I nodded to his crutch instead. “Are you injured?”
“Of course not.” He tossed it to me. “I’m fit as Deveraux’s fiddle. That’s one of his stilts, by the way. He sends his assistance.”
Thierry swung a bag from his shoulder and handed it to Lou.
“Spectacles?” Beau leaned over her, incredulous, withdrawing a pair of wire frames. She pushed him away. “Mustaches? Wigs? This is his assistance? Costumery?”
“Without magic, there’s little other way to trick the huntsmen, is there?” Toulouse’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “I mistook you for intelligent along Les Dents, Beauregard. It seems I’m wrong twice in one day. It’s absolutely thrilling.”
I ignored them both as Thierry’s voice resounded in my head. I am sorry. Claud wishes he could’ve come himself, but he won’t leave Zenna and Seraphine alone.
My thoughts sharpened. Has something happened to them?
It’s dangerous inside the city, Reid. Worse even than usual. Jean Luc warned the king of Morgane’s threat, and the Chasseurs have arrested three women this morning alone. The rest guard him and his daughters inside the castle. Toulouse has requested we not assist you further.
I startled. What?
The card, Reid. Prove him wrong a third time.
What does the card have to do with anything?
Everything. He sighed as Lou pushed Beau out of her personal space again, shaking his head. I like you, huntsman, so I will help you one last time: Morgane can’t touch the king in his castle, but he will join the funeral procession this afternoon. It’s his duty as sovereign to honor the Holy Father. If Morgane is to strike, it will be then. Though Jean Luc resides with him, he no longer holds his Balisarda. His black eyes dipped to the sapphire in my bandolier. A dozen others are new. Inexperienced. They took their vows only this morning.
The tournament. I closed my eyes in resignation. Amidst the horrors of Les Dents, I’d forgotten about the Chasseurs’ tournament. If there’d been any doubt Morgane would attack at the funeral, it vanished with the realization. The brotherhood had never been weaker. The crowd had never been larger. And the stakes—they’d never been higher. It was the perfect stage for Morgane, grander even than that on Saint Nicolas Day. We needed to get into the city. Now. Is there nothing else Claud can do?
You do not need Claud. You need only trust yourself.
My gaze cut to Lou. She still bickered with Beau. Toulouse looked on with amusement. If you’re suggesting I use magic, I won’t.
It is not your enemy, Reid.
It’s not a friend, either.
Your fear is irrational. You are not Louise. You are reason, where she is impulse. You are earth. She is fire.
Anger sparked. More riddles. More convolution. What are you talking about?
Your choices are not her choices, friend. Do not condemn yourself to her fate. My brother and I have used magic for years, and we remain in control of ourselves. So too does Cosette. With temperance, magic is a powerful ally.
But I heard only some of his words. Her fate?
As if in answer, Beau muttered, “I never thought I’d die dressed as a hag. I suppose there are less interesting ways to go.” He made to throw the spectacles back into the bag, raising his voice at my uncertain glance. “What? You know how this ends. We’re arming ourselves with scraps of lace against blades of steel. We’re—we’re playing dress-up, for Christ’s sake. The Chasseurs will kill us out of spite for the insult.”
“You forget I sprinkle spite into my tea every morning.” Lou snatched the spectacles from his hand and shoved them on her nose. “Besides, playing dress-up hasn’t failed me yet. What could possibly go wrong?”
Trial by Fire
Reid
Everything went wrong.
“That wagon there.” Crouched in the boughs of a pine, Lou pointed to a wagon apart from the crowd. Its horse was bony. Old. A middle-aged man held the reins. His leathery skin and gnarled hands marked him a farmer, and his gaunt face marked him poor. Hungry.
“No.” I shook my head abruptly, voice brusque. “I won’t prey on the weak.”
“You will if you want to live.” At my silence, she sighed impatiently. “Look, those are the only two covered transports within a mile. I’ll be preying on that one”—she pointed to the gilded carriage in front of the farmer’s wagon—“so I’ll be close, in case you need help. Just give me a shout, but remember—it’s Lucida, not Lou.”
“This is madness.” My chest constricted at the thought of what I was about to do. “It’ll never work.”
“Not with that attitude!” Gripping my shoulders, she turned me to face her. Nausea rolled through my stomach. Disguised in Deveraux’s velvet suit and hat, she looked at me from behind gold spectacles. An aristocrat’s scholarly son on his return home from Amandine. “Remember your story. You were set upon by bandits, and they broke your nose.” She adjusted the bloody bandage on my face for good measure. “And your leg.” She tapped the makeshift crutch we’d fashioned out of the stilt. “Just knock on the door. The wife will take pity on you after one look.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Knock her out. Drag her inside. Enchant her.” She didn’t flinch at the prospect of bludgeoning an innocent woman. “Do whatever is necessary to get inside that wagon.”
“I thought you said no magic.”
She snorted impatiently. “This isn’t the time for a principled stand, Reid. We can’t risk magic out in the open, but within the confines of her wagon, do whatever is necessary. If even one person recognizes us, we’re dead.”
“And when the Chasseur arrives to search the wagon?”
“You’re in a wig. Your face is covered. You might be worrying for nothing. But if he recognizes you—if he suspects—you’ll have to disarm him while keeping him conscious. Otherwise he can’t wave you through the blockade.”
“Even if I threaten to slit his throat, a Chasseur will never wave me through that blockade.”
“He will if he’s enchanted.” I opened my mouth to refuse—or to vomit—but she continued, undeterred. “Whatever you do, don’t cause a scene. Be quick and quiet. That’s the only way we survive this.”
Saliva coated my mouth, and I struggled to breathe, clutching my bandolier for support. I didn’t fear meeting my brethren. I didn’t fear exchanging blows or obtaining injury. I didn’t even fear capture, but if that happened—if the Chasseurs arrested me here—Lou would intervene. They’d call in reinforcements. They would hunt her, and this time, she wouldn’t escape.
That could not happen.
Even if—even if that meant using magic.
It is not your enemy, Reid.
With temperance, magic is a powerful ally.
“I won’t. I can’t.” I nearly choked on the words. “Someone will smell it. They’ll know we’re here.”
She tugged my coat closed over my bandolier. “Maybe. But this road is teeming with people. It’ll take them time to distinguish who’s casting it. You can force the enchanted Chasseur to wave you through before they figure it out.”
“Lou.” The word was desperate, pleading, but I didn’t care. “There are too many things that could go wrong—”
She kissed my cheek swiftly. “You can do this. And if you can’t—if something does go wrong—just punch the Chasseur in the nose and run like hell.”
“Great plan.”
She chuckled, but the sound was strained. “It worked for Coco and Ansel.”
Pretending to be newlyweds, they’d already slipped through the convoy on foot. The Chasseur who’d inspected them had been new, and they’d passed into Cesarine unscathed. Beau had forgone costume completely, instead finding a pretty young widow to smuggle him inside. She’d nearly fainted at the sight of his royal face. Blaise and his kin hadn’t revealed how they planned to slip into the city. As there’d been no commotion, I assumed they made it in undetected.
I doubted Lou and I would be so lucky.
“Reid
. Reid.” I snapped to attention. Lou spoke faster now. “The enchantment should come naturally, but if you need a pattern, focus with specific intent. Visualize your objectives. And remember, it’s always, always about balance.”
“Nothing about magic comes easily to me.”
Liar.
“Because you’re incapacitating yourself with hate,” Lou said. “Open yourself up to your magic. Accept it, welcome it, and it’ll come to you. Are you ready?”
Seek us.
My lips were numb. “No.”
But there was little time to argue. The wagon and carriage were almost upon us.
She squeezed my hand, tearing her gaze from the carriage to look at me. “I know things have changed between us. But I want you to know that I love you. Nothing can ever change that. And if you die today, I will find you in the afterlife and kick your ass for leaving me. Understand?”
My voice was weak. “I—”
“Good.”
And then she was gone, tugging a book from her pack and dashing toward the carriage. “Excusez-moi, monsieur!” she called to the driver, pushing her spectacles up her nose. “But my horse has thrown a shoe. . . .”
A hollow pit opened in my stomach as her voice faded into the crowd.
I love you. Nothing can ever change that.
Damn it.
I didn’t get to say it back.
Adopting a limp, leaning heavily on my crutch, I navigated the crowd to the wagon. The convoy was at a standstill, and the farmer—preoccupied with a dirty child throwing rocks at his horse—didn’t see me. I knocked once, twice, on the frame. Nothing. I knocked louder.
“What d’yeh want?” A reedy woman with sharp cheekbones and horselike teeth finally poked her head out. A cross dangled from her throat, and a cap covered her hair. Pious, then. Probably traveling to Cesarine to pay her respects. Hope swelled in my chest. Perhaps she would take pity on me. It was the mandate of our Lord to help the helpless.
Her scowl quickly punctured that hope. “We don’t ’ave no food fer beggars, so clear off!”
“Apologies, madame,” I said hastily, catching the flap when she moved to yank it shut, “but I don’t need food. Bandits set upon me down the road”—I rapped my crutch against the wagon for emphasis—“and I cannot continue my journey on foot. Do you have room in your wagon for one more?”
“No,” she snapped, trying to wrestle the flap from my hand. No hesitation. No remorse. “Not fer the likes o’ you. Yer the third one oo’s come knockin’ at our wagon this mornin’, and I’ll be tellin’ you the same as I told them: we won’t be takin’ no chances wif strange folk today. Not wif His Eminence’s funeral this evenin’.” She clutched the cross at her throat with spindly fingers and closed her eyes. “May God keep ’is soul.” When she cracked an eye open and saw me still standing there, she added, “Now shove off.”
The wagon inched forward, but I held firm, forcing myself to remain calm. To think like Lou would think. To lie. “I’m not a witch, madame, and I’m in desperate need of aid.”
Her mouth—deeply lined—twisted in confusion. “O course yer not a witch. D’yeh think I’m daft? Everyone knows menfolk can’t have magic.”
At the word, those nearest us turned to stare. Eyes wide and wary.
I cursed inwardly.
“Bernadette?” The farmer’s voice rose above the din of the crowd. More heads swiveled in our direction. “Is this lad botherin’ you?”
Before she could answer—before she could seal my fate—I hissed, “‘He that despiseth his neighbor sinneth, but he that hath mercy on the poor, happy is he.’”
Her eyes narrowed. “What did you just say?”
“‘He that giveth unto the poor shall not lack: but he that hideth his eyes shall have many a curse.’”
“Are you quotin’ scripture at me, boy?”
“‘Withhold not good from them to whom it is due, when it is in the power of thine hand to do it.’”
“Bernadette!” The farmer stood from his box. “Did you hear me, love? Shall I fetch a Chasseur?”
“Should I continue?” White-knuckled on the wagon flap, my fingers trembled. I fisted them tighter, glaring at her. “For as the Lord commands—”
“That’s enough o’ you.” Though her wrinkled lip curled, she surveyed me with grudging appreciation. “I don’t be needin’ no lessons in ’oliness from guttersnipes.” To her husband, she called, “Everythin’s fine, Lyle! This one ’ere busted ’is ankle and needs a lift is all.”
“Well, tell ’im we don’t want no—”
“I’ll tell ’im what I want to tell him!” Jerking her head behind her, she drew the wagon flap aside. “Come inside, then, Yer Holiness, a’fore I change me mind.”
The inside of Bernadette’s wagon looked nothing like the inside of Troupe de Fortune’s. Every inch of the troupe’s wagons had been crammed full. Trunks of costumes and trinkets. Crates of food. Props. Lanterns. Cots and bedrolls.
This wagon was bare save a single blanket and a near empty satchel of food. A lonely pot sat beside it.
“Like I said,” Bernadette muttered, hunkering down on the floor. “No food fer beggars here.”
We waited in stony silence as the wagon crept closer to the Chasseurs. “You look familiar,” she said after several moments. She peered at me suspiciously, eyes sharper than I would’ve liked. They studied my black wig, my charcoal-dark eyebrows. The bloody bandage on my nose. I readjusted it involuntarily. “’Ave we met a’fore?”
“No.”
“Why is you goin’ to Cesarine, then?”
I stared at my hands without seeing them. To attend the funeral of the man I killed. To fraternize with blood witches and werewolves. To kill the mother of the woman I love. “Same as you.”
“You don’t strike me as the religious type.”
I pinned her with a glare. “Likewise.”
She harrumphed and crossed her arms. “Mouthy lit’le imp, isn’t you? Ungrateful too. Should’ve made you walk like all the rest, busted ankle an’ all.”
“We’re comin’ up on ’em now!” Lyle called from outside. “City’s straight ahead!”
Bernadette rose and marched to the front of the wagon, sticking her head out once more. I strode after her.
Framed by the gray skyline of Cesarine, a dozen Chasseurs rode through the crowd, slowing traffic. Some inspected the faces of those on foot. Some dismounted to check wagons and carriages intermittently. I recognized eight of them. Eight out of twelve. When one of those eight—Philippe—started toward our wagon, I cursed.
“Watch yer mouth!” Bernadette said in outrage, elbowing me sharply. “And budge over, would you—” She stopped short when she saw my face. “Yer white as a sheet, you are.”
Philippe’s deep voice rumbled through the procession, and he pointed toward us. “Have we cleared this one yet?”
Older than me by several decades, he wore a beard streaked through with silver. It did nothing to diminish the breadth of his chest or heavy muscle of his arms. A scar still disfigured his throat from his battle with Adrien’s kin in the werewolf raid.
He’d hated me for stealing his glory that day. For stealing his advancement.
Shit.
Jean Luc’s Balisarda weighed heavier than the other knives in my bandolier. If Philippe recognized me, I’d need to kill or disarm him. And I couldn’t kill him. I couldn’t kill another brother. But if I disarmed him instead, I’d have to—
No. My mind raged against the thought.
This isn’t the time for a principled stand, Reid, Lou had said. If even one person recognizes us, we’re dead.
She was right. Of course she was right. And even if it made me a hypocrite—even if it condemned me to Hell—I would channel those insidious voices. I would hang myself with their golden patterns. If it meant Lou would live, I would do it. Damn the consequences. I would do it.
But how?
Open yourself up to your magic. Accept it, welcome it, and it’ll co
me to you.
I hadn’t welcomed anything on Modraniht, yet the pattern had still appeared. The same had happened at the pool near the Hollow. In both situations, I’d been desperate. Hopeless. Morgane had just cut Lou’s throat, and I’d watched as her blood poured into the basin, draining her life by the second. The golden cord had risen from my pit of despair, and I’d reacted instinctively. There hadn’t been time for anything else. And—and at the pool—
The memory of Lou’s blue lips surfaced. Her ashen skin.
But this wasn’t like that. Lou wasn’t dying in front of me now. I tried to summon the same sense of urgency. If Philippe caught me, Lou would die. Surely that possibility should trigger something. I waited anxiously for the floodgates to burst open, for gold to explode in my vision.
It didn’t.
It seemed imagining Lou dying wasn’t the same as watching it happen.
Philippe continued toward us, close enough now to touch the horses. I nearly roared in frustration. What was I supposed to do?
You could ask. A small, sinister voice echoed through my thoughts at last, reverberating as if legion. The hair on my neck rose. You need only seek us, lost one, and you shall find.
Panicking, I shoved at it instinctively.
An unearthly chuckle. You cannot escape us, Reid Labelle. We are part of you. As if to prove its words, it latched tighter, the pressure in my head building—painful now—as tendrils of gold snaked outward, stabbing deep and taking root. Into my mind. My heart. My lungs. I choked on them, struggling to breathe, but they only pressed closer. Consuming me. For so long we have slept in the darkness, but now, we are awake. We will protect you. We will not let you go. Seek us.
Black threatened the edges of my vision. My panic intensified. I had to get out, had to stop this—
Staggering backward, I faintly registered Bernadette and Lyle’s alarm. “What’s the matter wif you, eh?” Bernadette asked. When I didn’t answer—couldn’t answer—she moved slowly to her bag. My eyes struggled to focus on her, to remain open. I dropped to my knees, fighting desperately to repress this growing thing inside me—this monster clawing through my skin. Inexplicable light flickered around us.
Blood & Honey Page 27