Blood & Honey

by Shelby Mahurin

  “If by fun, you mean grotesque,” Beau said, sidling up beside us. “I wouldn’t look over there”—he waved a hand over his shoulder—“unless you’d like to see your love child of flesh and fabric. And Ansel’s dinner. He parted with it shortly after seeing your injuries.”

  I glanced across the Hollow to where Ansel sat, looking miserable, while Madame Labelle fussed over him.

  “You should change,” Coco said. “It’s near midnight. My aunt will be here soon.”

  Reid glared at her, shifting to block me from view. “I told you. Lou comes with me.”

  Coco fired up at once. “And I told you—”

  “Shut up, both of you.” The words leapt from me before I could stop them, and I cringed at their shocked expressions. They shared a quick glance, communicating without a word. But I still heard it. Erratic. I forced a smile and stepped around Reid. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Yes, you should’ve.” Beau arched a brow, studying the three of us with unabashed interest. When he tilted his head, frowning as if he could see the tension in the air, I scowled. Maybe Reid had been right. Maybe I wasn’t myself. Never before had I felt the need to apologize for telling him to shut the hell up. “They’re incredibly annoying.”

  “Pot, meet kettle,” Coco snapped.

  “For the last time, I go wherever I want,” I said. “Tonight was a disaster, but at least now we know the Archbishop’s funeral is in a fortnight. It takes ten days of hard travel to reach Cesarine. That gives us only a couple of days with the blood witches and werewolves.” I skewered Reid with a glare when he tried to interrupt. “We have to proceed with the plan as discussed. We go to the blood camp. You go to Le Ventre. We’ll meet back in Cesarine on the eve of the funeral. You’ll send Absalon along with the time and place—”

  “I don’t trust the matagot,” Reid said darkly.

  Absalon flicked his tail at him in response.

  “He certainly likes you.” I bent down to scratch his ears. “And he saved us on Modraniht by delivering Madame Labelle’s message to the Chasseurs. If I remember correctly, you didn’t like that plan either.”

  Reid said nothing, jaw clenched.

  “Le Ventre?” Beau asked, puzzled.

  “It’s packland,” I said shortly. Of course he’d never journeyed into that murky corner of his kingdom. Most avoided it if possible. Including me. “La Rivière des Dents empties into a cold-water swamp in the southernmost part of Belterra. The loup garou have claimed it as their territory.”

  “And why is it called the stomach?”

  “The teeth lead to the stomach—plus the loup garou eat anyone who trespasses.”

  “Not everyone,” Reid muttered.

  “This is a shit plan,” Beau said. “We’ll hardly reach Cesarine in time for the funeral, yet we’re also expected to journey to Le Ventre? Not to mention the insanity that is approaching my father about an alliance. You were in the pub, weren’t you? You saw the wanted posters? Those men were going to cut off your head—”

  “My head. Not Reid’s. For whatever reason, your father doesn’t want him dead. Maybe he already knows about their connection, but if he doesn’t, he’ll soon find out. You’re going to introduce them.” I slipped back behind Reid to change into my new clothing. He was wide enough to block three of me from view. “Just so you know,” I added to him, “the only reason I’m allowing this brute show of possessiveness is because your brother hasn’t seen my tits yet, and I’m going to keep it that way.”

  “You break my heart, sister mine,” Beau said.

  “Shut up.” Blood crept up Reid’s neck. “Not another word.”

  Interesting. He didn’t feel the need to apologize. A peculiar bitterness settled on my tongue, and I didn’t particularly enjoy the taste—like regret and uncertainty and . . . something else. I couldn’t name it.

  “You should think about leaving soon,” I told them. “After our rather spectacular excursion in Saint-Loire, the road will be crawling with bounty hunters. The Chasseurs might’ve turned around too. I know you’re still uncomfortable with magic, Reid, but Madame Labelle will have to disguise you again. We can also ask to—”

  I stopped short at Coco’s laughter. She looked expectantly at Reid. “I can’t wait to hear this.”

  Peeking at her from beneath Reid’s arm, I asked, “Can’t wait to hear what?”

  She nodded to Reid. “Go on. Tell her.”

  He craned his neck to look down his shoulder at me as I slipped the scarlet shirt over my head and leather tights up my legs. I bent to lace my boots. Finally, he muttered, “I can’t do it, Lou.”

  Frowning up at him, I straightened. “Can’t do what?”

  He shook his head slowly, the flush in his throat creeping up his cheeks. He clenched his jaw and lifted his chin. “I can’t be around it. Magic. I won’t.”

  I stared at him, and between one breath and another, the pieces clicked into place. His standoffishness, his disloyalty, his concern—it all made sense now.

  Lou is different when she uses magic. Her emotions, her judgment—she’s been erratic.

  I’m worried about her.

  There was a moment when she looked—she looked almost exactly like—

  Like her mother. He hadn’t needed to finish the sentence.

  It’s aberrant, he’d said.

  Aberrant.

  The bitterness coated my throat now, threatening to choke me, and I finally recognized it for what is was. Shame. “Well, isn’t that convenient.”

  From beneath Reid’s arm, I caught a glimpse of Coco hooking Beau’s elbow and dragging him away. He didn’t protest. When they’d disappeared from my view, Reid turned to face me, bending low to meet my eyes directly. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s not that.”

  “People don’t really change, do they?”

  “Lou—”

  “Are you going to start calling me it? I wouldn’t blame you.” I bared my teeth at him, leaning close enough to bite. Never once in my eighteen years had I allowed anyone to make me feel the way I felt now. I resented the tears pooling in my eyes, the nausea rolling in my belly. “I’m aberrant, after all. Erratic.”

  He cursed softly, his eyes fluttering closed. “You were listening.”

  “Of course I was listening. How dare you insult me to justify your own twisted narrative—”

  “Stop. Stop.” His eyes snapped open as he reached for me, gripping my arms, but his hands were gentle. “I told you it doesn’t matter that you’re a witch. I meant it.”

  “Bullshit.” I jerked away from him, watching in acute misery as his hands fell. The next second, I tackled him around the waist, burying my face in his chest. My voice was muffled, broken, as I squeezed him tight. “You didn’t even give me a chance.”

  He held me tighter still, wrapping his body around mine like he could shield me from the world. “This is about magic, not you.”

  “Magic is me. And it’s you too.”

  “No, it isn’t. All those pieces you’re giving up—I want them. I want you. Whole and unharmed.” He pulled away to look at me, those blue eyes blazing with intensity. “I know I can’t ask you to stop using magic, so I won’t. But I can ask it of my mother. I can ask it of myself. And I can”—he brushed a strand of hair from my cheek—“I can ask you to be careful.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Finally, finally, I recoiled from his touch, my heart catching up with my head. “You’re acting like I’m suddenly damaged goods, or—or a piece of glass about to shatter. News flash—I’ve practiced magic all my life. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Lou.” He reached for me again, but I swatted his hand away. Those eyes burned brighter, hotter. “You haven’t been yourself.”

  “You see what you want to see.”

  “Do you think I want to see you as—”

  “As what? As evil?”

  He gripped my shoulders hard. “You are not evil.”

  “Of course I’m not.” I wiped a
tear from my eye before it could fall, before he could see. Never before had I allowed myself to feel small, to feel ashamed, and I refused to start now. “You would willingly endanger your life—your mother’s life, your brother’s life—by refusing to use magic on the road?”

  “I’m damned either way.”

  I stared at him for a long moment. The conviction in his eyes shone brutally clear, and it cut deeper than I’d anticipated. That wounded part of me wanted him to suffer for his foolishness. As they were, they’d all die on the road without magic, and if they didn’t, they certainly would in Le Ventre. He was crippling them with prejudice, weakening them with fear. The weak didn’t survive war.

  Reid had to survive.

  “No, you aren’t.” I stepped away from him, resigned, and squared my shoulders. His life was worth more than my wounded pride. Later—when all of this was over—I’d show him how wrong he was about magic. About me. “Before the pub exploded, Claud Deveraux offered help if I should ever need it. His traveling troupe leaves for Cesarine tonight. You’ll join him.”

  Troupe De Fortune

  Reid

  The others protested little to Lou’s solution.

  I wished they would. Perhaps she’d listen to them. She certainly hadn’t listened to me. When we’d packed our belongings—a whirlwind of mud, snow, and blood—I’d tried to reason with her to no avail.

  This entire scheme, albeit clever, depended on one thing: Claud Deveraux.

  We didn’t know Claud Deveraux. More important, he knew us—or at least he seemed to know Lou. He’d been infatuated with her at the pub. He’d also seen her use magic. He knew she was a witch. Though I’d learned witches weren’t inherently evil, the rest of the kingdom had not. If he helped us, what sort of person did that make him?

  “Your salvation,” Lou had said, stuffing my bedroll into my pack. “Look, he saved our asses tonight. He could’ve let us die, but he didn’t. He obviously doesn’t wish us harm, which is more than we can say about anyone else—and no one will think to look for you in a troupe of actors. You’ll be hidden without magic.”

  She hurried down the hill toward Saint-Loire now. The others followed. I lingered behind, glancing back at the forest’s edge. A single snowflake fell from the sky—still thick and heavy with clouds—and landed on my cheek. An eerie silence fell over the forest in its wake. Like the calm before the storm. As I turned away, two luminescent eyes reflected in my periphery. Large. Silver. I spun, the hair on my neck rising, but there was nothing except trees and shadows.

  I strode after the others.

  Actors bustled around the village square, hauling trunks, instruments, and props in preparation for departure. Claud Deveraux directed them. He flitted to and fro, clapping his hands in delight. As if there were nothing bizarre about packing in the dead of night, nor leaving before a storm.

  Lou hesitated in the alley, watching. We all stopped with her.

  “What is it?” I murmured, but she shushed me as Claud Deveraux spoke.

  “Come, Zenna!” He bounded toward a plump woman with lavender hair. “We must depart before sunrise! Dame Fortune favors only those who begin their journeys under the new moon!”

  I blinked more snowflakes from my eyes.

  “Right,” Zenna muttered, tossing an instrument into the smaller wagon. She wore a peculiar cloak. Deep purple. Perhaps blue. It glittered with what looked like stars. Constellations. “Except Dame Fortune abandoned Cesarine years ago.”

  “Ah, ah.” Monsieur Deveraux waggled his finger at her reprovingly. “Never despair. Perhaps she will join us there.”

  “Or perhaps we’ll be burned at the stake.”

  “Absurdité! The people of Cesarine need their spirits lifted. Who better to lift them than we? Soon, we shall whisk the patrons of La Mascarade des Crânes away to a world of frivolity and fantasy.”

  “Brilliant.” Zenna pinched the bridge of her nose. Though her coloring resembled Coco’s, her skin was scarless. She might’ve been attractive, but heavy cosmetics—kohl around her eyes, rouge on her lips—hid her true features.

  “Seraphine and I deserve three percent of the cover to make this worth our while, Claud,” she continued. “We’re walking straight into Hell for this funeral, flames and all.”

  “Of course, of course.” He waved his hand, already turning away to hurrah another actor. “But let’s make it four.”

  Coco nudged Lou. This time, Lou didn’t hesitate. “Bonjour, Monsieur Deveraux. You already know me from this evening, but my name isn’t Lucida. It’s Louise le Blanc, and these are my friends, Reid and Ansel Diggory, Cosette Monvoisin, Beauregard Lyon, and Helene Labelle.”

  Louise le Blanc. Not Louise Diggory. I kept my gaze forward. Impassive.

  His brows lifted, and his eyes sparked with recognition. With surprise. They flitted over each of us before landing again on Lou. “Well, well, we meet again, little one! How delightfully unexpected.”

  The other actors paused in loading their luggage to watch us. Only two trunks remained on the ground, one too full to properly latch. Glittering fabric spilled out of it. Fuchsia feathers fluttered to the snow.

  Lou flashed him a charming smile. “I’m here to accept your offer of help if it still stands.”

  “Oh?”

  “Oh.” She nodded and extended her arms to the wanted posters tacked around us. To the smoking remains of the pub. “You may not have noticed earlier, but my friends and I have made quite the impression on His Royal Majesty.”

  “Killing the Holy Father will do that,” the young woman behind Deveraux said softly. She’d woven flowers through her curly hair and clutched a cross pendant at her throat. I averted my eyes, struggled against the rising emotion. It clawed through my chest, abrupt and untethered.

  Lou’s smile sharpened on the woman. “Do you know how many of my sisters your Holy Father killed?”

  The woman shrank into herself. “I—I—”

  Ansel touched Lou’s arm, shaking his head. I stared at the feathers. Watched as the snow seeped into the delicate pink filaments. Just another moment. I just needed another moment to regain control, to master myself. Then my hand would replace Ansel’s. I would help Lou remember. I would forget this withering, thrashing creature in my chest—

  The curly-haired woman drew herself up to her full height. She was taller than Lou. Nearly as tall as Madame Labelle. “He still didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

  You were like a son to me, Reid.

  My breath caught, and the beast raged. I retreated further. As if sensing my distress, Lou stepped in front of me. “Oh? What did he deserve?”

  “Lou,” Ansel murmured. A part of me registered his glance in my direction. “Don’t.”

  “Right. Of course, you’re right.” Shaking her head, Lou patted his hand and returned her attention to Deveraux. The curly-haired woman watched us with wide eyes. “We need transport into Cesarine, monsieur. Certain complications have arisen, and the road is no longer safe to travel alone. Do you have room in your wagons for a few more?”

  “Why, of course we—”

  “Only actors ride in the wagons.” Zenna crossed her arms and skewered Claud with a glare. “That’s the rule, isn’t it? That you can’t afford to feed and house us if we don’t perform?” To Lou, she added, “Claud is a collector of sorts. He adds only the best and brightest talent to his troupe. The rare and unusual. The exceptional.”

  Fingerless gingham mittens covered Deveraux’s hands, which he clasped with a smile. “Zenna, my sweet, the exceptional come in all shapes and sizes. Let us discount no one.” He turned to Lou apologetically. “Unfortunately, however nettlesome, a rule is a rule, and a shoe is a shoe. Zenna is correct. I only allow actors to ride with the troupe.” He swayed his head slightly, pursing his lips. “If, however, you and your charming companions take to the stage—in full costume, of course—you would become, in fact, actors—”

  “Claud,” Zenna hissed, “they’re fugitives. The huntsmen
will have our heads if we shelter them.”

  He patted her lavender hair airily. “Ah, poppet, aren’t we all? Liars and cheats and poets and dreamers and schemers, every last one.”

  “But not murderers.” A young man stepped forward, tilting his head at me curiously. Tall. Russet-skinned. Long black hair. Beside him stood a man with an uncannily similar face. No—identical. Twins. “Did you do it? Did you kill the Archbishop?”

  My jaw locked. Lou answered for me, arching a brow. “Does it matter? He’s gone either way.”

  He studied her for several seconds before murmuring, “Good riddance.”

  They hated him. Emotion thrashed, demanding admission, but I felt nothing. I felt nothing.

  Deveraux, who watched the exchange—who watched me—with an inscrutable expression, smiled brightly once more. “So, what do you say? Are you, in fact, actors?”

  Lou looked back at me. I nodded. A reflex.

  “Excellent!” Claud parted his hands to the sky in celebration. The snow fell thicker now. Heavier. “And precisely what is your act, Monsieur Diggory? A handsome, gargantuan fellow like yourself is sure to please a crowd, especially”—he leapt to the smaller wagon, pulling forth a pair of leather pants—“in an ensemble such as this. With a fetching wig and top hat, perhaps a bit of kohl around the eyes, you are sure to enthrall the crowd no matter your performance.”

  I stared at him for a second too long. “Er—”

  “He’s a storyteller,” Lou said quickly, loudly, stepping backward to clutch my hand. I recognized her shift in posture. The subtle lilt in her voice. She’d started her performance already. Distracting them from—from me. “He loves stories. And you’re right. He’ll look ravishing in those pants. Shirtless, of course.”

  She smirked and squeezed my fingers.

  “Inspired!” Deveraux tapped his chin as he considered us. “Alas, I’m afraid we already have a storyteller in sweet, sweet Zenna.” He nodded to the lavender-haired woman, who seized this fresh opportunity to protest. Sweetly.

  “See? He’s useless. If it were meant to be, Dame Fortune would’ve sent someone—”