Gods & Monsters

by Shelby Mahurin

  Who are you? I ask with feigned bravado. Mother’s tit, how many people—or spirits, or entities, or whatever—can possibly fit within a single body? What do you want?

  You needn’t be frightened. Another voice this time. As unfamiliar as the last. We cannot hurt you.

  We are you.

  Or rather, a third adds, we are her.

  That’s not an answer, I snap. Tell me who you are.

  A brief pause.

  Then a fourth voice finally says, We don’t remember.

  A fifth now. Soon you won’t either.

  If I had bones, their words would’ve chilled them to the marrow. How . . . how many of you are there? I ask quietly. Can none of you remember your name?

  Our name is Legion, the voices reply in unison, not missing a beat. For we are many.

  Holy hell. Definitely more than five voices. More like fifty. Shit, shit, shit. Vaguely, I remember the verse they recited from a passage in the Archbishop’s Bible, the one he loaned me in the basement of Chasseur Tower. The man who spoke it had been possessed by demons. But these—these aren’t demons, are they? Is Nicholina possessed by demons?

  Alas, we do not know, the first says amicably. We have lived here for unknown years. We could be demons, or we could be mice. We see only what our mistress sees, hear only what our mistress hears.

  Mice.

  She talks to us sometimes, another adds, and somehow I sense its mischievous intent. I just know, as if its stream of consciousness has merged with mine. We jest, by the way. We aren’t called Legion. Stupid name, if you ask us.

  We use it on all the newcomers.

  Always gets a rise.

  Plucked the verse straight from your memories this time, though. Are you religious?

  It is impolite to ask if someone is religious.

  She isn’t a someone anymore. She’s one of us. We already know the answer, anyway. We’re being polite.

  On the contrary, it is quite rude to look through her memories.

  Save the sermon for when the memories have gone. Look here. They’re still fresh.

  An uncomfortable prickling sensation descends as the voices bicker, and again, I instinctively know they’re rifling through my consciousness—through me. Images of my past flicker in and out of the mist faster than I can track, but the voices only press closer, hungry for more. Dancing around the maypole with Estelle, drowning in the Doleur with the Archbishop, straining at the altar beneath my mother—

  Stop it. My own voice cuts sharply through the memories, and the voices draw back, surprised but chastised. As they should be. It’s like an infestation of fleas in my own subconscious. My name is Louise le Blanc, and I am most definitely still a someone. I’d tell you to stay the hell out of my head, but since I’m not sure this even is my head, I’ll assume separation is impossible at this point. Now, who’s the last newcomer to this place? Can anyone remember?

  Silence reigns for one blissful second before all the voices start talking at once, arguing over who’s been here the longest. Too late, I realize the error in my judgment. These voices are no longer individuals but an eerie sort of collective. A hive. Annoyance quickly churns to anger. Longing for hands with which to throttle them, I try to speak, but a new voice interrupts.

  I am the newest.

  The other voices cease immediately, radiating curiosity. I’m curious myself. This voice sounds different from the rest, deep and low and masculine. He also called himself I, not we.

  And you are? I ask.

  If a voice could frown, this one does. I . . . I believe I was once called Etienne.

  Etienne, the others echo. Their whispers thrum like insect wings. The sound is disconcerting. Worse—I feel the moment they manifest his full name from his memories. From my memories. Etienne Gilly.

  You’re Gaby’s brother, I say in dawning horror, remembering as they do. Morgane murdered you.

  The voices practically quiver with anticipation as our memories sync, filling in the gaps to paint the entire portrait: how Nicholina possessed him and walked the forest under pretense of a hunt, how she led him to where Morgane lay in wait. How Morgane abducted him, tortured him within the bowels of a dank, dark cave only a handful of miles from the blood camp. And La Voisin—how she’d known all along. How she’d practically delivered Etienne’s and Gabrielle’s heads to Morgane on a silver platter.

  Part of me still can’t believe it, can’t process my shock at their betrayal. My humiliation. Josephine and Nicholina have allied with my mother. Though I didn’t like them, I never suspected them capable of such evil. They sacrificed members of their own coven to . . . what? Return to the Chateau?

  Yes, Etienne whispers.

  He knows because he saw it all happen through Nicholina’s eyes, even after the real Etienne had perished. He witnessed his own desecrated body propped against my tent. He watched helplessly as Morgane kidnapped Gabrielle for the same fate, as my mother tormented his little sister, as Gaby finally escaped from La Mascarade des Crânes.

  Except . . .

  I frown. There are noticeable gaps in his memory. A small hole here, a gaping one there. My own involvement in the skull masquerade, for example. The color of Gabrielle’s hair. Each gap fills as I think of it, however, as my memory supplements his own, until the timeline is mostly complete.

  Despite being, well, dead, he witnessed it all as if he was there.

  How? I ask warily. Etienne, you . . . you died. Why haven’t you passed on?

  When Nicholina possessed me, I joined her consciousness, and I—I don’t think I ever left.

  Holy shit. My shock spreads wildly into outright horror. Has Nicholina possessed all of you?

  I can feel them sift through our memories once more, piecing together our collective knowledge of Nicholina, of La Voisin, of blood magic. The darkness seems to vibrate with agitation as they contemplate such a fantastical and impossible conclusion. And yet . . . how often did Nicholina speak of mice? Gabrielle claimed she and La Voisin ate hearts to remain eternally young. Others whispered of even blacker arts. Their understanding resolves as mine does.

  Somehow, Nicholina has trapped their souls in this darkness with her forever.

  Yours too, the prim one sniffs. You are one of us now.

  No. The darkness seems to press closer as their words ring true, and for a moment, I can’t speak. No, I’m still alive. I’m in a church, and Reid—

  Who says we’re all dead? the mischievous voice asks. Perhaps some of us are still alive, somewhere. Perhaps our souls are merely fragmented. Part here, part there. Part everywhere. Yours will shatter soon enough.

  When the darkness shifts once more, heavier now—crushing me beneath its weight—the others sense my mounting hysteria. Their voices turn less amicable, less prim, less mischievous. We are sorry, Louise le Blanc. It is too late for you. For all of us.

  NO. I lash against the darkness with all my might, repeating the word over and over again like a talisman. I search for a golden pattern. For anything. There is only darkness. No no no no no—

  Only Nicholina’s chilling laughter answers.

  The Lighthouse

  Reid

  The first light of dawn haloed Father Achille in the sanctuary doors. He waited as I roused the others. No one had slept well. Bags swelled beneath Célie’s eyes, though she did her best to pinch color into her pale cheeks. Coco yawned while Beau groaned and cracked his neck. My own ached, despite Lou’s fingers kneading the knotted muscle there. I shrugged away from her touch with an apologetic smile, motioning toward the door.

  “The villagers won’t rouse for another hour or so,” Achille said, handing each of us an apple as we filed past. “Remember what I said—don’t let them see you. The Chasseurs have an outpost not far from here. You don’t want anyone following you to . . . wherever it is you’re going.”

  “Thank you, Father.” I tucked the apple into my pocket. It wasn’t shiny. It wasn’t red. But it was more than he owed us. More than others would�
��ve given. “For everything.”

  He eyed me steadily. “Don’t mention it.” When I nodded, moving to lead the others through the churchyard, he caught my arm. “Be careful. Cauchemars are heralded as harbingers of doom.” I lifted an incredulous brow, and he added, grudging, “They’re only seen before catastrophic events.”

  “A mob isn’t a catastrophic event.”

  “Never underestimate the power of a mob.” Beau draped his arm casually across Coco’s shoulders as they waited, leaning against a tree. Mist clung to the edges of their hoods. “People are capable of unspeakable evil en masse. I’ve seen it happen.”

  Father Achille released my arm and stepped away. “As have I. Take care.”

  Without another word, he disappeared into the foyer, closing the door firmly behind him.

  A strange sensation twinged my chest as I watched him go. “I wonder if we’ll ever see him again.”

  “Not likely,” Lou said. The thick mist nearly engulfed her slight frame. Behind her, a white shape slipped through a break in the haze, and amber eyes flashed. I scowled. The dog had returned. She hadn’t noticed, instead extending her arm down the hillside. “Shall we?”

  The village of Fée Tombe had been named for its sea stacks of hematite. Black, sparkling, the rocks rose from the sea for miles on end in the disjointed shapes of faerie wings—some tall and thin with spiderlike webs of silver, others short and stout with veins of red. Even the smallest stacks towered over the sea like great, immortal beings. Waves crashed around the wreckage of ships below. From our path along the bluff, the broken masts and booms looked like teeth.

  Célie shivered in the icy breeze, wincing as her foot caught and twisted between two rocks. Beau cast her a sympathetic look. “It isn’t too late to turn back, you know.”

  “No.” She lifted her chin stubbornly before wrenching her foot free. More rocks skittered from the path and tumbled into the sea below. “We need my carriage.”

  “Your father’s carriage,” Coco muttered. She kept one hand on the sheer cliff face to her left—the other clenched tightly around La Petite Larme—and edged past. Beau followed carefully, picking his way through the uneven terrain as the path narrowed and spiraled upward. At the back of the group, I kept my own hand fisted in the fabric of Lou’s cloak.

  I needn’t have bothered. She moved with the grace of a cat, never slipping, never stumbling. Each step light and nimble.

  Color rose high on Célie’s cheeks as she tried to maintain our pace. Her breathing grew labored. When she stumbled again, I leaned around Lou and murmured, “Beau was right, Célie. You can wait in the chapel while we deal with the cauchemar. We’ll return for you before we leave.”

  “I am not,” she seethed, skirt and hair whipping wildly in the wind, “waiting in the chapel.”

  Sweeping past Célie, Lou patted her on the head. “Of course you aren’t, kitten.” Then she cast a sidelong look down her right shoulder, to where the sea crashed below. “You needn’t be worried, anyway. Kittens have nine lives.” Her teeth flashed. “Don’t they?”

  My hand tightened on her cloak, and I tugged her backward, bending low to her ear. “Stop it.”

  “Stop what, darling?” She craned her neck to look at me. Eyes wide. Innocent. Her lashes fluttered. “I’m encouraging her.”

  “You’re terrifying her.”

  She reached back to trace my lips with her pointer finger. “Perhaps you don’t give her enough credit.”

  With that, she twisted from my grip and strode past Célie without another look. We watched her go with varying degrees of alarm. When she vanished around the bend after Coco and Beau, Célie’s shoulders relaxed infinitesimally. She took a deep breath. “She still doesn’t like me. I thought she might after . . .”

  “Do you like her?”

  A second too late, she wrinkled her nose. “Of course not.”

  I jerked my chin to indicate we should continue. “Then there isn’t a problem.”

  She said nothing for a long moment. “But . . . why doesn’t she like me?”

  “Careful.” I moved to steady her when she tripped, but she jerked away, overcompensating and falling hard against the cliff. I fought an eye roll. “She knows we have history. Plus”—I cleared my throat pointedly—“she heard you call her a whore.”

  Now she whipped around to face me. “She what?”

  I shrugged and kept walking. “At the Saint Nicolas Day celebrations, she overheard our . . . discussion. I think she took it well, all things considered. She could’ve murdered us on the spot.”

  “She . . . she heard me . . . ?” Eyes widening with palpable distress, she lifted a hand to her lips. “Oh, no. Oh, no no no.”

  I couldn’t resist this time. My eyes rolled to the heavens. “I’m sure she’s been called worse.”

  “She’s a witch,” Célie hissed, hand dropping to clutch her chest. “She could—she could curse me, or, or—”

  “Or I could.” The smile that carved my lips felt harder than usual. Like it’d been hewn from granite. Even after Lou had risked life and limb to save her in the catacombs, Célie still considered her an enemy. Of course she did. “Why did you follow us, Célie, if you disdain us so?” At her expression, I shook my head with a self-deprecating laugh. A brittle one. Hers wasn’t an unprecedented reaction. If Coco hadn’t set the tunnels ablaze, would the denizens of La Mascarade des Crânes have returned for us? Would they have brought fire of their own? Yes, they would’ve, and I couldn’t blame them. I’d have once done the same. “Forget it.”

  “No, Reid, wait, I—I didn’t mean—” Though she didn’t touch me, something in her voice made me pause. Made me turn. “Jean Luc told me what happened. He told me . . . about you. I am so sorry.”

  “I’m not.”

  Her brows lifted, puckered. “You’re not?”

  “I’m not.”

  When I didn’t elaborate, her frown deepened. She blinked rapidly. “Oh. Of . . . of course. I—” Blowing air from her cheeks, she planted an abrupt hand on her hip, and her eyes sparked again with that unfamiliar temper. “Well, I’m not either. Sorry, that is. That you’re different. That I’m different. I’m not sorry at all.”

  Though she’d spoken in frankness rather than spite, her words still should’ve hurt. They didn’t. Instead, the nervous energy thrumming just beneath my skin seemed to settle, replaced by peculiar warmth. Perhaps peace. Perhaps . . . closure? She had Jean Luc now, and I had Lou. Everything between us had changed. And that—that was okay. That was good.

  When I smiled this time, it was genuine. “We’re friends, Célie. We’ll always be friends.”

  “Well then.” She sniffed, straightening and fighting her own smile. “As your friend, it is my duty to inform you that your hair is in dire need of a cut and that your coat is missing two buttons. Also, you have a hickey on your throat.” When my hand shot upward to the tender skin near my pulse, she laughed and strode around me, pert nose in the air. “You should cover it for propriety’s sake.”

  There she was.

  Chuckling, I fell into step beside her. It felt nice. Familiar. After another moment of comfortable silence, she asked, “What will we do after we warn the cauchemar?”

  The peace I’d felt fractured, as did my smile. “We journey to the Chateau.”

  Her hand fluttered to her collar once more. A nervous habit. A telling one. “And—and then what? Just how do we plan to defeat Morgane?”

  “Watch where you’re going.” I nodded to a dip in the path. Sure enough, she stumbled slightly. I didn’t reach for her this time, and she caught herself without my help. “Lou wants to burn the castle to the ground.” The dead weight returned to my chest. To my voice. “And everyone in it.”

  “How will she do that?”

  I shrugged. “How does a witch do anything?”

  “How does it work, then? The . . . magic?” Her expression took on a shyer quality, her chin ducking quickly to her chest. She turned to face forward once more. �
�I’ve always been curious.”

  “You have?”

  “Oh, don’t play coy, Reid. I know you were curious too.” She paused delicately. “Before.”

  Before. Such a simple word. I kept my gaze impassive. “It’s a give and take. For Lou to raze the Chateau, she’ll have to destroy something of equal value to herself.”

  Célie’s voice held wonder. “And what might that be?”

  I don’t know. The admission chafed. Lou had provided no details. No strategy. When we’d pressed her, she’d simply smiled and asked, “Are you afraid?” Beau had responded immediately with a resounding yes. I’d privately agreed. The entire plan—or lack thereof—made me uneasy.

  Like God had plucked him from my thoughts, my brother’s shout rent the air. Célie and I looked up in unison to see part of the cliff give way. Rocks rained down upon us, striking first my shoulders, my arms, then my head. Sharp pain exploded, and stars burst in my vision. Reacting instinctively, I thrust Célie out of harm’s way, and Beau—he—

  Horror unfurled in my gut like a deadly snake.

  As if in slow motion, I watched as he lost his footing, as he flailed wildly through the air, as he tried and failed to find purchase among the falling rocks. There was nothing I could do. No way I could help. Lunging forward anyway, I gauged the distance between us, desperate to catch some part of him before he plunged to the sea—

  Coco’s hand shot through the rockfall and seized his wrist.

  With another shout, Beau swung in her grip like a pendulum. He thrust his free hand upward to grip the edge of the rock, and together, the two struggled to drag him back onto the path. I raced ahead to help, my heart pounding a deafening beat. Adrenaline—complete, unadulterated fear—coursed through my system, lengthening my stride and shortening my breath. By the time I reached them, however, they lay sprawled in a tangled heap. Their chests rose and fell haphazardly as they too tried to catch their breath. Above us, Lou stood at the top of the bluff. She gazed down with a hint of a smile. Just the slightest curve of her lips. The white dog growled and disappeared behind her. “You should really be more careful,” she said softly before turning away.