The House Saphir by Marissa Meyer - 42

Armand seemed both frustrated and resigned when it was decided that he would not be untied while they went to obtain the wedding rings, and he only got a little flustered when Mallory had to undo his belt to take the house keys.

Gabrielle refused to return to the house while Bastien might be inside, so she and Anaïs stayed behind to watch over Armand, while Mallory, Fitcher, and Constantino carried out the mission. A light rain had started to fall, shrouding the house in a gloomy mist. The sky was dark violet. Somewhere above the cloud cover, the sun sank toward the horizon.

The house was eerily still as they slipped in through the terrace doors. Mallory led them through the battery of parlors on whispering feet, through the library, up the grand staircase.

As expected, the door to Armand’s suite was locked, and it took her a few tries to find the right key on the ring. Inside, the air felt cold and silent. No fire had been lit, and the curtains were pulled shut. Nevertheless, being here again conjured a host of memories that Mallory preferred not to think about as she crossed to the vanity and crouched down, feeling around for the hidden hook.

She stilled.

The hook was there, but it was empty.

She got down on the floor and searched the underside of the vanity.

The rings were gone.

She sat up. “They aren’t here.”

Watching her skeptically, Constantino asked, “How did you ever find them under there in the first place?”

Ignoring the question, Mallory started rummaging through the vanity drawers, the armoire, the writing desk, every nook and cranny of the room. She discovered a dented pocket watch, a handful of galets, a wax seal, and inkpots and quill pens and tallow candles and buttons and linen shirts that smelled like peppermint and growing things—but she did not find the four wedding rings.

She cursed, continuing to dig through the last drawer of the writing desk even after she was positive the rings weren’t there, when suddenly the drawer slammed shut of its own accord, pinching the tip of her finger.

With a cry, Mallory reeled back, clutching her hand to her chest. The fingertip throbbed as she looked up. Malevolent blue eyes were reflected in the darkness of the window.

She spun around, pressing back against the desk. The villain was in the doorway, barring their exit.

Fitcher and Constantino swiveled at her sudden movement. “What is it?” Fitcher asked. “Is he here?”

Bastien Saphir rubbed one finger down the length of his beard. “Are you searching for something?” His mouth curled tauntingly around the words.

“That hurt ,” Mallory spat.

“You poor darling,” he cooed back at her, sauntering closer. “Do you know, this is an important day for me, and yet … no one seems to be around to celebrate the day of my death. The house has been so peculiarly peaceful.” His attention slid toward Fitcher and Constantino. “I am beginning to wonder if you have been plotting against me.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Mallory saw Constantino shift—slowly, slowly peeling the bow from his shoulder. Though he could not see the spirit himself, he was watching Mallory closely, trying to discern Bastien’s location.

“So paranoid,” said Mallory, skimming away along the far wall, trying to drag Le Bleu’s attention away from the archer. “It isn’t always about you . We had a burial this morning, as you know.”

“I am sure my honored wife was sad to miss it. I trust you said very thoughtful things in her absence.”

The way he could so easily mock Julie after he had manipulated her, tortured her, murdered her made Mallory want to draw her knife and impale his heart on the blade, but she resisted—tightening her hands into fists. “Julie is still here?” Even as she asked it, she realized—of course Julie was still there. Tethered to her ring like the others.

But she hadn’t seen any sign of the wives since her return, not even Triphine, who was usually impossible to be rid of.

Where were they?

“Is that why you came back? For her? I am sure she would be most flattered.” Bastien slinked closer to Mallory, almost close enough to touch her, and she tried to tell herself that he could not harm her, not in this form. He needed the strength of a mortal human to do anything more than brush a cold finger on her skin. He needed Armand.

He was just a spirit. Just a ghost. Smoke and nothingness. Even if he made himself corporeal for a moment or two, no doubt she could overpower him.

But when he took another step closer and the overwhelming aroma of oranges accosted her, she could not keep herself from shrinking away.

“Did you seek to give rest to my beloveds?” he said, half jokingly. “To help them find eternal peace? I did not take you to be so chivalrous.” He reached forward, his fingers teasing the buttons at Mallory’s throat.

She recoiled from the touch.

The bow snapped.

Bastien dissolved, like a cloud of squid ink in water. The arrow thunked into the wall.

Even unable to see the ghost, Constantino had sent the arrow straight through the side of his head.

Constantino snatched another arrow from his quiver and nocked it on the string. “Did I get him?”

“You got him,” Mallory breathed, watching the slimy black tendrils vanish into the air.

Then a laugh, coming from everywhere, all at once. Fitcher and Constantino both ducked from the noise.

“You should not have done that,” Bastien sang.

In the next moment, the house—so still, so serene—was thrown into chaos. The windows shattered. A fire flared to life in the hearth, burning an unnatural blue. And the wooden floorboards opened up beneath their feet and swallowed them whole.