Blood & Honey

by Shelby Mahurin

  “Will he?” Coco arched a dubious brow, casting him another long look. “I mean . . . the matagot showed for a reason.”

  The matagot in question lounged within the lower boughs of a fir, peering out at us with yellow eyes.

  Madame Labelle snatched her rucksack from me. In a single, agitated motion, she swept the bottles inside. “We don’t know the matagot is here because of Reid. My son is hardly the only troubled one in this camp.” Her blue eyes flashed to mine, and she shoved a piece of ribbon in my hand. Thicker than what I’d once worn, but still . . . the black satin would barely cover my new scar. “Twice now your mother has attempted to murder you. For all we know, Absalon could be here because of you.”

  “Me?” I snorted in disbelief, lifting my hair for Coco to tie the ribbon around my throat. “Don’t be stupid. I’m fine.”

  “You’re mad if you think ribbon and hair dye will hide you from Morgane.”

  “Not from Morgane. She could already be here now, watching us.” I flipped my middle finger over my head just in case. “But ribbon and hair dye might hide me from anyone who sees those wretched wanted posters—might even hide me from the Chasseurs.”

  Finished with the bow, Coco tapped my arm, and I let my hair fall, thick and heavy, down my back. I could hear the smirk in her voice. “Those posters are an uncanny likeness. The care with which the artist drew your scar—”

  I snorted despite myself, turning to face her. “It looked like another appendage.”

  “A rather large one.”

  “A rather phallic one.”

  When we burst into a fit of cackles, Madame Labelle huffed impatiently. Muttering something about children, she stalked off to join Reid. Good riddance. Coco and I laughed anew. Though Ansel tried to play along with us, his smile seemed somewhat pained—a suspicion confirmed when he said, “Do you think we’ll be safe in La Voisin’s camp?”

  Coco’s response came instantly. “Yes.”

  “What about the others?”

  Laughter fading, she glanced at Beau, who’d surreptitiously started digging through her pack once more. She knocked his hand away but said nothing.

  “I don’t like it,” Ansel continued, bouncing his foot, growing more and more agitated. “If Madame Labelle’s magic couldn’t hide us here, it won’t hide them on the road.” He turned his pleading gaze to me. “You said Morgane threatened to cut out Reid’s heart. After we separate, she could take him, force you back to the Chateau.”

  Reid had said as much an hour ago—or rather, shouted it.

  As it turned out, he was much less keen on his gather allies to confront Morgane at the Archbishop’s funeral plan when it meant we’d have to separate. But we needed the blood witches for this insane plan to work, and La Voisin had made it clear Reid wasn’t welcome in her camp. Though small in number, their reputations were formidable. Fearsome enough that Morgane had denied their annual petitions to rejoin us in the Chateau.

  I hoped it’d be enough for them to consider moving against her.

  La Voisin was willing to listen, at least. Absalon had returned almost instantaneously with her consent. If we came without Reid, she’d allow us to enter her camp. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. At midnight, Coco, Ansel, and I would meet her outside Saint-Loire, and she would escort us to the blood camp. In her presence, we’d be relatively safe, but the others—

  “I don’t know.” When I shrugged helplessly, Coco’s lips pressed tight. “We can only hope Helene’s magic is enough. They’ll have Coco’s blood as well. And if worse comes to worst . . . Reid has his Balisarda. He can defend himself.”

  “It’s not enough,” Coco murmured.

  “I know.”

  There was nothing else to say. If Reid, Madame Labelle, and Beau managed to survive the Chasseurs, Dames Blanches, cutthroats, and bandits of La Rivière des Dents—the only road through the forest, named as such for the teeth of the dead it collected—the danger would increase tenfold when they reached packland.

  It was hard to say who the werewolves loathed more—huntsmen, witches, or princes.

  Still, Reid knew those lands better than anyone in our company. He knew Blaise better than anyone in our company. I could only hope Madame Labelle’s and Beau’s diplomacy would serve them well. From what I’d heard of Blaise—which admittedly wasn’t much—he ruled with a fair hand. Perhaps he’d surprise us all.

  Either way, we didn’t have time to visit both peoples together.

  Tonight, we’d reconnoiter at a local pub to learn the exact date of the Archbishop’s funeral. With luck, we’d be able to reunite in Cesarine before the services to approach King Auguste together. Madame Labelle maintained he could be swayed into a third alliance. We’d find out—for better or for worse—when we visited his castle.

  Like Ansel, I didn’t like it. I didn’t like any of it. There was still too much to do, too much of the puzzle missing. Too little time. We’d piece together the rest at the pub tonight, but before we could do that . . .

  “Aha!” Triumphant, Beau pulled two bottles from Coco’s bag. She’d packed a motley assortment of ingredients to aid in her blood magic: some recognizable, such as herbs and spices, and some not, such as the gray powder and clear liquid Beau currently held aloft. “Wood ash and vinegar,” he explained. When we stared at him blankly, he heaved an impatient sigh. “For your hair. You still want to dye it the old-fashioned way, correct?”

  “Oh.” Of their own volition, my hands shot up, covering my hair as if it protect it. “Yes—yes, of course.”

  Coco clutched my shoulder for moral support, shooting daggers at Beau with her eyes. “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “I’ve helped many a paramour dye their hair, Cosette. Indeed, before you, there was a buxom blonde by the name of Evonne.” He leaned closer, winking. “She wasn’t naturally blond, of course, but her other natural assets more than made up for it.” When Coco’s gaze flattened—and her fingers tightened painfully on my shoulder—Beau smirked. “Whatever is wrong, ma chatte? You aren’t . . . jealous?”

  “You—”

  I patted her hand, wincing. “I’ll dismember him for you after we’ve finished.”

  “Slowly?”

  “Piece by piece.”

  With a satisfied nod, she strode after Madame Labelle, leaving me alone with Ansel and Beau. Awkwardness loomed between us, but I cut through it—literally—with an anxious swipe of my hand. “You do actually know what you’re doing, right?”

  Beau ran his fingers through the length of my hair. Without Coco to goad him, he seemed to wilt, eyeing the bottles of wood ash and vinegar warily. “Never once did I claim to know what I’m doing.”

  My stomach rose. “But you said—”

  “What I said is that I helped a paramour dye her hair, but that was only to piss off Cosette. What I actually did was watch a paramour dye her hair, while feeding her strawberries. Naked.”

  “If you fuck this up, I will skin you alive and wear your hide as a cape.”

  He arched a brow, lifting the bottles to examine their labels. “Noted.”

  Honestly, if a naked paramour didn’t start feeding me strawberries soon, I’d burn the world down.

  After pouring equal parts of ash and vinegar into Coco’s mortar, he poked at it hopefully for several seconds, and an ominous gray sludge formed. Ansel eyed it in alarm. “How would you do it, though? If you magicked it a different color instead?”

  Sweat broke out along my palms as Beau parted my hair into sections.

  “That depends.” I cast about for a pattern, and sure enough, several tendrils of gold rose to meet me. Touching one, I watched it curl up my arm like a snake. “I’d be changing something about myself on the outside. I could change something on the inside to match. Or—depending on the end color—I could take the hue, depth, or tone of my current shade and manipulate it somehow. Maybe transfer the brown to my eyes instead.”

  Ansel’s gaze shifted to Reid. “Don’t do that.
I think Reid likes your eyes.” As if afraid he’d offended me somehow, he hastily added, “And I do too. They’re pretty.”

  I chuckled, and the tension knotting my stomach eased a bit. “Thanks, Ansel.”

  Beau leaned over my shoulder to look at me. “Are you ready?”

  Nodding, I closed my eyes as he painted the first strand and kept my focus on Ansel. “Why are you so interested?”

  “No reason,” he said quickly.

  “Ansel.” I peeked an eye open to glare at him. “Out with it.”

  He wouldn’t look at me, instead nudging a pine cone with his toe. Several seconds passed. Then several seconds more. I’d just opened my mouth to prod him along when he said, “I don’t remember much of my mother.”

  My mouth closed with a snap.

  Behind me, Beau’s hand stilled on my hair.

  “She and my father died in a fire when I was three. Sometimes I think—” His eyes darted to Beau, who quickly resumed smearing the gray paste on my hair. Relieved, Ansel continued his dance with the pine cone. “Sometimes I think I can remember her laugh, or—or maybe his smile. I know it’s stupid.” He laughed in a self-deprecating way that I loathed. “I don’t even know their names. I was too frightened of Father Thomas to ask. He did once tell me Maman was an obedient, God-fearing woman, but for all I know, she could’ve been a witch.” He hesitated, swallowing hard, and finally met my eyes. “Just like—just like Reid’s mother. Just like you.”

  My chest tightened at the hopefulness in his expression. Somehow, I knew what he was implying. I knew where this conversation was headed, and I knew what he wanted me to say—what he wanted, no, needed, to hear.

  I hated disappointing him.

  When I said nothing, his expression fell, but he continued determinedly. “If that’s the case, maybe . . . maybe I have magic too. It’s possible.”

  “Ansel . . .” I took his hand, deliberating. If he’d lived with his mother—and father—until he was three, it was highly unlikely the woman had been a Dame Blanche. True, she could’ve lived outside the Chateau—many Dames Blanches did—but even they rarely kept their sons, who were considered burdens, unable to inherit their mothers’ magic or enhance their family’s lineage.

  Unbidden, my eyes cut to Reid. He whet his Balisarda on a stone with short, angry strokes.

  How very wrong we’d been.

  “It’s possible,” Ansel repeated, lifting his chin in an uncharacteristic display of stubbornness. “You said the blood witches keep their sons.”

  “The blood witches don’t live in Cesarine. They live with their covens.”

  “Coco doesn’t.”

  “Coco is an exception.”

  “Maybe I am too.”

  “Where is this coming from, Ansel?”

  “I want to learn how to fight, Lou. I want to learn magic. You can teach me both.”

  “I’m hardly the person to—”

  “We’re headed into danger, aren’t we?” He didn’t pause for me to confirm the obvious answer. “You and Coco have lived on the streets. You’re both survivors. You’re both strong. Reid has his training and his Balisarda. Madame Labelle has her magic, and even Beau was quick-witted enough to distract the other witches on Modraniht.”

  The man in question scoffed. “Thanks.”

  Ansel ignored him, shoulders slumping. “But I was worthless in that fight, just like I’ll be worthless in the blood camp.”

  I frowned at him. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

  “Why not? It’s true.”

  “No, it isn’t.” I squeezed his hand and leaned forward. “I understand that you might think you need to earn a place amongst us, but you don’t. You already have one. If your mother was a witch, fine, but if she wasn’t . . .” He slipped his hand from mine, and I sighed, longing to cut out my own tongue. Perhaps then I wouldn’t need to eat my words so often. “You aren’t worthless, Ansel. Never think you’re worthless.”

  “I’m sick and tired of everyone needing to protect me. I’d like to protect myself for a change, or even—” When my frown deepened, he sighed and dropped his face into his hands, grinding his palms into his eyes. “I just want to contribute to the group. I don’t want to be the bumbling idiot anymore. Is that so much to ask? I just . . . I don’t want to be a liability.”

  “Who said you’re a bumbling idiot—”

  “Lou.” He peered up at me, eyes lined with red. Pleading. “Help me. Please.”

  I stared at him.

  The men in my life really needed to stop using that word on me. Disasters always followed. The thought of changing a single thing about Ansel—of hardening him, of teaching him to fight, to kill—made my heart twist, but if he felt uncomfortable in his skin, if I could help ease that discomfort in any way . . .

  I could train him in physical combat. Surely no harm—and no bitter disappointment—would come from teaching him to defend himself with a blade. As for lessons in magic, we could simply . . . postpone them. Indefinitely. He’d never need to feel inferior in that regard.

  “Of course I’ll help you,” I finally said. “If—if that’s really what you want.”

  A smile broke across his face, and the sun dimmed in comparison. “It is. Thank you, Lou.”

  “This’ll be good,” Beau muttered.

  I elbowed him, eager to change the subject. “How’s it looking?”

  He lifted a gummy strand and wrinkled his nose. “Hard to tell. I imagine the longer we let it sit, the stronger the color will be.”

  “How long did Evonne let it sit?”

  “The hell if I know.”

  A half hour later—after Beau had finished coating each strand—Ansel left us to join Coco. With a dramatic sigh, Beau dropped to the ground across from me, heedless of his velvet pants, and watched him go. “I was perfectly content to loathe the little mouth breather—”

  “He’s not a mouth—”

  “—but of course he’s an orphan with no self-worth,” Beau continued, unfettered. “Someone should burn that tower to the ground. Preferably with the huntsmen inside it.”

  A peculiar warmth started at my neck. “I don’t know. At least the Chasseurs gave him some semblance of a family. A home. As someone who’s lived without both, I can confidently say a kid like Ansel wouldn’t have survived long without them.”

  “Are my ears deceiving me, or are you actually commending the Chasseurs?”

  “Of course I’m not—” I stopped short, startled at the truth of his accusation, and shook my head incredulously. “Hag’s teeth. I have to stop hanging out with Ansel. He’s a terrible influence.”

  Beau snorted. “Hag’s teeth?”

  “You know.” I shrugged, the uncomfortable warmth at my neck radiating across the rest of my scalp. Growing hotter by the second. “The hag’s eyeteeth?” When he looked on, bemused, I explained, “A woman gains her wisdom when she loses her teeth.”

  He laughed out loud at that, but it didn’t seem remotely funny to me now, not when my scalp was on fire. I tugged at a strand of hair, wincing at the sharp pain that followed. This wasn’t normal, was it? Something had to be wrong. “Beau, get some water—” The word ended in a strangled cry as the strand of hair came away in my hand. “No.” I stared at it, horrified. “No, no, NO.”

  Reid was at my side in an instant. “What is it? What’s—?”

  Shrieking, I hurled the gooey clump of hair at Beau’s face. “You idiot! Look what you’ve—WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

  He pawed the slime from his face, eyes wide and alarmed, and scrambled backward as I advanced. “I told you I didn’t know what I was doing!”

  Coco appeared between us with a flask of water. Without a word, she dumped it over my head, dousing me from head to toe, washing away the gray goop. I spluttered, cursing violently, and nearly drowned all over again when Ansel stepped forward to repeat the offense. “Don’t,” I snarled when Madame Labelle joined the group, her own flask poised for action. “Or I’ll light you o
n fire.”

  She rolled her eyes and snapped her fingers, and with a puff of hot air, the water on my body evaporated. Reid flinched. “Such melodramatics,” she said. “This is completely fixable—” But she stopped abruptly as I lifted a strand of too-brittle hair. We all stared at it together, realizing the worst in a heavy beat of silence.

  My hair wasn’t blond. It wasn’t red or black or even the brassy color in between.

  It was . . . white.

  The strand broke off, crumbling in my fingers.

  “We can fix this,” Madame Labelle insisted, lifting a hand. “All will be as before.”

  “Don’t.” The tears in my eyes burned hotter than even my scalp. “No one else is going to lay a fucking finger on my hair.” If I dyed it with another round of chemicals, the remaining strands would likely catch on fire, and if I used magic, I risked even graver consequences. The pattern required to change my hair from—from this—would be unpleasant. Not because of the color. Because of what the color represented. Who it represented. On anyone else, white, moonbeam hair could’ve been beautiful, but on me . . .

  Chin quivering, nose in the air, I turned to Reid and slid a knife from his bandolier. I wanted to rage at him, to fling my damaged hair in his anxious face. But this wasn’t his fault. Not truly. I was the one who’d trusted fucking Beau over magic, the one who’d thought to shield Reid from it. What a stupid notion. Reid was a witch. There would be no shielding him from magic—not now and certainly not ever again.

  Though he watched me apprehensively, Reid didn’t follow as I stalked across the Hollow. Hot tears—irrational tears, embarrassed tears—gathered in my eyes. I wiped them away angrily. Part of me knew I was overreacting, knew it was just hair.

  That part could piss right off.

  Snip.

  Snip.

  Snip.

  My hair fluttered to the ground like strands of spider silk, pale and foreign. Delicate as gossamer. A strand floated to my boot as if teasing me, and I swore I heard my mother’s laugh.