Gods & Monsters

by Shelby Mahurin

  “It isn’t that simple.”

  “Yes, it is.” Desperation laced my voice now. I dropped my hands, pivoted sharply on my heel. Paced. Back and forth. One, two, three, four, five, six. One, two, three, four, five, six. Faster and faster, my footsteps carved a jagged path in the sand. “In the book of Mark, Jesus cast demons into a herd of six thousand pigs—”

  “This isn’t the Bible, Nicholina isn’t a demon, and I’m not the son of fucking God.” She splayed her hands, facade cracking just slightly, and gestured to the sand and waves around us. “Do you see any pigs?”

  I spoke through gritted teeth. “I’m saying there’s a way to remove her. We just have to find it.”

  “And what happened to the possessed after Jesus cleansed them?”

  “Don’t be stupid. They were healed.”

  “Were they?” Her eyes flashed, and she tore a vial of blood from her pack. “The human body isn’t meant to house more than one soul, Reid.”

  I spun to face her, my own hands flying upward. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying this doesn’t end the way we want it to end,” she snapped. “I’m saying even if we miraculously manage to evict Nicholina, Lou won’t be the same. To have touched another soul so intimately—not just in a sonnet or some other bullshit symbolic way, but to have actually touched another soul, to have shared the same body—I don’t know if Lou’s will survive intact.”

  “You mean—her soul could be—”

  “Fragmented. Yes.” She marched forward, dropping to her knees beside Lou with more force than necessary. Black sand sprayed in Lou’s pale hair. I mirrored her movements on Lou’s other side, sweeping the sand away. “Part of it might go with Nicholina. All of it might go with Nicholina. Or”—she uncorked the vial, and the acrid stench of blood magic assaulted my senses—“Lou could already be gone. She was in a bad way. Nicholina wouldn’t have been able to possess her otherwise. Her spirit was weak. Broken. If we force Nicholina out, Lou might . . .” She took a ragged breath. “She might be an empty shell.”

  “You don’t know that,” I said fiercely.

  “You’re being willfully ignorant.”

  “I’m being hopeful.”

  “You think I don’t want to believe Lou will be okay?” She shook her head in disgust. No—in pity. She pitied me. My teeth clenched until they ached. “That Nicholina will go easily, that Lou will wake up and smirk and ask for fucking sticky buns? You think I don’t want to pretend the past three months never happened? The past three years?” Her voice broke on the last, her facade finally splintering, but she didn’t cower. She didn’t look away. Even as fresh tears slipped down her cheeks, as every emotion shone clear in her eyes. Every unspoken fear. Her voice flattened as she continued. “You’re asking me to hope, Reid, but I can’t. I won’t. I’ve hoped too much and too long. Now I’m sick with it. And for what? My mother left, Ansel died, my aunt betrayed me. The person I love most in this world has been possessed.” She scoffed through her tears, through the smoke that curled from the sand, and lifted the vial to Lou’s lips. “Why should I hope?”

  I seized her wrist to still the movement. Forced her to meet my eyes. “Because she’s the person you love most in this world.”

  She stared at me over our hands. Her fingers tightened around the vial. “Let me go.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Healing her.” She snatched her wrist back, wiping furiously at her tears. “Because apparently, I can’t heal myself. I’m sick with hope, but I can’t make it go away. It’s still here, even now. Poisoning me.” When she looked back at Lou, one of her tears dripped from her cheek to Lou’s throat. To Lou’s scar. Together, we watched—silent and anxious—as the tear sizzled against her skin, transforming the silver gash into something else entirely.

  Into a vine of thorns and roses.

  Delicate, intricate—still silver and raised on her skin—the scar looked less a disfigurement now. More a masterpiece.

  And it was.

  Behind us, Célie gasped. A small, wondrous sound. “Il n’y a pas de roses sans épines.”

  There is no rose without a thorn.

  Coco said nothing, staring at the scar with a frightfully blank expression. I hardly dared breathe. One blink. Two. When her eyes opened on the third, resolve had crystallized sharp and bright within them. I nearly wept. “My blood poisoned Lou because Nicholina has assumed control,” she said. “I can’t use it to heal her.” She lifted the vial once more. “We’ll use my aunt’s blood instead. It won’t evict Nicholina, but it’ll counteract the effects of mine. It’s powerful—more powerful than anything on this earth. It’s also rare. I nicked it from her tent at the blood camp.” She grinned then. A truly terrifying grin. “I’m sure she won’t mind.”

  Parting Lou’s lips, she tipped the entire vial between them. Honey followed.

  Color immediately returned to Lou’s cheeks, and her breathing deepened. The blisters on her mouth vanished. The transformed scar, however, remained. If I looked too close, it seemed to . . . ripple in the breeze. Unconsciously, I lifted a hand to touch it, but Beau cleared his throat, startling me. He’d moved closer than I’d realized.

  I dropped my hand.

  “What happens when she wakes up?” he asked.

  Coco’s grin faded. “We exorcise Nicholina.”

  “How?”

  Silence reigned in answer. Waves lapped the black sand. A lone gull cried overhead. At last, Célie offered a tentative, “You said . . . you said my father’s locket—”

  “My mother’s locket,” Coco corrected her.

  “Of course.” Célie nodded in haste, trying her best not to look horribly, terribly out of her depth. “Y-You said the magic of your mother’s locket stems from L’Eau Mélancolique. It showed us Nicholina’s true reflection.”

  “And?”

  “You said the waters can heal.”

  “I also said the waters can harm. They were created from the tears of a madwoman.” Coco stood, tucking the empty vials back into her pack. I remained beside Lou, tracking the rise and fall of her chest. Her eyelids began to twitch. “They’re volatile. Temperamental. They’re just as likely to kill Lou as to restore her. We can’t risk it.”

  Between one breath and another, an idea sparked. My gaze darted to Célie. The empty sheath on my bandolier—right above my heart—weighed heavier than usual. I hadn’t felt its absence since Modraniht. “We need a Balisarda, Célie.” I scrambled to my feet. Sand flew in every direction as I rushed toward her. “Jean Luc—you can contact him, right?” She murmured something unintelligible in response, her gaze dropping to her boot with keen interest. “If you ask, he’ll bring you his Balisarda, and we can—”

  “And we can what?” Beau asked, perplexed. Célie stooped to pick up a whitewashed shell, hiding her face altogether. “Cut Nicholina out of her?”

  “We’d just need to break her skin with the blade,” I said, thinking rapidly. Yes. Yes, this could work. I plucked the seashell from Célie’s hand and discarded it. She watched it go with a forlorn expression, still refusing to look at me. “A Balisarda dispels enchantments. It would exorcise Nicholina—”

  Beau lifted a casual, mocking hand. “Just how deep would we need to cut, brother? Would it be a simple slice down her arm, or would a spear through her heart suffice?”

  I shot him a glare before gripping Célie’s freed hands. “Write to him, Célie.” Then, in another burst of inspiration, I spun toward Coco. “You could magic him the letter, like you did with your aunt in the Hollow.”

  “Magic a letter into Chasseur Tower?” Coco rolled her eyes. “They’d lash him to a stake by morning.”

  Célie pulled her hands from mine. Gentle at first, then firm. She reluctantly met my eyes. “It matters not. He will not come.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s mad about you—”

  “No, Reid,” she insisted. “The conclave has assembled in Cesarine to elect a new Archbishop. It’s why he didn
’t follow me in the first place. His presence has been requested by the priests, by the king. He cannot come here, and I cannot ask him—not for this. Not for Lou. I am sorry.”

  I stared at her for a beat.

  Not for this. Not for Lou. The imperiousness in her voice punctured my hope. My foolish optimism. Had she just . . . dismissed us? As if this weren’t equally important as the Church’s conclave? As if this wouldn’t decide the fate of the kingdom in a more tangible way? Lou might not have been the only player on the board, but she was certainly the most critical. Only a fool wouldn’t recognize that.

  Jean Luc wasn’t a fool. Neither was Célie.

  When I next spoke, ice coated my voice. My veins. “Lou risked everything for you.”

  She blinked in surprise at my tone. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish. “I— Reid, of course I am very grateful for that! I would never presume to—to deny her heroism or involvement in my rescue, but she—” Cheeks coloring, she leaned closer, as if speaking a dirty word. “Reid, she is a witch. If there were even a possibility of Jean abandoning his responsibilities to save her—of forsaking his oath as a Chasseur—of course I would ask, but—”

  “But we’re a witch,” Nicholina cackled gleefully, sitting upright in the sand, “so you will not risk the question. Pity. Such a pretty, pretty pity, you are. Such a pretty, pretty porcelain doll.”

  I jerked her hands behind her back, holding her wrists captive. Beau joined me, poised to help if she struggled. But she didn’t. She merely gazed serenely up at Coco, who crouched in front of her. “Bonjour, notre princesse rouge. I must say you look terrible.”

  “You look better than I’ve ever seen you.”

  “Ah, we know.” Grinning with Lou’s lips and Lou’s teeth, she gazed down at herself. “This skin suits us.”

  Flames erupted in my chest at her words. This skin. “She isn’t a suit,” I snarled, tightening my hold on her wrists until they threatened to snap. I knew I shouldn’t. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to hurt her, to force her out violently if necessary. When she laughed in response—tipping her head back with relish, leaning fully into my chest—I felt my hands twist. Another second, and her bones would shatter. Just one more second. Just one.

  She moaned in pleasure.

  “Yes, Reid. Yes.” Tongue flicking out to lick her teeth, she dropped her head to my shoulder. “Hurt me. Hurt this body. This suit. We’ll enjoy it, yes. We’ll savor each bruise.”

  I recoiled instantly, hands shaking. Blood roared in my ears. Beau caught her wrists between heartbeats. His mouth firmed when she turned to nuzzle his chest. “Mmm. A prince. I tasted your cousin once.”

  Coco gripped her chin, forcing her to meet her eyes. “Kink is consensual, Nicholina. We’re going to remove you one way or another. It won’t be kinky. It won’t be consensual. But it will hurt.”

  “Oooh, tell me, with the captain’s holy stick? I wonder how he’ll help you? Will he prick, prick, prick—”

  “There shall be no pricking,” Beau interrupted. “Holy sticks or otherwise. No unnecessary force either,” he added, glancing pointedly between Coco and me. “Nicholina might be, well, Nicholina, but she’s hiding behind Lou. Who knows what Lou can see and hear? What she can feel?”

  Nicholina laughed again. “I said she’s dead, she’s dead I said. The gold one is gone. I’m here instead.”

  I ignored her, nodding with a deep breath. Lou wasn’t dead. She wasn’t. Suppressing a red haze of anger, I took her wrists back from Beau. Though physically repulsed—at her, at myself—I rubbed the angry skin there with my thumbs. This was Lou. This was Nicholina. They couldn’t be the same person, yet somehow, now, they were.

  A golden pattern twined around our hands. Slowly, carefully, I fed it until the red tint in my vision faded. As my anger dissipated, so too did the marks on her wrists. With it, another burst of inspiration struck. I couldn’t heal her with a Balisarda, but perhaps I could heal her with magic. Closing my eyes, breathless with hope, I cast my net of gold in search of an answer. A cure, a restorative. Anything to purge Nicholina’s presence. The patterns coiled and undulated in response, but none connected. They simply drifted outward into nothing. Frustrated, I pulled at each one to examine it, to determine its asking price, but I sensed nothing from them. No gain. No give. These patterns weren’t functional. When I plucked one on a whim, snapping my fingers, it fell limp in my hand instead of dispersing.

  Concentrating harder, I tried again. Nothing.

  Though I hadn’t routinely practiced magic, I hadn’t expected my patterns to simply . . . wilt. Could they wilt? No. No, Nicholina must’ve been blocking me somehow. As often as I’d tried to dispose of my magic, I knew it couldn’t go away so easily. Perhaps my intent had been wrong.

  I focused anew. Help me exorcise Lou.

  Nothing.

  Help me force Nicholina out of Lou.

  The patterns floated aimlessly.

  Help me heal Lou. Help me hurt Nicholina. Help me make her like before.

  The patterns continued to wander. A vessel nearly burst in my forehead now. I lost track of the others’ conversation entirely. Please. Please. Help me save her.

  At the last request, the patterns thrummed, growing brighter and collecting into a single cord. Those familiar voices whispered in my ear—save her, save her, save her—as I followed the pattern to a face.

  To . . . to Morgane’s face.

  My entire body recoiled in realization, in horror, and my eyes snapped open. Not that. Anything but that. The cost would be too great, no matter the outcome.

  Still hovering around Nicholina, the others blinked at me. “Er . . .” Beau’s brows dipped. “Are you constipated, brother?”

  I cast the pattern from my mind. I couldn’t act on it. I wouldn’t. “My magic won’t work.”

  “If you’d been listening”—he jerked his head to Coco—“she just said the magic of one witch can’t undo another. It has to be a different kind. Something old. Something powerful.”

  “What did she have in mind?”

  “What do I have in mind, actually.” Sniffing, he straightened the lace cuff of his sleeve. A ridiculous display. It still dangled from his shoulder. “You’re all quite clearly forgetting we have a god at our disposal.”

  “Ah, yes. King of the forest, the horned god.” Nicholina rocked back and forth, still laughing maniacally. “Out of all his names, he chose Claud.”

  Coco ignored her, lips pursing in deep thought. “I could magic him a letter, but if he remains in the tunnels, it’ll burn before he sees it.”

  Beau looked at her as if she were stupid. “He is a god.”

  My realization dawned at the same moment hers did. “We pray to him,” I breathed.

  “No.” Beau shook his head in distaste. “You pray to him. He likes you better than me.”

  “Everyone likes me better than you.”

  “Coco doesn’t.”

  “I don’t like either of you,” she said irritably. “I also don’t pray.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Just do it, Reid.”

  They all looked to me then: Beau petulant, Coco impatient, Célie apprehensive. Heat crept up my throat at the judgment in her eyes, though she tried to hide it. To her credit, she didn’t speak. Didn’t express any objection, any disapproval. Nicholina had no problem doing it for her. Her voice floated up on a croon. “Pray, huntsman. Pray to the old gods. Will your god mind, I wonder? Will he open the ground and cast you under?”

  I cleared the uncertainty from my throat. “God doesn’t deny the existence of other deities. He—He just commands us to worship no other gods before Him.” When she tilted her head back, a smile nearly cleaving her face in two, I focused my attention on the waves. The horizon. I had a job to do. Unlike Coco, I did know how to pray. I’d done it every day—multiple times per day—for most of my life. Praying to Deveraux would be no different.

  Except it was. Deveraux wasn’t a nameless, faceless divinity.
He was a fiddler, for Christ’s sake.

  I winced at the apt profanity.

  Delicate fingers touched my elbow. Célie’s earnest face looked up at me. She swallowed, clearly torn, before whispering, “Perhaps you could . . . start as you would the Lord’s Prayer.”

  I was going to Hell. Still, I nodded, closing my eyes and trying to disassociate. To compartmentalize.

  Our Father who art in . . . Cesarine, hallowed be thy name.

  I felt the others’ stares on my burning cheeks. Felt their fascination. Felt like a complete and total idiot. This wasn’t going to work. Deveraux was a god, not the God, and if I hadn’t been damned before, I would be now. No sense in further ceremony. Irritably now, I called, Deveraux? I don’t know if you can hear me. You probably can’t. It’s me. Reid. Nothing happened. Nicholina has possessed Lou, and we need you to exorcise her. Please. Still nothing. I tried again. Can you meet us? We’re in a small village along the coast of northern Belterra called Fée Tombe. It’s about three days from Chateau le Blanc. You probably already know that. You probably already know all of this. Or you don’t, and I’m talking to myself like a jackass.

  I cringed again, cracking an eye open.

  Beau searched the cliffs for a moment before frowning. “Well, that was underwhelming.” He glanced to the sky instead. “He is god of the wilderness, right? I didn’t mishear his pretentious little speech?”

  Coco squinted down the beach. “King of flora and fauna.”

  “Frankly, his silence is insulting. He could at least send a bird to shit on our heads or something.” Beau harrumphed and turned to me. “Are you sure you’re doing it properly?”

  I scowled at him. “Would you like to try?”

  “Let’s not be rash. Perhaps you should give it another go.”

  I forced my eyes shut. Launched another prayer into the ether with all my concentration. Please, Claud. Answer us. We need help. We need you. When he still didn’t answer, heat prickled my collar. I opened my eyes. Shook my head. “His silence is answer enough.”