The manacles came next—thicker and rusted with blood. They clapped them on her wrists and ankles before yanking her up by the hair and dragging her to the stairwell. The chains clinked on each step as she disappeared down, down, down—into the mouth of Hell.
Reid didn’t look at me as he strode after them.
In that moment—left with only an empty syringe and Estelle’s blood as reminders of what I’d done—I truly hated myself.
Witch killer.
I wept bitterly.
As if sensing my treachery, the sun didn’t rise properly the next morning. It remained dark and ominous, the entire world cloaked in a thick blanket of black and gray. Thunder rumbled in the distance. I watched from my bedroom window, eyes red-rimmed and glassy.
The Archbishop wasted no time in throwing open the church doors to shout Estelle’s sins to the heavens. He brought her out in chains and threw her to the ground at his feet. The crowd shouted obscenities, hurling bits of mud and rock at her. Frantically, she whipped her head back and forth in search of someone.
In search of me.
As if drawn to my gaze, her head snapped up, and pale blue eyes met my own. I didn’t need to hear the words to see the shape her lips formed—to see the venom that poured from her very soul.
Witch killer.
It was the ultimate dishonor.
Reid stood at the front of the crowd, his hair blowing wildly in the wind. A raised platform had been built overnight. The crude wooden stake atop it pierced the sky, spilling forth the first icy drops of rain.
To this stake, they tied my sister. She still wore her chorus costume—a simple white gown that brushed her ankles—though it was bloody and soiled from whatever horrors the Chasseurs had inflicted on her in the dungeon. Just last night, she’d been singing and dancing at Soleil et Lune. Now, she faced her death.
It was all my fault.
I’d been a coward, too afraid to face death myself to save Estelle. To save my people. Hundreds of witches—dead. I clamped a hand around my throat—right over my scar—and bit down on a sob.
Ansel shifted uncomfortably behind me. “It’s hard to see the first time,” he said in a strained voice. “You don’t have to watch.”
“Yes, I do.” My breathing hitched as he came to stand beside my tower of furniture. Tears flowed freely down my cheeks, forming a pool on the sill. “This is my fault.”
“It’s a witch,” Ansel said softly.
“No one deserves to die like this.”
He startled at my vehemence. “Witches do.”
“Tell me, Ansel.” I turned toward him, suddenly urgent, desperate for him to understand. “Have you ever met a witch?”
“Of course not.”
“Yes, you have. They’re everywhere, all over the city. The woman who patched your coat last week might’ve been one, or the maid downstairs who blushes every time you look at her. Your own mother could’ve been one, and you never would’ve known.” Ansel shook his head, eyes widening. “They aren’t all evil, Ansel. Some are kind and caring and good.”
“No,” he insisted. “They’re wicked.”
“Aren’t we all? Isn’t that what your own god teaches?”
His face fell. “It’s different. They’re . . . unnatural.”
Unnatural. I dug my palms into my eyes to stem the tears. “You’re right.” I gestured below, where the crowd’s shouts escalated. A dun-haired woman at the back of the crowd sobbed. “Behold, the natural way of things.”
Ansel frowned as Reid handed the Archbishop a torch.
Estelle trembled. She kept her eyes trained on the sky as the Archbishop brought the torch down in a sweeping arc, igniting the bits of hay below her. The crowd roared its approval.
I remembered a knife coming down on my own throat. I felt the kiss of the blade on my skin.
I knew the terror in Estelle’s heart.
The fire spread quickly. Though tears clouded my vision, I forced myself to watch the flames lick up Estelle’s dress. I forced myself to hear her screams. Each one wracked my very soul, and soon I clutched the window ledge for support.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. I wanted to die. I deserved to die—to writhe and burn in an endless lake of black fire.
I knew what I had to do.
Without thinking—without stopping to consider the consequences—I clenched my fists.
The world was on fire.
I screamed, toppling to the floor. Ansel scrambled toward me, but his hands couldn’t hold my thrashing body. I convulsed, biting my tongue to stop the shrieking as the fire ripped through me, as it blistered my skin and peeled muscle from bone. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. There was only agony.
Below, Estelle’s screams stopped abruptly. Her body relaxed into the flames, and a blissful smile crossed her face as she drifted peacefully into the afterlife.
Soul Ache
Lou
I woke with a cool cloth on my forehead. Blinking reluctantly, I allowed my eyes to acclimate to the semidarkness. Moonlight bathed the room in silver, illuminating a hunched figure in the chair beside my bed. Though the moon bleached his coppery hair, there was no mistaking him.
Reid.
His forehead rested against the edge of the mattress, not quite touching my hip. His fingers lay inches from my own. My heart contracted painfully. He must’ve been holding my hand before he’d fallen asleep.
I didn’t know how I felt about that.
Touching his hair tentatively, I fought the despair in my chest. He’d burned Estelle. No—I had burned Estelle. I’d known what he would do if I waited for him to wake in that alley. I’d known he would kill her.
That’s what I’d wanted.
I withdrew my hand, disgusted with myself. Disgusted with Reid. For just a moment, I’d forgotten why I was here. Who I was. Who he was.
A witch and a witch hunter bound in holy matrimony. There was only one way such a story could end—a stake and a match. I cursed myself for being so stupid—for allowing myself to get too close.
A hand touched my arm. I turned to find Reid staring at me. Stubble shadowed his jaw, and dark circles colored his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in a long time.
“You’re awake,” he breathed.
“Yes.”
He sighed in relief and closed his eyes, squeezing my hand. “Thank God.”
After a second of hesitation, I returned the pressure. “What happened?”
“You collapsed.” He swallowed hard and opened his eyes. They were pained. “Ansel went running for Mademoiselle Perrot. He didn’t know what to do. He said—he said you were screaming. He couldn’t get you to stop. Mademoiselle Perrot couldn’t calm you either.” He stroked my palm absently, staring at it without truly seeing it.
“When I arrived, you were . . . sick. Really sick. You screamed when they touched you. You only stopped when I—” He cleared his throat and looked away, throat bobbing. “Then you—you went still. We thought you might be dead. But you weren’t.”
I stared at his hand in mine. “No, I’m not.”
“I’ve been feeding you ice chips, and maids have been changing the bedsheets hourly to keep you comfortable.”
At his words, I noticed the dampness of my nightgown and sheets. My skin, too, felt sticky with sweat. I must’ve looked like hell. “How long was I out?”
“Three days.”
I groaned and sat up, rubbing my clammy face. “Shit.”
“Has this ever happened before?” He searched my face as I threw off the blankets and shivered from the cold night air.
“Of course not.” Though I tried to remain civil, the words came out sharp, and his expression hardened.
“Ansel thinks the burning did it. He said he told you not to watch.”
The burning. That’s all it was to Reid. His world hadn’t gone up in flames at that stake. He hadn’t betrayed his people. Anger rekindled in my belly. He probably didn’t even know Estelle’s name.
I headed to
the washroom, refusing to meet his eyes. “I rarely do what I’m told.”
My anger burned hotter when Reid followed. “Why? Why watch when it upset you so?”
I turned the tap and watched the steaming water fill the tub. “Because we killed her. It was the least we could do to watch it happen. She deserved as much.”
“Ansel said you were crying.”
“I was.”
“It was a witch, Lou.”
“She,” I snarled, whirling on him. “She was a witch—and a person. Her name was Estelle, and we burned her.”
“Witches aren’t people,” he said impatiently. “That’s a child’s fantasy. They aren’t little fairy creatures who wear flowers and dance under the full moon, either. They’re demons. You’ve seen the infirmary. They’re malevolent. They’ll hurt you if given the chance.” He raked an agitated hand through his hair, glaring at me. “They deserve the stake.”
I clenched my hands on the tub to prevent myself from doing something I’d regret. I wanted—no, needed—to rage at him. I needed to wrap my hands around his throat and shake him—to make him see sense. I was half tempted to slit my arm open again, so he could see the blood that flowed there. The blood that was the same color as his own.
“What if I were a witch, Reid?” I asked softly. “Would the stake be what I deserve?”
I turned off the tap, and absolute silence filled the chamber. I could feel his eyes on my back . . . wary, assessing. “Yes,” he said carefully. “If you were a witch.”
The unspoken question hung in the air between us. I met his eyes over my shoulder, daring him to ask it. Praying he wouldn’t. Praying he would. Unsure of how I would answer if he did.
A long second passed as we stared at each other. Finally, when it became clear he wouldn’t ask—or perhaps couldn’t—I turned back to the water and whispered, “We both deserve the stake for what we did to her.”
He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with the new direction of the conversation. “Lou—”
“Just leave me alone. I need time.”
He didn’t argue, and I didn’t watch him leave. When the door closed, I inched into the hot water. It steamed, nearly boiling, but was still a cool caress compared to the stake. I slipped beneath the surface, remembering the agony of the flames on my skin.
I’d spent years hiding from La Dame des Sorcières. My mother. I’d done terrible things to protect myself, to ensure my survival. Because above all else, that is what I did: I survived.
But at what cost?
I’d reacted instinctively with Estelle. It’d been her life or mine. The way forward had seemed clear. There had been only one choice. But . . . Estelle had been one of my own. A witch. She hadn’t wanted me dead—only to be free of the persecution plaguing our people.
Unfortunately, those two were mutually exclusive now.
I thought of her body, of the wind carrying away her ashes—and all the other ashes that had been carried away over the years.
I thought of Monsieur Bernard, rotting away on a bed upstairs—and all the others who had waited to die in torment.
Witches and people alike. One and the same. All innocent. All guilty.
All dead.
But not me.
When I was sixteen, my mother had tried to sacrifice me—her only child. Even before my conception, Morgane had seen a pattern no other Dame des Sorcières had seen before, had been willing to do what none of her predecessors had ever dreamed: kill her lineage. With my death, the king’s line also would’ve died. All his heirs, legitimate and bastard, would’ve ceased breathing with me. One life to end a hundred years’ worth of persecution. One life to end the Lyons’ reign of tyranny.
But my mother didn’t just want to kill the king. She wanted to hurt him. To destroy him. I could still imagine her pattern at the altar, shimmering around my heart and branching out into the darkness. Toward his children. The witches planned to strike amidst his grief. They planned to eviscerate what remained of the royal family . . . and everyone who followed them.
I broke through the surface of the water, gasping for breath.
All these years, I’ve been lying to myself, convinced I’d fled the altar because I couldn’t take the lives of innocents. Yet here I was with innocent blood on my hands.
I was a coward.
The pain of the realization went beyond my sensitive skin, beyond the agony of the flames. This time, I’d damaged something important. Something irrevocable. It ached deep inside me.
Witch killer.
For the first time in my life, I wondered if I’d made the right choice.
Coco checked on me later that day, her face drawn as she sat beside me on the bed. Ansel became inordinately interested in his coat buttons.
“How are you feeling?” She lifted a hand to stroke my hair. At her touch, all my wretched emotions flooded back to the surface. A tear escaped down my cheek. I wiped it away, scowling.
“Like hell.”
“We thought you were a goner.”
“I wish.”
Her hand stilled. “Don’t say that. You’ve just got a soul ache, that’s all. Nothing a few sticky buns can’t fix.”
My eyes snapped open. “A soul ache?”
“Sort of like a headache or stomachache, but much worse. I used to get them all the time when I lived with my aunt.” She smoothed my hair away from my face and leaned down, brushing another tear from my cheek. “It wasn’t your fault, Lou. You did what you had to.”
I stared at my hands for a long moment. “Why do I feel like such shit about it, then?”
“Because you’re a good person. I know it’s never pretty to take a life, but Estelle forced your hand. No one can blame you for what you did.”
“I’m sure Estelle would feel differently.”
“Estelle made her choice when she put her faith in your mother. She chose wrong. The only thing you can do now is move forward. Isn’t that right?” She nodded to Ansel, who blushed scarlet in the corner. I looked hastily away.
He knew now, of course. He would’ve smelled the magic. Yet here I was . . . alive. More tears pooled in my eyes. Stop it, I chided. Of course he didn’t tell on you. He’s the only decent man in this entire tower. Shame on you for thinking otherwise.
Throat constricting, I toyed with Angelica’s Ring, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.
“I have to warn you,” Coco continued, “the kingdom is praising Reid as a hero. This is the first burning in months, and with the current climate, well . . . it’s been a celebration. King Auguste invited Reid to dine with him yesterday, but Reid refused.” At my questioning look, she pursed her lips in disapproval. “He didn’t want to leave you.”
Suddenly much too warm, I kicked my blankets away. “There was nothing heroic about what he did.”
She and Ansel exchanged a glance. “As his wife,” she said carefully, “you’re expected to think otherwise.”
I stared at her.
“Listen, Lou.” She sat back, heaving an impatient sigh. “I’m just looking out for you. People heard your screams during the execution. Many are very interested in why a witch burning sent you into hysterics—including the king. Reid finally accepted his dinner invitation this evening to placate him. You need to be careful. Everyone will be watching you extra closely now.” Her gaze flicked to Ansel. “And you know the stake isn’t just for witches. Witch sympathizers can meet a similar fate.”
My heart sank as I looked between them. “Oh, god. The two of you—”
“The three of us,” Ansel murmured. “You’re forgetting Reid. He’ll burn too.”
“He murdered Estelle.”
Ansel stared down at his boots, swallowing hard. “He believes Estelle was a demon. They all do. He . . . he was trying to protect you, Lou.”
I shook my head, furious tears threatening to spill once more. “But he’s wrong. Not all witches are evil.”
“I know you believe that,” Ansel said softly, “but you can’t forc
e Reid to believe it.” He finally looked up, and his brown eyes held profound sadness—sadness someone his age never should’ve known. “There are some things that can’t be changed with words. Some things have to be seen. They have to be felt.”
He walked to the door but hesitated, looking over his shoulder at me. “I hope you can find your way forward together. He’s a good person, and . . . so are you.”
I watched him go in silence, desperate to ask how—how could a witch and witch hunter find their way forward together? How could I ever trust a man who would have me burned? How could I ever love him?
Ansel had been right about one thing, however. I couldn’t hold Reid fully accountable for what had happened to Estelle. He truly believed witches were evil. It was a part of him as much as his copper hair or towering height.
No, Estelle’s death wasn’t on Reid’s hands.
It was on mine.
Before Reid returned that evening, I crawled out of bed and dragged myself to his desk. My skin itched and burned as I healed—a constant reminder of the flames—but my limbs were a different story. My muscles and bones felt stiffer, heavier, as if they would pull me through the floor if they could. Each step to the desk was a struggle. Sweat beaded along my forehead, matted the hair on my neck.
Coco had said my fever would linger. I hoped it’d break soon.
Collapsing into the chair, I pulled the desk drawer open with the last of my energy. Reid’s faded old Bible still lay inside. With trembling fingers, I opened it and began to read—or tried to read, at least. His cramped handwriting filled every inch of the narrow margins. Though I brought the silk-thin pages clear to my nose, I couldn’t focus on the scripture without my vision swimming.
I tossed it back in the drawer with a disgruntled sigh.
Proving witches weren’t inherently evil might be harder than I anticipated.
Still, I’d formed a plan after Coco and Ansel had left this afternoon. If Ansel could be convinced we weren’t evil, perhaps Reid could too. In order to do that, I needed to understand his ideology. I needed to understand him. Cursing quietly, I rose to my feet once more, steeling myself for the descent into hell.
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