Cricket stared at Anouk. “What’s going on? How did you get out of the house? And whose jacket is that and where can I get one?”
Everything rushed back to Anouk—the terrible image of her mistress’s bloodless hand, the mad dash through Paris. She pressed her hands to her mouth, not sure if she was about to be sick or about to cry. Cricket waved them in, checked the hallway, and locked the door.
The apartment smelled of mint tea and something more pungent, like overripe fruit. It was small, a single room with an unmade bed and a kitchenette with a boiling kettle. A clock in the shape of a black cat sat on the toaster, its circling tail ticking away the seconds. Heavy curtains blocked the windows. Ferns hung from the ceiling, books were stacked on the side table, and there were dirty clothes strewn around that didn’t help with the smell. The music came from a desk by the tall front windows out of twin speakers on either side of a laptop computer that flashed with swirling bright images, casting the entire room in a rainbow of neon colors.
Cricket went to the desk and hit a few keys, and the music stopped. She threw back the curtains.
“Whatever happened, it’s bad, isn’t it?” she said.
Without the music, the black-cat clock’s ticking filled the room.
Anouk’s fingers itched to pick up the dirty piles of clothes. To run a sponge over the sticky kitchen counters. To do something normal, something routine. Cricket rested her hands on Anouk’s shoulders.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Anouk couldn’t help it; the tears started before she could stop them. Cricket pulled her into a hug, smelling of mint and something sharper, coffee maybe, her kinky hair tickling Anouk’s shoulders.
“She’s dead,” Anouk choked out.
Cricket tensed. “I should have known. That’s the only way you could be out of the house. What happened? Is Luc back? Did he send you here?”
“He’s still missing,” Anouk said quietly.
Cricket’s eyes widened. “Oh. Merde. Give me the details.”
Beau turned to Anouk. “Maybe you should go into the bathroom. You don’t need to hear this.”
“I saw it, Beau. I can handle it.”
He looked as though he’d prefer to lock her away somewhere so safe that even unpleasant memories couldn’t reach her, but he sighed. “I found Vittora in her room,” he explained quietly. “She was already dead. It was ugly. Blood everywhere. We didn’t know what to do.”
The kettle started whistling. Cricket ran a hand over her face. In the sunlight coming through the windows, her brown skin glowed the color of tea leaves. She jerked the screaming kettle off the stove.
“Murdered? And you don’t know who did it?”
Beau shook his head.
Cricket took a step forward, her face suddenly fierce. “And our pelts?”
“In the car.”
Relief unwound over her strained face, and Cricket sank into the desk chair. The neon lights on her computer played over her features like something Anouk had read about once. The lights in the north? No. The northern lights. Cricket drew in a long breath. She grabbed a cup and poured herself some tea, hands shaking so badly that water sloshed onto the desk.
Anouk quietly wiped away the drops with her dress cuff.
Cricket set down the cup. “Good riddance.”
Anouk gasped. “Cricket!”
Cricket gave her a hard look. Her hands were steady now, more characteristic of the thief Anouk knew. She touched the dangling gold earring in her right ear, the only adornment she allowed herself. “You didn’t know her like we did. You were her pet, her favorite. It’s better that she’s dead. If Luc were here, he’d say the same thing. You know he would.”
Anouk wrung her hands. She went to the windows, looked at the birds on the opposite roof. Crows, but regular ones. If she could go back in time to the night before, would she warn her mistress?
“A flock of scrying crows followed us,” Beau said. “When Hunter Black and Viggo find her body, they’ll come hunting for us.”
“When did it happen?” Cricket asked.
“Late last night. Midnight.”
Cricket glanced at the black-cat clock. “Then we have just over two and a half days.”
Anouk frowned. “For what?”
“To find another master.” Cricket leaned forward, tenting her fingers. “Luc explained it to me in case something like this ever happened: A witch’s soul lasts three days after she dies. Once her soul is gone, all her enchantments vanish too.” She looked from one to the other as though she wasn’t certain they understood. “That means if we don’t find another witch to perform the spell again, then by Saturday at midnight . . .”
“We’ll turn back to animals,” Beau whispered.
Anouk flinched.
Cricket nodded. “It’s good that you thought to take the pelts. Beasties’ lives are tied to their pelts. If someone burned them, we’d go up in flames. If they were put through a woodchipper, well . . .” She pantomimed being shredded into tiny little bits.
Beau made a face.
“And anyway, if we have any hope of staying human,” Cricket continued, “we’ll need those pelts to uphold the spell. We just have to find another witch who can do it, fast. Merde, I wish Luc were here.”
Beau cleared his throat, still looking slightly green. “There’s the Trafalgar Witch. Vittora’s called on her for help before.”
Cricket shook her head. “She’s in England. We’d be stopped at the border.” She blew on her tea. “Most witches are out of the question; too far away or too dangerous. Mada Ourselle isn’t a complete terror. She might help . . . but she has close ties to the Royals.”
“Then we’ll need to try something else,” Beau said. “Not a witch. In the bird market near Sainte-Chapelle, there’s a Pretty broker who has connections to disgraced Royals, an old baroness who still has a bit of magic—”
“No Royals. Too risky.”
“Well, what do you suggest? That we go to Viggo for help?”
Cricket shot him a dirty look as she drummed her short nails on the mug. Click-click-click. She let out a loud sigh. “You say the pelts are in the car?”
Beau nodded.
“Get them.”
“They’re safe. No one’s going to woodchip them. Are there even woodchippers in Paris?”
“No, it’s not that. I need to check something. A . . . a rumor.” She tapped her foot anxiously.
Beau exchanged a look with Anouk, then picked up his keys and headed downstairs. Cricket paced by the windows, sipping the tea, glancing outside. Anouk folded her hands, fighting the urge to mop up the spots of tea Cricket was spilling on the floor.
Cricket dropped down in the seat across from her. “Did Beau do it?” she whispered, her eyes alight.
Anouk nearly choked. “Beau? Why would you think that?” She felt her cheeks burning; hadn’t she wondered the same thing?
“Because I’d have done it if I’d known what parts of her were still human enough to bleed.”
“Cricket!”
“Did I ever tell you why I don’t have fingerprints?” She held out her hands, palms up, the pads nothing but smooth flesh. “Everyone thinks she burned them off to make me a better thief, but they’re wrong. I made a mistake—once. I kept something I was supposed to steal for her. A rare book. I stole it from the home of a wealthy Pretty and was almost caught. I had to hide in a closet for hours, so I read the book. It was a story of a girl who got a ticket in the mail for a magic train, a train that would take her everywhere, even to the moon, and for years, she just rode everywhere and saw the world. I loved that book. I wanted it. One thing that was just mine. But she knew, of course. The crows. She took the book and burned it in front of me, page by page, and then burned off my fingerprints in their ashes.”