Blood & Honey

by Shelby Mahurin

  I didn’t like that smile. Straightening hastily, I nudged Absalon away with my foot. He didn’t move. “Shoo,” I hissed, but he merely gazed balefully back at me. Shit.

  The auburn-haired woman from before interrupted us, peeking inside the tent. She held the hand of a child, a miniature version of herself. “The midnight search party has returned, my lady.” Sniffing, she wiped away a fresh tear. “No sign of him. The next party has assembled.”

  “Do not fear, Ismay. We will find him.” La Voisin clasped her hands, and her voice softened. “You must rest. Take Gabrielle back to your tent. We will wake you with developments.”

  “No, I—I must rejoin the party. Please do not ask me to sit idly while—while my son—” She broke off, overcome, before gritting her teeth. “I will not rest until he is found.”

  La Voisin sighed. “Very well.” When Ismay nodded in thanks, guiding her daughter out of the tent, La Voisin inclined her head to me. “If you agree to my terms, you will join the next party in their search. They leave immediately. Nicholina will accompany you, as will Ismay and Gabrielle. You may also take your familiar and companion.” She paused. “Cosette, you will attend me.”

  “Tante—” Coco started.

  “He’s not my familiar—” I snapped.

  But La Voisin spoke over us, her eyes flashing. “You try my patience, child. If I am to consider this alliance, you will find Etienne before the first light of day. Do we have a deal?”

  One Step Forward

  Reid

  The weight of the knife was heavy in my palm. Solid. The blade balanced and sharp. I’d purchased it from one of the finest smiths in Cesarine—a smith who had later consorted to kill my wife with a couple of criminals. Blue pig, he’d spat after I’d given him to the authorities. In all our years of business, I hadn’t known he despised me. Just like the farmers in Saint-Loire. All because of my uniform.

  No. That wasn’t true.

  All because of me. My beliefs.

  Golden stars took up most of the spinning board. Leather cuffs hung from four strategic points on the circular wood—two for an assistant’s hands, and two for their feet. The top of the board had been stained with something that looked suspiciously like blood.

  With a halfhearted flick of my wrist, I threw my knife. It lodged dead center.

  Deveraux erupted into applause. “Well, that was quite—quite extraordinary, Monsieur Diggory! Really, Louise wasn’t fibbing when she spoke of your bladed prowess!” He fanned himself for a moment. “Ah, the crowd will positively exalt your performance. The Dagger of Danger, we shall call you. No, no—Knife Strife.”

  I stared at him, alarmed. “I don’t think—”

  “Argh, you’re right, you’re right, of course. We have not yet found the perfect appellation. Never fear! Together, we shall—” His hands shot skyward abruptly, fingers splayed as if framing a portrait. “Three-Fingered Red? It takes three fingers to perform, yes?”

  “Any more, and it would just be uncomfortable.” Lounging behind us on a spangled blanket, Beau laughed. The remains of his lunch littered the ground beside him. “Might I suggest Le Petit Jésus as an alternative?”

  “Stop.” I took a deep breath through my nose. Heat worked up my throat, and even to me, the word sounded tired. I’d thought to use the break in travel to practice. An egregious lapse in judgment. “I don’t need a stage name.”

  “My dear, dear boy!” Deveraux clutched his chest as if I’d insulted his mother. “Whatever else shall we call you? We cannot simply announce you as Reid Diggory.” He flapped a hand, swatting away my protests. “The couronnes, dear boy, just think of the couronnes! You need a name, an identity, to whisk the audience into their fantas—” His hand stilled mid-swipe, and his eyes lit with excitement. “The Red Death,” he said with relish. My heartbeat faltered. “That’s it. The clear winner. The obvious selection. Come one, come all, to witness the horrible, the hellacious, the handsome Red Death!”

  Beau doubled over with laughter. I nearly threw another knife at him.

  “I prefer Raoul.”

  “Nonsense. I have clearly articulated my feelings on the name Raoul.” Deveraux dropped his hands. The feather on his hat bobbed in agitation. “Never fear, I have every confidence the honorific shall grow on you. But perhaps a respite is in order in the meantime? We might instead outfit you both for your grand debut!”

  Beau rose hastily to his elbows. “I told you I won’t be onstage.”

  “Everyone in the company must model the appropriate attire, Your Highness. Even those collecting tickets and tips from the audience. You understand, I’m sure.”

  Beau fell backward with a groan.

  “That’s the spirit!” From his sleeve, Deveraux pulled a measuring tape. “Now, I’ll just need a few measurements—a negligible amount, really—and all will be set. May I?” He gestured to my arm. When I nodded, he stepped into my space, engulfing me in the scent of wine.

  That explained a lot.

  “For the remainder of our journey,” he prattled, unfurling his tape, “might I suggest you bunk with the twins in the amber wagon? Your mother may join you. Your brother, however, may better suit the scarlet wagon with Zenna and Seraphine. Though I sleep little, I will accompany him there.” He chortled at an unspoken joke. “I’ve been told Zenna and Seraphine are the fiercest of snorers.”

  “I would be better suited to Zenna and Seraphine’s wagon.” I could hear the smirk in Beau’s voice. “How perceptive you are, Claud.”

  He barked a laugh. “Oh no, dear boy, I fear if romance is what you seek, you shall be markedly disappointed. Zenna’s and Seraphine’s very souls are intertwined. Cosmic, I tell you.”

  Beau’s expression flattened, and he looked away, muttering about piss poor luck.

  “Why the sleeping arrangements?” I asked suspiciously. After bidding Lou goodbye, I’d spent the remainder of the night riding up front with Claud. He’d tried to pass the time with conversation. When I hadn’t kept up my end, he’d started to sing, and I’d regretted my grave error. For hours.

  “You’re quite contrary, aren’t you, Monsieur Diggory? Quite prickly.” He peered up at me with a curious expression before dropping to measure my inseam. “’Tis nothing nefarious, I assure you. I simply think it wise for you to consider pursuing a friendship with our dear Toulouse and Thierry.”

  “Again, why?”

  “You might have more in common with them than you think.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at Beau. He frowned at Deveraux. “That’s not cryptic at all.”

  Deveraux sighed and stood once more, patting the mud from his corduroy trousers. Violet corduroy trousers. “If I might be frank, messieurs.” He turned to me. “You have recently suffered a rather traumatic event and are in desperate need of platonic companionship. Your forefather is gone. Your brotherhood has abandoned you. Your self-loathing has cleaved a physical and emotional cleft between you and your wife. More important, it has cleaved a cleft within yourself.”

  Sharp, hot anger spiked through me at the unexpected reprimand. “You don’t even know me.”

  “Perhaps not. But I do know you don’t know yourself. I know you cannot know another until you do.” He snapped his fingers in front of my nose. “I know you need to wake up, young man, lest you leave this world without finding that which you truly seek.”

  I glared at him, the beginning of shame flushing my neck. My ears. “And what’s that?”

  “Connection,” he said simply, spinning his tape into a tidy roll. “We all seek it. Accept yourself, accept others, and you just might find it. Now”—he turned on his booted heel, smiling cheerily over his shoulder—“I suggest you partake in your midday meal. We soon continue to Domaine-les-Roses, where you shall woo the crowd with your knife-wielding prowess. Ta-ta!”

  He strode off whistling a merry tune.

  Beau snorted in the ensuing silence. “I like him.”

  “He’s mad.”

  “All the best
ones are.”

  His words sparked others—sharper ones now. Words that bit and snapped within my mind, seeking blood. Claud is a collector of sorts, Zenna had said. He adds only the best and brightest talent to his troupe. The rare and unusual. The exceptional.

  My suspicion deepened. His curious look, his meaningful smile . . . was it possible he knew my secret? Did he know what I’d done on Modraniht? It wasn’t likely. And yet—Morgane knew. I wasn’t fool enough to believe she’d keep that knowledge to herself. When it best suited her purposes, she’d reveal it, and I would burn. And perhaps I deserved to burn. I’d taken life. I’d played God—

  No. I retreated from my spiraling thoughts, breathing deeply. Marshaling my mind into order. Into silence. It lasted only seconds before another unwelcome question crept in.

  If Deveraux did know, did that mean—were the twins also witches?

  You might have more in common with them than you think.

  Scoffing, I unsheathed another knife. In all my years around magic, in all Lou’s years around it, we’d never heard of another male witch. To stumble upon two others this quickly after Modraniht was the least likely possibility of all. No. Less than unlikely. Absurd.

  Claud is a collector of sorts.

  Closing my eyes, I focused on emptying my mind of thought. Such speculation did little good. I had one purpose now—to protect Lou, to protect my unknown brothers and sisters. I couldn’t know them if they were dead. I breathed in through my nose. Out through my mouth. Retreated to my fortress. Relished the darkness of my lids.

  It didn’t matter if the twins were witches.

  It didn’t matter if Deveraux knew I was one.

  Because I wasn’t a witch if I didn’t practice.

  I wasn’t a witch.

  Heedless of my conviction, gold flickered to life in the darkness, and there—soft at first, so soft I nearly missed them—voices began to hum.

  Seek us, seek us, seek us.

  My eyes snapped open.

  When Beau cleared his throat behind me, I jumped, nearly dropping my knife. “You aren’t seriously planning on strapping your mother to that board, are you?” he asked. “You could decapitate her.”

  In response, I hurled the knife—end over end—toward the center of the board. It sank deep beside the first one.

  “Now you’re just posturing.” He rose from his blanket, stepped to my side for a better view. To my surprise, he tugged another knife from my bandolier, studying it in his hand. Then he threw it.

  It thudded against the board like a dead fish before falling to the ground.

  A beat of silence passed.

  “It would seem”—Beau straightened his coat with as much dignity as he could muster—“I’m shit at this.”

  I snorted despite myself. The knot in my chest loosened. “Was there ever any doubt?”

  A self-deprecating grin broke over his face, and he pushed my shoulder halfheartedly. Though tall, he stood a couple of inches shorter than me.

  “When’s your birthday?” I blurted.

  He arched a black brow. So different from my own. “The ninth of August. I’m twenty-one years old. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  “I’m older than you, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “I wasn’t, and you’re not.”

  “Come now, little brother, I told you my birthdate. It’s only fair you reciprocate.” When I didn’t answer, his grin spread. “Your silence is damning. You really are younger, aren’t you?”

  Pushing his hand from my shoulder, I stalked toward the amber wagon. My neck burned.

  Cots lined the walls inside, built above and below storage shelves like pieces of a puzzle. Pillows overflowed. Though threadbare, silk and velvet and satin covered each of them. Trunks had been shoved in the corners, along with a battered rack of costumes and a half-dressed mannequin. My chest twisted.

  It reminded me of Soleil et Lune’s attic.

  Except for the incense. Frankincense and myrrh burned within a small porcelain pot. The smoke funneled out through a hole in the roof.

  I hurled the entire pot outside into the snow.

  “Easy there.” Beau dodged the projectile, following me into the wagon. “Have the resins personally offended you?”

  Again, I didn’t answer. He didn’t need to know it reminded me of the cathedral. Of . . . him.

  I collapsed onto the nearest cot, tossing my bag to my feet. Rummaging for a dry shirt. When my hand caught instead on my journal, I pulled it out. Trailed my fingers across the worn cover. Flipped through the crinkled pages. Though perhaps I’d been foolish to pack such a sentimental token, I hadn’t been able to leave it behind. Absently, I paused at my last entry—the evening I’d visited the king after burning Estelle.

  My father.

  I traced the words on the page, not truly seeing them. I’d done my best not to think of him, but now, his face crept back into my thoughts. Golden hair. Strong jaw. Piercing eyes. And a smile—a smile that disarmed all who looked upon it. He wielded it like a blade. No—a deadlier weapon still. A blade could not disarm his enemies, but his smile could.

  As a Chasseur, I’d seen it from afar my entire life. Only when he’d invited me to dine with him had I witnessed it personally. He’d smiled at me the entire night, and despite Lou writhing alone in my bed—burning alive for her sister’s sin—I’d felt . . . seen. Appreciated. Special.

  Beau had inherited that smile. I had not.

  Before I could lose my nerve, I asked, “What do our sisters look like? Violette and Victoire?”

  Beau paused in examining the contents of the nearest trunk. I couldn’t see his face. If my abrupt question surprised him, he didn’t say. “They look like me, I suppose. Like our mother. She hails from an island across the sea. It’s a beautiful kingdom. Tropical. Much warmer than this nonsense.” He waved a hand toward the snow outside before plucking a crystal orb from the nearest trunk. “They’re twins, you know. Prettier than my mother and me. Long black hair and blacker eyes, not a blemish on either of their faces. Like paintings—and my father treats them as such. That’s why you’ve never seen them. They’re rarely allowed outside the castle walls.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “What do they”—I leaned forward eagerly—“what do they like? Do they read? Ride horses? Play with swords?”

  He turned and smiled that smile, then. But it looked different on him. Genuine. “If by play, you mean bash their big brother over the head, then . . . yes. They like to play with swords.” He eyed the journal in my hand. “And Violette likes to write and read. Victoire not so much. She prefers to chase cats and terrorize the staff.”

  A warmth I’d never known spread through me at the picture he painted. A warmth I hardly recognized. It wasn’t anger or humiliation or—or shame. It was something else. Something . . . happy.

  It hurt.

  “And our father?” I asked quietly. “What’s he like?”

  Beau’s smile faded then, and he dropped the lute he’d been plucking back into the trunk. His eyes narrowed as he faced me fully. “You know what he’s like. Don’t paint us like a fairy tale, Reid. We aren’t one.”

  Closing my journal with more force than necessary, I pushed to my feet. “I know that. I just—I’ve—” I exhaled hard and threw caution to the winds. “I’ve never had a family.”

  “And you still don’t.” He shook his head in exasperation, eyeing me as if I were a stupid child in need of admonishment. “I should’ve known you’d do this. I should’ve known you’d want to bond.” Stepping closer, he stuck a finger in my chest. “Listen carefully, little brother. This isn’t a family. It’s a noose. And if this brilliant plan of yours goes awry, we’ll all swing from it—you, me, Violette, Victoire, and every other poor bastard our father has fucked into existence.” He paused, and his expression softened infinitesimally before hardening once more. He kicked open the wagon door. “Make peace with it now, or we�
�ll break your heart.”

  He left without another word.

  The sway of wheels woke me. Groggy, disoriented, I jolted from my cot. My head pounded—doubly so when I cracked it against the shelf overhead—and my neck ached. I rubbed it with a muttered curse.

  “Sleep well?” Madame Labelle regarded me over the brim of her teacup. Jade with gold filigree. The scent of spiced pears pervaded the wagon. Mulled perry, then. Not tea. It rippled with each roll of the wheels. Late afternoon sunlight filtered in through the window, as did Deveraux’s cheery whistle.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Around four o’clock. You’ve been asleep for hours. I didn’t want to wake you.” She offered me a second cup, along with a small smile. “Would you like some? I’m quite partial to perry after a long nap. Perhaps you are too?”

  A hopeful question. A transparent one.

  When I didn’t answer, she prattled on, spinning her own cup in her hands. Around and around. A restless gesture. “My mother brewed it for me when I was a girl. A grove of pear trees grew in the valley near the Chateau, and it was our secret place. We’d harvest the fruit at the end of summertime and hide them all over the Chateau, waiting for them to ripen.” Her grin broadened as she looked up at me. “And we’d weave the blossoms into crowns, necklaces, rings. Once I even made Morgane a cape of them. It was glorious. Her mother—Louise’s grandmother—organized a dance that May Day just so she could wear it.”

  “I’m allergic to pears.”

  I wasn’t, but I’d heard enough. Her smile fell.

  “Of course. Forgive me. Perhaps some tea instead?”

  “I don’t like tea.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Coffee?”

  “No.”

  “Wine? Mead? Beer?”

  “I don’t drink alcohol.”

  She set her cup down with an angry clink. “As you’re sitting healthy and whole before me, I presume you drink something. Pray tell me what it is, so I might indulge you.”