Exclusive: Shelby Mahurin’s ‘The Scarlet Veil’ Excerpt is Taking Us Back to the ‘Serpent & Dove’ World

This dark and thrilling vampire romance—set in the world of the New York Times bestselling Serpent & Dove series—is perfect for fans of Sarah J. Maas!

Célie Tremblay has always been a good girl: kind and beautiful, a daughter of whom every parent would be proud. She surprises the entire kingdom when she defies tradition to become the first huntswoman—including her new captain and fiancé, Jean Luc, who rules the huntsmen with an iron fist. He isn’t the only one concerned for Célie’s safety, however. Though her friends try to protect her from the horrors of her past, mysterious whispers still haunt her, and a new evil is rising in Belterra—leaving bodies in its wake, each one drained of blood.

Determined to prove herself in her new role, Célie tracks the killer to the lair of Les Éternels—ancient creatures only spoken about in nursery rhymes—and catches the attention of their king, a monster who hides his plans for her behind beautiful words and sharp smiles. Now Célie has new reason to fear the dark because the closer he gets, the more tempted she feels to give in to his dark hunger—and her own.

The Scarlet Veil will kick off a new companion duology, so fans do have a little more to expect after book one is released on September 26, 2023. And while there is a bit a of wait until it comes out, we couldn’t leave you empty-handed. You can also check out an exclusive excerpt below!

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“In this chapter, we see one of Célie’s first encounters with Michal, the vampire who abducted her and whisked her away to his castle. They have such an interesting dichotomy right from the start—Michal, of course, is beautiful, cruel, and imperious, while Célie is much softer, almost naive. Their chemistry is my favorite part of the book,” Shelby revealed. “Despite their differences, they can’t help feeling drawn to each other. And that’s the ultimate fantasy, isn’t it? For such an all-powerful creature to fall in love with a human? With Michal’s power, however, comes very real danger, as Célie learns firsthand in this chapter.”

So get ready, grab some of Shelby’s previous books, and don’t forget to preorder your copy, because you’re going to want to read the rest of it when The Scarlet Veil finally drops.

An Excerpt From The Scarlet Veil
By Shelby Mahurin

Chapter 14

A Game of Questions

To my surprise, Michal’s study is small. Intimate. Emerald-green panels of silk line the walls, while a dark, lacquered desk dominates the center of the room. On it, all manner of curious objects tick and whirl—a golden pendulum clock in the shape of a beautiful woman, a floating silver-and-pearl egg, an ivy plant with deep green leaves. Beneath the last sits a stack of leather-bound books. They look ancient.

Expensive.

Indeed, everything in this room looks expensive, and I—

I glance down at my snowy white gown, but the delicate lace has been stained irrevocably—soaked, ruined—and now resembles the inside of a threadbare shoe. Not quite brown and not quite gray. Not quite comfortable either. It chafes my skin as I shift beneath Michal’s cold stare.

“Please.” He sits behind the desk with his elbows propped atop it, his fingers steepled as he considers me. When I drag my gaze to his, he inclines his head toward the plush seat across from him. Flames roar in the hearth beside it, flooding the room with light and delicious warmth. As in my chamber, however, shutters barricade the arched windows behind him. They seal us in like relics in a crypt. “Sit.”

From my place by the door, I do not budge an inch. “No, thank you, monsieur.”

“It wasn’t a request, mademoiselle. You will sit.” I still refuse to move.

Because in the middle of his desk, among the books and the ivy and the clock, stands a jewel-encrusted goblet filled with more blood. I try not to look at it—because if I consider why there is blood in that goblet, I might scream. I might scream and scream until I cannot scream any longer, or perhaps until Michal tears out my vocal cords and hangs me with them.

With a cold smile, he tilts his head as if sharing the same black fantasy. “Are you always this tiresome?”

“Not at all.” Lifting my chin, I clasp my hands behind my back to hide their tremble. “I simply prefer to stand. Is that so difficult to believe?”

“Unfortunately, Célie Tremblay, I don’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth.”

Célie Tremblay.

Though I blanch at the sound of my real name, he doesn’t seem to notice. With one hand, he slowly drags a stack of parchment to the center of his desk. “Such a beautiful name, that—Célie Trem- blay.” Still smiling, he repeats my name as if relishing the taste of it on his tongue. “Born October twelfth in the kingdom of Belterra, the city of Cesarine. Specifically, born in the home of 13 Brindelle Boulevard, West End. Daughter of Pierre and Satine Tremblay and sister of the late Filippa Tremblay, who perished at the hand of Morgane le Blanc.”

I exhale a harsh breath at the mention of my sister. “How do you—?”

“Your parents didn’t raise you, though, did they?” He doesn’t bother glancing down at his stack of parchment; apparently, he memorized the information there. He memorized me. “No, that responsibility fell to your nursemaid, Evangeline Martin, who perished in the Battle of Cesarine earlier this year.”

My stomach pitches like I’ve missed a step.

Evangeline Martin. Perished.

The words sound strange and foreign, as if spoken in a different language.

“What do you—” Oh God. I stare at him, horrified, before pressing a hand to my forehead. No. I shake my head. “No, there—there must be some mistake. Evangeline didn’t . . .” But my voice shrivels to something small and unsure. I never read the final death registry after the Battle of Cesarine. True, Jean Luc hid it from me, but I still should’ve tried harder to find it, to pay homage to the fallen. Evangeline could’ve been one of them.

Michal arches a wry brow. “My condolences,” he offers, but there is nothing sympathetic in his tone. There is only ice. Can this man, this—this monster—even feel sympathy? Exhaling a deep breath, I somehow doubt it.

I just—need to collect myself. I need to gather my wits. This entire display—my personal history, that startling revelation, his goblet of blood—is meant to unsettle me, to intimidate. Dropping my hand, I level him with a dark look of my own before marching forward to settle in his proffered chair. I will not be intimidated. He might hold all the cards, but in demanding I return for a second interrogation, he has revealed his hand: he needs something from me. Something important.

I fold my own hands in my lap. I can be patient.

“Shall we continue?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, however; his eyes remain fixed on mine as he lists the pinnacles of my life with scathing indifference—how I fell in love with Reid, how he left me for Lou, how we joined forces to defeat the indomitable Morgane le Blanc. “That must have been very complicated,” he says, picking up his goblet, “to work with the man who broke your heart.”

When I still say nothing—nearly biting through my tongue— he chuckles low. “Still, I suppose you found vengeance on all parties when you killed his mother-in-law.” He swirls the liquid idly before taking a sip. “And when you accepted his best friend’s suit.”

My mouth parts in outrage. “It wasn’t like that—”

“Your captain surprised you with a proposal after your initiation into Chasseur Tower, didn’t he?” With a cruel gleam in his eyes, he inclines his goblet in a toast. “The first woman to ever grace its doorstep and a future bride. You must be very proud.”

Again, he pauses as if expecting me to interject, but I bare my teeth in a furious smile, holding on to civility by a thread. He wants to unsettle you. He wants to intimidate. “Are you quite finished?” I ask him tightly.

“That depends. Did I miss anything?” “Nothing relevant.”

“And yet”—he leans forward on his elbows, his voice darkening— “somewhere, it seems that I have.”

We stare at each other for a long, taut moment as his pendulum swings between us.

I like silence even less than I like the dark. As if to prolong it, he stands and rolls his shirtsleeves with casual ease, eyes flicking to where my gown ripples against the floor. I cease tapping my foot immediately. With a ghost of a smile, he strolls around his desk to lean against it, crosses his arms, and looms over me. The new position immediately puts me at a disadvantage, and he knows it. His polished shoes—black, like his soul—cross scant inches from mine. “What are you?” he asks simply.

My mouth parts in disbelief.

“I am human, monsieur, as you already know by your deeply inappropriate invasion of my personal space.” Resisting every instinct to flee across the room, I shift closer to spite him, and I lift my nose in my primmest imitation of Filippa. “What are you, Your Majesty? Apart from unforgivably rude?”

Uncrossing his arms, he leans forward to mirror my movement, and at his sleek smile, I immediately regret my bluster. We’re practically touching. Worse still—he no longer feigns apathy, instead studying me in open fascination. As before, his interest feels somehow deadlier, like I balance on the tip of a knife. Voice soft, he asks, “Do you have a temper, Célie Tremblay?”

“I’m not answering any more of your questions. Not until you answer some of mine.”

“You’re in no position to negotiate, pet.”

“Of course I am,” I say stubbornly, “or you would’ve already killed me.”

When he pushes away from his desk, I stiffen in apprehension, but he doesn’t touch me. Instead, he crosses to the door, opens it, and murmurs something I cannot hear. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning, however. I forbid my eyes from following him through the room. “This plan of yours is ridiculous,” I prattle into the silence, unable to stand it for another second. “Might I suggest—instead of fixating on me—you turn your attention to poor Christo instead? He is currently without a tongue.”

“Without more than that, I think.” Michal runs a finger down my neck, and I startle violently, unaware that he crossed the room once more. I still don’t turn. I do, however, jerk away from him; my skin tingles where he touched me, and my legs clench along with my fists. “I can hear your heartbeat,” he murmurs. “Did you know that? It accelerates when you’re frightened.”

Standing hastily, I dart around the desk—cheeks hot—and claim his chair instead. “I want to know why you’ve targeted Coco.” His black eyes spark with cruel amusement. “I want to know why you didn’t kill her—er, me in Cesarine with your other victims, and I won’t tell you a thing until I do. Consider this my leverage.”

His grin widens.

“Your . . . leverage,” he murmurs.

The word sounds darker from his tongue, insidious.

“Yes.” I shift back in his seat, grateful for the lacquered desk between us. My reflection gleams small and unsure upon its surface. Thoroughly out of its depth. “I assume you understand the concept.”

“Oh, I understand the concept. Do you?” “Do we have a deal or not?”

With a chilling grin, he sinks into the plush chair I just vacated. It forces him several inches below me. Still, he sprawls wide— entirely too big for the small frame, entirely too at ease—and cocks his head, considering. “Fine. Let us play this silly game of yours. I will ask a question—which you will answer truthfully—and I will answer yours in turn.” He lifts a hand to tap his chest in warning, and his voice lowers. His smile fades. “But never lie to me again, pet. I will know if you do.”

I feel myself nod. His eyes track the movement, and—not for the first time—I remember his ominous words from the ship: Shall I tell you exactly what I intend to do to you? That question, however, pales in comparison to his next one: “How did you summon the ghosts?”

“I— What?” I blink at the unexpected question, my palms growing damp when his eyes narrow. “What ghosts?”

“Wrong answer.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t even believe in ghosts. Scripture makes it clear that the soul passes directly to the afterlife when the body dies—”

“I am not interested in the Church’s relationship with eternal life. I am interested in yours.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. His fingers lace together. “I felt a shift in the castle earlier this morning, a peculiar charge of energy in the corridors. When I rose to investigate, I found an empty bottle of absinthe”—he points to his sideboard, where a decanter still stands empty—“and my personal belongings strung across the room. Someone drew a rather unfortunate mustache on my favorite uncle.” His eyes flick to my left, where an enormous portrait of a severe-looking gentleman glares down at us from the mantel. Someone has indeed painted a thin, curling mustache over his lip. In any other situation, I might’ve laughed. “If ghosts existed, they certainly couldn’t drink absinthe or hold a paintbrush. I am truly sorry for your uncle, monsieur, but as I am not the one who

broke into your study—”

“No one enters my study without my knowledge, Célie Trem- blay. Are you sure that you felt nothing . . . unusual?”

Though I try to slow my heartbeat, it’s no good. I’m still a terrible liar. I lift my chin instead. “Even if I did see these ghosts of yours, I certainly didn’t summon them here.” His body grows still. “You saw them?”

“I—I don’t know what I saw.” I wipe my hands on my skirt, abandoning all pretense now. “They—something paraded past my room this morning in a macabre sort of dance—a waltz, I think.” Though his black eyes burn into mine—strangely intent, almost angry—he still doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. I wipe my hands again, and the lace of my dress chafes my palms. “Are you saying no one saw them?”

Even I can hear my heartbeat now. It thump, thump, thumps through my chest, my throat, my fingers, as he slowly shakes his head.

“Oh.” My stomach sinks horribly with the word. “Then how did you— Wait, that isn’t another question,” I add quickly. He tilts his head, and the quiet of the room deepens, his previous words echoing between us with each tick of the clock.

Tick— What Tick— are Tick— you?

Adjusting the collar on my gown, abruptly warm, I grasp for something else to break the silence. “R-Right. Of course no one did. I probably imagined them, anyway. This isle—it does strange things to my head.” When his eyes narrow further, I immediately take the defensive. “It’s true. In the market, the ground seemed to weep blood, and the cats—” I stop abruptly, unwilling to share the rest. Because Michal doesn’t need to know the details. Despite what Christo said, the cats didn’t follow me anywhere, and I certainly didn’t summon a ghost to destroy this study.

“I heard the isle is sick,” I say instead, looking down my nose at him. “Perhaps whatever ails Requiem is also responsible for defacing your uncle’s portrait. My friend”—I dare not mention Lou’s name—“spoke of a mysterious sickness spreading through Belterra. Why shouldn’t it be spreading here too? It really is the most likely explanation, and—because everything seems to have started with you murdering those poor creatures—I suggest finding a mirror if you want to cast blame. It certainly has nothing to do with me.”

Michal steeples his fingers, waiting patiently for me to finish.

Which I have. I think. “Well? ”

“Somehow,” he croons, “I doubt this great evil you’ve concocted would draw a mustache on Uncle Vladimir.”

“And a ghost would?”

His mouth twists as if in unpleasant memory. “I can think of one. Now—”

“Wait.” My hand darts up to silence him before I can stop it. “I have one more question.”

“I don’t think so,” he says silkily.

“But there are rules to this game.” I square my shoulders in defiance, forcing the ghosts to a small room in the back of my mind. I will revisit them later. Or perhaps never. “You set them yourself, monsieur. You have asked three questions, and I have asked two, which means—”

His teeth click together with an audible snap. “You test my patience, pet.”

“A cheat is the same as a liar.” A sharp knock sounds on the door, however, interrupting us, and a truly evil smile lifts Michal’s lips at the sound. I recoil instinctively. Anything that elicits such a mercurial shift in his mood cannot be good. “Who is it?” I ask him, my voice wary.

He inclines his head. “Breakfast.”

The door opens, and a pretty young woman slips inside.

Small and round, she flicks auburn hair over her shoulder when she sees me, sauntering to where Michal sits in my chair. Startled, I study her lithe movements, the claw marks down one side of her face. Loup garou. When she drapes herself across Michal’s lap, her eyes gleam yellow, confirming my suspicion.

I avert my gaze swiftly.

“Good evening, Arielle,” he purrs, and at the low timbre of his voice, I can’t help it—I glance up to find him looking directly at me. He brushes thick hair away from her throat. Two more scars fleck the ivory skin there. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

She slants her head eagerly, wrapping an arm around his neck and clinging to him. “It’s always an honor, Michal.”

Mortified by their intimacy, I try to look away. When he hooks a hand behind her knee, however—when she twists in his lap to straddle him—heat washes through me until my cheeks blaze and my skin burns. Because I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be—watching whatever this is, but my eyes refuse to blink. With another cold smile, he skims his nose along the curve of her shoulder, kissing it softly. “Go on,” he tells me. “As you said, you have one question left.”

“I’ll just—I’ll come back later—”

“Ask your question.” His eyes darken over Arielle’s neck. “You will not get another chance.”

“But this is indecent—”

“You will ask your question”—he jerks his head toward the door—“or you will leave. The choice is yours.”

His tone is emphatic. Final. If I flee his presence now, he will not stop me, and I will rot in the darkness until Coco arrives in Requiem and he kills us both. Though he offers a choice, it isn’t a choice at all.

I force myself to nod.

Appeased, Michal continues his appraisal of Arielle’s neck, and she shivers in his arms. “What—” I clear my throat and try again, attempting to collect my scrambled thoughts, to remember my imperative questions, as he cradles her head with one hand. “What do you—”

In the next second, however, he sinks his teeth into her jugular. All thought vanishes as her back arches into his chest, and she clenches her eyes shut with a sharp moan of pleasure. I lurch to my feet at the sound—knocking over the chair in my haste—and gape at her, at him, at the way her hips writhe against him with each pull of his mouth. A drop of blood trickles down her collarbone, and realization punches through my chest like the thrust of a knife.

My worst fear has been confirmed.

Michal is drinking her blood. He’s—he’s drinking it.

I stumble away from the desk, falling over the chair, and rise on shaky feet as Michal releases her throat, tipping his head back and reveling in the taste of her, in the decadence. He wipes her blood from his lips. I press into the shutters. Though the wood abrades my back, I do not feel it—do not feel anything but the intensity of Michal’s stare as he finds me again. As he stands and lifts Arielle in his arms.

“Wh-What—?” But my breath is ragged, sharp, too painful to speak around.

“The word for which you’re searching”—he returns her loose-limbed body to the chair, where she sighs dreamily and closes her eyes—“is vampire, though we answer to many names. Éternel. Nosferatu. Strigoi and moroi. The undead.”

The undead. Éternel.

Vampire.

I flinch at each name like it’s a physical blow. No books in Chasseur Tower ever alluded to this. The puncture marks in the soldiers, in Babette and the other victims . . . their bodies drained of blood . . . I close my eyes, blocking out the sight of Michal’s scarlet lips. Of the blood still streaming down Arielle’s chest, staining her shirt, the chair.

Loup garou. Human.

Melusine. Dame Blanche.

He didn’t just kill his victims. He consumed them, and those bottles of blood in the market—he consumes them too. I shake my head, unable to catch my breath. My lungs threaten to collapse. Evangeline couldn’t have understood the depravity of her story, or she never would’ve invited such creatures into our nursery, into our very childhood. I’ve heard of Dames Rouges imbibing blood on occasion, of course—for certain potions or spells—but never like this. Never as sustenance.

With an air of black satisfaction, Michal returns to his desk,

rights his chair, and sits down. Arielle’s breathing deepens in sleep. “I believe it is my turn,” he says over his shoulder. “Are you able to summon the ghosts again?”

“I—I—I didn’t summon—”

Faster than I can follow, he rises again, flowing to a liquid halt just in front of me. Though he doesn’t touch me, the effect remains the same: I’m trapped here, cornered, like a lutin in a cage. “You’re lying again,” he says.

“I am n-not lying.” With the last of my bravado, I move to push through him, but it would be easier to move a mountain, the ocean, than the vampire in front of me. He no longer possesses his strange lack of scent. No—he now smells coppery and metallic, like salt, like Arielle’s blood. Bile rises in my throat, and I push him harder. “I didn’t summon anything, but if I did, I w-wouldn’t do it again. Not for you.”

And it’s true.

Through the ringing in my ears, awareness begins to flicker.

Resolve.

At last, I understand why I’m still alive: as bait for Coco, yes, but also for the ghosts. After this morning, he thinks I somehow raised them, and he desperately wants a repeat performance for some nefarious purpose.

Everyone has a groin somewhere, Célie.

Squeezing past him, I dive behind his desk with breathless triumph. “Why are you after Coco? What do you want with her?”

He turns to face me slowly, and despite his impassive facade, something cruel and vicious lingers in the hard planes of his face. It promises retribution as calmly as one discusses the weather. “The blood witches have taken something from me, Célie Tremblay— something precious—and I plan to return the favor in kind.” A pause. “Their princesse will do nicely.”

I stare at him in growing disbelief. He would kill an innocent woman because a blood witch stole one of his trinkets? On the wings of that thought, however, comes another, equally chilling. He would kill many more than one. Shaking my head in disgust, I say quietly, “You’re a thief and a filthy hypocrite. Where is my cross?” “How interesting. One would think you’d ask for your engagement ring.” I inhale sharply, but he merely flicks a hand toward the door. “Get out of my sight. Our game is finished.” Then— “Remain in your room until I summon you. Do not attempt to leave this castle.”

Torn between a sob and a snarl, I clench my hands into fists. “Why keep me here at all? Why not finish this business in Cesa- rine? Unless—”

Christo’s bloody tongue flares in my mind’s eye.

How can the shepherd protect his flock if he refuses to walk among them? Perhaps he cannot protect them at all.

“Unless you can’t leave,” I finish shrewdly, “because you fear the consequences if you do.”

“I do not need to leave. Cosette Monvoisin will come to me.” He lifts a piece of parchment from his desk, revealing a letter written in emerald ink. Masquerade sprawls across the top in ornate calligraphy. “Indeed, I’ve sent an invitation to all your little friends, welcoming them to Requiem for a ball on All Hallows’ Eve. By that time, I will have unearthed all of your secrets, Célie Tremblay, and will have no further use of you.”

All Hallows’ Eve.

I quickly tally the days, my heart dropping in realization. Just over a fortnight. I have a mere nineteen days to undo all of this, to save my friends and myself from a brutal and bloody death. He says nothing as I struggle to compose myself, those black eyes cold and indifferent once more. And for the first time since setting foot in Requiem, I begin to understand the sickness here.

Hatred tastes like poison, like the charred wick of a candle the second before it ignites—and it always ignites. “I will find a way to stop you,” I promise him, my mind already whirling forward. In nineteen days, I must learn how to kill the undead—to truly kill them, this time. “You will not have my friends.”

Text copyright © 2023 by Shelby Mahurin. Reprinted by permission of HarperTeen, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. All Rights Reserved.

The Scarlet Veil, by Shelby Mahurin, will be released on September 26, 2023. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:

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Entertainment Editor

Tamara Fuentes is the current Entertainment Editor at Cosmopolitan, where she covers TV, movies, books, celebrities, and more. She can often be found in front of a screen fangirling about something new. Before joining Cosmopolitan, she was the entertainment editor over at Seventeen. She is also a member of the Television Critics Association and the Latino Entertainment Journalists Association. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram.