Blood & Honey

by Shelby Mahurin

  Gaby narrowed her eyes and stepped around her, pulling us along with her. “How much do you know about Dames Blanches’ magic, Ansel Diggory?”

  Ismay closed her eyes, lips moving as if praying for patience. Ansel gave her an apologetic smile as we passed. “Not much, I’m afraid. Not yet.”

  “I figured.” Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Gaby harrumphed, but a smug smile played on her lips. “Dames Blanches’ and Dames Rouges’ magic might be different, but it’s also the same because each requires balance. When we spill our blood, we weaken our bodies, which limits us. We surrender little pieces of ourselves with each enchantment, and eventually, we die from it.” She said the last with relish, swinging our hands once more. “Well, if we don’t die from exposure first. Or starvation. Or huntsmen.”

  Ansel frowned, casting me a confused look over her head. I watched as the implication sank in.

  Coco.

  When I nodded sadly, his face crumpled.

  Ismay hurried after us. “Gabrielle, please, we cannot discuss such things with—”

  “That is why blood is the most powerful way,” Gaby continued, determinedly ignoring her. “Because we must sacrifice with each cut, and that makes the enchantments stronger.”

  “Gabrielle—”

  “Blood is easily given.” The words left my mouth before I could catch them. When Gaby peered up at me, surprised, I hesitated. Though she was clearly intelligent, she was also still a child—perhaps only seven or eight years old. And yet . . . she’d also clearly known pain. I repeated the words Coco had told me years ago. “Tears—the pain that causes them—aren’t.”

  They both gazed at me in silence.

  “You—” Behind us, Ismay’s voice faltered. “You know our magic?”

  “Not really.” I stopped walking with a sigh, and Ansel and Gabrielle followed suit. They watched with transparent curiosity as I turned to face Ismay. “But I’ve known Coco for most of my life. When I met her, she was—well, she was trying not to cry.” The memory of her six-year-old face flared in my mind’s eye: the quivering chin, the determined expression, the crumpled sea lily. She’d clutched it with both hands as she’d recounted the argument with her aunt. “But we were six, and the tears fell anyway. When they touched the ground, they sort of multiplied until we were standing in a pond, ankle-deep in mud.”

  Ansel stared at me with wide eyes.

  At long last, Ismay’s hostility seemed to fracture. She sighed and extended a hand to Gabrielle, who took it without complaint. “Long ago, we did experiment with tear magic, but it proved too volatile. The tears often overpowered the additives and transformed them into something else entirely. A simple sleeping solution could send the drinker into a peaceful slumber or . . . a more permanent one. We concluded it depended on the emotions of the witch when she shed the tears in question.”

  As fascinating as her conjecture would’ve been, an inexplicable tugging sensation had started in my chest, distracting me. I glanced around. Nothing seemed amiss. Though we still hadn’t found Etienne, there’d been no signs of foul play—no signs of life anywhere, in fact. Except—

  A crow alighted on a branch in front of us. It tilted its head, curious, and stared directly at me.

  Unease crept down my spine.

  “What is it?” Ansel asked, following my gaze. The crow cawed in response, and the sound echoed loudly around us, reverberating through the trees. Through my bones. Frowning, Ismay drew Gabrielle closer. Nicholina had disappeared.

  “It’s—” I rubbed my chest as the tugging sensation grew stronger. It seemed to be pulling me . . . inward. I dug in my feet, bewildered, and glanced at the sky. Gray light filtered toward us from the east. My heart sank.

  Our time was almost up.

  In one last effort, I called the patterns back to sight. They remained as chaotic as ever. In a spectacular show of temper—or perhaps desperation—I waded through them, determined to find something, anything, that could help locate him before the sun truly rose. Vaguely, I heard Ansel’s concerned voice in the background, but I ignored it. The pressure in my chest built to a breaking point. With each pattern I touched, I gasped, startled by an innate sense of wrongness. It felt . . . it felt as if these weren’t my patterns at all. But that was ludicrous, impossible—

  A speck of white glinted amidst the golden cords.

  As soon as I touched it, a single white cord pulsed to life—wrapping around my fingers, my wrist, my arm—and my sixth sense sharpened to crystal clarity. Finally. With a sigh of relief, I whipped my head east once more, gauging the time we had left.

  “What’s happening?” Ansel asked, alarmed.

  “I found him.”

  Without another word, I tore into the forest, following the white blaze of light. Racing against the sunrise. The others crashed after me, and the crow careened from its branch with an indignant caw! Snow flew everywhere. Fiercely hopeful, invigorated, I couldn’t help but smile.

  “Where is he?” Ismay cried, struggling to keep up.

  “How does it work?” Gaby soon outpaced her. “Your—your pattern?”

  Ansel tripped on a root, nearly decapitating himself on a lower bough. “Why now?”

  I ignored them all, ignoring the burn in my lungs and running faster. We had a chance now—a real chance to procure this alliance. The white pattern continued to pulse, leading me closer and closer to victory, and I nearly crowed in triumph. La Voisin hadn’t expected me to find him. I’d prove her wrong, prove them all wrong.

  My certainty punctured slightly as the trees thinned around us and the first tents of camp came into view.

  “He’s—he’s here?” Face flushed and breath heavy, Ismay looked around wildly. “Where? I don’t see him.”

  I slowed as the pattern wove through the campsite—between firepits and caged animals, past Coco and Babette—before curving down the slope toward . . .

  Toward our tent.

  I stumbled those last few steps, rounding the corner and skidding to a halt. The pattern burst in a cloud of glittering white dust, and my blood ran cold. Ismay’s scream confirmed what I already knew.

  Propped against the pole of our tent was the corpse of a young man with auburn hair.

  The Fool

  Reid

  “Er—” Toulouse blinked at me the next morning, his baguette still caught between his teeth. Hastily, he tore off a chunk, chewed, and swallowed—then choked. Thierry thumped his back with silent laughter. I still hadn’t heard him speak a word. “Come again?”

  “Your tattoo,” I repeated stiffly. Heat crept up my neck at the awkwardness. I’d never needed to make friends before. I’d never even needed to get to know someone. I’d simply always known Célie and Jean Luc. And Lou . . . suffice it to say, there’d never been any awkward silences in our relationship. She always filled them. “What does it mean?”

  Toulouse’s black eyes still watered. “Straight to the personal questions, eh?”

  “It’s on your face.”

  “Touché.” He grinned, contorting the tattoo on his cheek. Small. Golden. A rose. It gleamed metallic. When I’d sat next to him and his brother to break my fast, it’d been the first thing I’d seen. The first question out of my mouth. My neck still burned. Perhaps it hadn’t been the right question to ask. Perhaps it’d been too . . . personal. How could I have known? He’d inked the thing right on his cheek.

  Across the fire, Madame Labelle ate her morning meal—cantal cheese and salted ham—with Zenna and Seraphine. Clearly, she hoped to befriend them like she hoped I’d befriend the St. Martins. Her attempts had been met with more enthusiasm than my own; Zenna preened under her praise, swelling like a peacock. Even Seraphine seemed reluctantly pleased at the attention. Behind them, Beau cursed. Deveraux had coerced him into helping with the horses, and it sounded as though he’d just stepped in dung.

  My morning could’ve been worse.

  Slightly mollified, I returned my attention to Toulouse and Thierry.

&n
bsp; When they’d entered the amber wagon last night, I’d feigned sleep, torn with indecision. It still didn’t sit right, my mother’s plan. It still felt deceitful to feign friendship. But if deceit would defeat Morgane, if it would help Lou, I could pretend. I could tolerate magic.

  I could befriend whoever wielded it here.

  Toulouse drew a deck from his pocket, flicking a single card toward me. I caught it instinctively. In thick paints of black, white, and gold, the card depicted a boy standing on a cliff. He held a rose in his hand. A dog stood at his feet.

  My first instinct was to recoil. The Church had never tolerated tarot cards. The Archbishop had counseled King Auguste to ban all variety of them from Cesarine years ago. He’d claimed their divination mocked the omniscience of God. He’d claimed those who partook in them would be damned to Hell.

  He’d claimed so many things.

  I cleared my throat, feigning interest. “What is it?”

  “The Fool.” Toulouse tapped the rose on his cheek. “First card I ever drew. I inked it as a reminder of my innocence.” My eyes honed in on his hands. Black symbols decorated the skin there—one tattoo on each of his knuckles. I vaguely recognized a bolt of lightning. A shield. “The Major Arcana cards,” he explained. “Twenty-two in all. Ten on my fingers. Ten on my toes. One on my cheek, and one . . . elsewhere.”

  He expected a laugh at that. Too late, I forced a chuckle. The sound came out dry, rough, like a cough. He and Thierry exchanged an amused glance at my expense, and I ground my teeth in frustration. I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to transition smoothly to another topic. God, why wouldn’t they say something? Another silence threatened to loom. Panicked, I glanced at my mother, who stared at me in disbelief. When she waved her hand impatiently, mouthing, Go on, Zenna didn’t hide her snicker. Seraphine, however, pulled a Bible from her bag and started reading.

  My stomach clenched.

  “Uh . . .” I trailed off, not quite sure how to finish. Are you both witches? How long have you known? Did your powers manifest after brutally killing your patriarch? Will you join us in a battle to the death against Morgane? Each question rattled around my brain, but somehow, I didn’t think they’d appreciate them. Unfortunately, they didn’t seem inclined to end my suffering, either. And their smiles—they were almost too benign. Like they enjoyed watching me squirm.

  I’d probably tried to kill them at some point.

  Turning quickly to Thierry, I blurted, “What’s your act?”

  Thierry’s eyes, black and fathomless, bore into my own. He didn’t answer. I cringed in the silence. My voice had been too loud, too curt. A shout instead of a civil question. At least Beau hadn’t yet returned to witness my failure. He would’ve laughed himself hoarse. The mighty Reid Diggory—youngest captain of the Chasseurs, recipient of four Medals of Honor for bravery and outstanding service—laid low at last by small talk with strangers. What a joke.

  “He doesn’t speak,” Toulouse said after another painful moment. “Not like you and I do.”

  I latched onto his answer like a lifeline. “Why not?”

  “Curiosity killed the cat, you know.” With a flick of his wrist, he cut the cards, shuffling them with lightning speed.

  I returned his polite smile with one of my own. “I’m not a cat.”

  “Fair enough.” He bridged the deck together. “My brother and I are resident psychics here at Troupe de Fortune.”

  “Psychics?”

  “That’s right. I’m reading your thoughts at this very moment, but I promise not to share. Spilling a person’s secrets is a lot like spilling their blood. Once it’s done, it’s done. There’s no going back.”

  I frowned. They weren’t the same thing at all. “Have you ever spilled blood?”

  His gaze flicked to Thierry for half a second—less than half a second—but I still saw. He kept smiling. “That’s none of your business, friend.”

  I stared at him. Psychics. That sounded like magic to me. My gaze flicked surreptitiously over their clothes. Unlike the others’, theirs were dark. Simple. Unremarkable. The clothing of men who didn’t want to be remembered. I leaned closer under the pretense of examining Toulouse’s deck. This close, I could smell the faint earth on his shirt. The even fainter sweetness on his skin. His hair.

  “You admit it, then,” I said carefully. The scent itself wasn’t proof. It could’ve lingered on him from another. Claud himself had a peculiar smell. “You use . . . magic.”

  Toulouse stopped shuffling. If possible, his smile grew—like he’d been waiting for this. Wariness tightened my neck, my shoulders, as he resumed snapping his cards. “An interesting question from a Chasseur.”

  “I’m not a Chasseur.” The tightness built. “Not anymore.”

  “Really?” He held a card in the air, its face pointed away from me. “Tell me, what card is this?”

  I stared at him, confused.

  “Your reputation proceeds you, Captain Diggory.” He slipped it back into the deck. Still smiling. Always smiling. “I was there, you know. In Gévaudan.”

  My heart skipped a painful beat.

  “Troupe de Fortune had just finished our last performance of the season. There was one boy in the audience—couldn’t have been more than sixteen—who just adored the cards. He must’ve visited us—what—three times that night?” He looked to Thierry, who nodded. “He couldn’t afford a full spread, so I pulled a single card for him each time. The same card for him each time.” His smile hardened into a grimace, as did mine. My shoulders ached with tension. In the next second, however, he brightened once more. “I couldn’t show it to him, of course. It would’ve frightened him out of his wits. The next morning, we found him dead along the side of Les Dents, left to rot in the sun like roadkill. A Chasseur had cut off his head. I heard he leveraged it for a pretty captaincy.”

  “Let me tell you”—Toulouse shook his head, scratched his neck absently—“the Beast of Gévaudan didn’t take it well. A friend of mine said you could hear his howls of rage and grief all the way in Cesarine.”

  I cast a furtive glance at my mother. He still saw.

  Leaning forward on his elbows, he spoke softly. “She doesn’t know, does she? None of them do. For someone who has never performed, you’re doing a fine job of it.”

  Significance laced his voice. I didn’t like his implication.

  Thierry watched us impassively.

  “They think Blaise will help you kill Morgane,” Toulouse said, leaning closer still. “But I don’t think Blaise will ever ally with the man who killed his son. Perhaps I’m wrong, though. It’s happened before. For instance, I thought only Chasseurs were in the business of killing witches, yet here you are.” His eyes fell to the Balisarda still strapped to my chest. “Not a Chasseur.”

  My fingers curled around the hilt protectively. “It’s a powerful weapon. It’d be foolish to stop carrying it.” The words sounded defensive, even to me. At his superior expression, I added, “And killing Morgane is different. She wants to kill us too.”

  “So much killing,” he mused, flipping the card between his fingers. I still couldn’t see its face. Only the gold and black paints on its back. They swirled together into the shape of a skull—a leering skull with roses in its eyes and a snake twined between its teeth. “You say you’re no longer a Chasseur. Prove it. What card am I holding in my hand?”

  Jaw clenched, I ignored the soft hiss in my ear. “You’re the psychic. How should I know?”

  Seek us, seek us, seek us.

  His smile finally slipped. A cold stare replaced it, chilling me to the bone. “Let me be clear. Claud may trust you, but I don’t. It’s nothing personal,” he added, shrugging. “I don’t trust anyone—it’s how people like us stay alive, isn’t it?”

  People like us.

  The words hung between us, sentient, and the hiss in my ear grew louder, more insistent. We have found the lost ones. The lost ones are here. Seek us, seek us, seek us—

  “I kn
ow what you want from me,” he said, voice hard with finality, “so I’ll ask you one last time: What card am I holding?”

  “I don’t know,” I ground out, slamming the door on the voices, retreating from their unholy shrieks. My hands shook with the effort. Sweat beaded my brow.

  “Tell me if you figure it out.” Toulouse’s lips pressed tight in disappointment. He returned the card to his deck, rising to his feet. Thierry shadowed his movements. “Until then, I’d appreciate if you stay away from me, Captain. Oh, and”—he flashed another smile, casting a sly look in my mother’s direction—“good luck with your performance.”

  Blood Drops

  Lou

  The blood witches called it pendency—the time between this life and the next. “The soul remains earthbound until the ashes ascend,” Gabrielle murmured, holding a cup of her mother’s blood. Identical in their grief, their cheeks were pale, their eyes wet and swollen. I couldn’t fathom their pain.

  Etienne Gilly hadn’t died of exposure or starvation.

  His body had been burned beyond recognition, except—

  Except for his head.

  Ansel had vomited when it’d tumbled from Etienne’s charred shoulders, rolling to touch my boots. I’d nearly succumbed as well. The hacked flesh of his throat communicated unspeakable torment, and I didn’t want to imagine which horror he’d suffered first—being burned or decapitated alive. Worse still, the witches’ horrified whispers had confirmed Etienne hadn’t been the first. A handful of similar tales had plagued the countryside since Modraniht, and all the victims shared a common thread: rumors of their mothers once dallying with the king.

  Someone was targeting the king’s children. Torturing them.

  My hands stilled in Gaby’s hair, my eyes flicking to where Coco and Babette stood watch over Etienne’s pyre. He was little more than ashes now.

  Upon finding his body, La Voisin hadn’t been kind.