“How foolish of you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I make it my business to know the business of my enemies, monsieur.” She rose gracefully to her feet, and he stumbled back a half step. “As they are now also your enemies, I must offer a piece of advice: ’tis dangerous to meddle in the affairs of witches. Forget your vengeance. Forget everything you’ve learned about this world of shadows and magic. You are wildly outmatched and woefully inadequate in the face of these women. Death is the kindest of their torments—a gift bestowed only to those who have earned it. One would think you’d have learned that with dear Filippa.”
His mouth twisted, and he straightened to his full height, spluttering angrily. Madame Labelle still loomed over him by several inches. “Y-You cross the line.”
Madame Labelle didn’t shrink away from him. Instead, she ran a hand down the bodice of her gown, utterly unfazed, and withdrew a fan from the folds of her skirt. A knife peeked out from its spine.
“I see the pleasantries are over. Right, then. Let us get down to business.” Spreading the device in a single flourish, she fanned it between them. Tremblay eyed the knife point warily and conceded a step. “If you wish me to relieve you of the ring, I will do so here and now—for five thousand gold couronnes less than your asking price.”
An odd choking noise escaped his throat. “You’re mad—”
“If not,” she continued, voice hardening, “you will leave this place with a noose around your daughter’s neck. Her name is Célie, yes? La Dame des Sorcières will delight in draining her youth, in drinking the glow from her skin, the gleam from her hair. She will be unrecognizable by the time the witches finish with her. Empty. Broken. Just like Filippa.”
“You—you—” Tremblay’s eyes bulged, and a vein appeared on his shiny forehead. “Fille de pute! You cannot do this to me. You cannot—”
“Come now, monsieur, I do not have all day. The prince has returned from Amandine, and I do not want to miss the festivities.”
His chin jutted obstinately. “I—I do not have it with me.”
Damn it. Disappointment crashed through me, bitter and sharp. Coco muttered a curse.
“I do not believe you.” Striding to the window across the room, Madame Labelle peered down. “Ah, Monsieur Tremblay, how could a gentleman such as yourself leave your daughter to wait outside a brothel? Such easy prey.”
Sweating profusely now, Tremblay hastened to turn out his pockets. “I swear I don’t have it! Look, look!” I pressed my face closer as he shoved the contents of his pockets toward her: an embroidered hand cloth, a silver pocket watch, and a fistful of copper couronnes. But no ring. “Please, leave my daughter alone! She is not involved in this!”
He made such a pitiful sight that I might’ve felt sorry for him—if he hadn’t just dashed all my plans. As it were, however, the sight of his trembling limbs and ashen face filled me with vindictive pleasure.
Madame Labelle seemed to share my sentiment. She sighed theatrically, dropping her hand from the window, and—curiously—turned to look directly at the portrait I stood behind. Tumbling backward, I landed squarely on my ass and bit back a curse.
“What is it?” Coco whispered, crouching beside me. Babette released the button with a frown.
“Shhhh!” I waved my hands wildly, motioning toward the parlor. I think—I mouthed the words, not daring to speak—she saw me.
Coco’s eyes flew open in alarm.
We all froze as her voice drifted closer, muted but audible through the thin wall. “Pray tell me, monsieur . . . where is it, then?”
Holy hell. Coco and I locked eyes incredulously. Though I didn’t dare return to the portrait, I pressed closer to the wall, breath hot and uncomfortable against my own face. Answer her, I pleaded silently. Tell us.
Miraculously, Tremblay obliged, his vehement reply more dulcet than the sweetest of music. “It’s locked away in my townhouse, you salope ignorante—”
“That will do, Monsieur Tremblay.” As their parlor door clicked open, I could almost see her smile. It matched my own. “I hope for your daughter’s sake you aren’t lying. I will arrive at your townhouse at dawn with your coin. Do not keep me waiting.”
The Chasseur
Lou
“I’m listening.”
Sitting in the crowded patisserie, Bas lifted a spoonful of chocolat chaud to his lips, careful not to spill a drop on his lace cravat. I resisted the urge to flick a bit of mine at him. For what we had planned, we needed him in a good mood.
No one could swindle an aristocrat like Bas could.
“It’s like this,” I said, pointing my spoon at him, “you can pocket everything else in Tremblay’s vault as payment, but the ring is ours.”
He leaned forward, dark eyes settling on my lips. When I irritably brushed the chocolat from my mustache, he grinned. “Ah, yes. A magic ring. I have to admit I’m surprised you’re interested in such an object. I thought you’d renounced all magic?”
“The ring is different.”
His eyes found my lips once more. “Of course it is.”
“Bas.” I snapped my fingers in front of his face pointedly. “Focus, please. This is important.”
Once, upon arriving in Cesarine, I’d thought Bas quite handsome. Handsome enough to court. Certainly handsome enough to kiss. From across the cramped table, I eyed the dark line of his jaw. There was still a small scar there—just below his ear, hiding in the shadow of his facial hair—where I’d bitten him during one of our more passionate nights.
I sighed ruefully at the memory. He had the most beautiful amber skin. And such a tight little ass.
He chuckled as if reading my mind. “All right, Louey, I shall attempt to marshal my thoughts—as long as you do the same.” Stirring his chocolat, he sat back with a smirk. “So . . . you wish to rob an aristocrat, and you have, of course, come to the master for guidance.”
I scoffed but bit my tongue. As the third cousin twice removed of a baron, Bas held the peculiar position of being part of the aristocracy, while also not being part of it. His relative’s wealth allowed him to dress in the finest fashions and attend the fanciest parties, yet the aristocrats couldn’t bother to remember his name. A useful slight, as he often attended said parties to relieve them of their valuables.
“A wise decision,” he continued, “as twits such as Tremblay utilize layers upon layers of security: gates and locks and guards and dogs, just to name a few. Probably more after what happened to his daughter. The witches stole her during the dead of night, didn’t they? He’ll have increased his protections.”
Filippa was becoming a real pain in my ass.
Scowling, I glanced toward the patisserie’s window. All manner of pastries perched there on glorious display: iced cakes and sugar loaves and chocolat tartlets, as well as macarons and fruit danishes of every color. Raspberry eclairs and an apple tarte tatin completed the display.
Out of all this decadence, however, the enormous sticky buns—with their cinnamon and sweet cream—made my mouth truly water.
As if on cue, Coco threw herself into the empty seat beside us. She thrust a plate of sticky buns toward me. “Here.”
I could’ve kissed her. “You’re a goddess. You know that, right?”
“Obviously. Just don’t expect me to hold your hair back when you’re puking later—oh, and you owe me a silver couronne.”
“Like hell. That’s my money too—”
“Yes, but you can weasel a sticky bun out of Pan anytime. The couronne is a service fee.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the short, plump man behind the counter: Johannes Pan, pastry extraordinaire and halfwit. More important, however, he was the close personal friend and confidant of Mademoiselle Lucida Bretton.
I was Mademoiselle Lucida Bretton. With a blond wig.
Sometimes I didn’t want to wear the suit—and I’d quickly discovered Pan had a soft spot for the gentler sex. Most days I only had to bat my lashes. Others I h
ad to get slightly more . . . creative. I shot Bas a covert look. Little did he know, he’d committed all sorts of heinous acts to poor Mademoiselle Bretton over the past two years.
Pan couldn’t handle a woman’s tears.
“I’m dressed as a man today.” I tucked into the first bun, shoving half of it into my mouth without decorum. “’esides, ’e prffers”—I swallowed hard, eyes watering—“blondes.”
Heat radiated from Bas’s dark gaze as he watched me. “Then the gentleman has poor taste.”
“Ick.” Coco gagged, rolling her eyes. “Give it a rest, will you? Pining doesn’t suit you.”
“That suit doesn’t suit you—”
Leaving them to bicker, I returned my attention to the buns. Though Coco had procured enough to feed five people, I accepted the challenge. Three buns in, however, the two had turned even my appetite. I pushed my plate away roughly.
“We don’t have the luxury of time, Bas,” I interrupted, just as Coco looked likely to leap across the table at him. “The ring will be gone by morning, so it has to be tonight. Will you help us or not?”
He frowned at my tone. “Personally, I don’t see what all the fuss is about. You don’t need an invisibility ring for safety. You know I can protect you.”
Pfft. Empty promises. Perhaps that was why I’d stopped loving him.
Bas was many things—charming, cunning, ruthless—but he wasn’t a protector. No, he was far too worried about more important things, like saving his own skin at the first sign of trouble. I didn’t hold it against him. He was a man, after all, and his kissing had more than made up for it.
Coco glared at him. “As we’ve told you—several times—it grants the user more than invisibility.”
“Ah, mon amie, I must confess I wasn’t listening.”
When he grinned, blowing her a kiss across the table, her hands curled into fists. “Bordel! I swear, one of these days I’m going to—”
I intervened before she could slash open a vein. “It renders the user immune to enchantment. Sort of like the Chasseurs’ Balisardas.” My gaze flicked to Bas. “Surely you understand how useful that might prove to me.”
His grin vanished. Slowly, he reached up to touch my cravat, fingers tracing where it hid my scar. Chills erupted down my spine. “But she hasn’t found you. You’re still safe.”
“For now.”
He stared at me for a long moment, hand still raised to my throat. Finally, he sighed. “And you’re willing to do whatever it takes to procure this ring?”
“Yes.”
“Even . . . magic?”
I swallowed hard, threading my fingers through his, and nodded. He dropped our clasped hands to the table. “Very well, then. I shall help you.” He glanced out the window, and I followed his gaze. More and more people had gathered for the prince’s parade. Though most laughed and chatted with palpable excitement, unease festered just beneath the surface—in the tightness of their mouths and the sharp, quick movements of their eyes. “Tonight,” he continued, “the king has scheduled a ball to welcome his son home from Amandine. The entire aristocracy has been invited—including Monsieur Tremblay.”
“Convenient,” Coco murmured.
We all tensed simultaneously at a commotion up the street, eyes locking on the men who emerged through the crowd. Clad in coats of royal blue, they marched in rows of three—each thump, thump, thump of their boots perfectly synchronized—with silver daggers held over their hearts. Constables flanked them on either side, shouting and marshaling pedestrians to sidewalks.
Chasseurs.
Sworn to the Church as huntsmen, Chasseurs protected the kingdom of Belterra from the occult—namely, the Dames Blanches, or the deadly witches who haunted Belterra’s small-minded prejudices. Muted anger pounded through my veins as I watched the Chasseurs march closer. As if we were the interlopers. As if this land hadn’t once belonged to us.
Not your fight. Lifting my chin, I mentally shook myself. The ancient feud between the Church and witches didn’t affect me anymore—not since I’d left the world of witchcraft behind.
“You shouldn’t be out here, Lou.” Coco’s eyes followed the Chasseurs as they lined the street, preventing anyone from approaching the royal family. The parade would soon start. “We should reconvene in the theater. A crowd this size is dangerous. It’s bound to attract trouble.”
“I’m disguised.” Struggling to speak around the sticky bun in my mouth, I swallowed thickly. “No one will recognize me.”
“Andre and Grue did.”
“Only because of my voice—”
“I won’t be reconvening anywhere until after the parade.” Dropping my hand, Bas stood and patted his waistcoat with a salacious grin. “A crowd this size is a glorious cesspool of money, and I plan on drowning in it. If you’ll excuse me.”
He tipped his hat and wove through the patisserie tables away from us. Coco leapt to her feet. “That bastard will renege as soon as he’s out of sight. Probably turn us in to the constabulary—or worse, the Chasseurs. I don’t know why you trust him.”
It remained a point of contention in our friendship that I’d revealed my true identity to Bas. My true name. Never mind that it’d happened after a night of too much whiskey and kissing. Shredding the last bun in an effort to avoid Coco’s gaze, I tried not to regret my decision.
Regret changed nothing. I had no choice but to trust him now. We were linked irrevocably.
She sighed in resignation. “I’ll follow him. You get out of here. Meet us at the theater in an hour?”
“It’s a date.”
I left the patisserie only minutes after Coco and Bas. Though dozens of girls huddled outside in near hysterics at the prospect of seeing the prince, it was a man who blocked the doorway.
Truly enormous, he towered over me by head and shoulders, his broad back and powerful arms straining against the brown wool of his coat. He too faced the street, but it didn’t look as if he was watching the parade. He held his shoulders stiffly, feet planted as if preparing for a fight.
I cleared my throat and poked the man in the back. He didn’t move. I poked him again. He shifted slightly, but still not enough for me to squeeze through.
Right. Rolling my eyes, I threw my shoulder into his side and attempted to wedge myself between his girth and the doorjamb. It seemed he felt that contact, because he finally turned—and clubbed me square in the nose with his elbow.
“Shit!” Clutching my nose, I stumbled back and landed on my backside for the second time that morning. Treacherous tears sprang to my eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
He extended a swift hand. “My apologies, monsieur. I didn’t see you.”
“Clearly.” I ignored his hand and hauled myself to my feet. Brushing off my pants, I made to shove past him, but he once again blocked my path. His shabby coat flapped open at the movement, revealing a bandolier strapped across his chest. Knives of every shape and size glinted down at me, but it was the knife sheathed against his heart that made my own drop like a stone. Gleaming and silver, it was adorned with a large sapphire that glittered ominously on its hilt.
Chasseur.
I ducked my head. Shit.
Inhaling deeply, I forced myself to remain calm. He presented no danger to me in my current disguise. I’d done nothing wrong. I smelled of cinnamon, not magic. Besides—didn’t all men share some sort of unspoken camaraderie? A mutual understanding of their own collective importance?
“Are you injured, monsieur?”
Right. Today, I was a man. I could do this.
I forced myself to look up.
Beyond his obscene height, the first things I noticed were the brass buttons on his coat—they matched the copper and gold of his hair, which shone in the sun like a beacon. Combined with his straight nose and full mouth, it made him unexpectedly handsome for a Chasseur. Irritatingly handsome. I couldn’t help but stare. Thick lashes framed eyes the precise color of the sea.
Eyes that currently
regarded me with unabashed shock.
Shit. My hand shot to my mustache, which dangled off my face from the fall.
Well, it’d been a valiant effort. And while men might be proud, women knew when to get the hell out of a bad situation.
“I’m fine.” I ducked my head quickly and tried to move past him, eager now to put as much distance as possible between us. Though I’d still done nothing wrong, there was no sense in poking fate. Sometimes she poked back. “Just watch where you’re going next time.”
He didn’t move. “You’re a woman.”
“Well spotted.” Again, I tried to shove past him—this time with a bit more force than necessary—but he caught my elbow.
“Why are you dressed like a man?”
“Have you ever worn a corset?” I spun around to face him, reattaching my mustache with as much dignity as I could muster. “I doubt you’d ask such a question if you had. Trousers are infinitely more freeing.”
He stared at me as if I’d sprouted an arm from my forehead. I glared back at him, and he shook his head slightly as if to clear it. “I—my apologies, mademoiselle.”
People were watching us now. I tugged fruitlessly at my arm, the beginnings of panic fluttering in my stomach. “Let me go—”
His grip only tightened. “Have I offended you somehow?”
Losing my patience completely, I jerked away from him with all my might. “You broke my ass bone!”
Perhaps it was my vulgarity that shocked him, but he released me like I’d bitten him, eyeing me with a distaste bordering on revulsion. “I’ve never heard a lady speak so in my entire life.”
Ah. Chasseurs were holy men. He probably thought me the devil.
He wouldn’t have been wrong.
I offered him a catlike smile as I inched away, batting my lashes in my best impression of Babette. When he made no move to stop me, the tension in my chest eased. “You’re hanging out with the wrong ladies, Chass.”
“Are you a courtesan, then?”
Serpent & Dove Page 2
