The House Saphir by Marissa Meyer - 46

The windows shattered. The likenesses of seven gods rained through the chapel in shards of colorful glass, a sandstorm of reds and blues. Mallory felt the sharp bits pelting her skin, but she barely winced. She could not look away from the nightmare before her.

Gabrielle reached for the altar, her hand knocking her ring onto the floor, then fell to her knees.

Anaïs released the sword, leaving Gabrielle impaled on the blade. She met Mallory’s gaze for one brutal moment. One haunting, terrible moment, when her sister’s eyes shone an unnatural, brilliant blue.

Then Anaïs leaped through one of the broken windowpanes and disappeared into the storm.

With horrified yells, Fitcher and Constantino raced after her.

Mallory took a step as if to follow, but hesitated. Her mind was whirling with the impossibility of what had just happened.

Anaïs, a murderer.

Anaïs, possessed .

She dropped beside Gabrielle, a trembling hand on her great-grandmother’s back. She didn’t know if she should pull out the sword or not. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know how things had gone so wrong, how she had been misled. Every step, every choice—

A hand gripped hers. She met Gabrielle’s eyes, glossy and impossibly black.

“Tell me what to do,” Mallory pleaded. “How do I fix this? How do I save you?”

“He has … his fifth … sacrifice,” Gabrielle said. Blood mixed with saliva began to drip from her mouth. “He has won.”

“No! I don’t believe that.” Her vision blurred. “There must be something…”

“Velos will still … want him back. He can be bound. With magic. The house…”

Tears slipped down Mallory’s cheeks, cutting trails through the dust and dirt caking her skin, but she hardly felt them.

“I can’t bind him,” she whispered. “I am not a witch.”

“You are a Savoy.” Gabrielle’s face twitched in that strange, birdlike manner. She spoke with her head cocked to one side, never addressing Mallory straight-on. “He cannot take away what you are. You must … trust … yourself.” Her last words came in stunted gasps. Her hand squeezed one last time, then fell limp. She shuddered forward, her body suspended on her knees. Her blood dripped down the length of the sword, splattering on the floor.

Mallory looked at her palm. Gabrielle had tucked the black-and-white tail feather into her fist.

She launched to her feet. Tears blurred her vision, and she let out a scream of fury, the sound tearing out of her—feral and vicious. She would see Le Bleu dead. She would destroy him, for all he had done, for all the pain he had—

Swiping at her eyes, she sniffled once, then dragged her emotions back inside as she spun toward Armand. Tucking the feather behind her ear, she reached for the straps on his arms and started unbuckling him from the chair.

“Mallory,” he breathed, “are you—”

“We’re not talking about it,” she said, sniffling again. “We’re going to get my sister back.”

Before Armand could roll out his joints, Mallory sprinted from the chapel in the direction Anaïs had gone.

The storm had died down to a soft drizzle. She expected to have to search the entirety of the mansion, but drew to a sudden stop when she reached the circular drive and spotted Fitcher and Constantino side by side, each of them still and open-mouthed. At first Mallory worried they were caught in some sort of enchantment, but then she realized, dishearteningly, that they—like her—had no idea what to do. They couldn’t attack Bastien, not while he inhabited Anaïs’s body. They had to find a way to exorcise him first. But how could they set up the ritual now?

Before them, Anaïs stood on the edge of the fountain, staring up at the massive stone stallion. Utterly expressionless.

The fountain gushed thick and red. Blood poured from every corner, falling over the pedestal and stones. Mallory had read about the phenomenon so many times, from so many witnesses, that she had yearned to see it for herself. But now the reality of it churned her stomach.

“How?” Mallory yelled, stomping closer. “And when, and … and why ?”

Anaïs turned to face her.

“It’s quite simple, really,” she said, and while it was Anaïs’s voice, the inflection she recognized as Bastien. “Some herbs are repellent to spirits, while others draw us in. Royal skullcap is particularly effective. Whenever a mortal has it in their system, it becomes so easy for me to whisper a quick incantation and … sneak inside.”

“Royal skullcap.” Armand’s voice came from behind Mallory. “The herb I take to help me sleep. I’ve been taking it since I was a boy—”

“Since you were twelve, approximately,” said Anaïs—no, Bastien . “When I returned, I knew I would need a human host to assist me. It was easy enough to frighten my young heir into a few months’ worth of nightmares. I knew you would be keen to find a solution among the herbs you had already developed such an affinity for. Soon, you were given peaceful rest … and I had access to your malleable mind. When you started brewing tea for this lovely little witch, well … as I said. So simple.” Her grin widened and she laughed. “Gabrielle’s heart has stopped. She is dead, finally.”

Her eyes rolled back into her head and, without warning, Anaïs fell backward into the fountain.

Mallory cried out and ran to the edge. The pool of blood churned and gurgled. Her sister was not visible beneath. Mallory screamed her name and was about to throw herself in after her when a figure broke through the surface. Wearing a cloak of crimson, the figure rose upward. Mallory froze, horrified, at the sight of the demon she remembered from her failed séance all those years ago—needle claws and drooping arms and glowing blue eyes.

As the blood dripped away, the figure morphed into that of a man. Count Bastien Saphir I. Monsieur Le Bleu. Anaïs, unconscious, was draped across his arms. He set her onto the lip of the fountain. Mallory could not tell if she was breathing.

Bastien stepped out of the fountain, solid, strong, and mortal. He surveyed the mansion, then started toward the door, his strides purposeful and elegant.

An enraged scream clawed out of Mallory’s throat. “Is that it?” she yelled. “All those deaths, for what? So you could live again? Be the lord of a manor that’s falling apart around you? No money, no family. You have nothing. You did this for nothing!”

Bastien paused, his form silhouetted by the house’s towering columns, the leaded windows. He raised his arms to his sides, fingers outstretched.

For a moment, nothing happened. And then it was as though a shroud of magic descended over the château. The roof that had caved in shuddered and righted itself. The bricks from a fallen chimney re-mortared into a tidy tower. Cracked windows were sealed. Black soot faded from the white limestone blocks. Missing finials atop the gable dormers grew out of molten iron and solidified. Broken balustrades and fallen gutters and missing tiles were mended, until everything was pristine and dignified. When he was finished, the house appeared both ancient and immaculate.

Bastien turned to face them, his mouth twisted into a haughty grin. “I am afraid there is not room for two lords of the House Saphir. Young Armand, it would seem that you are no longer useful to me.”

“Not room?” Mallory shrieked. “It’s a big house. You could find the space.”

“As for you, little witch,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard her, “as I rebuild my estate, it will not do to have rumors circulating that could damage my reputation.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” said Mallory. “Everyone knows that Bastien Saphir is a murderer.”

Bastien craned his head, studying her. “But Armand Saphir is a young count with a prominent title. A charming if reclusive bachelor who suddenly finds himself needing to enter high society and find for himself a suitable bride.” He grinned maliciously. “How fortunate that so few members of society have had occasion to meet my descendant. So as you see, it really will not do for you to live.”

Mallory gaped, horrified by this monologue, when the telltale twang of a bowstring struck her eardrum. An arrow hurtled toward Bastien—driving straight into his chest.

Bastien stumbled backward, then dropped to one knee.

“One negative about being mortal,” growled Constantino. “It makes you easier to kill.”

Bastien’s form shuddered, then exploded into shadows. Mallory expected to see a figurine of the count tumble onto the house’s front steps, a new addition for Constantino’s box.

Instead, the shadows coalesced again. First into that same long-limbed beast that had crawled from Verloren, then slowly into the form she recognized as Bastien Saphir.

It was only seconds until he stood before them again.

As if nothing had happened.

He took hold of the arrow and snapped it from his flesh. With a passing glare at Constantino, he threw the broken shaft to the ground. With an arrogant lift of his chin, Bastien flicked his fingers. The doors yawned open in welcome and, once he had passed through, slammed shut in his wake.

“That—that didn’t work,” Constantino stammered, throttling his bow as if the weapon had betrayed him. “Why didn’t that work? I’m blessed by Tyrr .”

“Blessed to capture monsters,” Fitcher said darkly. “But he is once more a man.”

“Men can die,” said Constantino. “That should have killed him!”

“And if he’s alive again,” Armand said quietly, “how is he still controlling the house?”

“He was always a powerful sorcerer,” said Mallory, bending over her sister to feel for a pulse. A collection of glass souvenirs tumbled from Anaïs’s pockets, spilling onto the cobbles. Mallory blinked at the tiny monster figurines. A salamander, a lou carcolh, a cheval mallet …

Tokens from Constantino’s haul, which she assumed her sister had taken when he wasn’t paying attention. Her penchant for pretty, unusual things …

“Are those mine?” said Constantino. “Did she steal those from me?”

Ignoring him, Mallory leaned her ear against Anaïs’s chest, relieved to hear a faint heartbeat. “She’s alive.”

She sat back on her heels, trying to think. Think. Five vows, five sacrifices, five betrayals of trust …

And now that sorcerer, that murderer, that monster … was immortal.

An earsplitting crack drew her attention back to the fountain.

The horse and rider were moving. The horse’s front hooves pawed at the air and let out a bellow. The count in the saddle swung his sword in an arc overhead.

Mallory screamed. Constantino jumped forward and scooped Anaïs into his arms, pulling her off the lip of the fountain.

The stone horse surged off its pedestal, splashed through the pool of blood, and stampeded toward them. Its hooves pounded through the puddles left from the storm and crushed one of the glass figurines, inches from where Anaïs’s head had been.

Barely missing Armand’s neck with his swinging sword, the rider pulled back on the reins, swiveling the horse to face them. Though cast in stone, the rider’s passive expression had become hostile.

But Mallory found her attention diverted to something just as horrifying and … fantastical.

Where the horse had crushed the small figurine, a beast was emerging. Eight feet tall, with claws and fur and fangs and …

“Is that…” Armand whispered.

“The voirloup?” she said in disbelief.

“Oh, right,” said Constantino, still cradling Anaïs’s unconscious body. “They do that.”

The count heeled the sides of the horse, who broke into a gallop, charging for them again. They scattered in different directions.

“You know what would be useful right now?” Constantino yelled. “If one of us could magically transform into an enormous bear!”

Fitcher glowered at him. “It doesn’t happen on command.”

“I know that! But it should!”

The rider whirled around and chased after Armand, face contorted with rage.

But as the horse drove past the voirloup, the beast roared and leaped, knocking the rider off his steed. Both rider and horse fell—and shattered. Marble and debris flew across the hard pavers of the courtyard.

The voirloup landed hard on its side, startled that its prey had not been edible flesh.

Mallory froze. If the voirloup saw her running, she knew it would give chase.

Suddenly regretting not taking the sword that had killed Gabrielle, Mallory faced the beast. Her hand searched for the knife, before she remembered throwing it at one of Bastien’s apparitions.

Cursing, she took a slow step back, her gaze pinned to the voirloup as it lifted its muzzle and released an agitated howl. When it was done, it stared at Mallory, watching her with hungry yellow eyes.

She spied Armand, on the other side of the voirloup. “Oy, mangy beast!” he shouted, waving his arms in an attempt to pull the monster’s attention away from Mallory.

No use. The beast prowled closer, slobber dripping from its maw.

Then, suddenly, Anaïs awoke, screaming. She looked around—at Constantino, who still held her in his arms, to the voirloup, to the blood-filled fountain, then screamed again, louder this time.

“Er … I’m just going to put you down now,” Constantino said, before he unceremoniously dropped Anaïs into a garden bed. Her scream turned into a bewildered, slightly affronted grunt, while Constantino slung his bow off his shoulder, grabbed an arrow from the quiver—

The voirloup pounded closer. Mallory’s vision went white. The monster was mere paces away when the bowstring snapped, sending the arrow into the voirloup’s shoulder. Golden light flashed. The beast’s momentum carried it forward, even as its body degenerated into a small glass figurine once again. Constantino caught it midair. For a moment, he stood unmoving, fist raised like the monument of an honored warrior.

Then, without warning, Constantino collapsed down onto his rump, his expression dazed. “I would like to be done with all this now,” he breathed.

Giving herself a shake, Anaïs scrambled on her hands and knees toward Mallory. “What … what is…?”

“A lot’s happened,” Mallory said. “Do you remember anything?”

Anaïs shuddered. “The ritual. We were in the chapel, and the candle was lit, and … and that’s the last I remember.”

Mallory looked at the chunks of stone that had been thrown from the fountain’s pedestal when the horse broke free. She spied the fire-breathing salamander that she’d tried to steal her first night at the château.

“He … he can still be bound. Trapped. In the house. That’s what Gabrielle said.” She blinked up at Armand. “Isn’t that what she said?”

“I … don’t really remember, precisely. So much was happening.”

Coughing against the dust in her throat, Mallory reached up and touched the feather behind her ear. “Gabrielle tried to bind his spirit to the candle. It didn’t work, but maybe that’s because he was possessing Anaïs at the time. Now that he has his own body back, I don’t think he can possess people anymore. And we are no longer trying to get rid of a ghost. We are trying to get rid of a sorcerer.”

Armand held her gaze, his hair damp from the rain and clinging to his brow. He accepted her statement with a slow, encouraging nod, even though she could tell he didn’t fully understand what she was saying. She wasn’t sure she understood what she was saying. But she knew enough about petty magic to hope that she was right.

Gabrielle could not complete the binding spell.

But maybe … maybe she could. If she had her magic.

“With a big enough flame to hold him, and the right spell … maybe…?”

“Yes,” said Armand. “Whatever you’re thinking, yes. Tell me what to do.”

She peered up at the house.

She wasn’t Gabrielle. She wasn’t her mother. She wasn’t a witch. She couldn’t do this.

But she had to do this.

“I need the rings,” she whispered. “The wedding rings. They’re in the chap—”

“Here,” Armand interrupted. “Everyone kept talking about them like they were important, so…” He held out his hand, revealing five rings in his palm.