” he said. “This creature is a faerie. It’s burrowing deeper and deeper into your mind as we speak. I need you to help me pry it loose.”
“You are not allowed!” the creature hissed at Dorian suddenly. It turned upon him, and its form began to waver like the smoke within his eyes. “You have given a secret without a cost!”
Dorian smiled sharply. “I still owe Beatrice Martel a significant debt,” he said. “That debt is sufficient to pay the cost of this information.” Dorian looked back toward Beatrice. “This secret has holes, Trix,” he said. “This thing is working with barely a shred of the truth. Use your magic. Focus on what’s missing.”
Beatrice hesitated. Consummate Professional Trixie urged her on, though, and she looked down at her hands. “Spot me a dollar, Dorian,” she said.
Dorian reached into his pocket and pulled out a golden loonie. He rolled it across the table toward Beatrice, who surged forward to catch it between her fingers.
The creature’s black eyes flickered. The whispers tried to close in—
But Beatrice slammed the coin down on the stainless steel table… and a bright orange arc of electricity snapped across the metal toward the faerie.
The magic was real—more tangible, more physical, more raw. Tiny rivulets of lightning hissed up the creature’s arms, biting at its limbs, searching their way beneath its skin. It gave a horrid, keening scream, staggering back from the table.
And Beatrice woke up.
Beatrice had never seen Arcadia before—but she was certain even before she opened her eyes that she was there. Every inch of the world felt alive, thrumming with magic. Her electric magic still danced around her fingers, every bit as real as the dull, crushed glass beneath her fingertips.
Tall, glass hedges rose around her, reflecting an oily rainbow of light from the uncanny green sky overhead. There was no sun anywhere to be seen, but ambient light flickered everywhere in spite of its absence.
Beatrice shot to her feet, looking around with wide eyes. A hand came down on her shoulder—gray whispers licked at her body, and she nearly screamed before she realiz
ed who they belonged to.
“C’est fini, Trix,” Dorian said in a low voice. “It’s dead.”
There was a body in front of Beatrice, laying among the scattered, broken glass. It was a black, hazy shape—like a shadow come to life. Even as she watched, it began to dissolve into smaller shadows, drifting away on the breeze.
“My magic,” Beatrice said, in a trembling voice. “It’s never… it’s never done that before. I didn’t mean to—”
“Your magic is made of ideas,” Dorian told her. “Arcadia is a world of ideas made real.” He tightened his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, but we need to move. I doubt that was the only faerie waiting for us… and I do not know where Zoe is.”
Golden light flickered at the edges of Beatrice’s vision. She turned abruptly—and found herself staring down an even stranger sight than a dead faerie.
A man had just stepped out of one of the mirror hedges. He was tall and lean, dressed in a ragged t-shirt and jeans—but a crown of broken, shifting glass seethed above his brow, bathing the world around him in coruscating golden light. His eyes—a deep pyrite gold—focused on Dorian and Beatrice.
He was carrying Zoe over one of his shoulders.
“Son of a bitch,” Beatrice breathed. She snatched the silver dollar from her blouse pocket—but Dorian grabbed hurriedly at her arm.
The man with the glass crown shot Beatrice a rueful smile. “I’m glad I came out to meet you,” he said. He had a strong New York accent that belied his beautiful mien. “There was a faerie nibbling on her. I gave it a talking-to, and it ran off pretty quick. Don’t worry—I think she’s going to be fine. Her mind’s still in one piece.”
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