The room, a library of sorts, is a combination of sterile and stately. Not a speck of dust mars the luxury that has been packed into this small space. Dr. Cutter waves me forward, and I step onto a plush rug laid over hardwood that gleams in the soft light. A fire crackles cheerily from a fireplace cut from stone in the center of the far wall, and the man gestures towards it.
“Please have a seat,” he says, pointing at the set of cushioned chairs positioned before the fireplace.
I sit stiffly, trying not to show how dreamy the warmth feels against my constantly chilled skin. Or the velvety softness of the cushions against my backside.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Corbin Cutter. I am the founder and CEO of Le Rêve, a hospital for the supernaturally unwell.”
I roll my eyes. A hospital my ass.
"Tell me, Celeste, if I may call you that?”
I shrug, not really sure how to answer. I don't want him calling me anything. Is that an option?
"How are you enjoying your stay at Le Rêve?"
The question is so absurd and out of left field I bark out a laugh before I can stop myself. "Are you for real right now?" I ask.
"Quite," he says in all seriousness.
"Definitely a one star Yelp review. Would not recommend."
He chuckles at that. "I can appreciate your hesitation in embracing your role here.
“What do you want, Dr. Cutter?” I ask as he pours two glasses of champagne from a cart along the wall.
Behind him, and stretching around three of the four walls, built-in bookcases are filled to the brim with books and treasures and trinkets—including some pieces that I could swear date back to the paleolithic era.
“Please, just Corbin.”
He approaches, a smile still fixed on his harsh face, and holds a flute of champagne out for me.
I take it if only to refocus him on my question.
“All right. What do you want, Corbin?”
He sits and crosses his legs, eying me.
I wait, refusing to drink or speak or even blink first.
“I thought it was time you and I had a private chat about why you’re really here.”
“You mean you’re going to tell me why you kidnapped me?”
My question is full of snark and meant to bait him, but he doesn’t even blink.
“Do you believe in magic, Miss D’LeLune?”
“I believe I’m not crazy.” Sometimes, at least. Other times? Not so much, but I refuse to show him my doubt.
“Of course not.”
“Nor am I in need of some kind of cure.”
“Naturally.”
Something about his easy answers unsettle me.
“Did I really kill someone? Or was that part of the charade to make me think I deserved all this?”
He doesn’t look surprised by my question. I’m beginning to wonder if anything ruffles this guy.
Reaching into a drawer in the end table beside him, he produces a file and hands it to me.
“What’s this?”
When he doesn’t say anything, I open it and frown at the photo on top. A multi-level flat engulfed in angry, orange-red flames takes up the entire picture. I flip to the next photo and see it’s the same flat; now nothing but burnt framework and the littered remains of people’s charred belongings. The third photo is taken from a distance, offering a clear look at the surrounding apartments and the street below.
I gasp.
My hand flies to my mouth to stifle the cry that builds in my throat.
I look up at him, shocked. “This is my flat,” I say. “The entire building…”
“Burned down,” he finishes, twirling his drink in his hand. He watches me with all the curiosity of a scientist overlooking his experiment. I want to throw my drink at him.
“Who did this?” I ask, and my first reaction is to blame him. But deep down, I know what he’s going to say.
“You did, Celeste.”
“No.”
The single word is more a plea than a denial. It can’t be true.
“I would remember,” I argue.
But he goes on. “The night you attempted to take your own life, you unleashed something. A power that you’ve kept hidden and strangled for so long. I suspect the moment your life force began slipping away, that power spilled up and out. Quite like a firework, I imagine.” He nods to the photos. “Unfortunately, your neighbor, Miss Cartwright, lacked the speed and mobility to exit the building before it was consumed by the flames.”
“No,” I say again, heart aching as I imagine it.
Miss Cartwright—Helen—was elderly and lived across the hall. She had arthritis in her knees and hands. I often volunteered to refill her medications to save her a painful trip out.
And now she’s dead. Because of me.
“I’m a murderer,” I say, remembering Dr. Livingstone’s words.
“You’re new to all this. Undisciplined in your own capabilities. I remember what that feels like. A power like yours, unchecked—when I was first turned, I slaughtered entire families before my sire taught me control.”
I can only stare at him in horror at such a casual admission and I strain to identify the markers that would prove he’s a vampire, as he is apparently claiming. I should no longer be shocked at such revelations--after all, wasn’t it Declan who said we are all monsters here? But still, his cavalier admission is like a slap in the face. “You killed them on purpose?”
He smiles, but it’s nothing more than a flash of teeth. A sardonic, cruel expression. “My parents weren’t as kind as yours, I’m afraid. Father made it clear the only way I would be worthy of what he’d made me into was by a show of strength—of blood and bone.”
“Your father encouraged you to slaughter innocent people like animals?”
“On the contrary, he required it.”
He smiles as if we’re discussing something as trivial as the weather. “You, on the other hand, have led a life sheltered from hard things. And in that shelter, you became naïve. Unaware of what you were capable of. And that lack of awareness made you clumsy. That’s why Le Rêve is the best place for you.”
I ignore the way he’s just compared us, trying to make me seem like him.
But I can no longer deny there is something more to me. Something not human. Just like there is more to Cutter and all of the others he’s locked inside these walls.
“Is everyone here a witch, werewolf, or vampire?” I still can’t believe I’m saying these words out loud in all seriousness.
“Yes.”
“Even the staff?”
“Of course. I would not want to see harm come to a human caught in the crossfire.”
I think of Helen but immediately push the painful thoughts away.
“Right. I’m sure human safety is your main concern.”
“Your safety is my main concern.”
“Is that why you’re holding me here against my will?”
“At first, ensuring you remained here was imperative for your safety, but there is also the safety of another at risk if you go.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“As I said, I think it’s time you and I discuss the reason you’re here. A reason that may change your mind about wanting to leave.”