“You are not a god.”
He chuckled. “True. I am far more generous with my gifts thanthey have ever been. Death magic, little witch. How are you not grateful, when I owe you so very much?” He clicked his tongue pityingly. “You opened the door for me all those years ago, and I am never going back to Verloren. Not even if Velos themself should come for me.”
Mallory clenched her jaw, trying to think. She reminded herself that he could not kill her. Could barely touch her.
But that pain had been real enough.
When Le Bleu pulled away, she braced herself, but he merely stooped to pick up what was left of the incense.
She inhaled sharply in surprise. The herbs did not weigh much, she told herself. Triphine could have picked them up, too.
But only for a moment—and she would have complained about it.
“Clever little girl.” He stroked a finger along the edges of his beard. “You do not resemble her, you know. But your sister…”
She snarled. “I don’t know who you’re referring to.”
“I think you do.” He appeared downright nostalgic as he tucked the bundle of herbs into his pocket, like a knight might save a posy of wildflowers from his lady.
He drew close again, until she had to crane her neck to hold his gaze. Until she could feel the cold nothingness of his body tickling the hairs on her arms.
He was different from other ghosts she’d seen. Not cast in a silver-gray light that emanated from the inside out. Rather, his figure was part man, part shadow. The edges of his body bled away into inky blackness. Of all the ghosts Mallory had seen over the years, this was the only ghost who glowed not with iridescentgrayish light, but with the blackness of impenetrable shadows, wearing them like a shroud. She had seen this living darkness once before.
She had hoped to never see it again.
Monsieur Le Bleu lowered his head, pressing his cheek to hers. Mallory cringed at the sensation of his rough beard against her skin, and his breath—unexpectedly warm—on her ear.
She couldn’t just see him or hear him.
She couldfeelhim.
For the briefest of moments, he was solid. He was alive.
“You are already in my snare, little witch. Gabrielle may have gotten away from me, but you and your sister will not. And I have you to thank for it.”
He pressed his lips to her neck, where her collar met skin—and Mallory felt like there were cockroaches skittering beneath her flesh.
Gathering her courage, she tried to shove him away—
But her hands met only shadows.
Monsieur Le Bleu was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Nearly three full days had passed since Mallory had encountered Monsieur Le Bleu on the cellar stairs, and while she had heard nothing else from the ghost, she still found herself moving hesitantly through the house, half expecting to be met with the apparition around every corner.
But the days had been blessedly uneventful. She’d even heard Julie musing to herself about how quiet the hauntings had been since Mallory had spread around her witchy-herbal-smoke stuff. Mallory had been eager to accept the praise of her skills, but she knew those bundled sticks had not deterred the spirit.
His silence unnerved her. It was as though he were plotting something. As though he were waiting.
But for what?
Lucienne and Béatrice had indeed introduced themselves to Triphine and welcomed her into their little circle of the murdered and mutilated. Triphine complained about them when theyweren’t around—“All that Béatrice wants to talk about is which prince is courting which princess and which queen is pregnant with her ninth child, and on and on, as if anyone cares about such things. No wonder Lucienne has spent the last century drinking herself into a stupor. I’d probably take up the bottle, too, after spending so much time with the two of them. That is, if I could trust that the wine here wouldn’t give me hives.”
Despite her whining, Mallory had the sense that Triphine rather enjoyed having new company.
Meanwhile, Mallory and Anaïs spent their days immersed in faux witchcraft. While Mallory waved chicken bones into dark corners of the house (checking for evil vibrations… or something like that), Anaïs conducted fortune readings in every room, as if she could tell the fate of the house itself. They burned candles in the parlors and chanted nonsense rhymes. Demanded that every hearth be lit nonstop for a full day and night, in order to drive out the wicked spirits with sweltering heat. Scattered flower petals into the courtyard fountain and prayed loudly to the seven gods… in case Yvette was watching.
