Blood & Honey

by Shelby Mahurin

  Coco bore the worst of it, though her aunt had made it clear she blamed me. After all, Etienne had disappeared when she’d agreed to harbor me. His body had been placed at my tent. And I’d—I’d been led to him, somehow, by the white pattern. In the ensuing chaos—the panic, the screams—I’d quickly realized it wasn’t mine. It’d been inside my head, inside my sight, yet it hadn’t belonged to me. My stomach still rolled at the violation.

  This was my mother’s handiwork. All of it. But why?

  The question plagued me, consuming my thoughts. Why here? Why now? Had she abandoned her plan to sacrifice me? Had she decided to make the kingdom suffer bit by bit, child by child, instead of killing them all at once?

  A small, ugly part of me wept with relief at the possibility, but . . . she’d cut off Etienne’s head. She’d burned him and left him at my tent. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  It was a message—another sick move in a game I didn’t understand.

  She’d wanted me to know he’d suffered. She’d wanted me to know it was my fault. Should you attempt to flee, she’d told me, I will butcher your huntsman and feed you his heart. I hadn’t heeded her warning. I’d fled anyway, and I’d taken my huntsman with me. Could this be her retaliation?

  Could this heinous evil be less for the king and more for me?

  With a deep breath, I resumed braiding Gaby’s hair. My questions could wait just a few more hours. Morgane could wait. After the ascension this evening, we’d leave to rejoin Reid on the road in the morning—with or without La Voisin’s alliance. The plan had changed. If Morgane was actively hunting the king’s children, Reid and Beau were in graver danger than we’d anticipated. I needed to find them, tell them her plan, but first . . .

  Gaby watched in silence as Ismay dipped a finger into the blood, as she added a strange symbol to the whitewashed pot in her lap. Though I didn’t understand the ritual, the marks she painted felt ancient and pure and . . . mournful. No—more than mournful. Anguished. Completely and irrevocably heartbroken. Gaby sniffed, wiping her eyes.

  I couldn’t leave her. Not yet—and not just because of her grief.

  If Reid and Beau were in danger, she was too. Morgane had just proved she could slip through La Voisin’s defenses.

  Ansel tucked his knees to his chin, watching in silence as Ismay continued to cover the white pot with blood. When they’d finished, Ismay excused herself, and Gaby turned to me. “Did you get your alliance?”

  “Gaby, don’t worry about—”

  “Did you?”

  I finished her braid, tying it with a scarlet ribbon. “La Voisin hasn’t decided.”

  Her brown eyes were earnest. “But you made a deal.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her there’d been quite a bit of gray area in that deal—like whether I’d found her brother dead or alive, for instance. I flicked her braid over her shoulder. “It’ll all work out.”

  Satisfied with my answer, she fixed her attention on Ansel next. “I can read their lips, if you like.” Startled from his reverie, he blushed and tore his gaze from Coco. “They aren’t talking about anything exciting, though.” She leaned forward, pursing her lips in concentration. “Something about Chasseurs burning down a brothel. Whatever that is.” Sitting back once more, she patted Ansel’s knee. “I like the princesse, even though some people don’t. I hope she kisses you. That’s what you want, isn’t it? I only want it to happen if you want it to happen—and if she wants it to happen too. My maman says that’s called consent—”

  “Why do some people dislike Coco?” I asked, ignoring Ansel’s wide-eyed mortification. Irritation pricked dangerously close to anger at her implication, and I glared at the few blood witches around us. “They should revere her. She’s their princesse.”

  Gaby toyed with her ribbon. “Oh, it’s because her mother betrayed us, and we’ve wandered the wilderness ever since. It happened a long time ago, though, before I was born. Probably even before Cosette was born.”

  A sickening wave of regret swept through me.

  In all the years Coco and I had known each other, we’d never spoken of her mother. I’d always assumed the woman was a Dame Blanche—Dames Rouges were incredibly rare, born as unpredictably as those with color blindness or albinism—but I’d never sought her out at the Chateau as a child. I hadn’t wanted to look upon a mother who could abandon her own daughter.

  The irony of my own situation wasn’t lost on me.

  “La Voisin always goes on and on about how we ruled this land from its conception, long before the gods poisoned it with dead magic,” Gaby continued. Her imitation of La Voisin’s low voice and rigid calm was uncanny. “I’m assuming that means she’s ancient. I think she eats the hearts with Nicholina, but Maman forbids me from saying so.” When she glanced after her mother, her chin wobbled a bit.

  “Do it again,” I said quickly, hoping to distract her. “Another impression. You were wonderful.”

  She brightened slightly before twisting her face in an exaggerated scowl. “Gabrielle, I do not expect you to understand the legacy of what has always been and what will always be, but please, refrain from collaring my auguries and taking them for walks. They are not pets.”

  I stifled a snort and tugged on her braid. “Go on, then. Join your mother. Perhaps she needs a laugh too.”

  She left with little more convincing, and I laid my head on Ansel’s shoulder. His gaze had returned to Coco and Babette. “Chin up,” I said softly. “The game isn’t over yet. She’s just a new piece on the board.”

  “This isn’t the time.”

  “Why not? Ismay’s and Gabrielle’s suffering doesn’t lessen your own. We need to talk about this.”

  While we still can, I didn’t add.

  Resting his head atop my own, he sighed. The sound tugged on my heartstrings. Such naked vulnerability required strength. It required courage. “There are already too many pieces on the board, Lou. And I’m not playing a game,” he finished miserably.

  “If you don’t play, you can’t win.”

  “You also can’t lose.”

  “Now you just sound petulant.” I lifted my head to look at him. “Have you told her how you feel?”

  “She sees me like a kid brother—”

  “Have you”—I ducked to catch his eye when he looked away—“told her”—I leaned closer—“how you feel?”

  He huffed another sigh, this one impatient. “She already knows. I haven’t hidden it.”

  “You haven’t addressed it, either. If you want her to see you as a man, act like a man. Have the conversation.”

  He glanced again to Coco and Babette, who’d cuddled close together against the cold.

  I wasn’t surprised. This wasn’t the first time Coco had revisited Babette, her oldest friend and lover, for comfort in times of strain. It never ended well, but who was I to question Coco’s choices? I’d fallen in love with a Chasseur, for God’s sake. Still, I hated this for Ansel. Truly. And though I also hated myself for the part I now played in his eventual heartbreak, I couldn’t watch as he pined away from unrequited love. He needed to ask. He needed to know.

  “What if she says no?” he breathed, so quietly now that I read his lips rather than heard his voice. He searched my face helplessly.

  “You’ll have your answer. You move on.”

  If it was possible to see a heart break, I saw it then in Ansel’s eyes. He said nothing more, however, and neither did I. Together, we waited for the sun to set.

  The blood witches didn’t gather at the pyres all at once; they collected gradually, standing in melancholic silence, joining hands with each new mourner as they came. Ismay and Gabrielle stood at the front, weeping softly.

  All wore scarlet—whether a cloak or hat or shirt, as mine.

  “To honor their blood,” Coco had told Ansel and me before we’d joined the vigil, wrapping a red scarf around his neck. “And its magic.”

  She and La Voisin had donned thick woolen gowns of scarlet with ma
tching fur-lined cloaks. Though the silhouettes were simple, the ensembles painted them as a striking portrait. Woven circlets adorned their brows, and within the silver vines, drops of rubies glittered. Blood drops, Coco had called them. As I watched the two stand together at the pyres—tall, regal, and proud—I could envision the time of which Gaby had spoken. A time when the Dames Rouges had been omnipotent and everlasting. Immortals among men.

  We ruled this land from its conception, long before the gods poisoned it with dead magic.

  I suppressed a shiver. If La Voisin ate the hearts of the dead to live eternal, it wasn’t my business. I was an outsider here. An interloper. This vigil itself proved I didn’t understand their customs. I was probably reading too much into her persona, anyway. True, La Voisin could be intimidating, and that book of hers was certainly creepy, but—rumors. That’s all they were. Surely this coven would know if their leader harvested hearts. Surely they’d object. Surely Coco would’ve told me—

  Not your business.

  I focused on the embers of Etienne’s pyre.

  But what did dead magic mean?

  When the sun touched the pines, Ismay and Gaby moved in sync, sweeping the ashes into their whitewashed pot. Gabrielle clutched it to her chest, and a sob escaped her. Though Ismay hugged her tightly, she murmured no words of comfort. Indeed, no one said a word as the two started into the forest. A sort of ritualistic procession formed—first Ismay and Gaby, second La Voisin and Coco, third Nicholina and Babette. The other mourners fell into place behind them until the entire camp trod an unspoken path through the trees—a path they knew well, it seemed. Still no one spoke.

  “A soul caught between this life and the next is agitated,” Coco had explained. “Confused. They see us here but can’t touch us, can’t speak with us. We soothe them with silence and lead them to the nearest grove.”

  A grove. The final resting place of a blood witch.

  Ansel and I waited until the last mourner had passed before joining the procession, journeying deeper into the forest. Absalon’s tail soon brushed my boots. To my dismay, a black fox joined him. She stalked through the shadows nearest me, her pointed nose swiveling in my direction with every few steps, her amber eyes gleaming. Ansel hadn’t noticed her yet, but he soon would. Everyone would.

  I’d never heard of a person attracting two matagots.

  Miserable, I focused on Gaby’s auburn braid through a gap in the procession. She and Ismay slowed as we entered a copse of silver birch trees. Snow coated their spindly branches, illuminated by soft white light as feu follet winked into existence around us. Legend claimed they led to the deepest desires of one’s heart.

  My mother had once told me about a witchling who’d followed them. She’d never been seen again.

  Clutching Ansel tighter when he gazed at them, I murmured, “Don’t look.”

  He blinked and halted mid-step, shaking his head. “Thank you.”

  From the spindly branches of the birch trees, a dozen clay pots blew gently in the wind. Reddish-brown symbols had been painted on each in unique designs, and wind chimes—complete with feathers and beads—hung from most. The few unadorned pots appeared to be so old that their markings had chipped and flaked from the elements. In unison, La Voisin and Coco drew twin daggers from their cloaks, pulled down their collars, and drew the blades across their bare chests, using fresh blood to paint over the faded symbols. When they’d finished, Ismay joined them, accepting a dagger and making an identical cut on her own chest.

  I watched in fascination as she painted one last symbol on her son’s pot. When she hung it with the others, La Voisin clasped her hands and faced the procession. Every eye turned to her. “His ashes and spirit ascend. Etienne, know peace.”

  A sob escaped Ismay when La Voisin inclined her head, ending the simple ceremony. Her kin rushed to console her.

  Coco extricated herself from the crowd and found us a moment later, her eyes silvered with tears. She rolled them determinedly toward the sky and heaved a great sigh. “I will not cry. I won’t.”

  I offered her my free elbow, and she linked hers through mine, forming a human chain. The cut at her chest still bled freely, staining the neck of her gown. “It’s perfectly acceptable to cry at funerals, Coco. Or anytime you like, for that matter.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. Your tears won’t set the world on fire.”

  “That is so badass.” She gave a weak chuckle, and warmth spread through me at the sound. It’d been too long since we’d done this. Too long since we’d spoken so simply. “This place is beautiful.”

  Ansel nodded to Etienne’s pot, where Ismay’s blood still gleamed against the white clay. “What do the markings mean?”

  “They’re spells.”

  “Spells?”

  “Yes, Ansel. Spells. They protect our remains from those who’d use them for foul purposes. Our magic lives on with our ashes,” she explained at his furrowed brow. “If we scattered them across the land, we’d only strengthen our enemies.” Here, she gave me an apologetic look, but I merely shrugged. Our kin might’ve been enemies, but we were not them.

  Fresh tears gathered as her gaze returned to the pots. To Ismay keening beneath them.

  “I hardly even knew him,” she whispered. “It’s just—all of this—” She waved a hand around us and hung her head. Her arm went slack. “It’s my fault.”

  “What?” Dropping Ansel’s elbow, I spun to grip her shoulders. “Coco, no. None of this is your fault. Your people—they would never blame you for what happened here.”

  “That’s exactly the point, isn’t it?” She wiped her eyes furiously. “They should. I abandoned them. Twice. They’re freezing and starving and so afraid, yet their own princesse couldn’t be bothered to care. I should’ve been here, Lou. I should’ve—I don’t know—”

  “Controlled the weather?” My hands joined hers, wiping at her tears. Though they burned my skin, I didn’t pull away, blinking rapidly against the moisture in my own eyes. “Single-handedly defeated Morgane? You didn’t know, Coco. Don’t blame yourself.”

  “Yes, I did.” She wrenched the crown from her head, glaring at the glittering rubies. “How can I lead them? How can I even look at them? I knew their suffering, and I fled anyway, while their conditions only worsened.” She tossed the crown into the snow. “I am no princesse.”

  To my surprise—perhaps because I’d forgotten he still stood with us—Ansel bent to retrieve it. With impossibly gentle hands, he placed it back on her head. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

  “And you are our princesse, mon amour,” Babette said, appearing at her side. She smiled at Ansel, not guileful but genuine, and straightened Coco’s crown. “If it wasn’t in your blood, it is in your heart. No other cares so much. You are better than us all.”

  They both stared at her with such warm affection—such adoration—that my heart twisted. I did not envy her this choice. And Beau . . . he wasn’t even here to offer his handsome, sneering face as an alternative. Taking pity on her, I turned her shoulders to face me. “They’re right. You’re doing everything you can to help them now. When Morgane is dead—when I—afterward, your people will be welcome in the Chateau again. We just need to keep focus.”

  Though she nodded swiftly, instinctively, her face remained grim. “I’m not sure she’ll join us, Lou. She—”

  A scream overpowered the rest of her words, and Ismay bolted through the crowd, face wild. “Where is Gabrielle? Where is she?” She whirled, shrieking, “Gabrielle!” Though hands reached out to her—though La Voisin herself attempted to calm her with steady words and soothing touches—Ismay ignored them all, darting toward me with frantic eyes. She gripped my arms hard enough to bruise. “Have you seen my daughter?”

  Panic closed my throat. “I—”

  “Could she have followed the feu follet?” Placing a hand on Ismay’s, Coco tried and failed to pry me free. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  Tears spilled d
own Ismay’s cheeks, peppering the snow with black flowers. Begonias. I’d learned their meaning from a naturalist tutor at the Chateau. “I—I don’t remember. She was with me during the procession, but I let go of her hand to finish Etienne’s pot.”

  Beware.

  They meant beware.

  “Don’t panic,” another witch said. “This isn’t the first time Gabrielle has run off. It won’t be the last.”

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” another added. “Overwhelmed, perhaps. So much grief is hard on one so young.”

  “We were all right here,” said a third, voicing what everyone else was thinking. “Surely none could have stolen her from the heart of our coven. We would have seen.”

  “They’re right.” Coco finally succeeded in loosening Ismay’s grip, and blood rushed back into my arms. “We’ll find her, Ismay.” When she looked at me, however, her eyes said what her mouth did not: one way or another.

  I only half listened as the blood witches spread out across the grove in search of her.

  I knew in my bones what had happened here. Morgane must’ve rejoiced when she’d discovered not one but two of the king’s children hidden in this camp. Her timing, as always, had been unerring. She’d planned this.

  Twenty-seven children, Madame Labelle had said. The king had sired twenty-seven children at her last count. Surely finding them would be like finding needles in a haystack. But Morgane was nothing if not tenacious. She would find them, she would torture them, and she would kill them. And it was all because of me.

  “Look here!” an unfamiliar witch cried after several long moments. Every person in the clearing turned to stare at what she held in her hands.

  A scarlet ribbon.

  And there—staining the witch’s palms on contact—

  Blood.

  I closed my eyes in defeat. The memory of Etienne’s head on my boot soon rose up to meet me, however, forcing them open once more. It would be Gabrielle’s head next. Even now—at this very second—Morgane could be mutilating her tiny body. She would shear her auburn braid and slice her pale throat—

  Ismay’s cries turned hysterical, and the others soon took up her panicked call.