Silence met his pronouncement. I stared between the two of them, eyes stinging. “I never would’ve hurt her.”
As the words left my mouth, I realized their truth. Even if Ansel had told me, it wouldn’t have changed anything. I wouldn’t have been able to tie her to a stake. I dropped my face in my hands. Defeated.
“Enough,” Mademoiselle Perrot said sharply. “How long has she been gone?”
“About an hour.”
Ansel shifted in obvious discomfort before murmuring, “The witch mentioned Morgane.”
My hands fell as genuine fear twisted Mademoiselle Perrot’s face. Her eyes—once hateful, once accusing—met mine with sudden, unsettling urgency. “We need to leave.” Throwing the door open, she rushed into the corridor. “We can’t talk about this here.”
Trepidation knotted my stomach. “Where can we go?”
“To the Bellerose.” She didn’t bother looking back. Seeing no other choice, Ansel and I hurried after her. “I told Beau I’d meet him—and there’s someone there who might know where Lou is.”
The inside of the Bellerose was dimly lit. I’d never been inside a brothel, but I assumed the marble floors and the gold leaf on the walls marked this a more glamorous whorehouse than others. A harpist sat in one corner. She strummed her instrument and crooned a mournful ballad. Women clad in sheer white clothes danced slowly. A handful of drunken men watched them with hungry eyes. A fountain bubbled in the center of the room.
It was the most ostentatious thing I’d ever seen. It suited Madame Labelle perfectly.
“We’re wasting time. We should be out there searching for Lou—” I started angrily, but Mademoiselle Perrot shot me a withering glare over her shoulder before striding toward a partially concealed table in the back.
Beauregard Lyon rose as we approached, eyes narrowing. “What the hell are they doing here?”
She threw herself into a chair with a heavy sigh, waving a hand between the three of us. “Look, Beau, I have more pressing matters to handle this evening than you and your pissing contest.”
He dropped into another chair, crossing his arms and sulking. “What could possibly be more pressing than me?”
She jerked her head toward me. “This idiot lost Lou, and I need to perform a locator spell to find her.”
Locator spell?
I watched in confusion as she drew a small vial from her cloak. Uncorking it, she spilled the dark powder on the table. Beau looked on as if bored, tipping back in his chair. I glanced at Ansel—seeking confirmation the woman before us had gone mad—but he wouldn’t look at me. When she pulled out a knife and lifted her opposite hand, my stomach dropped with realization.
Tremblay’s townhouse. Three poisoned dogs. Blood running from their maws. The stench of magic piercing the air—black and biting, more acrid than the magic in the infirmary. Different.
Her eyes met mine as she slashed her palm open, letting the blood drip onto the table. “I should probably tell you, Chass, my name isn’t Brie Perrot. It’s Cosette, but my friends call me Coco.”
Cosette Monvoisin. She’d been hiding in the Tower all along. Right under our noses.
I reached for my Balisarda instinctively, but Ansel’s hand came down on my arm. “Reid, don’t. She’s helping us find Lou.”
I wrenched away from him—horrified, furious—but my hand stilled. She winked at me before returning her attention to the tabletop. The dark powder congealed under her blood—then began moving. Bile rose in my throat, and my nose burned. “What is that?”
“Dried blood of a hound.” She watched raptly as strange symbols formed. “It’ll tell us where Lou is.”
Beau tipped forward, propping his chin in his elbow against the table. “And just where do you think she might be?”
A small furrow appeared between Coco’s eyes. “With Morgane le Blanc.”
“Morgane le Blanc?” He straightened and looked at us incredulously, as if expecting one of us to laugh. “Why would the bitch witch queen be interested in Lou?”
“Because she’s her mother.” The shapes stilled suddenly, and Coco’s eyes snapped to mine. Wide. Panicked. “Lou’s trail disappears north into La Forêt des Yeux. I can’t see past it.” I stared at her, and she nodded imperceptibly at my unspoken question. Her chin trembled. “If Morgane has Lou, she’s as good as dead.”
“No.” I shook my head vehemently, unable to accept it. “We just need to find the Chateau. You’re a witch. You can lead us to it—”
Angry tears sprang to her eyes. “I don’t know where the Chateau is. Only a Dame Blanche can find it, and you’ve lost the only Dame Blanche I know!”
“You—you’re not a Dame Blanche?”
She flung her bloody palm under my nose as if it should mean something. “Of course not! Are Chasseurs really this ignorant?”
I stared at the blood pooling there with rising hysteria. The same acrid smell from before assaulted me. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m a Dame Rouge, you idiot. A Red Lady. A blood witch.” She slapped her hand on the table, splattering the black shapes. “I can’t find the Chateau because I’ve never been there.”
A ringing started in my ears. “No.” I shook my head. “That can’t be true. There has to be another way.”
“There isn’t.” Tears spilled down her cheeks as she shoved to her feet, but she wiped them away quickly. The scent around us sharpened. “Unless you know another Dame Blanche—another Dame Blanche willing to betray her sisters and lead a Chasseur into their home—Lou is gone.”
No.
“Do you know a witch like that, Chass?” She stuck a finger in my chest, tears still streaming. They hissed and smoked when they dripped on her shirt. Beau rose, placing an uncertain hand on her back. “Do you know a witch willing to sacrifice everything for you the way Lou did? Do you?”
No.
“Actually,” a cool, familiar voice replied, “he does.”
We turned as one to look upon my savior. I nearly choked at her fiery red hair.
God, no.
Madame Labelle waved a hand toward the eavesdropping men nearest us. “This is a private conversation, dears. I hope you understand.”
Magic—the normal, cloying kind—burst through the air, and their bloodshot eyes glazed over. They turned their attention back to the dancing girls, who now wore equally vacant expressions.
Coco leapt forward, pointing at her in accusation. “You knew about Morgane. You warned Lou. You’re a witch.”
Madame Labelle winked.
I looked between them in confusion, nostrils burning. Mind reeling. Witch? But Madame Labelle wasn’t a—
Realization rushed in, and hot blood rose to my face.
Fuck.
I was so stupid. So blind. My fists clenched as I pushed to my feet. Madame Labelle’s taunting smile faltered, and even Coco shrank back at the fury in my eyes.
Of course Madame Labelle was a witch.
And Mademoiselle Perrot was Coco.
And Coco was a witch. But not just any witch—a Dame Rouge. An entirely new species of witch, who practiced in blood.
And my wife—the fucking love of my life—was the daughter of La Dame des Sorcières. The heiress of Chateau le Blanc. The goddamned princess of the witches.
And everyone had known. Everyone except me. Even fucking Ansel.
It was too much.
Something snapped inside me. Something permanent. In that second, I was no longer the Chasseur—if I’d ever been a Chasseur in the first place.
Unsheathing my Balisarda, I watched with vindictive pleasure as the others eyed me. Wary. Afraid. The harpist in the corner stopped playing. She stared blankly at the floor, her mouth gaping open. The silence grew eerie—waiting.
“Sit,” I said softly, flicking my gaze to Madame Labelle and Coco. When neither of them moved, I took a step closer. Beau’s hand closed around Coco’s wrist. He tugged her down beside him.
But Madame Labelle remained standing. I turn
ed my dagger to her. “Lou is gone.” I moved the blade—slowly, pointedly—from her face to the empty chair. “Morgane le Blanc took her. Why?”
Her eyes narrowed, flicking to the misshapen black symbols on the table. “If Morgane has indeed taken her—”
“Why?”
I inched the blade closer to her nose, and she frowned. “Please, Captain, this is no way to behave. I will tell you anything you wish to know.”
Reluctantly, I lowered the knife as she dropped to a chair. My blood grew hotter with each tic of my jaw.
“Such an unfortunate turn of events.” She glared up at me, smoothing her skirt in agitation. “I assume the witches revealed your wife’s true identity. Louise le Blanc. The only child of La Dame des Sorcières.”
I nodded stiffly.
Ansel cleared his throat before Madame Labelle could continue. “Begging your pardon, madame, but why have we never heard of Louise le Blanc before now?”
She cast him an appraising look. “Dear boy, Louise was Morgane’s most jealously guarded secret. Even some of the witches didn’t know of her existence.”
“Then how did you?” Coco countered.
“I have many spies at the Chateau.”
“You aren’t welcome there yourself?”
“I’m as welcome there as you are, my dear.”
“Why?” I asked.
She ignored me. Her gaze fell instead to Beau. “What do you know of your father, Your Highness?”
He leaned back and arched a dark brow. Thus far, he’d observed the proceedings with cool detachment, but Madame Labelle’s question seemed to catch him by surprise. “The same as everyone else, I suppose.”
“Which is?”
He shrugged. Rolled his eyes. “He’s a notorious whoremonger. Despises his wife. Funds the toe-rag Archbishop’s crusade against these magnificent creatures.” He stroked Coco’s spine appreciatively. “He’s devilishly handsome, shit at politics, and a piss poor father. Should I go on . . . ? I fail to see how any of this is relevant.”
“You would do well not to speak of him so.” Her lips pursed angrily. “He’s your father—and a good man.”
Beau snorted. “You’re certainly the first to think so.”
She sniffed and smoothed her skirts again. Obviously still displeased. “It hardly matters. This is bigger than your father—though it will certainly end with him, if Morgane has her way.”
“Explain,” I growled.
She shot me an irritated look, but continued anyway. “This war is hundreds of years in the making. It’s older than all of you. Older than me. Older than even Morgane. It started with a witch named Angelica and a holy man named Constantin.”
A holy man named Constantin. She couldn’t mean the man who’d forged the Sword of Balisarda. The saint.
“Lou told me this story!” Coco leaned forward, her eyes bright. “Angelica fell in love with him, but he died, and her tears made L’Eau Mélancolique.”
“Half right, I’m afraid. Shall I tell you the true tale?” She paused, glancing up at me. Expectant. “I assure you we have time.”
With a growl of impatience, I sat. “You have two minutes.”
Madame Labelle nodded approvingly. “It’s not a very pretty story. Angelica did indeed fall in love with Constantin—a knight from a neighboring land—but she dared not tell him what she was. Her people lived in harmony with his, and she did not wish to upset the delicate balance between kingdoms. As so often happens, however, she soon longed for him to know her entirely. She told him of her people’s magic, of their connection with the land, and at first, Constantin and his kingdom accepted her. They cherished her and her people—Les Dames Blanches, they called them. The White Ladies. Pure and bright. And as the purest and brightest of all, Angelica became the first Dame des Sorcières.”
Her eyes darkened. “But as time passed, Constantin came to resent his lover’s magic. He grew jealous and fitful with rage that he too did not possess it. He tried to take it from her. When he couldn’t, he took the land instead. His soldiers marched on Belterra and slaughtered her people. But the magic didn’t work for him and his brethren. Try as they might, they could not possess it—not as the witches did. Driven mad with desire, he eventually died by his own hand.”
Her gaze found Coco’s, and she smiled, small and grim. “Angelica wept her sea of tears and followed him into the afterlife. But his brethren lived on. They drove the witches into hiding and claimed the land—and its magic—for their own.
“You know the rest of the story. The blood feud rages to this day. Each side bitter—each side vindicated. Constantin’s descendants continue to control this land, despite renouncing magic for religion years ago. With each new Dame des Sorcières, the witches attempt to marshal their forces, and with each attempt, the witches fail. Aside from being woefully outnumbered, my sisters cannot hope to defeat both the monarchy and the Church in combat—not with your Balisardas. But Morgane is different than those before her. She is more clever. Cunning.”
“Sounds like Lou,” Coco mused.
“Lou is nothing like that woman,” I snarled.
Beau sat forward and glared around the table. “Forgive me, all, but I don’t give a shit about Lou—or Morgane or Angelica or Constantin. Tell me about my father.”
My knuckles turned white on my dagger.
Sighing, Madame Labelle patted my arm in silent warning. When I jerked away from her touch, she rolled her eyes. “I’m getting to him. Anyway—yes, Morgane is different. As a child, she recognized this kingdom’s twofold power.” She glanced to Beau. “When your father was crowned king, an idea took shape—a way to strike at both the crown and the Church. She watched as he married a foreign princess—your mother—and gave birth to you. She rejoiced as he left bastard after bastard in his wake.”
She paused, deflating slightly. Even I watched with rapt attention as her eyes turned inward. “She learned their names, their faces—even those of which Auguste himself had no knowledge.” Her faraway eyes met mine then, and my stomach contracted inexplicably. “With each child, her joyousness—her obsession—only grew, though she waited to reveal her purpose to us.”
“How many?” Beau interrupted, voice sharp. “How many children?”
She hesitated before answering. “No one quite knows. I believe the last count was around twenty-six.”
“Twenty-six?”
She hurried on before he could continue. “Shortly after your birth, Your Highness, Morgane announced to our sisters that she was with child. And not just any child—the Archbishop’s child.”
“Lou,” I said, feeling vaguely sick.
“Yes. Morgane spoke of a pattern to free the witches from persecution, of a baby to end the Lyons’ tyranny. Auguste Lyon would die . . . and so would all his descendants. The child in her womb was the price—a gift, she said—sent by the Goddess. The final strike against the kingdom and the Church.”
“Why did Morgane wait to kill Lou?” I asked bitterly. “Why didn’t she just kill her when she was born?”
“A witch receives her rites on her sixteenth birthday. It is the day she becomes a woman. Though the witches craved deliverance, most were uncomfortable with the thought of slaughtering a child. Morgane was content to wait.”
“So Morgane . . . she only conceived Lou for vengeance.” My heart twisted. I’d once felt sorry for my own miserable entrance into the world, but Lou—hers was a fate much worse. She’d literally been born to die.
“Nature demands balance,” Coco whispered, tracing the cut on her palm. Lost in thought. “In order to end the king’s line, Morgane must also end her own.”
Madame Labelle nodded wearily.
“Jesus,” Beau said. “Hell hath no fury.”
“But . . .” I frowned. “It doesn’t make sense. One life for twenty-six? That’s not balanced.”
Madame Labelle’s brows knitted together. “Perception is a powerful thing. By killing Louise, Morgane will end the line of le Blanc forever.
The magic of La Dame des Sorcières will pass on to another line when Morgane dies. Surely ending her own legacy is a worthy sacrifice to end another’s?”
My frown only deepened. “But the numbers still don’t add up.”
“Your perception is too literal, Reid. Magic is nuanced. All of her children will die. All of his children will die.” She picked at a nonexistent speck on her skirt. “Of course, this speculation doesn’t matter. No one else can see the pattern, so we must use Morgane’s interpretation.”
Coco looked up suddenly, eyes narrowed. “What’s your role in all this, madame? You tried to buy Lou.”
“To protect her.” Madame Labelle waved an impatient hand. I frowned at the movement. Gold bands covered her every finger, but there—on her left ring finger—
A mother-of-pearl ring. Nearly identical to the one I’d given Lou.
“I knew Morgane would find her eventually, but I did everything in my power to prevent that from happening. So, yes, I did attempt to buy Lou—as you so crassly phrased it—but only for her protection. Though not ideal, I could’ve watched her at the Bellerose. I could’ve kept her safe until other arrangements were made. Again and again she rebuffed my proposal, however.”
She lifted her chin, meeting Coco’s eyes. “Last year, my spies informed me Angelica’s Ring had been stolen. I approached every known trafficker in the city—all of whom had family recently murdered by the witches.”
I sat forward at this new information. Filippa. Filippa had been murdered by the witches. Which meant . . .
“When I learned Monsieur Tremblay had procured the ring, I finally saw my opportunity.”
I closed my eyes. Shook my head in disbelief. In sorrow. Monsieur Tremblay. All these months, I’d focused on avenging their family, on punishing the witches who’d harmed them. But the witches had been avenging themselves.
My would-be father-in-law. A trafficker of magical objects. He had been the real cause of Filippa’s death—of Célie’s pain. But I forced myself to return to the present. To open my eyes.
Serpent & Dove Page 31
