Read Chapter 29: Blood Debt

The greenhouse air was thick with the scent of rot disguised as perfume. Camille stood among the orchids and ferns, her hands still trembling from the confession she’d just heard. The woman across from her—the reclusive artist, the mastermind—smiled like a porcelain doll with a crack running down its face.

“You’re lying,” Camille said. “My sister is dead. I buried her.”

“Did you?” The woman stepped closer, her gown trailing through the damp soil like a snake through marsh. “Or did you bury an empty coffin because the priest told you to?”

Camille’s jaw tightened. The hunger stirred beneath her skin, a low thrumming that had become as familiar as her own heartbeat. She pushed it down.

“You don’t know anything about my family.”

“I know everything about your family, Camille.” The woman tilted her head. Her eyes were pale green—the same pale green Camille saw in the mirror every morning. “I know you used to hide under Mother’s desk when the footmen argued. I know you stole Father’s brandy when you were sixteen and blamed it on the gardener. I know you wrote letters to a boy in Lyon that you never sent, because you signed them with my name.”

Camille’s blood went cold. The cold of a corpse.

“Stop.”

“Why? Because you don’t want to remember?” The woman laughed, and the sound was brittle, ancient. “You don’t want to remember that you left me behind? That you ran to Paris to chase your little stories while I stayed in that house, waiting for the fever to take me?”

“You died of the fever,” Camille whispered. “The priest—Father Aloysius—he told me. He performed the rites.”

“Father Aloysius.” Élodie said the name like she was tasting poison. “Yes. He’s very good at performing rites. He’s also very good at lying to grief-stricken sisters who ask too many questions.”

Camille’s hands curled into fists. The greenhouse seemed smaller now, the glass walls pressing in. Somewhere beyond them, Philippe waited at the safe flat, unaware of the name she now carried from the cathedral vaults. Unaware of the ledger tucked against her chest.

“You’re the Comtesse Élodie,” Camille said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “You’re the one Moreau warned me about. The one who pulls strings longer than the Church.”

“Moreau is a sentimental fool who thinks flowers can cure what blood has bound.” Élodie waved a dismissive hand. “But yes. I am the one who has shaped this city’s shadows for the past century. And you, little sister, have stumbled into the middle of my tapestry.”

“Why?” The word came out raw. “Why did you let me believe you were dead? Why did you let Father Aloysius use your death against me?”

Élodie’s smile faded. For a moment—just a moment—Camille saw something else behind those pale green eyes. Something tired. Something almost human.

“Because I had no choice.” Her voice dropped. “The priest didn’t lie about everything. I was dying. The fever had taken hold, and the doctors had given up. And then a man came to me in the night. A man with pale eyes and a smile like winter. He offered me a second life, and I took it.”

“The Marquis.”

“Baron Étienne de Vaudreuil,” Élodie corrected. “He turned me. He gave me purpose. He made me his eyes in Paris while he played his games from the shadows.”

Camille took a step back. Her hand found the edge of a marble table, cold and solid beneath her fingers.

“He’s the one who killed all those people. The disappearances. The children.”

“He is the architect. I am merely the hand that paints his vision.” Élodie moved closer, her gown whispering through the undergrowth. “But you don’t have to be my enemy, Camille. You don’t have to be anyone’s enemy.”

“What are you offering?”

“Everything.” Élodie stopped just a few feet away. Her scent was strange—old roses and something metallic beneath. “I can reverse your turning. I know the rituals the priest hoarded. I can make you human again. You can go back to your little newspaper. You can write your stories. You can live a normal life.”

Camille’s heart—her dead, still heart—seemed to skip.

“You can reverse it?”

“Yes.” Élodie’s smile widened. “All I ask in return is one small thing.”

“What?”

“The journalist.” Élodie’s eyes glittered. “Philippe de Montfort. He is a traitor to our kind. He’s been feeding information to the hunters, to the Church. He’s the reason Father Aloysius found you. Kill him, and you will be free.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. Camille stared at her sister—her impossible, undead sister—and felt something crack inside her chest.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Philippe saved my life. He followed me into the crypt. He let me feed from him when I was starving.”

“Because he wanted you in his debt.” Élodie’s voice hardened. “Because he needs a vampire connected to the council. A vampire he can control. You’re his pawn, Camille. You’ve always been his pawn.”

“No.”

“He found you at Le Figaro, didn’t he? He sought you out. He cultivated you. He made you trust him.” Élodie stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Why do you think he was at your salon that night? Why do you think he’s been so eager to help you hunt your own kind?”

Camille’s mind raced. Philippe had been there, yes. He had sought her out. He had offered his carriage, his protection, his blood.

But he had also saved her. He had held her when she wept. He had promised to stay with her through his finite mortal life.

“You’re wrong,” she said.

“I’m not.” Élodie reached out and touched Camille’s cheek. Her fingers were cold, colder than Camille’s own skin. “I know him better than you do, little sister. I know what he is. I know what he’s been for more than four centuries.”

“He’s not—”

“He’s the father of the original line.” Élodie’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “The first vampire. The one from whom all others descend. He’s been pretending to be mortal for centuries, watching, waiting, manipulating. And now he’s chosen you for his next game.”

Camille shook her head. “You’re insane. You’re just trying to turn me against him.”

“I’m trying to save you.” Élodie’s grip tightened. “Kill him, and I’ll make you human again. You can go back to your life. You can forget all of this.”

“What if I don’t believe you?”

“Then you’ll die.” Élodie’s eyes went hard. “Not by my hand. But by his. He will use you, Camille. He will drain you of everything you are and then discard you like yesterday’s paper.”

Something snapped inside Camille. It wasn’t rational—none of this was rational—but the fury rose up like a wave, hot and pure and ancient.

“You let me mourn you for ten years,” she said, her voice shaking. “You let me weep at your grave. And now you want me to kill the only person who’s shown me kindness since I became this?”

“He’s not kind. He’s patient.”

“So am I.”

Camille moved—faster than she’d ever moved before, the vampire strength surging through her limbs. Her hand closed around Élodie’s throat, slamming her back against the greenhouse glass. The panes rattled. Somewhere above, a bird took flight.

Élodie laughed.

“There she is,” she whispered. “There’s the sister I remember.”

“Tell me the truth.” Camille’s grip tightened. “Tell me why you did this. Why you let me think you were dead.”

“Because—” Élodie’s voice cracked. Something real flickered in her eyes, something raw and broken. “Because the priest said he would kill you if I didn’t. He said he would make it look like an accident. A carriage. A fire. A fall from the window. I had to choose, Camille. I had to choose between your life and your grief.”

The words hit Camille like a physical blow. Her grip loosened.

“What?”

“Father Aloysius found me after I was turned. He knew who I was. He knew about you.” Élodie’s eyes glistened, unnaturally bright. “He said if I didn’t play dead, if I didn’t serve the Baron’s interests, he would end you himself. So I let him bury an empty coffin. I let him tell you I was gone. I watched you from the shadows for years, little sister. I protected you from a distance. And when you started asking questions, when you started digging into the disappearances, I tried to guide you away. I sent you on false trails. I made you chase shadows.”

“The theft at the opera. The notes.”

“All me.” Élodie smiled, sad and tired. “I was trying to keep you safe, Camille. I was trying to keep you out of this world. But you were always too clever for your own good.”

Camille let go. She stepped back, her hands shaking.

“You could have told me. You could have trusted me.”

“You were human. You were alive.” Élodie straightened her gown. “I didn’t want you to become this. I didn’t want you to inherit my curse.”

Camille laughed. The sound was hollow, broken.

“Well. You’re a bit late for that.”

Élodie’s expression softened. For a moment, they were just two sisters standing in a greenhouse, separated by ten years and an ocean of secrets.

“I can still reverse it,” Élodie said quietly. “The ritual takes three nights. But you have to trust me. And you have to stay away from Philippe.”

Camille looked at her sister—her impossible, impossible sister—and felt the weight of everything pressing down on her. The ledger against her chest. The name she’d found in the vault. The man waiting for her in the flat.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” she said. “I don’t know if I can trust anyone.”

“You can trust me.” Élodie reached out, and for the first time, her touch was gentle. “I’ve spent a century making sure you survived. I’m not going to stop now.”

Camille stared into those pale green eyes—her own eyes—and felt something give way inside her.

Before she could answer, a sound came from outside. Footsteps. Many of them, moving through the garden with deliberate precision.

Élodie’s face went hard.

“The hunters,” she hissed. “They followed you.”

Camille’s blood turned to ice. Father Aloysius’s remnants. They knew her location. They knew she was here.

“This isn’t over,” she said.

“No,” Élodie agreed. “It’s not.”

Camille turned and ran—out of the greenhouse, into the night, with her sister’s secret burning in her chest and the sound of approaching footsteps growing louder behind her.