Blood & Honey

by Shelby Mahurin

  The other men mumbled their agreement while Roy ordered another round. When one of them diverted the conversation to his hernia, however, Lou shot me a quick glance. I didn’t like the gleam in her eye. Didn’t like the determined set in her jaw. “Don’t,” I warned, voice low, but she took a hearty swig and spoke over me.

  “Oi, you ’ear what that lummox Toussaint was claimin’?”

  Every eye at the neighboring table swiveled toward her. Disbelief kept me rooted to my chair, gaping along with the rest of them. Ansel let out a nervous chuckle. More squeak than anything. Lou kicked him under the table.

  After another tense second, Roy belched and patted his stomach. “Who’re you, then? Why’re you hidin’ yer face?”

  “Bad ’air day, boy-o. Sheared the whole o’ it off in a fit o’ rage, and now I can’ stand the sight of meself.”

  Ansel choked on his whiskey. Instinctively, I pounded him on the back. Neither of us tore our eyes from Lou. I couldn’t see her grin, but I could sense it. She was enjoying herself.

  I wanted to strangle her.

  “Plus, there’s the wart on me chin,” she added conspiratorially, lifting a finger to tap her face. It disappeared within the shadows of her hood. “No amount o’ powder can cover it up. It’s the size o’ Belterra, it is.”

  “Aye.” The man who’d spoken before nodded sagely, deep in his cups, and peered at her through bleary eyes. “Me sister ’as a wart on ’er nose. I reckon yer all right.”

  Lou couldn’t contain her snort. “These are me brothers”—she gestured to Ansel and me—“Antoine and Raoul.”

  “’Ello, friends.” Grinning, Ansel raised his hand in a stupid little wave. “Pleased ter meet yeh.”

  I stared at him. Though sheepish, his smile didn’t falter.

  “Anyhoo,” Lou said, tossing back the rest of her whiskey, “Antoine and Raoul ’ere can right empathize wit’ yer lutin problems. Farmers, we are. Them blue pigs is ruinin’ life fer us as well, and Toussaint is the worst o’ them.”

  With a grunt, Roy shook his head. “He was just ’ere with ’is damn pigs this morn, and they said old Toussaint gutted Morgane on Christmas Eve.”

  “Shit o’ the bull!” Lou slapped the table for emphasis. I pressed my foot over hers in warning, but she kicked my shin in response. Her shoulders shook with silent laughter.

  “But—” Roy belched again before leaning in, gesturing for us to do the same. “—they said they ’ad ta leave for Cesarine right away because o’ the tournament.”

  My stomach dropped. “The tournament?”

  “That’s right,” Roy said, cheeks growing ruddier by the second. Voice growing louder. “They have ta refill their ranks. Apparently the witches took ou’ a few of their own. People are callin’ it Noël Rouge.” He leered and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Because o’ all the blood.”

  When Ansel passed me his drink this time, I accepted.

  The whiskey burned all the way down.

  The one with the warty sister nodded. “They’re havin’ it before the Archbishop’s services. Tryin’ to make a festival outta it, I think. Bit morbid.”

  Gilles downed his third pint. “Maybe I should enter.”

  The man laughed. “Maybe I should enter yer wife while yer gone.”

  “I’ll swap ’er for yer sister!”

  The conversation deteriorated from there. I tried and failed to extricate Lou from an argument about who was uglier—the man’s sister or the witch in the wanted posters—when an unfamiliar voice interrupted. “Claptrap and balderdash, all of it. There is nothing so venerable as a wart on the visage.”

  We turned as one to look at the man who plunked into the empty seat at our table. Brown eyes twinkled above an unruly mustache and beard. The troupe’s fiddler. He extended a weathered hand to me. Lifted his other in a cheery wave. “Salutations. Claud Deveraux, at your service.”

  Roy and his companions turned away in disgust, muttering about charlatans.

  I stared at his hand while Lou readjusted her hood. Ansel’s eyes darted to Madame Labelle, Coco, and Beau. Though they watched us surreptitiously, they continued chatting with the couple beside them. Madame Labelle dipped her chin in a subtle nod.

  “Right, then.” Claud Deveraux dropped his hand but not his smile. “You don’t mind the company, do you? I must confess, I need a respite from all the revelry. Ah, you have libations.” He waved a hand to his troupe before helping himself to the rest of Ansel’s drink. “I am indebted to you, good sir. Truly, my deepest gratitude.” Winking at me, he dabbed at his mouth with a plaid pocket square. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Claud Deveraux. That’s me. I am, of course, musician and manager of Troupe de Fortune. Did you perchance attend our performance this evening?”

  I kept my foot pressed on Lou’s, beseeching her to keep quiet. Unlike Roy, this man had sought us out. I didn’t like it. With a grudging sigh, she sat back and crossed her arms. “No,” I said brusquely, rudely. “We didn’t.”

  “It was a splendid affair.” He continued his one-sided conversation with relish, beaming at each of us in turn. I inspected him closer. Pinstriped pants. Paisley coat. Checkered bow tie. He’d thrown his top hat—tattered and maroon—on the table in front of him. Even to me, his outfit seemed . . . bizarre. “I do love these quaint little villages along the road. One meets the most interesting people.”

  Clearly.

  “It is unfortunate indeed we leave this very night, spurred southward by the siren call of crowds and couronnes at our Holy Father’s committal.” He waved an absent hand. Black polish gleamed on his fingernails. “Such a tragic affair. Such an ungodly sum.”

  My lip curled. I liked Claud Deveraux less and less.

  “And what of you? Might I inquire as to your names?” Oblivious to the tense, awkward silence, he tapped his fingers against the table in a jaunty rhythm. “Though I do love a good intrigue. Perhaps I could instead hazard a guess?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” My words fell leaden between us. Roy had given us all the information we needed. It was time to go. Standing, I caught Beau’s eye across the room and nodded toward the exit. He nudged my mother and Coco. “My name is Raoul, and these are my friends Lucida and Antoine. We’re leaving.”

  “Friends! Oh, how delightful!” He drummed his fingers louder in delight, completely ignoring my dismissal. “And such marvelous names they possess! Alas, I’m not quite as fond of the name Raoul, but do let me explain. I knew a man once, a big burly bear of a man—though perhaps he was a small surly man of a bear—and the poor dear caught a splinter in his foot—”

  “Monsieur Deveraux,” Lou said, sounding equal parts irritated and intrigued. Probably irritated because she was intrigued. His smile slipped when she spoke, and he blinked slowly. Just once. Then his smile returned—wider now, genuine—and he leaned forward to clutch her hand.

  “Please, Lucida, you must call me Claud.”

  At the sudden warmth in his voice, at the way his eyes shone brighter than before, the muted panic in my chest roared back to life, hardened into suspicion. But he couldn’t have recognized her. Her face remained hidden. This familiarity—perhaps it was another quirk of his personality. An inappropriate one.

  Lou stiffened beneath his touch. “Monsieur Deveraux. While I usually welcome a complete stranger drinking my whiskey and fondling my hand, it’s been a rough few days. If you could kindly piss off, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

  Roy—who’d never quite stopped eavesdropping—lifted his head and frowned. I winced.

  Lou had dropped her accent.

  Releasing her hand, Deveraux tipped his head back and laughed. Loudly. “Oh, Lucida, what a delight you are. I can’t begin to convey how I’ve missed such black humor—the kind that bites your hand if you move too close—which, incidentally, I am appropriately and grievously contrite about—”

  “Cut the shit.” Lou shoved to her feet, unaccountably flustered. Her voice rang out sharp and loud. Too loud. “What do you want?
”

  But her hood slipped at the sudden movement, and whatever words Claud Deveraux had planned fell away with it. He gazed at her raptly. All pretense gone. “I simply wanted to meet you, dear girl, and to offer help should you ever have need.” His eyes dropped to her throat. The new ribbon—slicker, larger than usual, harder to tie in a bow—had loosened from its knot, sliding down to reveal her grisly scar.

  Fuck.

  “What’s happened ta you, then?” Roy asked loudly.

  Beside him, Gilles narrowed his eyes to slits. He turned toward the wanted posters on the door. “That’s a nasty scar you’ve got there.”

  Deveraux tugged her hood back in place, but it was too late.

  The damage was done.

  Roy heaved himself to his feet. He waved his glass tankard at Lou, swaying and trying to keep his balance. Mead spilled down his trousers. “You don’t have no wart, Lucida. No accent neither. But you do look an awful lot like that girl everyone’s lookin’ for. That witch.”

  A hush fell over the tavern.

  “I’m not—” Lou spluttered, looking around wildly. “That’s ridiculous—”

  Unsheathing my Balisarda, I rose with deadly purpose. Ansel followed with his own knife. The two of us towered behind her as the rest of Roy’s companions lurched to their feet.

  “Oh, it’s ’er, all right.” Gilles stumbled into the table, pointing at the poster. He grinned in triumph. “She cut ’er hair, dyed it, but she can’t hide that scar. Saw it clear as day. That girl there is Louise le Blanc.”

  And in a clumsy, terrifying movement, Roy lifted his glass tankard and shattered it into a jagged blade.

  Marionette

  Reid

  Despite the nightmare our lives had become, I still hadn’t fought alongside Lou in physical combat. At Modraniht, she’d been unconscious. At Ye Olde Sisters’ performance, she’d been hiding her magic. And at the smithy, she’d killed the criminals before I could intervene. I hadn’t been able to fathom how someone so small could kill two fully grown men with such efficiency. Such brutality.

  Now I understood.

  The woman was a menace.

  She moved with unexpected speed, feinting and striking with both hands. When her knife missed its mark, her fingers flexed and her opponent toppled. Or stiffened. Or smashed into the bar, shattering tumblers and dousing the room with whiskey. Glass rained down on our heads, but she didn’t slow. Again and again she struck.

  Even so, Roy and his friends sobered quickly, and they outnumbered four to her one. Five when the barkeep joined the fray. Coco ran to meet him, but I caught her, pushing her toward the door. “Take the others and go. They don’t know your faces yet, but they will if you stay and fight.”

  “I’m not leaving L—”

  “Yes”—I seized the back of her dress and hurled her out the door—“you are.”

  Eyes huge, Beau raced after her. Both Ansel and Madame Labelle looked likely to argue, but I cut them off, throwing a knife to pin Roy’s sleeve to the wall. He’d swiped his tankard at Lou while her back was turned. “We’ll meet you at camp. Go.”

  They hastened after Coco and Beau.

  Lou called something to me—parrying three men at once—but I couldn’t hear her over the villagers’ shrieks. They trampled each other in their haste to flee the witch with magic, but the men with makeshift swords proved equally frightening. Laughing, yelling, the three strode through the crowd toward the exit. One tore down Lou’s wanted poster and pocketed it. He seized mine next. Grinning at me over his shoulder, he tapped his hair.

  My hand shot to my fallen hood.

  “Take your time.” His voice reverberated through the panic, and he swiped a tankard from the nearest table, drinking deeply. His companions had successfully barricaded the door, trapping the remaining villagers. Trapping us. “We can wait.”

  Bounty hunters.

  “Husband!” Lou thrust her palm out, and Gilles’s and his friends’ skulls cracked together. Moaning, they crumpled to the floor. “I try not to be needy, really, but a little help over here would be grand—”

  Roy freed himself and tackled her. I sliced through the barkeep’s leg, vaulting over him as he staggered, and sprinted toward them.

  “Ugh, Roy, mon ami.” Lou wrinkled her nose beneath him. “I hate to be indelicate, but when did you last bathe? You smell a bit ripe under here.” With a retching sound, she bit the underside of his bicep. He reared backward, and I clubbed him in the head, hooking Lou’s elbow and flipping her over my back before he could collapse on her. She kicked Gilles—who’d been trying to rise—neatly on her way down.

  “You can’t imagine how toothsome you look right now, Reid.” Grinning wickedly, elbow still linked with mine, she spun into my arms and kissed me full on the mouth. I must’ve been insane because I kissed her back, until—

  “Toothsome?” I pulled away, frowning. Adrenaline pounded in my chest. “Not sure I like that—”

  “Why not? It means I want to eat you alive.” She slashed at the last of Roy’s friends as we dashed for the door. “Have you tried any patterns yet?”

  The mountainous barkeep rose to block our path, roaring loudly enough to shake the rafters. Blood painted his leg crimson. “Witch,” he seethed, swinging a club the size of Lou’s body.

  I blocked the blow with my Balisarda, gritting my teeth against the impact. “This is hardly the time—”

  “But have you?”

  “No.”

  With an impatient sigh, Lou ducked beneath us to stab at Roy, who refused to stay down.

  “I suspected as much.” This time when Roy charged her, she rolled over his back and kicked him in the rear. He toppled over his friends’ bodies, and Lou knocked away his sword. “Magic in combat can be tricky, but it doesn’t have to end like this morning. The trick is to get creative—”

  She broke off abruptly as Gilles seized her ankle. Winking at me, she stomped on his face. He crumpled against his friends and moved no more. Smashing my head into the barkeep’s nose, I caught his club when he collapsed. The very foundation trembled on impact.

  Breathing hard, I looked behind us. Five down. Three to go.

  “Try to see beyond this disgusting little room to what lies beneath.” Lou gestured wildly with her knife. Screaming anew, the trapped villagers scattered to hide behind overturned tables and chairs. “Go ahead. Look. Tell me what you see.”

  I returned my attention to the men at the door instead. True to their word, they’d waited. Pushing languidly from the wall, they drew their swords as we approached. “I suppose this means you aren’t willing to simply step aside,” Lou said with a sigh. “Are you sure that’s wise? I am a witch, you know.”

  The one with the tankard finished his beer. “Did you know your head is worth one hundred thousand couronnes?”

  She sniffed and came to a stop. “Frankly, I’m insulted. It’s worth at least twice that. Have you spoken with La Dame des Sorcières? I’m sure she’d pay triple. For me, though. Not my head. I’d have to be alive, of course, which could present a problem for you—”

  “Shut up.” The man dropped the tankard, and it shattered at his feet. “Or I’ll cut it off while you’re still breathing.”

  “The king wants my actual head? How . . . barbaric. Are you sure you won’t consider taking me to La Dame des Sorcières instead? I’m suddenly feeling quite sympathetic to her cause.”

  “If you surrender, we’ll kill you quick,” his companion promised. “Save the nasty business for after.”

  Lou grimaced. “How magnanimous of you.” To me, she whispered, “They don’t have Balisardas. Focus on the outcome, and the patterns will appear. Choose the one with the least collateral damage, but make sure you choose. Otherwise nature will choose for you. That’s what happened this morning, isn’t it?”

  I gripped my own Balisarda tighter. “I won’t need it.”

  “I’m trying to be patient, Chass, but we don’t exactly have the luxury of time here—”
/>
  The first man’s smile slipped, and he lifted his sword. “I said shut up. We have you outnumbered. Now, do you surrender or not?”

  “Not.” Lou lifted her own knife. It looked pathetically small in comparison. She looked pathetically small in comparison. Despite my deep, steadying breaths, the tension in my body built—built and built until I radiated with it, trembling with anticipation. “Wait, no, let me think.” She tapped her chin. “Definitely not.”

  The man launched himself at her. I exploded, smashing my Balisarda into his gut, spinning as his companion attempted to maneuver past. My foot connected with his knee, and he buckled, driving his blade into my foot. Black spotted my vision as I wrenched the sword free.

  With a feral cry, Lou darted toward the third, but he caught her wrist and twisted. Her knife clattered to the floor. She flicked a finger in response, and he crashed into the bar with enough force to splinter the wood. Coughing, she bent double. “Teachable moment,” she choked. “I should’ve just killed the miserable bastard, but”—another cough—“I used the air around us to knock him backward instead, tried to—stick him on the wood. It knocked me pretty good in—in return. Make sense? I could’ve taken the air straight from my lungs instead, but he—he’s too big. It would’ve taken too much air to move him. Probably would’ve killed me.” She grinned to herself then, wider and wider until she was cackling. Blood trickled down her chin from her mouth. “And then how could I have claimed your father’s hundred thousand couronnes—”

  A knife flew at her from the wreckage of the bar.

  She didn’t have time to duck.

  With a man on each arm, I watched in slow motion as she flinched, lifting a hand to stop the blade from piercing her heart. But the strength of the throw—the man’s close proximity, his uncanny aim—was insurmountable. The blade would find its mark. There was nothing she could do to stop it. Nothing I could do.

  Her fingers twitched.

  And with that twitch, her eyes grew less focused, less—human. Between one blink and the next, the knife reversed direction and impaled its owner’s throat.