The crowd milled around the wagons eating treats and clutching brown paper packages, noses red from a day of shopping in the cold. The Archbishop waved when he saw them—then stopped short when he noticed the eclectic band of performers on the cathedral steps.
He wasn’t the only one. Those not feasting on macarons and hazelnuts whispered behind their hands in disapproval. One word rose above the rest, a soft hiss repeated over and over in the wind.
Women.
The actors in this troupe were all women.
And not just any women: though they ranged in age from crones to maidens, all held themselves with the telltale grace of artists. Proud and erect, but also fluid. They watched the crowd murmur with impish smiles. Already performing before the show began. The youngest couldn’t have been older than thirteen, and she winked at a man twice her age. He nearly choked on his popcorn.
I don’t know what these idiots had expected. The troupe’s name was Ye Olde Sisters.
“Abominable.” The Archbishop halted at the top of the steps, lip curling. “A woman should never debase herself with such a disreputable profession.”
I smirked and withdrew my arm from his. He didn’t stop me. “I’ve heard they’re very talented.”
At my words, the youngest caught sight of us. Her eyes met mine, and she flashed a mischievous grin. With an imperious toss of her wheat-colored hair, she lifted her hands to the crowd. “Joyeux Noël à tous! Our guest of honor has arrived! Quiet, now, so we might begin our special performance!”
The crowd instantly quieted, and eyes everywhere turned to her in anticipation. She paused, arms still spread wide, to bask in their attention. For someone so young, she held an uncommon amount of confidence. Even the Archbishop stood transfixed. At her nod, the other actors darted into one of the wagons.
“We all know the story of Saint Nicolas, bringer of gifts and protector of children.” She spun in a slow circle, arms still wide. “We know the evil butcher, Père Fouettard, lured the foolish brothers into his meat shop and cut them into little pieces.” She sliced her hand through the air to mimic a knife. Those near her drew back with disapproving looks. “We know Saint Nicolas arrived and defeated Père Fouettard. We know he resurrected the children and returned them safe and whole to their parents.” She inclined her head. “We know this story. We cherish it. It is why we gather every year to celebrate Saint Nicolas.
“But today—today we bring you a different story.” She paused, another naughty smile touching her lips. “Lesser known and darker in nature, but still the tale of a holy man. We shall call him an archbishop.”
The Archbishop stiffened beside me as a woman strode out of the wagon wearing choral robes uncannily similar to his own. Even the shades of crimson and gold matched. She trained her face into a severe expression. Brows furrowed, mouth tight.
“Once upon a time in a faraway place,” the young narrator began, her voice turning musical, “or not so far, as is truly the case, lived an orphan boy, bitter and ignored, who found his call in the work of the Lord.”
With each word, the woman portraying the Archbishop stepped closer, lifting her chin to glare down her nose at us. The real Archbishop remained still as stone. I risked a glance at him. His gaze was locked on the young narrator, his face noticeably paler than a few moments ago. I frowned.
The pretend Archbishop lit a match and held it before his eyes, watching it smoke and burn with unsettling fervency. The narrator dropped her voice to a dramatic whisper. “With faith and fire in his heart, he hunted the wicked and set them apart to burn at the stake for evil committed . . . for the Lord’s word no magic permitted.”
My sense of foreboding returned tenfold. Something was wrong here.
A commotion down the street distracted the audience, and the Chasseurs appeared. Reid rode in front, with Jean Luc following closely behind. Their identical expressions of alarm became clear as they drew closer, but the troupe’s wagons—and the audience—blocked the street. They hurried to dismount. I started toward them, but the Archbishop caught my arm. “Stay.”
“Excuse me?”
He shook his head, eyes still fixed on the narrator’s face. “Stay close to me.” The urgency in his voice stilled my feet, and my unease deepened. He didn’t release my arm, his skin clammy and cold on mine. “Whatever happens, do not leave my side. Do you understand?”
Something was very wrong here.
The pretend Archbishop raised a fist. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!”
The narrator leaned forward with a wicked gleam in her eyes and brought a hand to her mouth, as if revealing a secret. “But he failed to remember God’s plea to forgive. So Fate, a cruel, cunning mistress, did plan another end for this bloodthirsty man.”
A tall, elegant woman with deep brown skin swept from the wagon next. Her black robes billowed as she circled the pretend Archbishop, but he didn’t see her. The real Archbishop’s grip on me tightened.
“A beautiful witch, cloaked in guise of damsel, soon lured the man down the path to Hell.” A third woman fell from the wagon, clothed in dazzling white robes. She cried out, and the pretend Archbishop raced forward.
“What is going on?” I hissed, but he ignored me.
The pretend Archbishop and the woman in white moved in a sensual circle around one another. She trailed her hand down his cheek, and he drew her into his arms. Fate looked on with a sinister smile. The crowd muttered, gazes shifting between the actors and the Archbishop. Reid stopped trying to push through the crowd. He stood rooted to the spot, watching the performance through narrowed eyes. A ringing started in my ears.
“To bed did he take her, forsaking his oath, revering her body—the curve of her throat.” At this, the narrator glanced up at the Archbishop and winked. The blood left my face, and my vision narrowed to her ivory skin, to the youthful radiance emanating from her. To her eerily familiar green eyes. Like emeralds.
The ringing grew louder, and my mind emptied of coherent thought. My knees buckled.
The pretend Archbishop and the woman in white embraced, and the crowd gasped, scandalized. The narrator cackled. “She waited until the height of his sin to reveal herself and the magic within. Then she leapt from his bed and into the night. How he cursed her moonbeam hair and skin white!”
The woman in white cackled and twisted out of the pretend Archbishop’s hold. He fell to his knees, fists raised, as she fled back to the wagon.
Moonbeam hair. Skin white.
I turned slowly, my heart beating a violent rhythm in my ears, to stare at the Archbishop. His grip on my hand turned painful. “Listen to me, Louise—”
I jerked away with a snarl. “Don’t touch me.”
The narrator’s voice rose. “From that night forward, he strove to forget, but alas! Fate had not tired of him yet.”
The woman in white reappeared, her stomach swollen with child. She pirouetted gracefully, her gown fanning out around her, and from the folds of her skirt, she pulled forth a baby. No more than a year old, the child cooed and giggled, her blue eyes crinkling with delight. Already, a constellation of freckles sprinkled her nose. The pretend Archbishop fell to his knees when he saw her, tearing at his face and robes. His body heaved with silent shrieks. The crowd waited with bated breath.
The narrator bent beside him and stroked his back, crooning softly in his ear. “A visit soon came from the witch he reviled with the worst news of all”—she paused and looked up at the crowd, grinning salaciously—“she’d borne his child.”
Reid broke through the crowd as their muttering grew louder, as they turned to stare at the Archbishop, the disbelief in their eyes shifting into suspicion. The Chasseurs followed, hands tight on their Balisardas. Someone shouted something, but the words were lost in the tumult.
The narrator rose slowly—young face serene amidst the descending chaos—and turned toward us. Toward me.
The face of my nightmares.
The face of death.
“And with
not just any a child did he share.” She smiled and extended her hands to me, face aging, hair lightening to brilliant silver. Screams erupted behind her. Reid was sprinting now, shouting something indiscernible. “But with the Witch, the Queen . . . La Dame des Sorcières.”
Part III
C’est cela l’amour, tout donner, tout sacrifier sans espoir de retour.
That is love, to give away everything, to sacrifice everything, without the slightest desire to get anything in return.
—Albert Camus
Secrets Revealed
Lou
Screams rent the air, and the crowd scattered in panic and confusion. I lost sight of Reid. I lost sight of everyone but my mother. She stood still in the swarming crowd—a beacon of white in the impending shadows. Smiling. Hands extended in supplication.
The Archbishop pulled me behind him as the witches converged. I cringed away, unable to process the emotions pounding through me—the wild disbelief, the debilitating fear, the violent rage. The witch in black, Fate, reached us first, but the Archbishop tore his Balisarda from his robes and sliced it deep across her breast. She staggered down the steps into her sister’s arms. Another shrieked and charged forward.
Blue flashed, and a knife split her chest from behind. She gasped, clutching helplessly at the wound, before a hand pushed her forward. She slid off the blade slowly and crumpled.
There stood Reid.
His Balisarda dripped with her blood, and his eyes burned with primal hatred. Jean Luc and Ansel fought behind him. With a quick jerk of his head, he motioned me forward. I didn’t hesitate, abandoning the Archbishop and rushing into his outstretched arms.
But the witches kept coming. More and more seemed to appear from thin air. Worse—I’d lost sight of my mother.
An enchanted man with vacant eyes lumbered forward to meet the Archbishop. A witch stood closely behind, wringing her fingers with a ferocious snarl. Magic exploded in the air. “Get her inside!” the Archbishop cried. “Barricade yourselves in the Tower!”
“No!” I shoved away from Reid. “Give me a weapon! I can fight!”
Three sets of hands seized me, all dragging me back into the church. Other Chasseurs broke through the crowd now. I watched in horror as they drew silver syringes from their coats.
Reid shoved the church doors closed as fresh screams started.
Moving quickly, he began to lift the enormous wooden beam across the doors. Jean Luc hurried to help, while Ansel hovered by my side, face white. “Was it all true—what the witches said? D-Does the Archbishop have—does he have a child with Morgane le Blanc?”
“Perhaps.” Jean Luc’s shoulders strained under the weight of the beam. “But perhaps it was—all a—diversion.” With one last heave, they set the beam into place. He looked me up and down, breathing heavily. “Like the witches at the castle. They’d almost breached its walls when we arrived. Then they vanished.”
Glass shattered, and we looked up to see a witch scuttling through the rose window hundreds of feet above us. “Oh my God,” Ansel breathed, face twisting in horror.
Jean Luc shoved me forward. “Take her upstairs! I’ll handle the witch!”
Reid grabbed my hand, and together we sprinted for the staircase. Ansel pounded along behind.
When we reached our bedroom, Reid slammed the door shut and thrust his Balisarda through the handle. In the next moment, he strode across the room to peer out the window, hand darting into his coat to retrieve a small pouch. Salt. He dumped the white crystals along the window ledge frantically.
“That won’t help.” My voice came out low and fervent—guilty.
Reid’s hands stilled, and he turned slowly to face me. “Why are the witches after you, Lou?”
I opened my mouth, searching desperately for a reasonable explanation, but found none. He grabbed my hand and leaned down, lowering his voice. “The truth now. I can’t protect you without it.”
I took a deep breath, bracing myself. Every laugh, every look, every touch—it all came down to this moment.
Ansel made a strangled noise behind us. “Look out!”
We turned as one to see a witch hovering outside the window, her dun-colored hair whipping around her in a violent wind. My heart stopped. She stepped onto the sill, right through the line of salt.
Reid and I moved in front of each other at the same instant. His foot crushed mine, and I crashed to my knees. The witch cocked her head as he dove after me—after me, not his Balisarda.
Ansel didn’t make the same mistake. He lunged toward the knife, but the witch was faster. At a curt flick of her wrist, the sharp tang of magic scorched my nose, and Ansel flew into the wall. Before I could stop him—before I could do anything but shout a warning—Reid launched himself at her.
With another flick, his body flew upward, and his head smashed into the ceiling. The entire room trembled. Another, and he collapsed to the ground at my feet, alarmingly still.
“No!” Heart leaping to my throat, I rolled him over with frantic fingers. His eyes fluttered. Alive. My head snapped toward the dun-haired witch. “You bitch.”
Her face twisted into a feral snarl. “You burned my sister.”
A memory surfaced—a dun-haired woman at the back of the crowd, sobbing as Estelle burned. I pushed it away.
“She would’ve taken me.” Lifting my hands warily, I wracked my brain for a pattern. Bits of gold flickered rapidly all around her. I willed them to solidify as she floated down from the sill.
Deep circles lined her bloodshot eyes, and her hands trembled with rage. “You dishonor your mother. You dishonor the Dames Blanches.”
“The Dames Blanches can burn in Hell.”
“You aren’t worthy of the honor Morgane bestows upon you. You never have been.”
Golden cords snaked between her body and mine. I caught one at random and followed it, but it branched into hundreds of others, wrapping around our bones. I recoiled from them, the cost—and risk—too great.
She bared her teeth and lifted her hands in response, eyes alight with hatred. I braced myself for the blow, but it never came. Though she thrust her hand toward me again and again, each blast washed over my skin and dissipated.
Angelica’s Ring burned hot on my finger—dispelling her patterns.
She stared at it incredulously. I lifted my hands higher with a smile, eyes lighting on a promising pattern. Backing away, she glanced at the Balisarda, but I clenched my fists before she could reach it.
She collided with the ceiling in an identical arc to Reid’s, and bits of wood and mortar rained down on my head. My heartbeat slowed in response, my vision spinning, as she toppled to the floor. I lifted my hands—groping for a second pattern, something to steal her consciousness—but she tackled me around the waist into the desk.
The desk.
I jerked the drawer open, hand closing around my knife, but she caught my wrist and twisted sharply. With a feral cry, she smashed her head into my nose. I staggered sideways—blood pouring down my chin—as she wrenched the knife from my grasp.
Reid’s Balisarda glinted from the doorway. I lunged for it, but she slashed my knife in front of my nose, blocking my path. Gold flared briefly, but I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think. I thrust my elbow into her ribs instead. When she broke away, doubled over and gasping, I finally saw my opportunity.
My knee connected with her face, and she dropped my knife. I swooped it up triumphantly.
“Go ahead.” She clutched her side, blood dripping from her nose to the floor. “Kill me like you killed Estelle. Witch killer.”
The words were more weapon than the knife ever could be.
“I—I did what I had to—”
“You murdered your kin. You married a huntsman. You are the only Dame Blanche who will burn in Hell, Louise le Blanc.” She straightened, spitting a mouthful of blood on the floor and wiping her chin. “Come with me now—accept your birthright—and the Goddess may still spare your soul.”
Tendr
ils of doubt snaked around my heart at her words.
Perhaps I would burn in Hell for what I’d done to survive. I’d lied and stolen and killed without hesitation in my relentless quest to live. But when had such a life become worth living? When had I become so ruthless, so accustomed to the blood on my hands?
When had I become one of them—but worse than both? At least the Dames Blanches and Chasseurs had chosen a side. Each stood for something, yet I stood for nothing. A coward.
All I’d wanted was to feel the sun on my face one last time. I hadn’t wanted to die on that altar. If that made me a coward . . . so be it.
“With your sacrifice, we’ll reclaim our homeland.” She stepped closer as if sensing my hesitation, wringing her bloody hands. “Don’t you understand? We’ll rule Belterra again—”
“No,” I objected, “you will rule Belterra. I will be dead.”
Her chest heaved with passion. “Think of the witchlife you’ll save by your sacrifice!”
“I can’t allow you to slaughter innocent people.” My voice quieted with resolve. “There has to be another way—”
My words faltered as Reid rose to his knees in my periphery. The witch’s face wasn’t wholly human as she turned to look at him—as she lifted her hand. I felt the unnatural energy shimmering between them, sensed the death blow before she struck.
I flung a hand toward him desperately. “No!”
Reid flew aside—eyes widening as my magic lifted him—and the witch’s black energy blasted through the wall instead. But my relief was short-lived. Before I could reach him, she’d darted to his side and pressed the knife to his throat, reaching into his coat to withdraw something small. Something silver.
I stared at it in horror. A vicious smile split her face as he struggled. “Come here, or I’ll slit his throat.”
My feet moved toward her without hesitation. Instinctive. Though leaden, though suddenly clumsy and stiff, they knew where I had to go. Where I’d always been destined to go. Since birth. Since conception. If it meant Reid would live, I would gladly die.
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