An Affair of Poisons(93)
The black smoke beast screeches above us, bending as if Mirabelle’s fingers are clamped around its neck rather than Lesage’s innards. She changes her grip and it plummets to the platform. The boards crack beneath the creature’s weight and splinters spray into the air, some as long and jagged as spears. The pearl-pink dragon roars with fury and dives to protect its companion, but Mirabelle wrings her hand again, sending the second beast rolling sideways across the sky. It crashes into the fa?ade of Notre-Dame, and every panel of stained glass shatters. The beast hits the ground with a shudder so violent, I bump into Mirabelle.
Across the platform, the black beast moans and flaps. Louis advances from one side, Gavril charges from the other, and together they bury a sword and dagger into the creature’s long neck.
“The other one!” Mirabelle yells at me, sweat streaking down her face. “Finish this.”
With the last of my strength, I heft a fallen Society guard’s sword off the ground and drag myself to where the creature lies. It hisses at my approach, its ears pinned back and its yellow eyes wild. One shimmering wing is shredded, and its front leg is twisted—the scales torn away to reveal pale, pitted flesh. I edge closer and it rears back, like a snake coiled to strike, but when it attempts to lunge forward, it shrieks in pain. Its head wrenches to the side, and I take the opening Mirabelle made for me.
I thrust the sword deep into the creature’s side. A geyser of hot black blood sprays my face, and I reel back. Just out of reach of the smoke beast’s claws.
It keens and groans. Or maybe that’s me. My entire body is screaming with pain. The world flickers in and out, growing darker and darker until I can’t see the beast or the cathedral or even the smoke. I am alone, floating through the blackness. Cradled by the glorious sound of silence.
I don’t know if this is the end. Or if it’s the beginning. But either way, it feels like victory.
When I wake, I’m in a bed. An enormous bed with fresh ticking and a silk coverlet. Since I’ve never in my life slept in a bed so fine, I figure I must still be dreaming, and I close my eyes to bask in the slippery warmth a while longer. But then my limbs begin to prickle and the horrific scenes from Notre-Dame replace the hazy gray nothingness: the blood, the beasts, the bodies strewn across the courtyard.
How did it end?
I push up to my elbows, but pain explodes across my chest, forcing me back to the mattress. Carefully, I reach up to touch the outline of Lesage’s awful handprint on my chest, but I find a knife wound instead, along with a thick crusting of herbs.
Mirabelle’s remedy. The one she used to heal Desgrez and my sisters. The curative that started everything—and ended it as well, it seems.
“Mirabelle?” I slit my eyes to peer around the room. The walls are covered in deep burgundy brocade. A velvet fauteuil rests in the corner, and the side tables are made of polished rosewood. The river Seine meanders lazily past the window, throwing fractals of fading red sunlight across the ceiling. We are in the Louvre. Which can mean only one thing: the Shadow Society is truly vanquished.
“Mirabelle?” I call again, and a thick, low voice coughs in response from the door.
“It’s about time you awoke,” says the piggish steward. He wears a white wig and a condescending frown. “His Royal Highness has been waiting all day. I am to escort you to him at once.”
Before, I would have bristled at such a summons. Heaven forbid I keep Louis waiting even a minute after we all nearly perished. Doesn’t he need to eat and bathe and sleep? But I allow the steward to help me out of bed and escort me down the hall because I’m eager to know what happened after I collapsed.
And I’m even more eager to see my sisters.
The steward leads me through the clock pavilion, clucking at my limping step, and into the Grande Galerie, where a massive armchair is arranged before the fireplace. Louis sits rigidly atop the cushion, clad in white from head to toe—white kidskin breeches and a white doublet with golden studs. He looks so pristine compared to the grime and wreckage from Notre-Dame. As if he’s forgotten the battle already. Attendants rush around him, stoking the fire and bearing trays of thinly sliced meats and soft cheese. Several nobles I recognize from the battle are clustered behind him, returned to their satin doublets and powdered wigs. But there’s no sign of my sisters anywhere.
Louis sees me and gestures to the ground before him. “Come forward.”
“Isn’t this a tad excessive?” I say with a laugh.
Louis’s face pinches as if he ate an unripe berry. “Is that any way to greet your king?”
“You’ve been king less than a day. And I thought—”
“I’ve been king all my life. Chosen of God from the moment I was born.”
I slap my hand to my forehead and drag it through my hair. For some reason I presumed things would be different now. We will never love each other, but after the time we shared in battle and the change I saw in him …
“Where are Anne and Fran?oise?” I ask. “And Mirabelle?”
“You cannot just barge in here, making demands. I shall dictate this conversation.”
“First, I didn’t barge in anywhere. You summoned me. And if you want to dictate, get on with it already.”
He sniffs and glares expectantly.
Sighing, I drop into the world’s most overwrought and condescending bow. “Get on with it already, Your Majesty.”