Both Coco and Célie leapt into Beau with identical shrieks. He somehow missed both of them, however, startling sideways with a vicious curse. The two had no choice but to clutch each other as I stormed past, wrenching the door open once more. “We’re fine,” I said firmly. “It was the wind.”

That same wind caressed my cheeks now, bringing with it a soft bout of laughter.

Was that . . . ?

My heart nearly seized.

Looking around wildly, I pivoted in a full circle. The others imitated my movements with panicked expressions. “What is it?” Coco flicked a knife from her sleeve. “Did you hear something?”

My heartbeat thundered in my ears. “I thought I heard . . .” The Archbishop, I almost finished, but the words caught in my throat. I thought I’d heard the Archbishop. But that couldn’t be. He wasn’t here. He never laughed. I didn’t fear him.

It was La Fôret des Yeux all over again. Instead of trees, the cauchemar mocked me, twisting my thoughts into nightmares. It could’ve hidden in the shadows. Célie had described a hulking beast, but perhaps it could change shape. We knew virtually nothing about this creature or its abilities. Its appetite.

I took a steadying breath.

Cauchemars are notoriously cruel, but this creature hasn’t yet attacked.

Cruel or no, it hadn’t harmed anyone. That laugh—it was a figment of my imagination. A defense mechanism the cauchemar had cultivated to protect itself. To protect itself. Not to attack. Not to kill or maim or eat.

Still, its tactics weren’t exactly endearing. When the laughter returned a second later, I slipped a blade from my bandolier, whirling toward the source.

It hadn’t been the cauchemar at all.

It’d been Lou.

I slowly lowered my blade.

Oblivious, she leaned around me to peer into the room, still chuckling softly. “I can smell the fear in this place. It’s potent. Alive.” When we stared at her, nonplussed, she pointed to the walls. “Can you not scent it? It coats the ropes”—her finger turned to the soft floorboards—“paints the glass. The entire room is slick with it.”

“No,” I said stiffly, wanting to throttle her. “I don’t scent anything.”

“Perhaps it’s your fear I smell, then, not the cauchemar.” When the wind gusted through once more, her grin faded, and she tilted her head again. Listening. “It does feel different, though. It feels . . .” But she kept the words she would’ve spoken, trailing into silence instead. Her hand clenched on my back. “I think we should leave.”

Surprised by her reaction—yet somehow not—I approached the spiral staircase in the center of the room. The wood had half-rotted. Tentatively, I tested the bottom step with my foot. It dipped beneath my weight. “We will. After we warn the creature. After we ask for its help.”