“‘When thou art come into the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee,’” he breathed, “‘thou shalt not learn to do after the abominations of those nations. There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a . . . or a witch.’”
His eyes rose to mine, shame and regret burning bright behind them. “‘For all that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord, and because of these abominations, the Lord thy God doth drive them out before thee.’”
A lump lodged in my throat. I swallowed it down, vaguely aware of Morgane cackling again.
Of course I do not love you, Louise. You are the daughter of my enemy. You were conceived for a higher purpose, and I will not poison that purpose with love.
Abomination. The Lord thy God doth drive you out before me.
You are not my wife.
“‘But,’” the Archbishop continued, his voice hardening with resolve, “‘if any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel.’”
A tear escaped down my cheek. Upon seeing it, Morgane laughed louder. “How touching. It seems the whole lot of them are infidels, doesn’t it, Louise? First your husband, now your father. Neither have provided you anything but heartache. Where is this tolerance of which you spoke?”
She paused, clearly waiting for one of us to respond. When we didn’t, she rose to her feet, smile slipping in disappointment. “I’m surprised at you, Louise. I expected more of a fight.”
“I will not beg for his affection, nor his life.”
She scoffed. “Not his—I meant your precious huntsman’s.”
I frowned at her. Something vaguely urgent knocked at the back of my skull. Something I was missing. Some crucial bit of information I couldn’t quite remember. “I . . . I didn’t expect him to come after me, if that’s what you mean.”
Her eyes gleamed wickedly. “It’s not.”
The vague something knocked harder, insistent. “Then what—?”
The blood drained from my face. Reid.
Morgane’s forgotten words drifted back to me through the heavy fog of my mind. Amidst my heartache—amidst my rage and hopelessness and despair—I hadn’t stopped to consider their meaning.
The Lyons will rue the day they stole this land. Their people will writhe and thrash on the stake, and the king and his children will choke on your blood. Your husband will choke on your blood.
But that meant—
“I know I promised you the chance to light his pyre.” Morgane’s croon scattered the thread of my thoughts. “But I’m afraid you won’t get the chance, after all. The king’s blood runs in your huntsman’s veins.”
No. I closed my eyes, focusing on my breathing, but quickly reopened them as the darkness beyond my lids began spinning. Through sheer willpower—no, through sheer desperation—I forced my useless limbs into action. They twitched and spasmed in protest as I toppled, falling toward Morgane’s outstretched hands, toward the promise of Angelica’s Ring—
She caught me against her chest in a sick embrace. “Fret not, darling. You’ll see him again soon.”
At a wave of her hand, everything went dark.
Consorting With the Enemy
Reid
Madame Labelle pointed above our heads midafternoon. “Chateau le Blanc is there.” We followed her finger to the mountain towering in the distance, perhaps two hours away. “We should arrive in time for the feast.”
We had to take her word for it. No one else could see anything but trees. When Beau grumbled as much, Madame Labelle shrugged and sank gracefully onto her stump, folding her hands in her lap. “’Tis the magic of the Chateau, I’m afraid. None but a Dame Blanche can see it until we cross through the enchantment.” At Beau’s puzzled look, she added, “The bridge, of course.”
Beau opened his mouth to reply, but I stopped listening, drifting to the edge of our hidden camp. In the forest, the faint smell of magic touched everything. But it burned less sharp here, somehow, mingled with the salt and trees. As if it belonged. I closed my eyes and breathed deep. Waves crashed in the distance. Though I’d never set foot in this place, it felt familiar . . . like Lou.
Her essence infused everything—the sunlight filtering through the pines, the creek trickling beside us despite the cold. Even the wind seemed to dance. It swirled her scent around me, soothing my frazzled nerves like a balm.
There you are, it seemed to say. I didn’t think you’d come.
I promised to love and protect you.
And I promised to love and obey you. We’re both such pretty liars . . .
I opened my eyes, chest aching, to see Coco standing beside me. She stared out into the trees as if she too were holding a silent conversation.
“I can feel her here.” She shook her head. Wistful. “I’ve known her since childhood, yet . . . sometimes . . . I wonder if I really know her at all.”
I blinked in surprise. “You and Lou knew each other as children?”
Her eyes flicked to mine, searching my face as if considering how to answer. Finally, she sighed and turned back to the trees. “We met when we were six. I’d . . . wandered away from my coven. My aunt and I—we didn’t get along much, and she’d . . . well—” She stopped abruptly. “It doesn’t matter. Lou found me. She tried to make me laugh, braided flowers in my hair to make me feel better. When I finally stopped crying, she tossed a mud pie in my face.” She flashed a grin, but it quickly faded. “We kept our friendship a secret. I didn’t even tell my aunt. She wouldn’t have approved. She loathes Morgane and the Dames Blanches.”
“It seems Lou has a habit of endearing herself to her enemies.”
Coco didn’t seem to hear me. Though she still stared at the trees, it was clear she no longer saw them. “I didn’t know what the Dames Blanches were planning. Lou never told me. She never said a word—not one—in all those years. And then one day, she just . . . disappeared.” Her throat worked furiously, and she ducked her head to stare at her feet. “If I had known, I—I would’ve stopped them, somehow. But I didn’t know. I thought she was dead.”
An inexplicable urge to comfort her overwhelmed me, but I resisted. This wasn’t the time to comfort. This was the time to listen.
“But you found her.”
She chuckled without mirth, lifting her chin once more. “No. She found me. In Cesarine. Without Lou, I decided I needed some time away from my—my coven—so I tried my hand at pickpocketing in East End. I was shit at it,” she added. “The constabulary arrested me the second day. Lou dropped out of the sky and saved my ass.” She paused, shaking her head. “It was like seeing a ghost. A ghost with a disfigured throat. The scab had just fallen off, but it was still gruesome to look at.” She lifted her sleeve, revealing her own scars. “Even for me.”
I looked away. I could imagine it all too clearly. Her silver scar reared in my mind’s eye—followed swiftly by the gaping wound at the dead witch’s throat. I forced the memory away, bile rising.
“I wanted to kill her,” Coco said bitterly. “Or kiss her.”
I chuckled ruefully. “I can empathize.”
“And even after—after everything—she still wouldn’t talk about it. To this day, two years later, I don’t know what happened that night. I don’t know how she escaped. I—I don’t know anything.” A solitary tear leaked down her cheek, but she wiped it away angrily. “She kept it locked in tight.”
Her eyes finally turned to me, beseeching. I didn’t quite know what she was asking.
“We have to save her.” The breeze picked up, ruffling her hair. She closed her eyes and lifted her face into it. Chin trembling. “I have to tell her I’m sorry.”
My brows dipped. “For what?”
Lou hadn’t mentioned a fight with Coco. But I now realized Lou hadn’t mentioned much. She was an incredibly private person. The grins, the easy laughter, th
e tricks and coarse language and sarcasm—all defense mechanisms. Distractions. Meant to deflect anyone from looking too close. Even Coco.
Even me.
“I should’ve been there when Morgane attacked. I should’ve helped her . . . protected her. But I wasn’t. Again.” Her eyes snapped open, and she turned her sudden vehemence on me. “We argued at your ball. I told her not to fall in love with you.”
I couldn’t keep myself from scowling. “Why?”
“It’s no secret Chasseurs kill witches. I don’t like you, Diggory, and I won’t apologize for it.” She paused, seeming to struggle with herself a moment, before sighing heavily. “But even I can see you’re trying. You and I are the best chance Lou has now. I don’t think even she can walk out of that place twice.”
“Don’t underestimate her.”
“I’m not,” she snapped. “I’m being realistic. You don’t know the Dames Blanches like I do. They’re zealots. There’s no telling what sorts of torture Morgane has inflicted on her.”
Unease dropped in my stomach like lead.
“Whatever happens,” she continued in a steely voice, “you get her out. I’ll worry about the others.” She glanced over her shoulder to where Madame Labelle sat beside Ansel and Beau. “Madame Labelle shouldn’t need much help, but the other two will be vulnerable.”
“Ansel has trained in combat.” But my voice lacked conviction even to my own ears. At sixteen, the boy had yet to fight outside the training yard.
“So has Beau.” She rolled her eyes. “But he’ll be the first to piss down his leg when faced with a witch’s magic. Neither of them have the protection of your Balisarda, and these witches aren’t like Lou. She’s been out of practice, hiding her magic for years. These witches will be highly skilled and out for our blood. They won’t hesitate to kill us.”
Everyone kept saying that. Everyone kept saying Lou was weak. My unease spread. She hadn’t seemed weak when she’d bound me to the witch—when she’d nearly torn my spine in half and stitched my limbs together like a rag doll. If that was weak, the other witches must possess the power of God.
Madame Labelle marched up behind us. “What are you two whispering about?”
Unwilling to relive such a painful conversation, I took a page out of Lou’s book and deflected. “How are we to form a strategy if we can’t see the walls we’re meant to breach?”
She tossed her hair over a shoulder. “Dear boy, I’ve already answered this question at least a dozen times. We won’t be breaching anything. We will be walking through the front doors.”
“And I’ve already told you that you won’t be changing our faces.”
Madame Labelle shrugged and looked toward Ansel and Beau with feigned nonchalance. “Too late.”
Sighing in irritation—or perhaps resignation—I followed her gaze. Two young men sat behind us, but they appeared as strangers. When the taller of the two flashed me a sheepish grin, however, I recognized Ansel. He still had his straight nose and curly hair—black now instead of brown—but the similarities ended there. Beau too had completely changed. Only his disdainful sneer remained.
Raising thick, dark brows at my appraisal, he called, “Like what you see?”
“Shut up,” Ansel hissed. “Do you want the witches to hear us?”
“No need to fret, dear,” Madame Labelle said. “I’ve cast a protective bubble for the time being. In this moment, we cease to exist.”
She returned her attention to me. I stared at her as if she’d sprouted another head. “Now, dear, let me explain this one last time: we cannot hope to enter the Chateau your way. Scaling the walls or whatever other nonsense you’re contemplating simply won’t work. The entire castle is protected by a thousand-year-old enchantment to prevent such endeavors from succeeding, and besides, that is precisely what Morgane will expect from you têtes carrées. Brute strength. A show of force. We would be playing right into her clawed hands.”
Beau drifted closer. “Are they really clawed?” Savage satisfaction stole through me when I saw Madame Labelle had given him a bulbous nose and a wart on his chin.
“How is changing our faces going to get us inside?” Coco asked, ignoring him.
“We’re too recognizable as we are.” Madame Labelle gestured between me and Beau. “Especially you two.”
“Why him?” Beau asked dubiously.
“He’s almost seven feet tall with red hair,” Madame Labelle said. “And he’s gained a certain notoriety for killing Estelle—as well as sullying their precious princess. The witches will have heard of him.”
Sullying their precious princess. Each word stabbed through my chest, but I forced myself to concentrate. “Men aren’t allowed at the Chateau, so unless you plan on making us all women—”
“Don’t tempt her,” Beau muttered.
Madame Labelle chuckled and patted my elbow. “As fun as that sounds, Reid dear, men are allowed at the Chateau as consorts—especially during festivals such as Modraniht. Every witch in attendance will likely be toting a special someone on her arm. Don’t worry,” she added to Coco. “Many witches prefer female companionship. Truthfully, it’ll be easier to sneak you inside than these brutes.”
“I know. I’m also a witch, in case you’d forgotten.” Coco crossed her arms, skewering Madame Labelle with a glare. “But do you expect us to just waltz up to the front doors and ask if any witches are available for the night?”
“Of course not. There are plenty of available witches traveling through these woods right now.” She pointed through the trees, where a trio of witches had just appeared. Young. Slight. Doll-like features with dark hair and amber skin. Laughing freely—completely unaware of being watched. “But we need to hurry. We aren’t the only hopefuls wandering the mountainside today.”
As if in response, a skinny young man staggered up behind the witches and produced a bouquet of winter greens. The witches giggled—delighted and cruel—before flouncing away.
“Oh dear.” Madame Labelle watched the boy toss the bouquet to the ground. “I almost feel sorry for the poor soul. He’ll need to try harder than that to snare a witch. We have impeccable taste.”
Beau made a noise of outrage. “Then how exactly am I supposed to snare one with the face of a toad?”
“By having devilishly handsome friends, of course.”
Madame Labelle winked, and, faster than I’d believed possible, slipped the Balisarda from my bandolier. She flicked a finger at me when I lunged after her, and a peculiar sensation spread from the center of my face outward—like an egg had been cracked on my nose. Startled, I stopped moving as it slipped over my cheeks. My eyes. My mouth. But as it began to slide down my throat, I charged forward once more, clamping my lips against the magic.
“Almost there,” Madame Labelle said cheerfully, dancing out of reach. The others watched my transformation with rapt attention. Even Beau forgot to look unpleasant.
After coating the tips of my hair, the magic finally vanished. Silence descended, and I expelled the breath I’d been holding. “Well?”
“This is bullshit,” Beau said.
My hair had deepened to black. Stubble grew on my cheeks. Though I couldn’t see the rest of the changes, the angle of the world looked different. As if I’d . . . shrunk. Gritting my teeth, I wrenched my Balisarda back from Madame Labelle, sheathed it, and stomped after the witches.
“Wait, wait!” she cried. I turned reluctantly, and she held out her hand once more. “Give it back.”
I stared at her in disbelief. “I don’t think so.”
She waved her hand, insistent. “You might think those picks of yours were forged in holy water, but I know better. The Sword of Balisarda was made in the same water as Angelica’s Ring.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “In L’Eau Mélancolique. By a witch.”
“No. It was forged by Saint Constantin—”
“It was forged by Saint Constantin’s lover, Angelica,” Madame Labelle said impatiently. “Accept it. Move on.”
<
br /> My eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”
She shrugged. “Magic always leaves a trail. Just because we can’t smell it on your Balisardas or Angelica’s Ring doesn’t mean a clever witch won’t detect it—and Morgane is a clever witch. Do you really want to risk her discovering us?”
My hand gravitated back to my bandolier, and my fingers wrapped around the sapphire hilt by my heart. I savored its smoothness . . . its reassuring weight. Our Balisardas couldn’t be magic. They protected us from magic. But everything else in my godforsaken life had been a lie. Why not this too?
Unsheathing the blade, I scowled up at the sky.
“You’re expecting us to walk into Chateau le Blanc completely unarmed?” Beau asked in disbelief.
“Of course not. Take whatever nonmagical weapons you wish. Just leave the Balisarda at camp.” She smiled sweetly. “We can collect it after we’ve rescued Louise.”
“You’re mad—” He broke off, stunned, as I placed my Balisarda in Madame Labelle’s outstretched hand.
Without another word, I turned and headed after the witches.
They took one look at me and erupted into unintelligible squeals.
“His jaw could cut glass!” one of them trilled. Loudly. As if I weren’t there. No—as if I was nothing but a prized cow, unable to comprehend a word they were saying. I tried not to scowl but failed miserably.
“Oh, look at his eyelashes,” the second sighed. This one had the nerve to reach up and touch my face. I forced myself to remain still. To refrain from snapping its—her—wrist. “Do you have a sister, handsome?”
“He’s mine,” the third said quickly, batting away the second’s hand. “Don’t touch him!”
“I am the eldest,” the first interrupted. “So I get first pick!”
Behind me, Ansel and Beau choked on silent laughter. I longed to knock their heads together, cursing Madame Labelle for pairing them with me.
I adopted as pleasant a voice as I was able. “Mademoiselles, may I introduce my brothers?” I jerked them both forward by the scruffs of their necks, and their grins vanished. “This is Antoine.” I shoved Ansel toward one of them at random. I grabbed Beau next. “And this is Burke.”
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