The Dolls(105)

It’s only then that I realize Caleb is crying. “Caleb,” I say weakly, reaching up to touch his face, which only makes his tears fall faster. He wipes them away.

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” he says.

“Caleb.” I struggle to sit up. He puts his strong arm on my back to support me, and I gaze into his eyes.

“He was coming at me with that knife, Eveny,” he says. “I knew he’d come for you next. . . .”

Before I can think what I’m doing, I silence him with a kiss, pressing my lips to his with as much force as I can muster. I feel a sob escape his mouth, and then he’s kissing back, passionately, hungrily. “Eveny,” he breathes.

He pulls me closer, and I wince, suddenly all too aware of the knife wounds that have shredded my neck and chest.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps, lowering me slowly back down to the couch.

“You came back for me,” I murmur.

I look at him in awe as his eyes fill with tears again.

“Of course.” He pushes a tendril of my hair gently out of my face and leans down to kiss me gently on the lips. “I came back because I love you.”

It’s the last thing I remember before the world once again fades to black.





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................





33


Drew’s funeral is the following Wednesday in the Carrefour cemetery.

Peregrine and Chloe had healed me the night of Mardi Gras, and once I was conscious again, the three of us had joined hands and mended Caleb’s wounds. Physically, we’re no worse for the wear today as we stand beside Drew’s grave and watch two cemetery workers from the Périphérie slide his simple oak casket into his family’s mausoleum. Our whole sosyete is there, mourning him publicly.

I’m surprised to realize that the tears I’m crying are real. Even though Drew tried to kill me, I still feel a sense of loss over his death. He wasn’t all evil.

“He made his own choices, Eveny,” Peregrine whispers in my ear as if she knows what I’m thinking.

I nod and dry my eyes, but I’m wondering whether that’s really true. Yes, we all have free will, but in a way, our fates have chosen us already. I’ve been given power and riches beyond my wildest dreams, and although I don’t want either, I know I no longer have a choice. This is my destiny.

The official story of Drew’s death—the conclusion the police have come to, anyhow—is that he was murdered by a random stranger during Mardi Gras. Probably someone drunk and confused, everyone is saying.

Aunt Bea, who sat stone-faced while I filled her in on the details of what happened in New Orleans last week, is at the funeral too, sitting beside Drew’s mother, who’s either entirely uninvolved in her son’s deception or is a terribly good actress. Arelia is on Aunt Bea’s other side, her eyes red from crying. She’d called me yesterday to apologize for not being truthful from the start about Glory. “I thought everyone would judge me,” she said miserably.

Aunt Bea turns and locks eyes with me as the cemetery workers walk away from the gravesite. I force a smile to let her know I’m okay. She’s been buzzing around me since I returned from Mardi Gras, apologizing profusely for keeping me in the dark for so long and therefore putting me in danger.

“There’s no excuse for how removed and distant I’ve been these last few weeks,” she’d said this morning as we walked to the funeral together. “I couldn’t stand to feel like I’d lost another person I loved because I was complicit in all of this. I just wanted to forget that zandara existed. But that means I wasn’t there for you. I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t owe me an apology,” I’d told her honestly. “You’ve always done your best with me. It’s up to me from here.”

But although the words seemed to make her feel better, I knew they were a lie. Because while the threat of Drew is gone, I have the feeling Main de Lumière isn’t going to stop. If anything, they’ll be angrier. We’ve killed two of their own now, and I expect them to come after us with a vengeance. What if there’s another sleeper in our midst, someone who’s been here as long as—or longer than—Drew? And I still don’t know who killed my mother. I don’t trust anyone anymore. Except Caleb.

I’d told him, two days after Mardi Gras, the truths Drew had told me about my father and how powerful my lineage makes me. He’d listened somberly while I spoke, then promised he hadn’t known about any of it. “This means you may be in grave danger all the time,” he’d said.