“What have you done?”
Ansel’s voice echoed too loudly in the silence of the room—or what was left of it. Holes riddled the walls, and the stench of magic lingered on my furniture. My sheets. My skin. A pool of blood spread from the witch’s throat. I stared at the corpse, hating it. Longing for a match to set it aflame. To burn it—and this room, and this moment—from my memory forever.
I turned away, unwilling to look in its dull eyes. Its lifeless eyes. It looked nothing like the graceful actresses we would burn in the furnace tonight. Nothing like the beautiful, white-haired Morgane le Blanc.
Nothing like her daughter.
I stopped the thought before it took a dangerous direction.
Lou was a witch. A viper. And I was a fool.
“What have you done?” Ansel repeated, voice louder.
“I let her leave.” Legs wooden, uncooperative, I shoved my Balisarda in my bandolier and knelt beside the corpse. Though my body still ached from Lou’s attack, the witch needed to be burned, lest it reanimate. I paused at the edge of blood. Reluctant to touch it. Reluctant to draw near to this thing that had tried to kill Lou.
For as much as I hated to admit it—as much as I cursed her name—a world without Lou was wrong, somehow. Empty.
When I lifted the corpse, its head lolled back grotesquely, throat gaping where Lou had slit it. Blood soaked through the blue wool of my coat.
I’d never hated the color more.
“Why?” Ansel demanded. I ignored him, focusing on the dead weight in my arms. Again, my traitorous mind wandered to Lou. To last night when I’d held her briefly under the stars. She’d been so light. And vulnerable. And funny and beautiful and warm—
Stop.
“She was drugged and obviously injured,” he insisted. I hoisted the corpse higher, ignoring him, and kicked open the splintered door. Exhaustion crashed through me in waves. But he refused to give up. “Why did you let her go?”
Because I couldn’t kill her.
I glared at him. He’d defended her even after she’d revealed her true nature. Even after she’d proved herself a liar and a snake—a Judas. And that meant Ansel had no place among the Chasseurs.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. Lou’s mother is Morgane le Blanc. Didn’t you hear what the witch said about reclaiming their homeland?”
With your sacrifice, we’ll reclaim our homeland. We’ll rule Belterra again.
I can’t allow you to slaughter innocent people.
Yes. I’d heard it.
“Lou can take care of herself.”
Ansel pushed past me and planted his feet in the middle of the corridor. “Morgane is out in the city tonight, and so is Lou. This—this is bigger than us. She needs our help—” I shouldered past him, but he stepped in front of me again and shoved my chest. “Listen to me! Even if you don’t care for Lou anymore—even if you hate her—the witches are planning something, and it involves Lou. I think— Reid, I think they’re going to kill her.”
I pushed his hands away, refusing to hear his words. Refusing to acknowledge the way they made my mind spin, my chest tighten. “No, you listen, Ansel. I’ll only say this once.” I lowered my face slowly, deliberately, until our eyes were level. “Witches. Lie. We can’t believe anything we heard tonight. We can’t trust this witch spoke truth.”
He scowled. “I know what my gut tells me, and it says Lou is in trouble. We have to find her.”
My own gut twisted, but I ignored it. My emotions had betrayed me once. Not this time. Not ever again. I needed to focus on the present—on what I knew—and that was disposing of the witch. The furnace in the dungeon. My brethren downstairs.
I forced one foot in front of the other. “Lou is no longer our responsibility.”
“I thought Chasseurs were bound to protect the innocent and helpless?”
My fingers tightened on the corpse. “Lou is hardly innocent or helpless.”
“She’s not herself right now!” He chased me down the stairwell, nearly tripping and sending us both crashing to the floor. “She’s drugged, and she’s weak!”
I scoffed. Even drugged, even wounded, Lou had impaled the witch like Jael had Sisera.
“You saw her, Reid.” His voice fell to a rough whisper. “She won’t stand a chance if Morgane shows up.”
I cursed Ansel and his bleeding heart.
Because I had seen her. That was the problem. I was doing my best to un-see her, but the memory had been seared into my eyelids. Blood had covered her beautiful face. It’d stained her throat. Her hands. Her dress. Bruises had already formed from the witch’s assault . . . but that wasn’t what haunted me. That wasn’t what cut through the haze of my fury.
No—it had been her eyes.
The light in them had gone out.
The drug, I reassured myself. The drug dimmed them.
But deep down, I knew better. Lou had broken in that moment. My wild-hearted, foul-mouthed, steel-willed heathen had broken. I had broken her.
You are not my wife.
I hated myself for what I’d done to her. I hated myself more for what I still felt for her. She was a witch. A bride of Lucifer. So what did that make me?
“You’re a coward,” Ansel spat.
I lurched to a halt, and he stumbled into me. His anger flickered out at my expression—at the rage coursing through my blood, heating my face.
“By all means, go,” I snarled. “Go after her. Protect her from Morgane le Blanc. Perhaps the witches will let you live with them at the Chateau. You can burn with them too.”
He reared back, stunned. Hurt.
Good. I turned savagely and continued into the foyer. Ansel walked a dangerous line. If the others found out he empathized with a witch . . .
Jean Luc strode through the open doors, carrying a witch over his shoulder. Blood dribbled down the demon’s neck from an injection. Behind him, a dove lay amongst the dead on the cathedral steps. Feathers bloodstained and rumpled. Eyes empty. Unseeing.
I looked away, ignoring the stinging pressure behind my own eyes.
My brethren moved purposefully around us. Some carried in corpses from the street. Though most of the witches had escaped, a handful joined the pile of bodies in the foyer—separate from the others. Untouchable. Theirs wouldn’t be a public execution. Not after Ye Olde Sisters. Not after that performance. Even if the Archbishop controlled the damage, word would spread. Even if he denied the accusation—even if some believed him—the seed had been planted.
The Archbishop had conceived a child with La Dame des Sorcières.
Though he was nowhere to be seen, his name filled the hall. My brothers kept their voices low, but I still heard them. Still saw their sidelong glances. Their suspicion. Their doubt.
Jean Luc elbowed Ansel aside to stand before me. “If you’re looking for your wife, she’s gone. I watched her dash through here not a quarter hour ago . . . crying.”
Crying.
“What happened upstairs, Reid?” He tilted his head to consider me, arching a brow. “Why would she flee? If she fears the witches, surely the Tower is the safest place for her.” He paused, and a truly frightening smile split his face. “Unless, of course, she now fears us more?”
I dropped my corpse on top of the pile of witches. Ignored the trepidation settling in my stomach like lead.
“I think your wife has a secret, Reid. And I think you know what it is.” Jean Luc inched closer, watching me with too-sharp eyes. “I think I know what it is.”
My trepidation dropped to outright panic, but I forced my face to remain calm. Blank. Void of all emotion. I wouldn’t tell them about Lou. They would hunt her. And the thought of their hands on her—touching her, hurting her, tying her body to the stake—I wouldn’t allow it.
I looked Jean Luc directly in the eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Where is she then?” He raised his voice and gestured around us, drawing the eyes of our brethren. My fingers curled into fists. “Why did the little witch flee?”
Red crept steadily into my vision, blurring those closest to us—those who had stilled, heads turning, at Jean Luc’s accusation. “Take care what you say next, Chasseur Toussaint.”
His smile faltered. “So it’s true, then.” He scrubbed a hand down his face and sighed heavily. “I didn’t want to believe it—but look at you. You would defend her still, even though you know she’s a—”
I lunged at him with a snarl. He attempted to dodge, but he wasn’t quick enough. My fist struck his jaw with an audible crack, breaking the bone. Ansel leapt forward before I could strike again. Despite him tugging on my arms, I barreled past him, barely feeling his weight. Jean Luc scrambled backward, screaming in pain and outrage, as I drew my fist once more.
“Enough,” the Archbishop said sharply from behind us.
I froze, fist cocked midair.
A few of my brethren bowed, fists to hearts, but most remained standing. Resolute. Wary. The Archbishop eyed them with growing fury, and a few more dropped their heads. Ansel released my arms and followed suit. To my surprise, so did Jean Luc—though his left hand remained pressed to his swelling jaw. He glared at the floor with murder in his eyes.
A tense second passed as they waited for me, their captain, to honor our forefather.
I didn’t.
The Archbishop’s eyes flashed at my insolence, but he hastened forward anyway. “Where is Louise?”
“Gone.”
Disbelief contorted his face. “What do you mean gone?”
I didn’t answer, and Ansel stepped forward in my stead. “She—she fled, Your Eminence. After this witch attacked her.” He gestured to the corpse on top of the pile of witches.
The Archbishop moved closer to inspect it. “You killed this witch, Captain Diggory?”
“No.” My fist throbbed from striking Jean Luc’s jaw. I welcomed the pain. “Lou did.”
He clasped my shoulder in a show of camaraderie for my brethren, but I heard the unspoken plea. Saw the vulnerability in his eyes. In that second, I knew. Any doubts I’d had vanished, replaced by a disgust deeper than any I’d ever known. This man—the man I’d looked to as a father—was a liar. A fraud. “We must find her, Reid.”
I stiffened and shrugged away. “No.”
His expression hardened, and he motioned one of my brothers forward. A mutilated corpse hung over his shoulder. Angry red burns riddled its face and neck, disappearing down the collar of its dress.
“I’ve had the pleasure of speaking with this creature for the past half hour. With a bit of persuasion, it became a plethora of information.” The Archbishop took the corpse and dumped it atop the pile. The bodies shifted, and blood seeped onto my boots. Bile rose in my throat. “You don’t know what the witches have planned for the kingdom, Captain Diggory. We cannot allow them to succeed.”
Jean Luc straightened, instantly alert. “What do they have planned?”
“Revolution.” The Archbishop’s eyes remained fixed on mine. “Death.”
Silence settled over the hall at his ominous pronouncement. Feet shifted. Eyes darted. No one dared ask what he meant—not even Jean Luc. Just as no one dared ask the one other question that mattered. The one other question on which our entire creed hinged.
I glanced at my brothers, watching as they stared between the Archbishop and the tortured, mutilated witch. As the conviction returned to their faces. As their suspicion shifted to excuses, bridging the way back to the comfortable world we’d once known. The comfortable lies.
It was all a diversion.
Yes—a diversion.
The witches are cunning.
Of course they would frame him.
Except Jean Luc. His sharp eyes were not so easily fooled. Worse—a garish grin stretched across his face. Warped by his swelling jaw.
“We must find Louise before the witches do,” the Archbishop urged. Pleaded. “She is the key, Reid. With her death, the king and his posterity will die. We all will die. You must put aside your quarrel with her and protect this kingdom. Honor your vows.”
My vows. True fury coursed through me at the words. Surely, this man who had lain with La Dame des Sorcières—this man who had deceived and betrayed and broken his vows at every turn—couldn’t be speaking to me about honor. I exhaled slowly through my nose. My hands still shook with anger and adrenaline. “Let’s go, Ansel.”
The Archbishop bared his teeth at my dismissal—and turned unexpectedly to Jean Luc. “Chasseur Toussaint, assemble a team of men. I want you on the street within the hour. Alert the constabulary. She will be found by morning. Do you understand?”
Jean Luc bowed, flashing me a triumphant smile. I glared back at him, searching his face for any flicker of hesitation, of regret, but there was none. His time had finally come. “Yes, Your Eminence. I will not disappoint you.”
Ansel followed hurriedly as I departed. We ascended the stairs three at a time. “What are we going to do?”
“We are going to do nothing. I don’t want you caught up in this.”
“Lou is my friend!”
His friend.
At those two small words, my patience—already stretched too thin—snapped completely. Swiftly, before the boy could so much as gasp, I grabbed his arm and shoved him into the wall. “She’s a witch, Ansel. You must understand this. She is not your friend. She is not my wife.”
His cheeks flushed with anger, and he shoved me in the chest. “Keep telling yourself that. Your pride is going to get her killed. She’s in trouble—” He shoved me again for emphasis, but I caught his arm and twisted it behind his back, slamming his chest into the wall. He didn’t even flinch. “Who cares if the Archbishop lied? You’re better than him, better than this.”
I snarled, quickly approaching my breaking point.
Lou, Ansel, Morgane le Blanc, the Archbishop . . . it was all too much. Too sudden. My mind couldn’t rationalize the emotions flooding through me—each too quick to name, each more painful than the last—but the time to choose rapidly approached.
I was a huntsman.
I was a man.
But I couldn’t be both. Not anymore.
I let go of Ansel and backed away, breathing ragged. “No, I’m not.”
“I don’t believe that.”
I balled my hands into fists, resisting the urge to smash them through the wall—or Ansel’s face. “All she’s ever done is lie to me, Ansel! She looked me in the eyes and told me she loved me! How do I know that wasn’t a lie too?”
“It wasn’t a lie. You know it wasn’t.” He paused, lifting his chin in a gesture so like Lou I nearly wept. “You . . . you called her she. Not it.”
Now I did strike the wall. Pain exploded from my knuckles. I welcomed it—welcomed anything to distract me from the agony ripping my chest in two, the tears burning my eyes. I leaned my forehead against the wall and gasped for breath. No, Lou wasn’t an it. But she’d still lied to me. Betrayed me.
“What should she have done instead?” Ansel asked. “Told you she was a witch and tied herself to the stake?”
My voice broke. “She should’ve trusted me.”
He touched my back, voice softening. “She’ll die, Reid. You heard the Archbishop. If you do nothing, she’ll die.”
And just like that, the rage left me. My hands fell to my sides. Limp. My shoulders slumped . . . defeated.
There had never been a choice. Not for me. From the first moment I’d seen her at the parade—dressed in that ridiculous suit and mustache—my fate had been sealed.
I loved her. Despite everything. Despite the lies, the betrayal, the hurt. Despite the Archbishop and Morgane le Blanc. Despite my own brothers. I didn’t know if she returned that love, and I didn’t care.
If she was destined to burn in Hell, I would burn with her.
“No.” Deadly purpose pounded through my veins as I pushed from the wall. “Lou isn’t going to die, Ansel. We’re going to find her.”
