Blood & Honey

by Shelby Mahurin

  “So give them the cure,” Ansel said quietly. He met my gaze with a steady fortitude beyond his years. “You’re a witch. He’s a huntsman.”

  Reid’s reply was low, flat. “Not anymore.”

  “But you were,” Ansel insisted. “When you fell in love, you were enemies.”

  “He didn’t know I was his enemy—” I started.

  “But you knew he was yours.” Ansel’s eyes, the color of whiskey, flicked from me to Reid. “Would it have mattered?”

  It doesn’t matter you’re a witch, he’d told me after Modraniht. His hands had cupped mine, and tears had welled in his eyes. They’d been so expressive, brimming with emotion. With love. The way you see the world . . . I want to see it that way too.

  Holding my breath, I waited for his validation, but it never came. Madame Labelle spoke instead. “I believe a similar approach will work on the others. Uniting them against a common enemy—forcing them to work together—might change each side’s perceptions. It could be the push we all need.”

  “And you called me a fool.” I kicked harder to emphasize my skepticism, and my boot—still unlaced in my haste to leave the pool—slipped from my foot. A scrap of paper fluttered from it. Frowning, I leapt to the ground to retrieve it. Unlike the cheap, blood-spattered parchment Coco had stolen from the village, this note had been written on crisp, clean linen that smelled like—like eucalyptus. My blood ran cold.

  Pretty porcelain, pretty doll, with hair as black as night,

  She cries alone within her pall, her tears so green and bright.

  Coco strode to my side, leaning closer to read the words. “This isn’t from my aunt.”

  The linen slipped through numb fingers.

  Ansel stooped to pick it up, and he too skimmed the contents. “I didn’t know you liked poetry.” When his eyes met mine, his smile faltered. “It’s beautiful. In a sad sort of way, I guess.”

  He tried to hand the linen back to me, but my fingers still refused to work. Reid took it instead. “You didn’t write this, did you?” he asked, except it wasn’t a question.

  Mutely, I shook my head anyway.

  He studied me for a moment before returning his attention to the note. “It was in your boot. Whoever wrote it must’ve been there at the pool.” His frown deepened, and he passed it to Madame Labelle, who’d extended an impatient hand. “Do you think a Chasseur—?”

  “No.” The disbelief that’d held me frozen finally ruptured in a hot wave of panic. I snatched the note from Madame Labelle—heedless of her protest—and stuffed it back into my boot. “It was Morgane.”

  The Wisest Course of Action

  Reid

  An ominous silence settled over camp. Everyone stared at Lou as she took a deep breath to collect herself. Finally, she gave our silence a voice. “How did she find us?”

  It was a good question. It wasn’t the right one.

  I stared at the crackling fire, envisioning Morgane’s pale hand—her writing curved and elegant—as she spelled out destruction and doom.

  I had a decision to make.

  “You left camp, remember?” Madame Labelle snapped. “To take a bath, of all things.”

  “Chateau le Blanc is miles from here,” Lou said. I could tell she was struggling to keep her voice reasonable. “Even if the water washed away Coco’s protection, even if the trees whispered our whereabouts, she couldn’t have gotten here so quickly. She can’t fly.”

  “Of course she could. If properly motivated, you could too. It’s simply a matter of finding the right pattern.”

  “Or maybe she was already here, watching us. Maybe she’s been watching us all this time.”

  “Impossible.” I glanced up to see Madame Labelle’s eyes darken. “I enchanted this hollow myself.”

  “Either way,” Coco said, planting her hands on her hips, “why didn’t she just snatch you from the pool?”

  I returned my attention to the fire. That was a better question. Still not the right one.

  Morgane’s words floated back through my mind. She cries alone within her pall, her tears so green and bright. The answer was right in front of us. I swallowed hard around the word. Pall. Of course this was Morgane’s plan. Grief thundered against the door of my fortress, but I kept it at bay, ignored the shard of longing that threatened to cut me open.

  Slowly, methodically, I marshaled my thoughts—my emotions—back into order.

  “I don’t know.” Lou answered Coco’s question with a sound of frustration and started to pace. “This is so—so her. And until we know how she found me—or what she wants—we aren’t safe here.” She pivoted abruptly to face Madame Labelle. “You’re right. We need to leave immediately. Today.”

  She wasn’t wrong.

  “But she knows we’re here,” Coco said. “Won’t she just follow us?”

  Lou resumed pacing, didn’t look up from the path she wore in the ground. “She’ll try to follow. Of course she will. But her game isn’t ready yet, or she would’ve already taken me. We have until then to lose her.”

  “Marvelous.” Beau rolled his eyes skyward, flopping gracelessly to his bedroll. “We have an invisible axe hanging over our heads.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “It’s not invisible.”

  Every eye in the clearing turned to stare at me. I hesitated. I still hadn’t decided what to do. If I was right—and I knew I was—many lives would be lost if we didn’t act. And if we did act . . . well, we’d be walking into a trap. Which meant Lou . . .

  I glanced at her, my heart twisting.

  Lou would be in danger.

  “Good God, man,” Beau exclaimed, “now is not the time to play brooding hero. Out with it!”

  “It was all in the note.” Gesturing to the embers of the fire, I shrugged. The movement felt brittle. “Crying, tears, pall. It’s a funeral.” When I shot Lou a meaningful look, she gasped.

  “The Archbishop’s funeral.”

  I nodded. “She’s baiting us.”

  Her brows dipped, and she tilted her head. “But—”

  “That’s only one line,” Ansel finished. “What about the rest of it?”

  I forced myself to remain calm. Collected. Empty of the emotion thrashing outside my mental fortress. “I don’t know. But whatever she’s planning, it’s for his funeral. I’m sure of it.”

  If I was right, could I endanger Lou to save hundreds, perhaps thousands, of innocent people? Did risking her life to save the others make me any different than Morgane? One for the sake of many. It was a wise sentiment, but wrong, somehow. Even if it hadn’t been Lou. The ends didn’t justify the means.

  And yet . . . I knew Morgane better than anyone here. Better than Madame Labelle. Better than even Lou. They knew La Dame des Sorcières as the woman. The mother. The friend. I knew her as the enemy. It had been my duty to study her strategy, to predict her attacks. I’d spent the last several years of my life growing intimately acquainted with her movements. Whatever she had planned for the Archbishop’s funeral, it reeked of death.

  But I couldn’t risk Lou. I couldn’t. If those few, terrible moments on Modraniht had taught me anything—when her throat had gaped open, when her blood had filled the basin—it was that I wasn’t interested in a life without her. Not that it mattered. If she died, I would too. Literally. Along with dozens of others, like Beau and—and the rest of them.

  My family.

  The thought shook me to the core.

  No longer faceless strangers, Morgane’s targets were now the brothers and sisters I hadn’t yet met. The brothers and sisters I hadn’t yet allowed myself to dream about, to even think about. They were out there, somewhere. And they were in danger. I couldn’t just abandon them. Morgane had as good as told us where she would be. If I could be there too—if I could somehow stop her, if I could cut off the viper’s head to save my family, to save Lou, if I could prevent her from defiling my patriarch’s last rites—

  I was too distracted to notice the silence
around me.

  “You’re reaching,” Beau finally said, shaking his head. “You’re drawing conclusions that aren’t there. You want to attend the funeral. I understand. But that doesn’t mean Morgane will be present too.”

  “What I want is to stop whatever she’s planning.”

  “We don’t know what she’s planning.”

  I shook my head. “We do. She isn’t going to spell it out for us, but the threat is clear—”

  “Reid, darling,” Madame Labelle interrupted gently, “I know you loved the Archbishop deeply, and perhaps you need closure, but now is not the time to charge heedlessly forth—”

  “It wouldn’t be heedlessly.” My hands curled into fists of their own volition, and I struggled to control my breathing. My chest was tight. Too tight. Of course they didn’t understand. This wasn’t about me. This wasn’t about—about closure. It was about justice. And if—if I could start to atone for what I’d done, if I could say goodbye . . .

  The shard of longing burrowed deeper. Painful now.

  I could still protect Lou. I could keep her from harm.

  “You’re the one who wanted to gather allies,” I continued, voice stronger. “Tell us how to do that. Tell us how to—to persuade werewolves and mermaids to fight alongside each other. To fight alongside Chasseurs. This could work. Together, we’ll be strong enough to confront her when she makes her move.”

  They all exchanged glances. Reluctant glances. Meaningful glances. Except for Lou. She watched me with an inscrutable expression. I didn’t like it. I couldn’t read it, and I could always read Lou. This look—it reminded me of a time when she kept secrets. But there were no more secrets between us. She’d promised.

  “Do we . . .” Ansel rubbed the back of his neck, staring at his feet. “Do we even know if there’ll be a funeral?”

  “Or where it is?” said Beau.

  “Or when it is?” said Coco.

  “We’ll find out,” I insisted. “We’ll be ready for her.”

  Beau sighed. “Reid, don’t be stupid. If you’re correct about this note—which I’m not convinced you are, by the way—we’d be playing right into her hands. This is what she wants—”

  Absalon materialized at my feet just as I opened my mouth to argue—to explode—but Lou interrupted.

  “It’s true. This is what she wants.” Her voice was quiet, contemplative, as she gestured between us. “It’s exactly the sort of game she likes to play. Manipulative, cruel, divisive. She expects a response. She craves a response. The wisest course of action is to stay away.”

  The last she spoke directly to me.

  “Thank the Maiden’s flower.” Madame Labelle heaved a sigh of relief, wiping a hand across her brow and gifting Lou a rare smile. “I knew you couldn’t have survived this long without some common sense. If there is indeed a funeral and if Morgane indeed plans to sabotage it, we wouldn’t have the necessary time to prepare. Travel along the road would be slow and dangerous with the entire kingdom searching for us. It would take nearly a fortnight to reach the Beast of Gévaudan’s packland, and the melusines’ home in L’Eau Mélancolique would be at least a week’s journey in the opposite direction.” She wiped her brow in agitation. “Beyond that, we’d need weeks at each place to foster the necessary relationships. I’m sorry, Reid. The logistics just don’t work.”

  Lou watched me, waiting.

  I didn’t disappoint.

  “Please, Lou,” I whispered, stepping closer. “The wisest course of action isn’t always the right one. This was my job. I’ve dealt with Morgane and the Dames Blanches all my life. I know how they operate. You were right before—Morgane incites chaos. Think about it. The day we met, she made an attempt on the king’s life during his homecoming parade.” I jerked my chin toward Beau at the memory. “She attacked the cathedral during the last of Saint Nicolas Day celebrations. Always, it’s amidst a crowd. It’s how she protects herself. It’s how she slips away.” I took her hand, surprised to feel her fingers trembling. “The Archbishop’s funeral will have an assembly like the kingdom has never seen. People from all over the world will come to pay homage to him. The havoc she’ll wreak will be devastating. But we have a real chance to stop her.”

  “And if no one joins us against her?”

  “They will.” Guilt ripped at my resolve, but I pushed it away. For now, I needed her to agree. I’d reveal this last bit of information when lives weren’t at stake. “We don’t need the blood witches or mermaids. The werewolves’ land isn’t far from Cesarine—a day or two’s ride at most. We’ll concentrate our efforts, focus on King Auguste and the Beast of—Blaise. We’ll do whatever is necessary to persuade them. You said it yourself. Morgane isn’t a soldier. She won’t battle if we have equal footing.” My thoughts raced faster, chasing different strategies. “She won’t expect an alliance between the Chasseurs and werewolves. We’ll ambush her . . . no. We’ll create a diversion with the Chasseurs, drive her out of the city while the werewolves lie in wait. This could work,” I repeated, louder now than before.

  “Reid. You know this is a trap.”

  “I would never let anything happen to you.”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about.” With her free hand, she reached up to touch my cheek. “Did you know my mother threatened to feed me your heart if I escaped again?”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “No. It won’t.”

  She dropped her hand, and everyone stilled, waiting. No one even breathed. In that moment, something shifted in our camp. Inadvertently, we’d looked to Lou for the final decision. Not Madame Labelle. Lou. I stared at her in dawning realization. She was the daughter of La Dame des Sorcières. I knew that. Of course I did. But I hadn’t yet realized the implication. If all went according to plan . . . Lou would inherit the crown. The title. The power.

  Lou would become a queen.

  Lou would become the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone.

  She startled as if realizing this at the same moment I did. Her eyes widened, and her mouth twisted. It was an unpleasant realization, then. An unwelcome one. When she glanced at Coco, looking deeply uncomfortable, Coco dipped her chin in a small nod.

  “Right.” Lou bent to crook a finger toward the cat at our feet. “Absalon, can you deliver a message to Josephine Monvoisin?” She shot an apologetic look at Coco. “This one should come from me.”

  “What are you doing?” Confusion laced my voice as I caught her hand, tugging her upright. “We should focus on Auguste and Blaise—”

  “Listen, Chass.” She patted my chest once before pulling away and crouching by Absalon once more. “If we’re going to do this, we need all the help we can get. The mermaids are too far away, but the blood witches—maybe your mother is right. Maybe Josephine will be amenable under the right circumstances.” To Coco, she added, “You said the blood camp is near?”

  Coco nodded. “They usually camp in this area at this time of year.”

  Suspicion unfurled in my stomach as Lou nodded, whispering something to Absalon. “You said she wouldn’t host an ex-Chasseur,” I said.

  Coco arched a brow pointedly. A smirk pulled at her lips. “She won’t.”

  “Then what . . . ?”

  Slowly, Lou rose to her feet, dusting mud from her knees as the cat vanished in a cloud of black smoke. “We’re going to have to split up, Reid.”

  Painted Hair

  Lou

  “White wine and honey, followed by a mixture of celandine roots, olive-madder, oil of cumin seed, box shavings, and a sprinkle of saffron.” Madame Labelle carefully arranged the bottles on the rock we’d fashioned into a table. “If applied and left to alchemize for a full sun cycle, it will transform your locks to gold.”

  I stared at the many bottles, aghast. “We don’t have a full sun cycle.”

  Her eyes cut to mine. “Yes, obviously, but with the raw ingredients, perhaps we could . . . speed the process.” As one, we glanced across camp to Reid, who sulked by himself, sharpening
his Balisarda and refusing to speak to anyone.

  “No.” I shook my head, pushing the bottles aside. The entire purpose of this futile exercise was to disguise myself without magic. After what had happened with Reid at the pool . . . well, we needn’t poke the bear without reason. “Were there no wigs?”

  Madame Labelle scoffed, reaching into her bag once more. “As inconceivable as it sounds, Louise, there were no costume shops in the small farming village of Saint-Loire.” She slammed another jar on the rock. Inside it, things wriggled. “Might I interest you instead in a jar of pickled leeches? If allowed to bake into your hair on a sunny day, I’m told they yield a rich raven color.”

  Leeches? Coco and I exchanged horrified glances. “That is disgusting,” she said flatly.

  “Agreed.”

  “How about this as an alternative?” Madame Labelle fished two more bottles from her bag, throwing one to both Coco and me—or rather, at Coco and me. I managed to catch mine before it broke my nose. “The paste of lead oxide and slaked lime will dye your hair black as night. But be warned, the clerk informed me the side effects can be quite unpleasant.”

  They couldn’t have been more unpleasant than her smile.

  Beau paused in rummaging through Coco’s rucksack. “Side effects?”

  “Death, mostly. Nothing to fret about.” Madame Labelle shrugged, unamused, and sarcasm dripped from her words. I didn’t quite appreciate it. “Far safer than using magic, I’m sure.”

  Eyes narrowing, I knelt to inspect the contents of her rucksack myself. “It’s just a precaution, all right? I’m trying to be nice. Reid and magic aren’t exactly amicable at the moment.”

  “Have they ever been?” Ansel murmured.

  Fair point.

  “Can you blame him?” I pulled bottles out at random, examining their labels before tossing them aside. Madame Labelle must’ve bought the entire apothecary. “He’s used magic twice, and both times, people have ended up dead. He just needs . . . time to reconcile everything. He’ll make peace with himself.”