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.”
The Heist
Lou
We hastily donned our costumes in Soleil et Lune that night. Our safe haven and haunt, the theater’s attic provided an endless repository of disguises—gowns, cloaks, wigs, shoes, and even undergarments of every size, shape, and color. Tonight, Bas and I strolled in the moonlight as a young couple in love—clothed in the rich, sumptuous fabrics of aristocrats—while Coco trailed behind as an escort.
I snuggled into his sinewy arm and cast him an adoring look. “Thank you for helping us.”
“Ah, Louey, you know how I dislike that word. Help implies I’m doing you a favor.”
I smirked, rolling my eyes. “God forbid you do anything from the goodness of your heart.”
“There is no goodness in my heart.” Winking roguishly, Bas pulled me closer and leaned down to whisper in my ear. His breath was too warm against my neck. “Only gold.”
Right. I elbowed him in a seemingly innocent gesture and shifted away. After the nightmarish parade, we’d spent the greater part of the afternoon plotting our way
through Tremblay’s defenses, which we’d confirmed after a quick jaunt past his townhouse. Bas’s cousin lived near Tremblay, so hopefully our presence hadn’t roused suspicion.
It’d been just as Bas described: a gated lawn with guard rotations every five minutes. He assured me additional guards would be posted inside, as well as dogs trained to kill. Though Tremblay’s staff would probably be asleep when we forced entry, they were an additional variable over which we had no control. And then there was the matter of locating the actual vault—a feat that could take days, let alone the few hours before Tremblay returned home.
Swallowing hard, I fidgeted with my wig—blond and piled high with pomade—and readjusted the velvet ribbon at my throat. Sensing my anxiety, Coco touched her hand to my back. “Don’t be nervous, Lou. You’ll be fine. The Brindelle trees will mask the magic.”
I nodded and forced a smile. “Right. I know.”
We lapsed into silence as we turned onto Tremblay’s street, and the ethereal, spindly trees of Brindelle Park glowed softly beside us. Hundreds of years ago, the trees had served as a sacred grove to my ancestors. When the Church had seized control of Belterra, however, officials had attempted to burn them to the ground—and failed spectacularly. The trees had regrown with a vengeance. Within days, they’d towered above the land once more, and settlers had been forced to build around them. Their magic still reverberated through the ground beneath my feet, ancient and unchanged.
After a moment, Coco sighed and touched my back again. Almost reluctantly. “But you do need to be careful.”
Bas whipped his head around to face her, brows furrowing. “Excuse you?”
She ignored him. “There’s something . . . waiting for you at Tremblay’s. It might be the ring, but it might be something else. I can’t see it properly.”
“What?” I lurched to a halt, spinning to face her. “What do you mean?”
She fixed me with a pained expression. “I told you. I can’t see it. It’s all hazy and unsettled, but something is definitely there.” She paused, tilting her head as she considered me—or rather, as she considered something I couldn’t see. Something warm and wet and flowing just beneath my skin. “It could be malevolent, but I don’t think whatever it is will harm you. It’s—it’s definitely powerful, though.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Because I couldn’t see it before.”
“Coco, we’ve been planning this all day—”
“I don’t make the rules, Lou,” she snapped. “All I can see is what your blood shows me.”
Despite Bas’s protests, Coco had insisted on pricking our fingers before we’d left. I hadn’t minded. As a Dame Rouge, Coco didn’t channel her magic through the land like me and the other Dames Blanches. No, her magic came from within.
It came from blood.
Bas raked an agitated hand through his hair. “Perhaps we should have recruited another blood witch to our cause. Babette might have been better suited—”
“Like hell,” Coco snarled.
“We can trust Babette as far as we can throw her,” I added.
He regarded us curiously. “Yet you trusted her with knowledge of this critical mission—”
I snorted. “Only because we paid her.”
“Plus, she owes me.” With a look of disgust, Coco rearranged her cloak against the crisp autumn breeze. “I helped her acclimate to Cesarine when she left the blood coven, but that was over a year ago. I’m not willing to test her loyalty any further.”
Bas nodded to them pleasantly, plastering on a smile and speaking through his teeth. “I suggest we postpone this conversation. I don’t fancy being roasted on a spit tonight.”
“You wouldn’t roast,” I muttered as we resumed our stroll. “You’re not a witch.”
“No,” he conceded, nodding thoughtfully, “though it would be useful. I’ve always thought it unfair you females get to have all the fun.”
Coco kicked a stray pebble at his back. “Because persecution is a real treat.”
He turned to scowl at her, sucking on the tip of his forefinger, where her pinprick was still barely visible. “Always the victim, aren’t you, darling?”
I elbowed him again. Harder this time. “Shut up, Bas.”
When he opened his mouth to argue, Coco gave him a feline smile. “Careful. I still have your blood in my system.”
He looked at her in outrage. “Only because you forced it from me!”
She shrugged, completely unabashed. “I needed to see if anything interesting would happen to you tonight.”
“Well?” Bas glared at her expectantly. “Will there?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Unbelievable! Pray tell, what was the point of allowing you to suck my blood if you weren’t planning on sharing—”
“I’ve already told you.” She rolled her eyes, feigning boredom and examining a scar on her wrist. “I only see snippets, and the future is always shifting. Divination isn’t really my forte. Now, my aunt, she can see thousands of possibilities with just a taste—”
“Fascinating. You can’t imagine how much I enjoy these cozy little chats, but I’d rather not learn the specifics of divining the future from blood. I’m sure you understand.”
“You were the one who said it would be useful to be a witch,” I pointed out.
“I was being chivalrous!”
“Oh, please.” Coco snorted and kicked another pebble at him, grinning when it hit him squarely in the chest. “You’re the least chivalrous person I know.”
He glared between us, trying and failing to quell our laughter. “So this is my reward for helping you. Perhaps I should return to my cousin’s, after all.”
“Oh, shut it, Bas.” I pinched his arm, and he turned his baleful look on me. I stuck my tongue out at him. “You agreed to help us, and it’s not like you aren’t pocketing your share. Besides, she just had a drop. It’ll be out of her system soon.”
“It’d better be.”
In response, Coco flicked a finger, and Bas cursed and jolted as if his pants had caught fire. “That isn’t funny.”
I laughed anyway.
Too soon, Tremblay’s townhouse loomed before us. Built of pretty pale stone, it loomed over even its richly crafted neighbors, though it gave the distinct impression of opulence gone to seed. Green crept steadily up the foundation, and the wind whipped dead leaves across the gated lawn. Brown hydrangeas and roses dotted the flowerbeds—beside an outrageously exotic orange tree. The spoils of his black-market trade.
I wondered if Filippa had liked oranges.
“You have the sedative?” Bas whispered to Coco. She sidled up beside us and nodded, extricating a packet from her cloak. “Good. Are you ready, Lou?”
I ignored him and grabbed Coco’s arm. “You’re sure it won’t kill the dogs?”
Bas growled impatiently, but Coco silenced him with another flick of her finger. She nodded once more before touching a sharp fingernail to her forearm. “A drop of my blood in the powder for each dog. It’s just dried lavender,” she added, lifting the packet. “It’ll make them sleep.”
I released her arm, nodding. “Right. Let’s go.”
Raising the hood of my cloak, I stole silently to the wrought-iron fence lining the property. Though I couldn’t hear their footsteps, I knew the others crept after me, keeping close to the shadows of the hedgerow.
The lock on the gate was simple and strong, crafted from the same iron as the fence. I took a deep breath. I could do this. It’d been two years, but surely, surely, I could break one simple lock. As I examined it, a shimmering gold cord drifted up from the ground and wrapped around it. The cord pulsed for only a second before snaking around my forefinger as well, linking us. I sighed in relief—then took a deep breath to steel my nerves. As if sensing my hesitation, two more cords appeared and floated to where Coco and Bas waited, disappearing into each of their chests. I scowled at the fiendish little things.
&nbs
p; You can’t get something for nothing, you know, a loathsome voice at the back of my head whispered. A break for a break. Your bone for the lock . . . or perhaps your relationship. Nature demands balance.
Nature could piss off.
“Is something wrong?” Bas edged forward cautiously, his eyes darting between me and the gate, but he couldn’t see the golden cords as I did. The patterns existed solely within my mind. I turned to look at him, an insult already rising to my tongue.
You worthless coward. Of course I couldn’t love you.
You’ve already fallen in love with yourself.
And you’re terrible in bed.
With each word, the cord between him and the lock pulsed brighter. But—no. I moved before I could reconsider, twisting my forefinger sharply. Pain lanced through my hand. Through clenched teeth, I watched as the cords vanished, returning to the land in a whirl of golden dust. Savage satisfaction stole through me as the lock clicked open in response.
I’d done it.
The first phase of my job was complete.
I didn’t pause to celebrate. Instead, I hastily swung the gate open—careful to avoid my forefinger, which now stuck out at an odd angle—and stepped aside. Coco streaked past me toward the front door, Bas following closely behind.
Earlier, we’d determined that Tremblay employed six guards to patrol the house. Three would be posted inside, but Bas would see to them. He had quite a skill with knives. I shuddered and crept onto the lawn. My outdoor targets would suffer a much kinder fate. Hopefully.
Not even a moment had passed before the first guard rounded the townhouse. I didn’t bother hiding, instead throwing my hood back and welcoming his gaze. He spotted the open gate first and immediately reached for his sword. Suspicion and panic warred on his face as he scanned the yard for something amiss—and spotted me. Sending up a silent prayer, I smiled.
“Hello.” A dozen voices spoke within my own, and the word came out strange and lovely, amplified by the lingering presence of my ancestors. Their ashes, long absorbed by the land until they were the land—and the air and the trees and the water—thrummed beneath me. Through me. My eyes shone brighter than usual. My skin glowed lustrous in the moonlight.
Serpent & Dove Page 4