Beau found a spot and parked the car.
Anouk climbed out hesitantly, smoothing a hand uneasily over her dress.
In the dress and the Faustine jacket, she looked just like everyone else. Looked, yes. But felt? Fear and anxiousness braided together inside her, screaming in her veins that she didn’t belong here.
Animal. Creature. Dark thing.
Beau hurried around to meet her on the sidewalk. He was still in his chauffeur’s uniform but he had lost the bloodstained jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. On impulse, she thrust her arm through his.
He tensed in surprise. “This is the Latin Quarter,” he explained. “It’s mostly students, or at least it used to be. There are a few cheap chambres de bonne to rent, and Mada Vittora doesn’t give Cricket much of an allowance. This is her street on the left.”
His eyes scanned every shadow as they turned down a narrow and winding road with a small café tucked beneath an awning. A young couple sipped tea as they chatted. The man wore a bowler hat set at a sharp angle and a neon-blue cravat. The woman had lime-green makeup on her eyelids and fingernails painted a rainbow of colors.
“Beau, look,” she whispered. “Goblins!”
Both the man and the woman wore brass chains hooked to their belts, like the kind Pretties used for pocket watches, but these were linked instead to the dainty china cups they sipped from.
Goblins took their tea very seriously.
Beau shook his head and didn’t answer until they had passed the strange couple. “Those aren’t Goblins. They’re Pretties. It’s the strangest thing, but the, ah, nontraditional style of Goblins has spread throughout the city. It’s the latest fashion craze.”
Anouk looked over her shoulder at the couple’s ears. It was true; not even the slightest point. “I didn’t think the Pretties knew about Goblins.”
“They don’t. They’re dressing up like creatures they don’t even know exist. The Goblins are just messing with them. You know how Goblins are.”
They passed another Pretty girl dressed in garish Goblin fashion. She was winding the pocket-watch chain of her teacup lazily around one finger. Her eyes fell on Anouk.
“Hey, cool jacket.”
Anouk beamed. She followed Beau to an unassuming door that opened onto a foyer filled with mailboxes and a narrow staircase. It smelled of something stale and spicy. Beau started up the stairs. The two of them climbed until Anouk was out of breath.
Beau stopped at a door and knocked hard. “Cricket,” he called. “It’s Beau. Let me in: it’s important.”
The rest of the apartment building was filled with the gentle sounds of people starting to stir, slippered footsteps and percolating coffee. Morning light poured through the grimy window in the staircase. Anouk wondered if they’d be waking Cricket—she seemed the type to sleep in. But the door cracked open, a chain lock stretching taut, and music with a sharp beat came through the crack. Cricket was dressed in leggings and a white tank that showed her black bra beneath. Her curly brown hair was pulled back with yellow headphones. Her eyes were bleary, like she hadn’t slept.
She gave Beau a sharp look. “Whatever that witch bitch wants, tell her to wait until morning.”
“It is morning,” Beau pointed out.
Cricket squinted up at the sunlight coming through the hall window as if she didn’t trust it. She started to close the door, but Anouk thrust her shoe in the crack, preventing her.
“Let us in, please!”
“Anouk?” Cricket’s voice rose in surprise. “I hardly recognized you! Hang on.” Anouk moved her foot, and Cricket slammed the door closed. The chain lock clinked, and then the door opened fully.
Cricket stared at Anouk. “What’s going on? How did you get out of the house? And whose jacket is that and where can I get one?”
Everything rushed back to Anouk—the terrible image of her mistress’s bloodless hand, the mad dash through Paris. She pressed her hands to her mouth, not sure if she was about to be sick or about to cry. Cricket waved them in, checked the hallway, and locked the door.
The apartment smelled of mint tea and something more pungent, like overripe fruit. It was small, a single room with an unmade bed and a kitchenette with a boiling kettle. A clock in the shape of a black cat sat on the toaster, its circling tail ticking away the seconds. Heavy curtains blocked the windows. Ferns hung from the ceiling, books were stacked on the side table, and there were dirty clothes strewn around that didn’t help with the smell. The music came from a desk by the tall front windows out of twin speakers on either side of a laptop computer that flashed with swirling bright images, casting the entire room in a rainbow of neon colors.
Cricket went to the desk and hit a few keys, and the music stopped. She threw back the curtains.
“Whatever happened, it’s bad, isn’t it?” she said.
Without the music, the black-cat clock’s ticking filled the room.
Anouk’s fingers itched to pick up the dirty piles of clothes. To run a sponge over the sticky kitchen counters. To do something normal, something routine. Cricket rested her hands on Anouk’s shoulders.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Anouk couldn’t help it; the tears started before she could stop them. Cricket pulled her into a hug, smelling of mint and something sharper, coffee maybe, her kinky hair tickling Anouk’s shoulders.
“She’s dead,” Anouk choked out.
Cricket tensed. “I should have known. That’s the only way you could be out of the house. What happened? Is Luc back? Did he send you here?”
“He’s still missing,” Anouk said quietly.
Cricket’s eyes widened. “Oh. Merde. Give me the details.”
Beau turned to Anouk. “Maybe you should go into the bathroom. You don’t need to hear this.”
“I saw it, Beau. I can handle it.”
He looked as though he’d prefer to lock her away somewhere so safe that even unpleasant memories couldn’t reach her, but he sighed. “I found Vittora in her room,” he explained quietly. “She was already dead. It was ugly. Blood everywhere. We didn’t know what to do.”
The kettle started whistling. Cricket ran a hand over her face. In the sunlight coming through the windows, her brown skin glowed the color of tea leaves. She jerked the screaming kettle off the stove.
“Murdered? And you don’t know who did it?”
Beau shook his head.
Cricket took a step forward, her face suddenly fierce. “And our pelts?”
“In the car.”
Relief unwound over her strained face, and Cricket sank into the desk chair. The neon lights on her computer played over her features like something Anouk had read about once. The lights in the north? No. The northern lights. Cricket drew in a long breath. She grabbed a cup and poured herself some tea, hands shaking so badly that water sloshed onto the desk.
Anouk quietly wiped away the drops with her dress cuff.
Cricket set down the cup. “Good riddance.”
Anouk gasped. “Cricket!”
Cricket gave her a hard look. Her hands were steady now, more characteristic of the thief Anouk knew. She touched the dangling gold earring in her right ear, the only adornment she allowed herself. “You didn’t know her like we did. You were her pet, her favorite. It’s better that she’s dead. If Luc were here, he’d say the same thing. You know he would.”
Anouk wrung her hands. She went to the windows, looked at the birds on the opposite roof. Crows, but regular ones. If she could go back in time to the night before, would she warn her mistress?
“A flock of scrying crows followed us,” Beau said. “When Hunter Black and Viggo find her body, they’ll come hunting for us.”
“When did it happen?” Cricket asked.
“Late last night. Midnight.”
Cricket glanced at the black-cat clock. “Then we have just over two and a half days.”
Anouk frowned. “For what?”
“To find another master.” Cricket lean
ed forward, tenting her fingers. “Luc explained it to me in case something like this ever happened: A witch’s soul lasts three days after she dies. Once her soul is gone, all her enchantments vanish too.” She looked from one to the other as though she wasn’t certain they understood. “That means if we don’t find another witch to perform the spell again, then by Saturday at midnight . . .”
“We’ll turn back to animals,” Beau whispered.
Anouk flinched.
Cricket nodded. “It’s good that you thought to take the pelts. Beasties’ lives are tied to their pelts. If someone burned them, we’d go up in flames. If they were put through a woodchipper, well . . .” She pantomimed being shredded into tiny little bits.
Beau made a face.
“And anyway, if we have any hope of staying human,” Cricket continued, “we’ll need those pelts to uphold the spell. We just have to find another witch who can do it, fast. Merde, I wish Luc were here.”
Beau cleared his throat, still looking slightly green. “There’s the Trafalgar Witch. Vittora’s called on her for help before.”
Cricket shook her head. “She’s in England. We’d be stopped at the border.” She blew on her tea. “Most witches are out of the question; too far away or too dangerous. Mada Ourselle isn’t a complete terror. She might help . . . but she has close ties to the Royals.”
“Then we’ll need to try something else,” Beau said. “Not a witch. In the bird market near Sainte-Chapelle, there’s a Pretty broker who has connections to disgraced Royals, an old baroness who still has a bit of magic—”
“No Royals. Too risky.”
“Well, what do you suggest? That we go to Viggo for help?”
Cricket shot him a dirty look as she drummed her short nails on the mug. Click-click-click. She let out a loud sigh. “You say the pelts are in the car?”
Beau nodded.
“Get them.”
“They’re safe. No one’s going to woodchip them. Are there even woodchippers in Paris?”
“No, it’s not that. I need to check something. A . . . a rumor.” She tapped her foot anxiously.
Beau exchanged a look with Anouk, then picked up his keys and headed downstairs. Cricket paced by the windows, sipping the tea, glancing outside. Anouk folded her hands, fighting the urge to mop up the spots of tea Cricket was spilling on the floor.
Cricket dropped down in the seat across from her. “Did Beau do it?” she whispered, her eyes alight.
Anouk nearly choked. “Beau? Why would you think that?” She felt her cheeks burning; hadn’t she wondered the same thing?
“Because I’d have done it if I’d known what parts of her were still human enough to bleed.”
“Cricket!”
“Did I ever tell you why I don’t have fingerprints?” She held out her hands, palms up, the pads nothing but smooth flesh. “Everyone thinks she burned them off to make me a better thief, but they’re wrong. I made a mistake—once. I kept something I was supposed to steal for her. A rare book. I stole it from the home of a wealthy Pretty and was almost caught. I had to hide in a closet for hours, so I read the book. It was a story of a girl who got a ticket in the mail for a magic train, a train that would take her everywhere, even to the moon, and for years, she just rode everywhere and saw the world. I loved that book. I wanted it. One thing that was just mine. But she knew, of course. The crows. She took the book and burned it in front of me, page by page, and then burned off my fingerprints in their ashes.”
Anouk had never heard Cricket’s story. She looked away. “She might have given it to you if you’d asked for it.”
Cricket snorted. “Not likely. And anyway, what did you ever do to earn her ire?” She bent over and grabbed Anouk’s foot, tugged off the oxford shoe, and rolled down the sock. She held up Anouk’s foot with its four toes, pointing to the scar. “Look at what she did. Look! She cut off your toes on a whim, just so your feet would fit in her shoes. So she could play dress-up! You didn’t make any mistakes. You didn’t steal from her, didn’t disobey her.” Cricket’s face went grim. “She was a monster.”
Anouk jerked her foot back, quickly rolled up the sock, and laced the shoe. Bunny ears. Crossed in an x. Tied in a bow.
Cricket bit her lip. “I’m sorry.” She took Anouk’s hands. “Listen. We only have each other now. It’s the four of us against the world. You, me, Beau, and Luc. No one else understands us; no one else loves us.”
Anouk looked out the window anxiously. “Five of us.”
Cricket’s gaze wavered. “You mean Hunter Black? You know how he clings to Viggo’s shadow. If his loyalty was ever challenged, I wouldn’t bet on him siding with us.”
“But he’s still one of us.”
“I’m not sure he remembers that.” Cricket tucked a lock of Anouk’s hair tenderly behind her ear. “We’ll stick together. We’ll find Luc. And who knows? Maybe we don’t need a master at all. Maybe we don’t need a witch or a Royal. Maybe we could just be . . . human.”
Guilt crawled up Anouk’s neck. If Mada Vittora had ever heard them talk about not needing a master, she’d have had Hunter Black take their tongues. Her eyes drifted to the desk, to the collection of wires and rubber cables and silver ports. Electronics. She hadn’t a clue what any of them were for. And a notebook, too, with words in no Pretty language, and illustrations of hand symbols. They made her feel uneasy, like eyes watching from shadows. Anouk slid the notebook around.
“Cricket? These look like—”
“They’re nothing.”
Cricket grabbed the notebook. That warm feeling spread on Anouk’s neck. She realized where she’d seen those hand symbols. They were gestures Mada Vittora used for a fire trick to extinguish candles. And the writing had been in the Selentium Vox. Cutting spells and rotting spells and fire tricks. What was Cricket doing studying spells—let alone violent ones—when beasties couldn’t do magic?
“Never mind that.” Cricket slammed the notebook closed. She dragged Anouk by the wrist to the kitchenette. “That’s nothing. Try this. You must. I’ve only just discovered it and it’s marvelous.”
She dug through a glass fishbowl of candy and took out a small paper packet. She poured neon-colored crystals into her palm. Half she tossed in her mouth, and half she gave to Anouk. Anouk sniffed—sweet and artificial. She touched one to her tongue. Cherry. And then it suddenly fizzed on her tongue and went pop, and she jumped.
“The Pretties call them Pop Rocks,” Cricket said, eyes glinting.
The door opened, interrupting them.
Beau carried the bag of pelts slung over one shoulder to the dining table. Cricket swept the plates onto the floor, and Beau pulled out the pelts one at a time. A musty smell spread throughout the room. They were all different sizes, some the size of small rugs, the fur still matted, others no bigger than dinner plates, and one that fluttered with white feathers. Mada Vittora hadn’t bothered to wash the creatures before she’d peeled off their fur or feathers or scales and made them human.
Anouk turned away, feeling sick. She went to the window and focused on the fresh air. Cricket had a dying mint plant on the ledge, and she broke off a few leaves, chewed on one anxiously, hoping it would soothe her stomach, and stuffed the rest in her pocket.
Cricket pawed through the pelts almost hungrily. The one on top, large, with chocolate-brown fur. Below it, a tiny one with gray fur and a ropy, bald pink tail. And the one with gray and white feathers, larger than Anouk had thought at first.
“Looks like a dog,” Cricket said, “and a mouse. And what’s this one? A swan?”
Cricket rattled out creatures like she was reading from a magazine. Which had been Anouk’s? She watched out of the corner of her eye as Cricket examined them one by one. She didn’t feel drawn to any. None of them pulled at her stomach; she had no fierce pangs of recognition. She felt something more like revulsion—she had once been one of these things.
“An owl, I think,” Beau said. “What exactly are you looking for?�
�� He too stood back from the pile of fur and feathers as though they made him fearful.
“Luc had a theory.” Cricket ran her hand over the owl’s feathered pelt and then tossed it aside. “That maybe Mada Vittora didn’t use only domesticated animals.”
Anouk looked up sharply. “What else would she have used?” Her teasing with Beau came back to her, that he was half monkey and she three-quarters dust bunny.
Cricket inspected the next pelt. It was the size of a small sweater with angel-soft white fur like cashmere. “This one’s a cat, I think. Anyway, Luc wasn’t certain. It was something he’d overheard Viggo saying to one of the Royals. Viggo was there since the beginning, you know. He was twelve when Luc was made. And then me, and Hunter Black, and the two of you. He saw it all happen. And he said that one of us was a . . .”
She reached the last pelt and stopped.
A different smell permeated the room. More earthy, like the samples of moss in the townhouse’s solarium.
Beau eyed the pelt on the table cautiously.
Cricket slowly reached out a hand and touched it. Anouk stepped forward, her breath coming in odd bursts. This last pelt was different from the others. Not a dog, a mouse, a cat, or an owl. It was much larger, bigger even than the dog’s, and the fur was gray and wiry.
Too thick. Too heavy. Too dark.
“Luc was right,” Cricket breathed. “One of us is a wolf.”
Chapter 9
Anouk’s fingers sank into the thick pelt while the others argued.
“That’s impossible,” Beau said. “Where did Mada Vittora find a wolf in Paris?”
“I don’t know. The zoo? She was a witch. She could have walked through the portal elevator in Castle Ides straight into the Black Forest and trapped one there.”
“So what does it mean that one of us is a wolf?”
“What’s a wolf if not a traitor? You know what Mada Vittora used to say about wolves: Wolves in the wood together are good; wolf on its own, expect blood and bone. It means we can’t trust one of us.”
Grim Lovelies Page 7
