The smell always followed the witches. Sweet and herbal, yet sharp—too sharp. Like the incense the Archbishop burned during Mass, but more acrid. Though years had passed since I’d taken my holy orders, I’d never acclimated to it. Even now—with just a hint of it on the breeze—it burned all the way down my throat. Choking me. Taunting me.
I loathed the smell of magic.
Sliding the Balisarda knife from its place by my heart, I scanned the revelers around us. Jean Luc shot me a wary glance. “Trouble?”
“Can’t you smell it?” I murmured back. “It’s faint, but it’s there. They’ve already started.”
He pulled his own Balisarda from the bandolier across his chest. His nostrils flared. “I’ll alert the others.”
He slipped through the crowd without another word. Though he also wore no uniform, the crowd still parted for him like the Red Sea for Moses. Probably the sapphire on his knife. Whispers followed him as he went, and some of the more astute revelers looked back at me. Their eyes widened. Realization sparked.
Chasseurs.
We’d suspected this attack. With each passing day, the witches grew more restless—which was why half my brethren lined the street in uniform, and the other half—the half dressed like me—hid in plain sight within the crowd. Waiting. Watching.
Hunting.
A middle-aged man stepped toward me. He held a little girl’s hand. Same eye color. Similar bone structure. Daughter.
“Are we in danger here, sir?” More turned at his question. Brows furrowed. Eyes darted. The man’s daughter winced, wrinkling her nose and dropping her flag. It hung in midair a second too long before fluttering to the ground.
“My head hurts, Papa,” she whispered.
“Hush, child.” He glanced down at the knife in my hand, and the tight muscles around his eyes relaxed. “This man is a Chasseur. He’ll keep us safe. Isn’t that right, sir?”
Unlike his daughter, he hadn’t yet smelled the magic. But he would. Soon.
“You need to vacate the area immediately.” My voice came out sharper than I’d intended. The little girl winced again, and her father wrapped an arm around her shoulders. The Archbishop’s words reared in my head. Soothe them, Reid. You must instill calm and confidence as well as protect. I shook my head and tried again. “Please, monsieur, return home. Salt your doors and windows. Don’t step out again until—”
A piercing scream cut through the rest of my words.
Everyone froze.
“GO!” I thrust the man and his daughter into the patisserie behind us. He’d barely stumbled through the door before others raced to follow, heedless of anyone standing in their way. Bodies collided in every direction. The screams around us multiplied, and unnatural laughter echoed from everywhere at once. I tucked my knife close to my side and barreled through the panicked revelers, tripping over an elderly woman.
“Careful.” I gritted my teeth, catching her frail shoulders before she fell to her death. Milky eyes blinked up at me, and a slow, peculiar smile touched her withered lips.
“God bless you, young man,” she croaked. Then she turned with unnatural grace and disappeared into the horde of people rushing past. It took several seconds for me to register the cloying, charred odor she left in her wake. My heart dropped like a stone.
“Reid!” Jean Luc stood in the royal family’s carriage. Dozens of my brethren surrounded it, sapphires flashing as they drove frenzied citizens back. I started forward—but the throng before me shifted, and I finally saw them.
Witches.
They glided up the street with serene smiles, hair billowing in a nonexistent wind. Three of them. Laughing as bodies fell around them with the simplest flicks of their fingers.
Though I prayed their victims weren’t dead, I often wondered whether death was the kinder fate. The less fortunate woke without memories of their second child, or perhaps with an insatiable appetite for human flesh. Last month, a child had been found without its eyes. Another man had lost his ability to sleep. Yet another spent the rest of his days pining after a woman no one else could see.
Each case different. Each more disturbing than the last.
“REID!” Jean Luc waved his arms, but I ignored him. Unease rapped just beyond conscious thought as I watched the witches advance on the royal family. Slowly, leisurely, despite the battalion of Chasseurs sprinting toward them. Bodies rose like marionettes, forming a human shield around the witches. I watched in horror as a man lunged forward and impaled himself on the Balisarda of one of my brothers. The witches cackled and continued contorting their fingers in unnatural ways. With each twitch, a helpless body rose. Puppeteers.
It didn’t make sense. The witches operated in secrecy. They attacked from the shadows. Such conspicuousness on their part—such showmanship—was surely foolish. Unless . . .
Unless we’d lost sight of the bigger picture.
I charged toward the sandstone buildings to my right for a perch to see over the crowd. Gripping the wall with shaking fingers, I forced my limbs to climb. Each pitted stone loomed higher and higher than the last—blurry now. Spinning. My chest tightened. Blood pounded in my ears. Don’t look down. Keep looking up—
A familiar mustachioed face appeared over the roof’s edge. Blue-green eyes. Freckled nose. The girl from the patisserie.
“Shit,” she said. Then she ducked out of sight.
I concentrated on the spot where she’d disappeared. My body moved with renewed purpose. Within seconds, I hauled myself over the ledge, but she was already leaping to the next rooftop. She clutched her hat with one hand and raised her middle finger with the other. I scowled. The little heathen wasn’t my concern, despite her blatant disrespect.
I turned to peer below, clutching the ledge for support when the world tilted and spun.
People poured into the shops lining the streets. Too many. Far too many. The shopkeepers struggled to maintain order as those nearest the doors were trampled. The patisserie owner had succeeded in barricading his own door. Those left outside shrieked and pounded on the windows as the witches moved closer.
I scanned the crowd for anything we’d missed. More than twenty bodies circled the air around the witches now—some unconscious, heads lolling, and others painfully awake. One man hung spread-eagled, as if shackled to an imaginary cross. Smoke billowed from his mouth, which opened and closed in silent screams. Another woman’s clothes and hair floated around her as if she were underwater, and she clawed helplessly at the air. Face turning blue. Drowning.
With each new horror, more Chasseurs rushed forward.
I could see the fierce urge to protect on their faces even from a distance. But in their haste to aid the helpless, they’d forgotten our true mission: the royal family. Only four men now surrounded the carriage. Two Chasseurs. Two royal guards. Jean Luc held the queen’s hand as the king bellowed orders—to us, to his guard, to anyone who would listen—but the tumultuous noise swallowed every word.
At their back, insignificant in every way, crept the hag.
The reality of the situation punched through me, stealing my breath. The witches, the curses—they were all a performance. A distraction.
Not pausing to think, to acknowledge the terrifying distance to the ground, I grabbed the drainpipe and vaulted over the roof’s edge. The tin screeched and buckled under my weight. Halfway down, it separated from the sandstone completely. I leapt—heart lodged firmly in my throat—and braced for impact. Jarring pain radiated up my legs as I hit the ground, but I didn’t stop.
“Jean Luc! Behind you!”
He spun to look at me, eyes landing on the hag the same second mine did. Understanding dawned. “Get down!” He tackled the king to the carriage floor. The remaining Chasseurs dashed around the carriage at his shout.
The hag glanced over her hunched shoulder at me, the same peculiar grin spreading across her face. She flicked her wrist, and the cloying smell around us intensified. A blast of air shot from her fingertips, but the magic couldn’t touch us. Not with our Balisardas. Each had been forged with a molten drop of Saint Constantin’s original holy relic, rendering us immune to the witches’ magic. I felt the sickly-sweet air rush past, but it did nothing to deter me. Nothing to deter my brethren.
The guards and citizens nearest us weren’t so lucky. They flew backward, smashing into the carriage and the shops lining the street. The hag’s eyes flared with triumph when one of my brethren abandoned his post to help them. She moved swiftly—far too swiftly to be natural—toward the carriage door. Prince Beauregard’s incredulous face appeared above it at the commotion. She snarled at him, mouth twisting. I tackled her to the ground before she could lift her hands.
She fought with the strength of a woman half her age—of a man half her age—kicking and biting and hitting every inch of me she could reach. But I was too heavy. I smothered her with my body, wrenched her hands above her head far enough to dislocate her shoulders. Pressed my knife to her throat.
She stilled as I lowered my mouth to her ear. The blade bit deeper. “May God have mercy on your soul.”
She laughed then—a great, cackling laugh that shook her entire body. I frowned, leaning back—and froze. The woman beneath me was no longer a hag. I watched in horror as her ancient face melted into smooth, porcelain skin. As her brittle hair flowed thick and raven down her shoulders.
She stared up at me through hooded eyes, lips parting as she lifted her face to my own. I couldn’t think—couldn’t move, didn’t know if I even wanted to—but somehow managed to jerk away before her lips brushed mine.
And that’s when I felt it.
The firm, rounded shape of her belly pressed into my stomach.
Oh, God.
Every thought emptied from my head. I leapt backward—away from her, away from the thing—and scrambled to my feet. The screams in the distance faltered. The bodies on the ground stirred. The woman slowly stood.
Now clothed in deep bloodred, she placed a hand on her swollen womb and smiled.
Her emerald eyes flicked to the royal family, who crouched low in their carriage, pale and wide-eyed. Watching. “We will reclaim our homeland, Majesties,” she crooned. “Time and time again, we have warned you. You did not heed our words. Soon, we will dance atop your ashes as you have our ancestors’.”
Her eyes met mine. Porcelain skin sagged once more, and raven hair withered back to thin wisps of silver. No longer the beautiful, pregnant woman. Again the hag. She winked at me. The gesture was chilling on her haggard face. “We must do this again soon, handsome.”
I couldn’t speak. Never before had I seen such black magic—such desecration of the human body. But witches weren’t human. They were vipers. Demons incarnate. And I had almost—
Her toothless grin widened as if she could read my mind. Before I could move—before I could unsheathe my blade and send her back to Hell where she belonged—she turned on her heel and disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
But not before blowing me a kiss.
Thick green carpet muffled my footsteps in the Archbishop’s study hours later. Ornate wood paneling covered the windowless walls of the room. A fireplace cast flickering light on the papers strewn across his desk. Already seated behind it, the Archbishop gestured for me to sit in one of the wooden chairs opposite him.
I sat. Forced myself to meet his gaze. Ignored the burning humiliation in my gut.
Though the king and his family had escaped the parade unscathed, many others had not. Two had died—one girl at her brother’s hand and the other at her own. Dozens more bore no visible injury but were currently strapped to beds two floors above. Screaming. Speaking in tongues. Staring at the ceiling without blinking. Vacant. The priests did what they could for them, but most would be transported to the asylum within a fortnight. There was only so much human medicine could do for those inflicted with witchcraft.
The Archbishop surveyed me over steepled fingers. Steely eyes. Harsh mouth. Silver streaks at his temples. “You did well today, Reid.”
I frowned, shifting in my seat. “Sir?”
He smiled grimly and leaned forward. “If not for you, the casualties would have been much greater. King Auguste is indebted to you. He sings your praises.” He gestured to a crisp envelope on his desk. “Indeed, he plans to hold a ball in your honor.”
My shame burned hotter. Through sheer willpower, I managed to unclench my fists. I deserved no one’s praise—not the king’s, and especially not my patriarch’s. I had failed them today. Broken the first rule of my brethren: Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.
I had suffered four.
Worse—I’d actually—I’d wanted to—
I shuddered in my chair, unable to finish the thought. “I cannot accept, sir.”
“And why not?” He arched a dark brow, leaning back once more. I shrank under his scrutiny. “You alone remembered your mission. You alone recognized the hag for what it was.”
“Jean Luc—”
He waved an impatient hand. “Your humbleness is noted, Reid, but you mustn’t assume false modesty. You saved lives today.”
“I— Sir, I—” Choking on the words, I stared resolutely at my hands. They fisted in my lap once more.
As always, the Archbishop understood without explanation. “Ah . . . yes.” His voice grew soft. I looked up to find him watching me with an inscrutable expression. “Jean Luc told me about your unfortunate encounter.”
Though the words were mild, I heard the disappointment behind them. Shame reared and crashed within me once more. I ducked my head. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what came over me.”
He heaved a great sigh. “Fret not, son. Wicked are the ways of women—and especially a witch. Their guile knows no bounds.”
“Forgive me, sir, but I’ve never seen such magic before. The witch—it was a hag, but it . . . changed.” I stared down at my fists again. Determined to get the words out. “It changed into a beautiful woman.” I took a deep breath and looked up, jaw clenched. “A beautiful woman with child.”
His lip curled. “The Mother.”
“Sir?”
He rose to his feet, clasping his hands behind him, and began to pace. “Have you forgotten the sacrilegious teachings of the witches, Reid?”
I shook my head curtly, ears burning, and remembered the stern deacons of my childhood. The sparse classroom by the sanctuary. The faded Bible in my hands.
Witches do not worship our Lord and Savior, nor do they acknowledge the holy trinity of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. They glorify another trinity—an idolatrous trinity. The Triple Goddess.
Even if I hadn’t grown up in the Church, every Chasseur learned the witches’ evil ideology before taking his vows.
“Maiden, Mother, and Crone,” I murmured.
He nodded approvingly, and warm satisfaction spread through me. “An embodiment of femininity in the cycle of birth, life, and death . . . among other things. ’Tis blasphemous, of course.” He scoffed and shook his head. “As if God could be a woman.”
I frowned, avoiding his eyes. “Of course, sir.”
“The witches believe their queen, La Dame des Sorcières, has been blessed by the goddess. They believe she—it—can shift into the forms of the trinity at will.” He paused, mouth tightening as he looked at me. “Today, I believe you encountered La Dame des Sorcières herself.”
I gaped at him. “Morgane le Blanc?”
He nodded curtly. “The very same.”
“But, sir—”
“It explains the temptation. Your inability to control your basest nature. La Dame des Sorcières is incredibly powerful, Reid, particularly in that form. The witches claim the Mother represents fertility, fulfillment, and . . . sexuality.” His face twisted in disgust, as if the word left a bitter taste in his mouth. “A lesser man than you would have succumbed.”
But I wanted to. My face burned hot enough to cause physical pain as silence descended between us. Footsteps sounded, and the Archbishop’s hand came down on my shoulder. “Cast this from your mind, lest the creature poison your thoughts and corrupt your spirit.”
I swallowed hard and forced myself to look at him. “I will not fail you again, sir.”
“I know.” No hesitation. No uncertainty. Relief swelled in my chest. “This life we have chosen—the life of self-restraint, of temperance—it is not without difficulties.” He squeezed my shoulder. “We are human. From the dawn of time, this has been men’s plight—to be tempted by women. Even within the perfection of the Garden of Eden, Eve seduced Adam into sin.”
When I said nothing, he released my shoulder and sighed. Weary, now. “Take this matter to the Lord, Reid. Confess, and He will absolve you. And if . . . in time . . . you cannot overcome this affliction, perhaps we should procure you a wife.”
His words struck my pride—my honor—like a blow. Anger coursed through me. Hard. Fast. Sickening. Only a handful of my brethren had taken wives since the king had commissioned our holy order, and most had eventually forsaken their positions and left the Church.
Still . . . there had once been a time I’d considered it. Yearned for it, even. But no longer.
“That won’t be necessary, sir.”
As if sensing my thoughts, the Archbishop continued warily. “I needn’t remind you of your previous transgressions, Reid. You know very well the Church cannot force any man to vow celibacy—not even a Chasseur. As Peter said, ‘If they cannot control themselves, let them marry: for it is better to marry than to burn with passion.’ If it is your wish to marry, neither your brothers nor I can stop you.” He paused, watching me closely. “Perhaps the young Mademoiselle Tremblay will still have you?”
Célie’s face flared briefly in my mind at his words. Delicate. Beautiful. Her green eyes filled with tears. They’d soaked the black fabric of her mourning gown.
You cannot give me your heart, Reid. I cannot have it on my conscience.
Célie, please—
Those monsters who murdered Pip are still out there. They must be punished. I will not distract you from your purpose. If you must give away your heart, give it to your brotherhood. Please, please, forget me.
I could never forget you.
You must.
I shoved the memory away before it consumed me.
No. I would never marry. After the death of her sister, Célie had made that very clear.
“‘But I say therefore to the unmarried and widows,’” I finished, my voice low and even, “‘it is good for them if they abide even as I.’” I stared intently at my fists in my lap, still mourning a future—a family—I’d never see. “Please, sir . . . do not think I would ever risk my future within the Chasseurs by entering into matrimony. I wish nothing more than to please God . . . and you.”
I glanced up at him then, and he offered me a grim smile. “Your devotion to the Lord pleases me. Now, fetch my carriage. I’m due at the castle for the prince’s ball. Folly, if you ask me, but Auguste does spoil his son—”
A tentative knock on the door halted the rest of his words. His smile vanished at the sound, and he nodded once, dismissing me. I stood as he strode around his desk. “Come in.”
A young, gangly initiate entered. Ansel. Sixteen. Orphaned as a baby, like me. I’d known him only briefly throughout childhood, though we’d both been raised in the Church. He’d been too young to keep company with me and Jean Luc.
He bowed, his right fist covering his heart. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Your Eminence.” His throat bobbed as he extended a letter. “But you have a correspondence. A woman just came to the door. She believes a witch will be in West End tonight, sir, near Brindelle Park.”
I froze. That was where Célie lived.
“A woman?” The Archbishop frowned and leaned forward, taking the letter. The seal had been pressed into the shape of a rose. He reached into his robes for a thin knife to open it. “Who?”
“I don’t know, Your Eminence.” Pink tinged Ansel’s cheeks. “She had bright red hair and was very”—he coughed and stared at his boots—“very beautiful.”
The Archbishop’s frown deepened as he flicked open the envelope. “It does not do to dwell on earthly beauty, Ansel,” he chided, turning his attention to the letter. “I expect to see you at confession tomor—” His eyes widened at whatever he read there.
I stepped closer. “Sir?”
He ignored me, eyes still fixed on the page. I took another step toward him, and his head snapped up. He blinked rapidly. “I—” He shook his head and cleared his throat, turning his gaze back to the letter.
“Sir?” I repeated.
At the sound of my voice, he lurched to the fireplace and hurled the letter into the flames. “I am fine,” he snapped, clasping his hands behind his back. They trembled. “Do not worry yourself.”
But I did worry. I knew the Archbishop better than anyone—and he didn’t shake. I stared into the fireplace, where the letter disintegrated into black ash. My hands curled into fists. If a witch had targeted Célie like Filippa, I would rip it limb from limb. It would beg for the flames before I finished with it.
As if sensing my gaze, the Archbishop turned to look at me. “Assemble a team, Captain Diggory.” His voice was steadier now. Steelier. His gaze flicked back to the fireplace, and his expression hardened. “Though I sincerely doubt the validity of this woman’s claim, we must uphold our vows. Search the area. Report back immediately.”
I placed a fist over my heart, bowed, and moved toward the door, but his hand snaked out and caught my arm. It no longer trembled. “If a witch is indeed in West End, bring it back alive.”
Nodding, I bowed once more. Resolute. A witch didn’t need all its limbs to continue living. It didn’t even need its head. Until burned, witches could reanimate. I’d break none of the Archbishop’s rules. And if bringing back a witch alive would ease the Archbishop’s sudden distress, I would bring back three. For him. For Célie. For me.
“Consider it done.”
