Havriel crosses his legs in a quick, sharp motion. He doesn’t seem to appreciate his thinking being questioned. It’s like he can’t even fathom how I might have a completely different opinion on what constitutes dignity.
“Anouk, we are entirely functional. We are like a great machine, our family. My brother and I are the engine. You are the fuel. We extended to you the honor due you as scions of a noble bloodline. We gave you every comfort. We treated you with respect. We needed you as close to the Palais du Papillon as possible, as the harvesting of the genes is a complex process and must be handled quickly and delicately after death of the donors. . . .
I snort. “Donors? It’s not a donation if you freaking rob the bank.”
Havriel ignores me. “And Frédéric does not like to leave the palais. He can no longer abide the surface with its many foibles and contagions. So what better way than to bring you here in style, give you a proper send-off, make you all feel special and important, as if you were picked for something great. Because you were. Don’t you see? You are a very valuable person, Anouk.”
The words ignite something in me, a pathetic, involuntary response. I look at him in surprise and stupid hope.
“Your death paves the way for our family’s continued success and dominance. It is not in vain.”
The hope vanishes. What about my life? What about who I want to be?
“And the Sapanis? They’re just a front? An alias?”
“The Sapanis are what we called ourselves as we reemerged from the palace during the Reign of Terror. We could not gain a footing in France under the Bessancourt name. We did not wish to emigrate. And so before we went into hiding, we put a plan in place. We signed the chateau and its grounds and all our monies to the brothers Wilhelm and Ehrfurcht Sapani. Ourselves. We started anew. We opened a bank, then a gunsmithy, then a jeweler’s, and slowly, crawlingly, over the decades and centuries, we rebuilt our dynasty. And now here we are! The most powerful supplier of armaments and technology in the world. They say it’s those with the money who make the rules, but really it’s those who can steal the money from anyone, any country and government. It is those who are feared who make the rules. The truth is, there are no Sapanis. There is no Monsieur Gourbillon finding a crater in the wine cellar, no Project Papillon. My brother is a shy man. We prefer to run our business ventures in private. . . .”
He trails off. His eyes fix on mine and my blood runs cold. “Now, Anouk. I think we’ve chatted long enough.” He bows his head respectfully, and the silver spike rises, his fingers wrapped around the nozzle like it’s the head of a snake. “I will ask you one more time: where are your friends?”
Sinking. That’s how I feel. Sinking down-down-down, into an endless, crushing blackness. This is too big for me. Too big for all of us. Lilly, Jules, Will, and I—we’re just tiny, rusty wheels in their huge plan, squeaking desperately. Uselessly. There’s no way on earth I’m getting out of here alive.
“I don’t think you know where they are,” he says. “I think you’re lying.”
“I do. I know where they are.”
“Ah! So tell me. I upheld my end of the bargain.”
He gazes at me expectantly across the tip of the nozzle, his eyes glittering.
I hesitate. Just one second, one flicker of confusion while I sort through possible lies I can tell. Havriel sees it. He smiles.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to find them on our own, then. It was lovely speaking to you, my dear. Lovely.”
Behind him, the man in the red coat strikes something—a sharp, crystalline note against one of the figurines on the mantelpiece. My eyes flick toward the sound––
Havriel lunges. Grips my shoulder and tries to spin me, jamming the nozzle toward my spine. I wriggle out of his grasp, knee him in the stomach. Whirl, looking for somewhere to run. The two men are between me and the door. Havriel’s moving, the nozzle raised. I dive through the bed-curtains. Crawl over the sheets and slip out the other side.
You still think you can escape . . . live happily ever after. No. Not really. But being realistic doesn’t get you anywhere. I guess we keep holding out for something, even if it never comes, even when there’s only the tiniest, tiniest hope.
I hear Havriel coming after me. I’m pleased to note he’s breathless from my kick, a rasp at the back of his throat. He emerges around the bedpost. I try to dash across the bed again. He catches my ankle and yanks me toward him.
“Do not make this more difficult than it has to be, Anouk,” he spits, and I roll over and kick him in the face with my free foot, over and over again, pummeling his cheeks, his nose. He catches that foot, too. But he has to drop the nozzle to do it. I wrench myself upright, grab the nozzle, and stab the sharp silver tip straight at Havriel.
The spike embeds itself in his shoulder.