I shake my head, setting my champagne aside with a loud clink.
“If you think there’s anything you could say that would convince me to remain here willingly, you’re the crazy one.”
Again, I wait for my words to pierce his polite armor. For his control to slip and for some evidence of his true nature to shine through, but he merely smiles.
More lies.
I don’t need a ghostly warning or even magic to tell me that Cutter is a horrible human being.
“Nothing I could say, no,” he says. “But there’s something you need to see.” He stands, setting his glass aside and holds out his hand for me.
After a moment of hesitation, I take it, nearly recoiling at the coldness of his skin. It’s pure ice and sends a jolt of awareness through me, bringing with it visions of death, horror, and blood.
So much blood.
It’s on my hands. My tongue. In my mouth.
I nearly choke on it.
The moment I’m on my feet, I drop his hand and step back. My heart pounds and my palms are slick with sweat.
Glancing up, I catch sight of a spirit hovering in the corner. It’s the same girl whose silent scream terrified me during my first session with Dr. Livingstone. She’s signaling urgently at me, but when Cutter approaches, she gasps and disappears.
He frowns and glances back. I look away, smoothing my sweater as I try to get my bearings. Can he see them too?
“You look just like her, you know.” His expression is distant now, almost as if he’s talking to himself.
“Who?” I ask.
He blinks, coming to himself. “Pardon?”
My temper strains with impatience.
“What do you want from me?” I demand, tired of all the games.
“It’s easier if I show you.”
I expect him to exit the way we came in, but instead he walks to the bookshelf and pulls out a copy of The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus by Christopher Marlowe. His choice intrigues me, and I wonder what deals with devils the good doctor has made. The shelf creaks and groans as the entire bookcase slides inward, revealing a well-lit passageway.
I can’t help but inch forward, both impressed and a little curious about what’s mysterious enough to have hidden in a secret tunnel.
Cutter steps into the passage and I follow warily.
It’s a short walk that ends in a large cavern which looks like it was cut from the same stone I glimpsed from outside on the cliff. Most of the space is sanded smooth, but the far wall boasts an intricate carving of two figures. One is an angel with arms outstretched—a savior standing tall amongst mountains carved into the background. At his feet lies a man, hand reaching upward as if in silent plea.
It’s beautiful, but I don’t recognize the piece or the artist, despite all my studies.
“What is this place?” I ask, my voice echoing off the high ceilings.
“What you see is all that is left of the holy spaces of the abbey that once housed the region’s most devout religious leaders. It is said that the archangel Michael himself blessed it, dubbing it Mont Saint Michel, a stronghold against the persecution of the righteous.”
I cut him a wary look. “Is that what we are? Righteous and persecuted?”
“We are other, Celeste. And humans fear what is other.”
His words echo Dr. Livingstone’s, but the two men feel nothing alike, even if they are both vampires.
I have a million questions about the history and the art here, along with how in the hell he managed to get a hold of what should be a historical site or national monument to use as a prison. Or why, out of all the people in the world, he chose me as his newest thing to possess. But my questions are silenced when I catch sight of what lies in the center of the room.
Or, whom.
Everything else is forgotten, and I rush forward with a strangled cry that echoes harshly.
Part of me wonders if this is some awful trick. A grand finale to the mind games and hallucinations that have plagued me since the moment I entered this terrible prison. But when I reach her, she is solid. Physical, though her body is hooked to various machines that beep in steady rhythm that I realize with a sob is her heartbeat. I grab her face in my hands, shaking her, but her eyes remain closed. Unresponsive. Disbelief gives way to panic as I try to wake her to no avail. Whatever this is, she is not a spirit sent to torture me. Not a trick of the light or a hallucination.
She is my sister.
Estelle.
And she is alive.
11
“What have you done to her?” I demand, choking on my words as a sob lodges in my throat.
“She is ill,” Cutter says. It’s not an answer, but I’m too lost in my own emotional storm to argue.
Estelle’s skin is cold. Colder than even my own in this drafty, dank place.
With a silent pleading prayer, I call to whatever entity aided me before. Inside me, something awakens. Silvery threads glow underneath my skin and I will them to flow through me and into my sister. To heal her.
The glowing energy—magic, if it can all be believed—slides underneath my skin, heating me from the inside. I hold my breath, praying it’s enough. That, just like with Declan, it will bring her back to herself. But her body remains motionless.
On her other side, a figure appears.
I look up.
“Estelle,” I breathe and the silvery strands surge stronger than ever.
But Estelle’s form is as ethereal as ever, and I fight off panic. The machines continue to beep a steady rhythm. Her heartbeat, I remind myself. Still alive. Still here.
“How do I help you?” I ask her.
Her face contorts with pain and she grips at her cheeks, her fingers clawing the skin there until red welts appear.
“Celeste! Please stop,” her ghostly form begs, and I realize whatever I’m doing is hurting her.
“I have magic. It can heal you,” I say, but she screams, drowning out my words, doubling over and clutching her face in agony.
I yank my hands away, breathing heavy as her ghostly form vanishes. I look down at her physical body. Eyes closed. Skin pale. She looks deceivingly serene.
Straightening, I turn to Cutter, rage boiling in my veins.
“She is immune to a witch’s healing touch.”
“You knew this would hurt her?” I demand.
“I’d hoped your attempts would be different.”
“All this time . . . she’s been your prisoner.” I take a step closer, my rage heating me from the inside. “You won’t get away with this,” I hiss.
“You misunderstand, Celeste. Your sister is unwell. I—”
“You did this to her,” I accuse.
“I found her like this,” he corrects. “Her symptoms are severe, as you can see, but from what my doctors can surmise, she is the victim of her own broken mind.”
I saw the police report. The photos they took of her lifeless body that made me vomit. Her cut wrists. But now her wrists are unmarked. Was it all a lie?
“You’re saying she put herself into some kind of coma?” I scoff but my mind races.
“It appears so,” Cutter says calmly. Too calmly.
The prick.
“She’s been here all this time.” I can’t think straight. But I have to.
Estelle’s life depends on it.