Grim Lovelies

by Megan Shepherd

  I’m no mouse.

  She stuffed the rag between the branches of a topiary gardener.

  “Clean your own damn mess.”

  She grabbed a handful of roses, stuffed them in her mouth, and swallowed petals down dry as she ran back to the château. She shoved open the front door and climbed up onto the edge of the heavy clay pot in the foyer, then whispered into Toblerone’s leafy ear. The bear began to stir with a rippling of green pelt and stretching of creaky wooden joints. On her command, he lumbered down from his pot. He left tiny fluttering leaves in his wake that she followed like a trail of bread crumbs all the way to the sentinel hedge.

  She found the corkscrew branch that Petra had used to get in and gave it a twist.

  She stepped back, breathless, as the branches began to untangle themselves into the archway. When Viggo and Hunter Black returned, they’d find the gates open. They wouldn’t know about the enchanted topiary bear waiting to drag them in his thorny teeth to the château as prisoners.

  She left Toblerone to guard the entrance and returned to the château, to the west bedroom, where Beau was still in bed but awake now, groggy, rubbing his head as though it ached. It was cold, and she pulled on her Faustine jacket.

  “Anouk. The time—”

  She climbed onto the bed and pressed a finger to his mouth.

  “For once, let’s not think about time.”

  Then, impulsively, she replaced her finger with her lips.

  He stirred awake quickly after that, stiff with surprise at first, but then his arms circled her waist and an exhale slipped from his throat. He kissed her back, sending magic shooting between her two ears, all the way to her ten fingers and her eight dirt-caked toes.

  One of his hands found her hair, and she, in turn, found herself touching his cheekbones, his chest, his arms, every inch of him. She felt those champagne bubbles churning like they never had before, going straight to her head, making her feel giddy and thirsty and like she was a fool too, that she should have kissed him long ago, that they had wasted too much precious life already.

  “Is this because life as we know it is about to end?” he asked, his forehead pressed to hers.

  She couldn’t keep her grin from showing. “No. It’s because our true lives are just about to begin.”

  Chapter 18

  One Day and Three Hours of Enchantment Remain

  By the time Anouk had tumbled out of bed, grinning like she’d sipped too much wine, combed her fingers through her hair, and straightened her rumpled jacket, it was dark outside. The lumbering shapes of the topiary gardeners dotted the fields, tending to the lavender by moonlight. She squinted toward the hedge wall, but it was too far away to make out the archway or the topiary bear guarding it. Lights burned in the potting shed’s windows. She felt her good mood falter—​Mada Zola’s potion must not have worked or she wouldn’t still be out there—​but it didn’t matter. She was past depending on witches for help.

  She closed the curtain and turned back to Beau, who was reclining on the bed, wearing a goofy smile. The cat clock ticked away on the bedside table but he ignored it, continuing to smile, though his eyelids flinched slightly at every tick. As far as the kissing had gone, they hadn’t done much beyond short sweet ones on the lips or hands or, once, daringly, a neck; neither of them knew exactly what came after that. Still, Anouk felt as though they had crossed some threshold there was no turning back from. To love, and be loved, and be forever human.

  When she at last turned to the clock, she felt a squeeze of panic.

  “Midnight is in a few hours. And then—”

  “Only one more day. I know.”

  She took his big hand, pressed her lips to his knuckles, and she knew she couldn’t lose this, lose him, lose herself. “Wait here.”

  She hugged her jacket closer for warmth. There was no sign of Petra or Cricket in the hall—​all the better for her to sneak outside to check her trap. Just as she was about to leave the château, something metal clattered at the opposite end of the hallway, followed by a noise like a scuffle.

  She stopped. Something felt wrong.

  “Cricket?” she called.

  There was no answer. Something thunked in the same place and that squeeze of panic returned. “Petra? Is that you?”

  She took out her knife, creeping down the dark hallway. The cold bit into the soles of her bare feet. Something thunked again—​it came from the direction of the kitchen. The door was cracked open, the smell of nutmeg drifting from it. Would Petra be making more snacks? How much cocoa could the girl seriously consume in one day?

  Anouk stepped closer, the knife steady despite her erratic heartbeat. Not a mouse! she told herself.

  Another step toward the kitchen.

  The floorboards squeaked behind her. Wait—​behind her. She spun around, slashing with the knife.

  Her blade crashed against something metal.

  “Anouk. It’s me.”

  Cricket had two knives raised, blocking Anouk’s knife an inch from impaling her between the eyes. Anouk had been fast, but no one was faster than Cricket.

  “Merde, Cricket, sorry—”

  “They got inside,” Cricket whispered.

  They both lowered their knives, and Anouk whipped her head back toward the kitchen, sniffing the air. “Who?”

  “Viggo and Hunter Black. I don’t know how they got past the gate. Petra’s outside in the potting shed with Mada Zola. We have to warn them.”

  Anouk felt her spine go rigid. No, no, no. Toblerone was supposed to be guarding the gate. She’d used magic . . . had her trap failed? Had she made a mistake? A clammy sweat broke out on her skin.

  The whites of Cricket’s eyes flashed. “Viggo’s in the kitchen. I don’t know where Hunter Black is. There’s a second staircase that runs behind the pantry and comes out by the stove, remember? I’m going to sneak up there and see if I can take him by surprise. You find Beau and then get Petra and Zola.”

  “Wait.” Anouk grabbed Cricket’s sleeve. “Viggo might hear you on the stairs. Let me distract him.”

  Cricket didn’t protest or laugh or tell Anouk that it was too dangerous, as Beau would have done. That was what Anouk loved about her. Cricket had never called Anouk a little mouse, not once.

  “Yes, all right. Good.”

  Cricket disappeared into the darkness, and Anouk brandished the knife. Took a deep breath. Count to ten. Give Cricket time to get to the other stairs. Then she’d show herself, distract Viggo . . .

  She took a step toward the kitchen. Her fingertips grazed the door.

  And then something was happening faster than she could process it. The door was thrust open. Viggo’s face was there, twisting from surprise to anger and back again in a flash.

  “Anouk.”

  On instinct, she shoved the door wide open, slamming it into his face. Blood spurted from his nose. He let out a cry as she forced her way in and ran to the far end of the table. He pressed a hand to his bloody face.

  “You broke my nose!” He started for her with a growl, and she darted to the side, keeping the table between them. He went left; she went left. He stopped; she stopped. He went right; she went right.

  “Goddamn it, stop—”

  And then Cricket sprinted down the rear stairs behind him and launched off the bottom stair to leap onto his back. He let out another cry as she wrapped an arm around his neck, choking him. For a few seconds it was a scramble between them, a tangle of limbs and feet and even a flash of teeth, but then something silver gleamed in Viggo’s hand and Cricket stopped fighting.

  A pistol.

  No one moved. What were knives against bullets? Anouk had forgotten that Viggo was a Pretty. He could use technology.

  “It fires,” he said, as though reading their minds. “It’s old technology. Purely mechanical; no biometric locks or electric spotting scopes that the magic in this house would interfere with. Almost analog enough that even a witch could fire it. But not quite.” He aimed it at Ano
uk. “Come here, Cricket. Slowly.”

  Cricket looked ready to spit in his face, but he pulled her close enough to press the pistol to her temple.

  Anouk felt rage burning through her. Her mind churned. She could scream for Beau. She could throw a pot from the stove. She could—​

  Something cold and sharp pressed against the side of her neck. She sucked in a breath.

  Oh no.

  Hunter Black’s breath was hot on her throat. “Drop the knife, Anouk.”

  She’d forgotten about the shadow that never left Viggo’s side. He grabbed her arms, pinned them behind her back. He was so much stronger than her. And Viggo’s damn pistol. What weapon did she have? Nothing beside her mind, her hands. Her whispers!

  “Dorma,” she whispered in a rush, “dor—”

  Hunter Black’s hand clamped over her mouth, smothering the whisper. “And don’t scream.”

  Anouk sputtered against his palm, but he only pressed harder. She met Cricket’s eyes. A look of understanding passed over Cricket’s face as she realized what Anouk had been trying to do. She almost smiled. Cricket didn’t have her mouth covered, and if magic was what she wanted to do, this was her chance.

  She pointed toward Hunter Black.

  “Dorma!” she yelled. “Dorma silencia et mada . . . et mada . . . oh, merde, I don’t remember!”

  Anouk gave a muffled cry. It wouldn’t have worked anyway; neither of them had consumed a flower or anything containing life. She needed her mouth uncovered, and she needed something pulsing with life, something like . . . like . . .

  Yes.

  She bit down on Hunter Black’s middle finger. His flesh caught beneath her teeth like a ripe apple; her sharp teeth pierced his skin and warm blood flooded into her mouth. He yelled and let her go, and she felt sick, her mouth filled with his salty, too-warm blood. She tried not to gag.

  Viggo looked aghast. “You. Bitch.”

  Hunter Black clutched his bleeding hand to his chest, reaching for a kitchen towel, and Anouk knew what would happen next. He’d wind back his other hand to slap her and he wouldn’t stop hitting until she was broken on the floor.

  She swallowed down the mouthful of blood.

  “Dorma, dorma, sonora precimo,” she choked out.

  Hunter Black dropped to the floor—​like that. It happened so fast, so suddenly, that at first Anouk didn’t believe it. She stared at his prostrate body, daring to poke him with her toe.

  “Get up!” Viggo looked horribly confused. “Hunter Black, get up!”

  “That’s what you deserve, crétin!” Cricket cheered. She took the opportunity to elbow Viggo in the stomach, and then pressed one of her knives to his jugular and announced gleefully, “Didn’t think we could do magic, did you? Thought we were only good for making your bed? Or keeping it warm?” She dug the blade deeper and a prick of red appeared, which seemed to delight her. “Now drop the pistol.”

  He moaned weakly and obeyed.

  “We should put him to sleep too,” Anouk said, looking around for something else living to swallow. “We could lock them in the wine cellar. Somewhere they can’t escape.”

  She reached for a sprig of rosemary, but Cricket shook her head.

  “Let me.” She jabbed the blade deeper against Viggo’s neck until a line of blood ran down his skin. She licked it, then made a face, but swallowed. “Now what do I say again?”

  “Dorma, dorma, sonora precimo,” Anouk told her.

  “Dorma, bastard,” Cricket muttered, jabbing the knife harder. “Dorma, sonora precimo, jerkwad.”

  Viggo started to mumble a protest but then slumped forward, falling asleep more slowly than Hunter Black, as Cricket’s whisper hadn’t exactly been quiet or precise. As he fell, his head collided with the hard edge of the kitchen sink with a nasty-sounding crack, and Anouk flinched, but Cricket’s eyes just gleamed with dark delight.

  “That was so cool.” She cleaned and put away her blades. “Is there a spell for smashing things? Like stupid boys’ skulls?”

  Anouk flexed her hands, trying to shake the odd sparking sensation in them.

  The gas light over the stove flicked on, and Beau stood in the doorway with wide eyes. “What maléfice is going on here?”

  “Get Hunter Black’s legs,” Cricket said.

  He still looked confused but helped Anouk and Cricket drag their prisoners down the wooden stairs to the wine cellar. If the upper portions of the château were old, then down there it was practically prehistoric. The walls dripped with unseen moisture; the foundation was crumbled from time. The door to the wine cellar was made of thick oak with a metal grate set into it like a prison cell’s. It probably had been a prison cell once, Anouk figured. Cricket dropped Viggo unceremoniously on the floor.

  Beau shivered. “It’s freezing down here.”

  “They can cuddle for warmth.” Cricket kicked Viggo’s arm for good measure. “How long do you think they’ll be out?”

  “Not too long, I hope.” Anouk thought of the clock several floors above, its perpetual tick-tick-tick. She dusted off a wine barrel and dragged it beside the door, prepared to wait. “And when they wake up, we’ve got to be ready.”

  Cricket left to explain to Petra and Mada Zola what had happened, and after a few minutes of shivering next to Anouk, Beau left to fetch blankets and something warm for him and Anouk to drink. Nestling in her jacket, Anouk let out a long-held breath.

  They still had time, she told herself. The way she saw it, Hunter Black was one of them, and so that ticking clock meant just as much to him as it did to her. Come midnight tomorrow, he stood to lose not only himself but his abilities as an assassin and Viggo’s protector, without which he had nothing.

  A moan came from the wine cellar.

  She jumped up. “Viggo?” She held a candle to the grate, but the light was too faint to see more than a few feet. “Viggo, wake up. I need to talk to you.”

  Hunter Black suddenly loomed at the grate, so specterlike that Anouk dropped the candle. She cursed and searched the dusty floor until she found it again, but she had no matches, so she swallowed a briar tangled in her sweater. Ouch.

  “Incendie,” she whispered, and a flame flickered to life.

  Hunter Black eyed the candle warily, as though he didn’t trust the magic he’d just seen. “What do you want?”

  “A deal.” It took effort to keep her spine straight. Even though she was on the free side of the door and he was locked inside, Hunter Black still had a way of making her feel rattled. “I have a proposal for Viggo.”

  He gave a cold laugh. “You have no idea what you’re doing without Luc here to hold your hand.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Despite all your glowering, you relied on him as much as the rest of us. I think you feel just as lost without him.” Her gaze fell to the stitches peeking out from his shirt collar, and Hunter Black clamped a hand over them. Luc had done more than just stitch up his wounds—​Luc had shown him kindness when the rest of the world had not.

  For a few flickers of the candle he looked as though he wanted to get his hands around her throat, but then his face eased. Grudgingly, he asked, “How is it possible?”

  “What?”

  He nodded toward the candle. “You cast magic. Just now, and upstairs in the kitchen. Beasties can’t cast magic.” There was an edge in his voice that went beyond curiosity.

  She raised an eyebrow. “I could teach you to cast a spell yourself if you’d stop being such a—”

  Viggo shoved his face close to the grate, cutting her off. He’d mostly cleaned himself, but his hair was streaked with dirt. “What’s this about a deal?”

  “First tell me how you got past the hedge.”

  Viggo smirked. “I know a trap when I see one—​we weren’t about to stroll through an open gate. I might not be a magic handler, but I’ve learned a thing or two from the Haute. Witches know to add a stipulation to wall spells to prevent climbing over, but they always forget about under. We followed the hedge fo
r a hundred meters and then tunneled beneath it. And that ridiculous bear? He was only enchanted to keep us out. Once we were already in, Hunter Black made quick work of him. Chop-chop.”

  Guilt twisted in her chest. Toblerone was gone because of her.

  Viggo touched his throat. “Hunter Black, I’m parched. Open one of these wine bottles. I saw a teacup somewhere in here . . .”

  The tunneling at least explained the dirt in Viggo’s hair. But now that she looked closer, it wasn’t dirt. Several streaks of his fair hair were now nearly as charcoal dark as Hunter Black’s.

  “What happened to your hair?”

  He tossed it out of his eyes. “Like it?” His smile was harsh. “A witch’s spells last only three days after her death. It’s been two. The spell is fading.” He cocked his head. “You didn’t think my hair just happened to be the exact shade as hers, did you?” He laughed coldly. “She enchanted it afresh every year. Didn’t want any reminder that I wasn’t really her son but some screaming dark-haired baby she’d stolen out of a pram in the houseware section of Le Bon Marché.”

  Hunter Black broke open the neck of a bottle of merlot, and Viggo kicked around in the dirt for the teacup he claimed to have seen. Anouk touched her own hair tentatively. If the enchantment that colored Viggo’s hair was already fading, then didn’t that mean their beastie spell was also fading? That they were already turning back? Was her mind playing tricks on her, or did her hair feel coarser? She touched her jaw—​was it heavier, more bestial? But she was still just a girl, at least on the outside.

  “Now, what’s this deal?” Viggo said, tossing back a teacup of wine.

  Chapter 19

  Twenty-Four Hours of Enchantment Remain