Serpent & Dove

by Shelby Mahurin

  There’s a time for mourning, and there’s a time for moving on.

  “I knew Lou desperately sought it,” Madame Labelle continued. “I instructed Babette to contact her, to assist her in eavesdropping on me and Tremblay. For her benefit, I even asked him where he had hidden it. And then—when Babette confirmed the two of you planned to steal it—I alerted the Archbishop where his daughter would be that night.”

  “You what?” Coco exclaimed.

  She shrugged delicately. “It was rumored he’d been searching for her for years—many witches believed she was the reason he became so possessed with hunting us. He wanted to find her. I prefer to think he slaughtered us as some sort of macabre penance for his sin, but it matters not. I took a calculated risk he wouldn’t harm her. He is her father, after all, and he could hardly deny it after seeing her. They’re practically identical. And what better place to hide her than within Chasseur Tower?”

  Coco shook her head, incredulous. “A little honesty would’ve gone a long way!”

  Madame Labelle knitted her hands together on her knee, smiling in satisfaction. “When she escaped Tremblay’s, I thought all was lost, but the scene at the theater forced the Archbishop’s hand in a permanent way. Not only did she receive his protection, but she also received a husband’s. And not just any husband—a captain of the Chasseurs.” Her smile widened as she gestured to me. “It really worked out better than I could have ever—”

  “Why?” I stared at the mother-of-pearl ring on her finger. “Why go to all the trouble? Why do you care if Auguste Lyon dies? You’re a witch. You would only benefit from his death.”

  My gaze rose slowly to her face. Her red hair. Her widening blue eyes.

  A memory resurfaced. Lou’s voice echoed in my head.

  Don’t be ridiculous. Of course witches have sons.

  Realization trickled in.

  Her smile vanished. “I—I could never stand by and watch innocent people die—”

  “The king is hardly innocent.”

  “The king will not be the only one affected. Dozens of people will die—”

  “Like his children?”

  “Yes. His children.” She hesitated, glancing between me and the prince. Damning herself. “There will be no surviving heirs. The aristocracy will divide itself fighting for succession. The Archbishop’s credibility has already suffered—and his authority, if your presence here is any indication. I would be surprised if the king hasn’t already demanded an audience. The Chasseurs will soon be leaderless. In the ensuing chaos, Morgane will strike.”

  I barely heard her words. The trickling realization became a flood. It coursed through me, further igniting the fury in my veins. “You fell in love with him, didn’t you?”

  Her voice shot up an octave. “Well—dear, it’s a bit more complicated than—” My fist slammed on the tabletop, and she flinched. Shame mingled with my fury as her face fell in defeat. “Yes, I did.”

  Silence fell around the table. Her words washed over me. Through me. Beau’s brows flattened in disbelief.

  “You didn’t tell him you were a witch.” My words were hard, sharp, but I did nothing to soften them. This woman did not deserve my sympathy.

  “No.” She stared at her hands, lips pursing. “I didn’t. I never told him what I was. I—I didn’t want to lose him.”

  “Good Lord,” Beau said under his breath.

  “And Morgane . . . did she find you together?” Coco asked.

  “No,” Madame Labelle said softly. “But . . . I soon became pregnant, and I—I made the mistake of confiding in her. We were friends, once. Best friends. Closer than sisters. I thought she would understand.” She swallowed and closed her eyes. Her chin quivered. “I was a fool. She tore him from my arms when he was born—my beautiful baby boy. I never told Auguste.”

  Beau’s face contorted with disgust. “You birthed a sibling of mine?”

  Coco elbowed him sharply. “What happened to him?”

  Madame Labelle’s eyes remained shut. As if she couldn’t bear to look at us—at me. “I never knew. Most male babies are placed within caring homes—or orphanages, if the child is unlucky—but I knew Morgane would never bestow such a kindness on my son. I knew she would punish him for what I’d done—for what Auguste had done.” She exhaled shakily. When her eyes fluttered open, she looked directly at me. “I searched for him for years, but he was lost to me.”

  Lost. My face twisted. That was one way of putting it.

  Another would be: stuffed in the garbage and left to die.

  She winced at the loathing on my face. “Perhaps he will always be lost to me.”

  “Yes.” Hatred burned through my very core. “He will.”

  I shoved to my feet, ignoring the others’ curious looks. “We’ve wasted too much time here. Lou could already be halfway to Chateau le Blanc. You”—I pointed my dagger at Madame Labelle—“will take me there.”

  “Us there,” Ansel said. “I’m coming too.”

  Coco stood. “As am I.”

  Beau grimaced as he too rose from his seat. “I suppose that means I’m coming as well. If Lou dies, I die, apparently.”

  “Fine,” I snapped. “But we leave now. Lou is miles ahead of us already. We have to make up time, or she’ll be dead before we reach the Chateau.”

  “She won’t be.” Madame Labelle stood also, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Squaring her shoulders. “Morgane will wait to perform the sacrifice. At least a fortnight.”

  “Why?” Though I wanted nothing more than to never speak to this woman again, she was my only path to Lou. A necessary evil. “How do you know this?”

  “I know Morgane. Her pride suffered terribly when Lou escaped the first time, so she will ensure as many witches as possible are present to witness her triumph. To the witches, Christmas Eve is Modraniht. Already, witches from all over the kingdom are traveling to the Chateau for the celebration.” She skewered me with a pointed look. “Modraniht is a night to honor their mothers. Morgane will delight in the irony.”

  “How fortunate I don’t have one.” Ignoring her wounded expression, I turned on my heel and walked past the empty-eyed dancers and drunken men to the exit. “We reconvene here in an hour. Make sure you aren’t followed.”

  The Soul Remembers

  Lou

  The wooden floor beneath me pitched abruptly, and I fell into someone’s lap. Soft arms enveloped me, along with the cool, crisp scent of eucalyptus. I froze. The smell had haunted my nightmares for the past two years.

  My eyes burst open as I attempted to jerk away, but—to my horror—my body didn’t respond. Paralyzed, I had no choice but to stare into my mother’s vivid green eyes. She smiled and brushed a kiss against my forehead. My skin crawled.

  “I’ve missed you, darling.”

  “What have you done to me?”

  She paused, laughing softly. “Extraordinary, those little injections. When Monsieur Bernard brought one to me, I perfected the medicine. I like to think my version is more humane. Only your body is affected, not your mind.” Her smile widened. “I thought you’d enjoy a little taste of your friends’ medicine. They worked so hard to create it for you.”

  The floor lurched again, and I glanced around, finally registering my surroundings. The covered troupe wagon. No light filtered through the thick canvas, so I couldn’t discern how long we’d been traveling. I strained my ears, but the steady clip-clops of horse hooves were the only sounds. We’d left the city.

  It didn’t matter. No help would be coming. Reid had made that much clear.

  Grief swept through me in a debilitating wave as I remembered his parting words. Though I tried to hide it, a solitary tear still escaped down my cheek. Morgane’s finger wiped it away, bringing it to her mouth to taste it. “My beautiful, darling girl. I’ll never allow him to hurt you again. It would be fitting to watch him burn for what he’s done to you, yes? Perhaps I can arrange for you to light his pyre yourself. Would that make you happy?”
r />   The blood drained from my face. “Don’t touch him.”

  She arched a white brow. “You have forgotten he is your enemy, Louise. But fret not . . . all will be forgiven at Modraniht. We’ll arrange your husband’s burning before our little celebration.” She paused, giving me the chance to bite and snap at the mention of Reid. I refused. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

  “You remember the holiday, don’t you? I thought we would make it special this year.”

  A tendril of fear crept through me. Yes, I remembered Modraniht.

  Mothers’ Night. Dames Blanches from all over Belterra would gather at the Chateau to feast and honor their female ancestors with sacrifices. I had little doubt what my role would be this year.

  As if reading my thoughts, she touched my throat affectionately. I gasped, remembering the burst of pain in my scar before I’d collapsed. She chuckled. “Do not worry yourself. I’ve healed your wound. I couldn’t waste any of that precious blood before we reached the Chateau.” Her hair tickled my face as she leaned closer, right next to my ear. “It was a clever bit of magic, and difficult to deconstruct, but even it won’t save you this time. We’re almost home.”

  “That place is not my home.”

  “You’ve always been so dramatic.” Still chuckling, she reached forward to flick my nose, and my heart stopped at the sight of the golden ring on her finger. She followed my gaze with a knowing smile. “Ah, yes. And naughty, too.”

  “How did you—” Choking on the words, I struggled against the injection binding me, but my limbs remained cruelly unresponsive.

  Morgane couldn’t have Angelica’s Ring. She couldn’t. I needed it to dispel her enchantment. If I wore it when she drained my blood, the blood would be useless. The magic would be broken. I would die, yes, but the Lyons would live. Those innocent children would live.

  I struggled harder, the veins in my throat nearly bursting from the strain. But the more I fought, the more difficult it became to speak—to breathe—around the heaviness of my body. My limbs felt as if they would soon fall through the wagon floor. Panicked, I focused on bringing a pattern forth—any pattern—but the gold winked in and out of focus, blurred and disjointed from the drug.

  I cursed bitterly, my resolve quickly crumbling into hopelessness.

  “Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize my own ring?” Morgane smiled tenderly and brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “You must tell me, though, however did you find it? Or was it you who stole it in the first place?” When I didn’t answer, she sighed heavily. “How you disappoint me, darling. The running, the hiding, the ring—surely you realize it’s all folly.”

  Her smile vanished as she lifted my chin, and her eyes burned into mine with sudden, predatory focus. “For every seed you’ve scattered, Louise, I’ve scattered a thousand more. You are my daughter. I know you better than you know yourself. You cannot outsmart me, you cannot escape me, and you cannot hope to triumph against me.”

  She paused as if waiting for a reply, but I didn’t indulge her. With every ounce of my concentration, I focused on moving my hand, on shifting my wrist, on lifting even a finger. Darkness swam in my vision from the effort. She watched me struggle for several minutes—the intensity in her eyes dulling to a strange sort of wistfulness—before she resumed stroking my hair. “We must all die eventually, Louise. I urge you to make peace with it. On Modraniht, your life will fulfill its purpose at last, and your death will liberate our people. You should be proud. Not many receive such a glorious fate.”

  With one last, desperate heave, I attempted to lash out at her—to strike her, to hurt her, to tear the ring from her finger somehow—but my body remained cold and lifeless.

  Already dead.

  My days passed in torment. Though the drug paralyzed my body, it did nothing to dull the ache in my bones. My face and wrist continued to throb from the witch’s attack, and a hard knot had formed at my throat from being stabbed by so many quills.

  To think, Andre and Grue had once been the worst of my problems.

  Morgane’s pale fingers traced the knot, circling to the finger-shaped bruises beneath my ear. “Friends of yours, darling?”

  I scowled and focused on the burning sensation in my hands and feet—the first indicator of the drug waning. If I were quick, I could snatch Angelica’s Ring and roll from the wagon, disappearing before Morgane reacted. “Once.”

  “And now?”

  I tried to wiggle my fingers. They remained limp. “Dead.”

  As if sensing my thoughts, Morgane withdrew the familiar steel syringe from her bag. I closed my eyes, trying and failing to prevent my chin from quivering. “Your sisters will heal your body when we reach the Chateau. These ghastly bruises must be gone before Modraniht. You will be wholesome and pure again.” She massaged the knot on my throat, preparing it for the quill. “Fair as the Maiden.”

  My eyes snapped open. “I’m hardly a maiden.”

  Her saccharine smile faltered. “You didn’t actually lie with that filthy huntsman?” Sniffing delicately, she wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Oh, Louise. How disappointing. I can smell him all over you.” Her eyes flicked to my abdomen, and she cocked her head, inhaling deeper. “I do hope you took precautions, darling. The Mother is alluring, but her path is not yours.”

  My fingers twitched in agitation. “Don’t pretend you’re above slaughtering a grandchild.”

  She sank the quill deep into my throat in response. I bit my cheek to keep from screaming as my fingers grew heavy once more.

  “Thy blood is the price.” She caressed my throat longingly. “Your womb is empty, Louise. You are the last of my line. It’s almost a shame . . .” She bent down, brushing her lips against my scar. Déjà vu swooped sickeningly through my stomach as I remembered Reid kissing the same spot only days ago. “I think I would’ve enjoyed killing the huntsman’s baby.”

  “Wake up, darling.”

  I blinked awake to Morgane’s whisper in my ear. Though I had no way of knowing how much time had passed—whether minutes, hours, or days—the wagon’s cover had finally been discarded, and night had fallen. I didn’t bother trying to sit up.

  Morgane pointed to something in the distance anyway. “We’re almost home.”

  I could see only the stars above me, but the familiar, crashing sound of waves on rock told me enough. The very air here told me enough. It was different than the fishy air I’d suffered in Cesarine: crisp and sharp, infused with pine needles and salt and earth . . . and just a hint of magic. I inhaled deeply, closing my eyes. Despite everything, my stomach still flipped at being this close. At finally returning home.

  Within minutes, the wheels of the wagon clicked against the wooden slats of a bridge.

  The bridge.

  The legendary entrance to Chateau le Blanc.

  I listened harder. Soft, nearly indiscernible laughter soon echoed around us, and the wind picked up, swirling snow into the cold night air. It would’ve been eerie had I not known it was all an elaborate production. Morgane had a flair for the dramatic.

  She needn’t have bothered. Only a witch could find the Chateau. An ancient and powerful magic surrounded the castle—a magic to which each Dame des Sorcières had contributed for thousands of years. I would’ve been expected to strengthen the enchantment myself someday if things had been different.

  I glanced up at Morgane, who smiled and waved to the white-clad women now running barefoot alongside the wagon. They left no footprints in the snow. Silent specters.

  “Sisters,” she greeted warmly.

  I scowled. These were the infamous guardians of the bridge. Actors in Morgane’s production—though they did enjoy luring the occasional man to the bridge at night.

  And drowning him in the murky waters below.

  “Darling, look.” Morgane propped me up in her arms. “It’s Manon. You remember her, don’t you? You were inseparable as witchlings.”

  My cheeks burned as my head lolled onto my shoulder. Worse, M
anon was indeed there to witness my humiliation, her dark eyes bright with excitement as she ran. As she smiled joyously and showered the wagon with winter jasmine.

  Jasmine. A symbol of love.

  Tears burned behind my eyes. I wanted to cry—to cry and rage and burn the Chateau and all its inhabitants to the ground. They’d claimed to love me, once. But then . . . so had Reid.

  Love.

  I cursed the word.

  Manon reached for the wagon and pulled herself up. A garland of holly rested atop her head; the red berries looked like drops of blood against her black hair and skin. “Louise! You’ve finally returned!” She threw her arms around my neck, and my limp body fell against hers. “I feared I’d never see you again.”

  “Manon has volunteered to accompany you at the Chateau,” Morgane said. “Isn’t that lovely? You’ll have such fun together.”

  “I sincerely doubt that,” I muttered.

  Manon’s ebony face fell. “Did you not miss me? We were sisters once.”

  “Do you often try to murder your sisters?” I snapped.

  Manon had the decency to flinch, but Morgane only pinched my cheek. “Louise, stop being naughty. It’s dreadfully dull.” She lifted her hand to Manon, who hesitated, glancing at me, before hurrying to kiss it. “Now run along, child, and prepare a bath in Louise’s room. We must rid her of this blood and stench.”

  “Of course, my Lady.” Manon kissed my limp hands, transferred me back to Morgane’s lap, and leapt from the wagon. I waited until she’d melted into the night before speaking.

  “Drop the pretense. I don’t want company—her or anyone else. Just post guards at my door, and be done with it.”

  Morgane picked the jasmine blooms from the wagon floor and wove them through my hair. “How incredibly rude. She’s your sister, Louise, and desires to spend time with you. What a poor way to repay her love.”

  There was that word again.

  “So, according to you, love made her watch as I was chained to an altar?”