Somehow, Nicholina has trapped their souls in this darkness with her forever.

Yours too, the prim one sniffs. You are one of us now.

No. The darkness seems to press closer as their words ring true, and for a moment, I can’t speak. No, I’m still alive. I’m in a church, and Reid—

Who says we’re all dead? the mischievous voice asks. Perhaps some of us are still alive, somewhere. Perhaps our souls are merely fragmented. Part here, part there. Part everywhere. Yours will shatter soon enough.

When the darkness shifts once more, heavier now—crushing me beneath its weight—the others sense my mounting hysteria. Their voices turn less amicable, less prim, less mischievous. We are sorry, Louise le Blanc. It is too late for you. For all of us.

NO. I lash against the darkness with all my might, repeating the word over and over again like a talisman. I search for a golden pattern. For anything. There is only darkness. No no no no no—

Only Nicholina’s chilling laughter answers.

The Lighthouse

Reid

The first light of dawn haloed Father Achille in the sanctuary doors. He waited as I roused the others. No one had slept well. Bags swelled beneath Célie’s eyes, though she did her best to pinch color into her pale cheeks. Coco yawned while Beau groaned and cracked his neck. My own ached, despite Lou’s fingers kneading the knotted muscle there. I shrugged away from her touch with an apologetic smile, motioning toward the door.

“The villagers won’t rouse for another hour or so,” Achille said, handing each of us an apple as we filed past. “Remember what I said—don’t let them see you. The Chasseurs have an outpost not far from here. You don’t want anyone following you to . . . wherever it is you’re going.”

“Thank you, Father.” I tucked the apple into my pocket. It wasn’t shiny. It wasn’t red. But it was more than he owed us. More than others would’ve given. “For everything.”

He eyed me steadily. “Don’t mention it.” When I nodded, moving to lead the others through the churchyard, he caught my arm. “Be careful. Cauchemars are heralded as harbingers of doom.” I lifted an incredulous brow, and he added, grudging, “They’re only seen before catastrophic events.”

“A mob isn’t a catastrophic event.”

“Never underestimate the power of a mob.” Beau draped his arm casually across Coco’s shoulders as they waited, leaning against a tree. Mist clung to the edges of their hoods. “People are capable of unspeakable evil en masse. I’ve seen it happen.”

Father Achille released my arm and stepped away. “As have I. Take care.”

Without another word, he disappeared into the foyer, closing the door firmly behind him.

A strange sensation twinged my chest as I watched him go. “I wonder if we’ll ever see him again.”

“Not likely,” Lou said. The thick mist nearly engulfed her slight frame. Behind her, a white shape slipped through a break in the haze, and amber eyes flashed. I scowled. The dog had returned. She hadn’t noticed, instead extending her arm down the hillside. “Shall we?”

The village of Fée Tombe had been named for its sea stacks of hematite. Black, sparkling, the rocks rose from the sea for miles on end in the disjointed shapes of faerie wings—some tall and thin with spiderlike webs of silver, others short and stout with veins of red. Even the smallest stacks towered over the sea like great, immortal beings. Waves crashed around the wreckage of ships below. From our path along the bluff, the broken masts and booms looked like teeth.

Célie shivered in the icy breeze, wincing as her foot caught and twisted between two rocks. Beau cast her a sympathetic look. “It isn’t too late to turn back, you know.”

“No.” She lifted her chin stubbornly before wrenching her foot free. More rocks skittered from the path and tumbled into the sea below. “We need my carriage.”

“Your father’s carriage,” Coco muttered. She kept one hand on the sheer cliff face to her left—the other clenched tightly around La Petite Larme—and edged past. Beau followed carefully, picking his way through the uneven terrain as the path narrowed and spiraled upward. At the back of the group, I kept my own hand fisted in the fabric of Lou’s cloak.

I needn’t have bothered. She moved with the grace of a cat, never slipping, never stumbling. Each step light and nimble.

Color rose high on Célie’s cheeks as she tried to maintain our pace. Her breathing grew labored. When she stumbled again, I leaned around Lou and murmured, “Beau was right, Célie. You can wait in the chapel while we deal with the cauchemar. We’ll return for you before we leave.”

“I am not,” she seethed, skirt and hair whipping wildly in the wind, “waiting in the chapel.”

Sweeping past Célie, Lou patted her on the head. “Of course you aren’t, kitten.” Then she cast a sidelong look down her right shoulder, to where the sea crashed below. “You needn’t be worried, anyway. Kittens have nine lives.” Her teeth flashed. “Don’t they?”

My hand tightened on her cloak, and I tugged her backward, bending low to her ear. “Stop it.”

“Stop what, darling?” She craned her neck to look at me. Eyes wide. Innocent. Her lashes fluttered. “I’m encouraging her.”

“You’re terrifying her.”

She reached back to trace my lips with her pointer finger. “Perhaps you don’t give her enough credit.”

With that, she twisted from my grip and strode past Célie without another look. We watched her go with varying degrees of alarm. When she vanished around the bend after Coco and Beau, Célie’s shoulders relaxed infinitesimally. She took a deep breath. “She still doesn’t like me. I thought she might after . . .”

“Do you like her?”

A second too late, she wrinkled her nose. “Of course not.”

I jerked my chin to indicate we should continue. “Then there isn’t a problem.”

She said nothing for a long moment. “But . . . why doesn’t she like me?”

“Careful.” I moved to steady her when she tripped, but she jerked away, overcompensating and falling hard against the cliff. I fought an eye roll. “She knows we have history. Plus”—I cleared my throat pointedly—“she heard you call her a whore.”