Blood & Honey

by Shelby Mahurin

  “Enough,” Coco said impatiently, shoving her away. “Show us to our tents. It’s late. We’ll speak with my aunt after we’ve slept. That’s an order, Nicholina.”

  “Tent.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Tent,” Nicholina repeated. She bobbed her head, resuming her maniacal performance. “Tent, tent, tent. A single tent is what I meant. One tent to share without dissent—”

  “Share?” Ansel’s eyes widened in alarm, darting to Coco. He released me to run a nervous hand through his hair, to tug at the hem of his coat. “We’re sharing a tent? To—to sleep?”

  “No, to fu—” I started cheerfully, but Coco interrupted.

  “Why one tent?”

  Shrugging, Nicholina wafted backward, away from us. We had no choice but to follow. The blood witches’ gazes fell hard upon me as we passed, but all bared their throats to Coco in a gesture identical to Nicholina’s earlier one. I’d seen this submission only once before tonight—when La Voisin had caught Coco and me playing together on the shore of L’Eau Mélancolique. She’d been furious, nearly dislocating Coco’s shoulder in her haste to drag her away from me. Coco had showed her throat quicker than an omega showed its belly.

  It’d unsettled me then, and it unsettled me now.

  Echoing my thoughts, Ansel whispered, “Why do they do that?”

  “It’s a sign of respect and submission.” We trailed several paces behind Coco and Nicholina. “Sort of like how you bow to royalty. When they bare their throats, they’re offering Coco their blood.”

  “But . . . submission?”

  After Coco had passed, the witches resumed glaring at our backs. I couldn’t say I blamed them. I was a Dame Blanche, and Ansel had trained to be a Chasseur. Though La Voisin had allowed us to enter her camp, we were no more welcome than Reid had been.

  “If Coco drank your blood right now,” I explained, “she’d be able to control you. Temporarily, of course. But the Dames Rouges offer it to her and La Voisin freely. They’re royalty here.”

  “Right.” Ansel swallowed hard. “Royalty.”

  “La princesse.” Winking, I pinched his arm. “But still Coco.”

  He didn’t look convinced.

  “Why one tent, Nicholina?” Coco’s hands curled into fists when Nicholina continued to hum under her breath. Apparently, her position as La Voisin’s personal attendant afforded her more defiance. “Tell me.”

  “You left us, princesse. Left us to rot. Now there’s not enough food or blankets or cots. We die by the hour from cold or hunger. ’Tis a pity you couldn’t have stayed away longer.”

  At Nicholina’s chilling smile, Coco missed a step, but I steadied her with a hand on her back. When she pulled me to her side, lacing her fingers through mine, relief flooded through me. “Why does my aunt need to see us right now?” she asked, her frown deepening. “What can’t wait?”

  Nicholina cackled. “The son disappeared with the sun, went to rest below the rock. But he didn’t come home, his body is gone, and vultures have started to flock.”

  “We don’t speak wraith,” I said flatly.

  Coco—who possessed patience vastly superior to my own—didn’t ask for clarification. Instead, her face twisted. “Who is it?”

  “Who was it,” Nicholina corrected her, her mouth still contorted in that disturbing smile. It was too large, too fixed, too—bloody. “He’s dead, he’s dead, my mice have said. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.”

  Well. I supposed that explained the weeping woman.

  Nicholina drifted to a halt outside a small, threadbare tent at the edge of camp, separate from the rest. It overlooked the cliff’s edge. In daylight, the sun’s rays would warm this place, bathing the snow in a golden glow. With the uninhibited view of the mountains behind, the scene could’ve been beautiful, even in darkness.

  Except for the vultures circling above.

  We watched them dip lower and lower in ominous silence—until Coco tore her hand from mine and planted it on her hip. “You said he’s missing,” she said fiercely. “Missing, not dead. We’ll speak with my aunt now. If she’s organizing search parties, we’ll join them. He might still be out there somewhere.”

  Nicholina nodded with glee. “Freezing to death slowly. Sloooowly.”

  “Right.” Coco tossed her bag into our tent without looking inside. “Who is it, Nicholina? How long has he been missing?” Without warning, her bag came sailing back at her, knocking into the side of her head. She spun and swore violently. “What the—?”

  From our tent stepped Babette Dubuisson.

  Virtually unrecognizable without her thick makeup—and with her golden hair piled atop her head—she’d lost weight since we’d last seen her in Cesarine. Her scars shone silver against her ivory skin. Though fondness warmed her expression as she gazed at Coco, she did not smile. “We have known him as Etienne Gilly after his darling mother, Ismay Gilly.”

  Coco stepped forward, her relief palpable as they embraced. “Babette. You’re here.”

  I frowned, feeling a bit as if I’d missed the bottom step on a staircase. Though Roy and his friends had confirmed our suspicions, muttering about curfews and suspicious womenfolk in Cesarine, I hadn’t spared a thought for Babette or her safety. But Coco obviously had. My frown deepened. I considered Babette a friend—albeit in the loosest definition of the word—and I cared about what happened to her.

  Didn’t I?

  “Bonjour, mon amour.” Babette kissed Coco’s cheek before resting her forehead against hers. “I have missed you.” When they parted, Babette eyed the fresh slash at my throat. I hadn’t been able to salvage my ribbon. “And bonjour to you too, Louise. Your hair is répugnant, but I am happy to see you alive and well.”

  I offered her a wary smile, Reid’s words returning with frightful clarity. You haven’t been yourself. “Alive, indeed,” I mused, smile fading. “But perhaps not well.”

  “Nonsense. In times such as these, if you are alive, you are well.” Returning her attention to Coco, she sighed deeply. The sound lacked her signature melodrama. No, this sober, bare-faced woman—with her tattered clothing and tangled hair—was not the Babette I’d always known. “But perhaps more than we can say of poor Etienne. You believe he still lives, mon amour, but I fear for his life—and not from the cold. Though we have known him by his mother, to the rest of the kingdom, Etienne Gilly would be known as Etienne Lyon. He is the king’s bastard son, and he never returned from the morning hunt.”

  Larger than the others, La Voisin’s tent had been pitched in the center of the clearing. Several wooden cages circled the ground around it, and glowing eyes reflected back at us. A fox lunged at the bars as we passed, snarling, and Ansel leapt into me with a squeak. When Babette snickered, Ansel blushed to the roots of his hair.

  “Are these . . . pets?” he asked weakly.

  “They’re for blood,” Coco said shortly. “And divination.”

  Nicholina glowered at Coco’s explanation—probably a betrayal in her mind—before parting the bundles of dried sage hanging from the tent entrance. Babette pecked each of Coco’s cheeks.

  “I will find you after, mon amour. We have much to discuss.”

  Coco held her a second longer than necessary before they parted.

  Inside, La Voisin stood behind a makeshift table, a smudge stick smoldering gently before her. Nicholina drifted to her side, picking up a rabbit’s skin in one hand and a bloody knife in the other. The poor creature’s various organs had been spread across most of the table. I tried to ignore her licking its blood from her fingers.

  La Voisin looked up from the book she’d been studying and fixed me with a cold stare. I blinked, startled at the smoothness of her face. She hadn’t aged a day since I’d last seen her. Though she must’ve been thrice our age, no lines marred her brow or lips, and her hair—pinned back in a severe chignon—remained as black as the moonless night sky.

  My scalp prickled as I remembered the wicked rumors about her at
Chateau le Blanc: how she ate the hearts of babies to stay young, how she journeyed to L’Eau Mélancolique each year to drink the blood of a melusine—no, to bathe in it.

  A long moment of silence passed as she studied Coco and me, her dark eyes glittering in the candlelight. Just as Nicholina’s had done, her gaze lingered on me, tracing the contours of my face, the scar at my throat. I stared resolutely back at her.

  She didn’t acknowledge Ansel.

  Coco finally cleared her throat. “Bonjour, tante.”

  “Cosette.” La Voisin closed the book with a snap. “You deign to visit at last. I see the circumstances finally suit you.”

  I watched in disbelief as Coco stared at her feet, immediately contrite. “Je suis désolée. I would’ve come sooner, but I . . . I couldn’t leave my friends.”

  La Voisin strode around the table, parting the smudge smoke in waves. She halted in front of Coco, grasping her chin and tilting her face toward the candlelight. Coco met her gaze reluctantly, and La Voisin frowned at whatever she saw there. “Your kin have been dying while you cavorted with your friends.”

  “Babette told me of Etienne. We can—”

  “I do not speak of Etienne.”

  “Then who . . . ?”

  “Sickness took Delphine and Marie. Only last week, Denys passed from exposure. His mother left him to forage for food. He tried to follow.” Her eyes hardened to glittering chips of obsidian. She dropped Coco’s chin. “Do you remember him? He was not yet two years old.”

  Coco’s breath hitched, and nausea churned in my own belly.

  “I’m—” Coco stopped then, reconsidering. A wise decision. La Voisin didn’t want her apology. She wanted her to suffer. To stew. Abruptly, Coco turned to me. “Lou, you—you remember my aunt, Josephine Monvoisin.” She gestured between us helplessly. Taking pity on her, I nodded and forced a smile. It felt disrespectful after such a revelation.

  “Bonjour, Madame Monvoisin.” I didn’t extend my throat. As children, Coco’s first lesson to me had been simple: never offer my blood to a Dame Rouge. Especially her aunt, who loathed Morgane and the Dames Blanches perhaps even more than I did. “Thank you for granting us an audience.”

  She stared at me for another long moment. “You look like your mother.”

  Coco quickly charged onward. “And this—this is Ansel Diggory. He’s—”

  La Voisin still didn’t acknowledge him. Her eyes never strayed from mine. “I know who he is.”

  “A baby huntsman.” Licking her bottom lip, Nicholina edged closer, her eyes hungry and bright. “He is pretty, oh yes.”

  “He’s not a huntsman.” Coco’s voice cut sharp enough to draw blood. “He never was.”

  “And that”—La Voisin’s lip curled in unconcealed disdain—“is the only reason he remains alive.”

  At her aunt’s black look, Coco cleared her throat hastily. “You . . . you said Etienne isn’t dead. Does that mean you’ve found him?”

  “We have not.” If possible, La Voisin’s expression further darkened, and the shadows in the tent seemed to press closer. The candles flickered. And her book—it moved. I stared at it with wide eyes. Though barely perceptible, the black cover had definitely twitched. La Voisin stroked its spine before reaching inside to remove a piece of parchment. On it, someone had drawn a crude map of La Fôret des Yeux. I leaned closer to examine it, despite my unease. Blood spatters dotted the trees of ink. “Our tracking spell revealed he is alive, but something—or someone—has cloaked his exact location.” When her black eyes fixed on mine, my chest tightened inexplicably. “We searched the general area in shifts yesterday, but he was not there. We have expanded our search tonight.”

  I crossed my arms to keep from fidgeting. “Could he not have left on his own?”

  “His mother and sister reside here. He would not have left without saying goodbye.”

  “We all know filial relationships can be fraught—”

  “He disappeared just after I agreed to meet with you.”

  “A weird coincidence—”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences.” She studied us impassively as we shuffled shoulder to shoulder in front of her—like naughty schoolchildren. A situation made worse by Coco and Ansel towering over me on either side. I tried and failed to stand a little taller. “Your message said you seek an alliance with our coven,” she continued. I nodded. “It said Reid Labelle journeys to Le Ventre as we speak, seeking a similar alliance with the loup garou. From there, you plan to approach the king in Cesarine.”

  A tendril of satisfaction curled through me. Reid Labelle. Not Reid Diggory or Reid Lyon. The name felt . . . right. Of course, if we adhered to the customs of our kin, he’d have the choice of becoming Reid le Blanc instead. If . . . if we handfasted properly, this time.

  “That’s correct.”

  “My answer is no.”

  I blinked, startled at her abrupt dismissal, but she’d already returned her attention to the map, tucking it back within her creepy little book. Nicholina giggled. In my periphery, she held the dead rabbit by its front paws, making its limp body dance. Heat washed through me, and my hands curled into fists. “I don’t understand.”

  “It is simple.” Her black eyes met mine with a calm that made me want to scream. “You will fail. I will not jeopardize my kin for your foolish quest.”

  “Aunt Josephine—” Coco started, pleading, but La Voisin waved a curt hand.

  “I read the portents. I will not concede.”

  I struggled to keep my voice even. “Was it the rabbit’s bladder that convinced you?”

  “I do not expect you to understand the burden of ruling a people. Either of you.” She glanced at Coco, arching a brow, and Coco ducked her chin. I wanted to claw out La Voisin’s eyes. “Every death in this camp is on my hands, and I cannot risk evoking Morgane’s wrath. Not for you. Not even for my niece.”

  The heat in my belly built, growing hotter and hotter until I nearly burst. My voice, however, remained cold. “Why did you bring us here if you aren’t even willing to listen?”

  “I owe you nothing, Louise le Blanc. Do not mistake me. You stand here—alive and well—only by my benevolence. That benevolence is quickly waning. My people and I will not join you. Knowing this, you may now leave. Cosette, however, will stay.”

  And there it was. The real reason she’d brought us here—to forbid Coco from leaving.

  Coco stiffened as if her aunt’s black eyes had quite literally pinned her there. “Too long you have forsaken your duties, Cosette,” La Voisin said. “Too long you have protected your enemies over your people.” She spat the last, planting her palms against the table. Her nails bit into the wood. Beside her, the black book seemed to quiver in anticipation. “It ends now. You are the Princesse Rouge, and you will act as such from this moment onward. Begin by escorting Louise and her companion from our camp.”

  My jaw unlocked. “We’re not leaving—”

  “Until they find Etienne,” Coco finished, straightening her shoulders. Her arm brushed mine in the barest of touches. Trust me, it seemed to say. I clamped my mouth shut again. “They want to help, tante. They’ll leave only after they’ve found him—and if they do, you’ll give them your alliance.”

  “And Coco will come with us,” I added, unable to help myself. “If she so chooses.”

  La Voisin’s eyes narrowed. “I have given my final word.”

  Coco wouldn’t hear it, however. Though her fingers trembled slightly, she approached the table, lowering her voice. We could all still hear her. “Our magic cannot find him. Maybe hers can.” Her voice pitched lower still, but gained strength. “Together, we can defeat Morgane, tante. We can return to the Chateau. All of this—the cold, the sickness, the death—it’ll end.”

  “I will not ally with enemies,” La Voisin insisted, but she cast a quick glance in my direction. Her brows furrowed. “I will not ally with werewolves and huntsmen.”

  “We share a common enemy. That makes us friends.�
� To my surprise, Coco reached out and clutched La Voisin’s hand. Now it was the latter’s turn to stiffen. “Accept our help. Let us find Etienne. Please.”

  La Voisin studied us for a moment that felt like eternity. At long last, she pulled her hand from Coco’s grasp. “If you find Etienne,” she said, lips pursing, “I will consider your proposition.” At Ansel’s and my sighs of relief, she added sharply, “You have until sunrise. If you have not found him by then, you will leave this camp without argument. Agreed?”

  Indignant, I opened my mouth to argue such a ridiculous timeframe—less than a handful of hours—but something brushed my ankle. I glanced down in surprise. “Absalon? What are you . . . ?” Hardly daring to hope, I whirled toward the tent entrance, but there was no towering, copper-haired man standing there, no half smiles or clenched jaws or flushed cheeks. I frowned.

  He wasn’t here.

  Disappointment bit deep. Then confusion. Matagots generally stayed with those who’d attracted them. Unless . . .

  “Do you have a message for me?” I asked, frown deepening. A tendril of panic bloomed. Had something already gone wrong on the road? Had he been recognized, captured, discovered as a witch? A million possibilities sparked in my mind, spreading like wildfire. “What is it, Absalon? Tell me.”

  He merely meowed and wove between my ankles, human intelligence gleaming in his feline eyes. As I stared at him, bewildered, the last of my anger sizzled away. He hadn’t stayed with Reid. He hadn’t come to deliver a message. Instead, he’d simply . . . come. Here. He’d come here. And that meant—

  “You named the matagot?” La Voisin blinked once, the only outward sign of her surprise.

  “Everyone deserves a name,” I said faintly. They’re drawn to like creatures. Troubled souls. Someone here must have attracted him. Absalon stood on his hind paws, kneading the thick leather of my pants with his front. Instinctively, I knelt to scratch behind his ear. A low purr built in his throat. “He didn’t tell me his, so I improvised.”

  Coco’s brows knitted together as she glanced between me and Ansel—clearly trying to decide who the matagot had followed here—but La Voisin only smiled, small and suggestive. “You are not what I expected, Louise le Blanc.”