Blood & Honey

by Shelby Mahurin

  He approaches, child. He is coming. The voice turned hungry now. Anticipatory. The pressure in my head built with each word. Blinding me. Tormenting me. My nightmares made flesh. I clutched my head against the pain, a scream rising in my throat. He will burn us if you let him.

  “What’s happenin’ wif yer head?”

  No. My mind warred against itself. The pain cleaved me in two. This isn’t right. This isn’t—

  “I’m talkin’ to you, imp!”

  He will burn Louise.

  No—

  “Oi!” A whistle cut through the air, and fresh pain exploded behind my ear. I crumpled to the wagon floor. Groaning softly, I could just distinguish Bernadette’s blurred form above me. She lifted her frying pan to strike again. “Bleedin’ mad, aren’t yeh? I knew it. And today o’ all days—”

  “Wait.” I held up a weak hand. The peculiar light shone brighter now. “Please.”

  She lurched backward, face twisting in alarm. “What’s this happenin’ with yer skin, then, eh? What’s goin’ on?”

  “I don’t—” My vision sharpened on my hand. On the soft light emanating from it. Hideous despair swept through me. Hideous relief.

  Seek us seek us seek us.

  “P-Put down the frying pan, madame.”

  She shook her head frantically, struggling to keep her arm raised. “Wha’ witchcraft is this?”

  I tried again, louder now. A strange humming filled my ears, and the inexplicable desire to soothe her overwhelmed me—to soothe and be soothed. “It’s going to be all right.” My voice sounded strange, even to my own ears. Layered. Resonant. Part of me still raged against it, but that part was useless now. I left it behind. “Put down the frying pan.”

  The frying pan fell to the floor.

  “Lyle!” Her eyes boggled from her head, and her nostrils flared. “Lyle, help—!”

  The wagon flap burst open in response. We turned as one to see Philippe standing in the entrance, his Balisarda drawn. Despite the bandage—the wig, the cosmetics—he recognized me immediately. Hatred burned in his eyes. “Reid Diggory.”

  Kill him.

  This time, I heeded the voice without hesitation.

  With lethal speed, I charged, seizing his wrist and dragging him into the wagon. His eyes widened—shocked—for a split second. Then he attacked. I laughed, evading his blade easily. When the sound reverberated through the wagon, infectious and strange, he recoiled.

  “It can’t be,” he breathed. “You can’t be a—a—”

  He lunged, but again, I moved too quick, sidestepping at the last moment. He barreled into Bernadette instead, and the two careened into the wall of the wagon. My skin erupted with light at her shrieks.

  Silence her!

  “Be quiet!” The words tore through me of their own volition, and she slumped—mercifully quiet—with her mouth closed and her eyes glazed. Philippe launched to his feet just as Lyle entered the wagon, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

  “Bernadette! Bernadette!”

  I struggled to look at him, prying Philippe’s fingers from my throat with one hand and holding his Balisarda off with the other. My wig tumbled to the floor. “Qui—et—” I said, voice strangled, as Philippe and I crashed through the wagon. But Lyle didn’t quiet. He continued shouting, lunging forward to grab Bernadette beneath the arms and drag her from the wagon.

  “Wait!” I flung a hand out blindly to stop him, but no patterns emerged. Not even a flicker. Anger erupted at my own ineptitude, and the light emanating from my skin vanished abruptly. “Stop!”

  “Help us!” Lyle dove from the wagon. “It’s Reid Diggory! He’s a witch! HELP!”

  New voices sounded outside as Chasseurs converged. Blood roaring in my ears—the voices in my mind damnably silent—I wrenched away from Philippe, flinging the blanket in his face. A quiet entrance into the city was no longer possible. I had to flee. To run. Disentangling himself from the blanket, he slipped on the food satchel and flailed backward. I dove for the frying pan.

  Before he could regain his footing—before I could reconsider—I swung it at his head.

  The crack reverberated through my bones, and he toppled to the wagon floor, unconscious. I dropped to make sure his chest moved. Up and down. Up and down. The other Chasseurs tore aside the wagon’s flap just as I leapt through the front, vaulting over the box to the horse’s back. It reared, braying indignantly, and the wagon’s front wheels lifted from the ground, tipping the structure precariously. Inside, the Chasseurs shouted in alarm. Their bodies thudded into the canvas.

  I fumbled with the horse’s harness, cursing as more Chasseurs sprinted toward me. Slick with sweat, my fingers slipped over the buckles. I cursed and tried again.

  “It’s Reid Diggory!” someone shouted. More voices took up the call. Blood roared in my ears.

  “Murderer!”

  “Witch!”

  “Arrest him!”

  “ARREST HIM!”

  Losing any semblance of control, I tore at the last buckle with frantic fingers. A Chasseur I didn’t recognize reached me first. I kicked him in the face—finally, finally loosening the clasp—and urged the horse forward with a violent squeeze of my legs. It bolted, and I held on for dear life.

  “Out of the way!” I roared. People dove sideways, dragging children with them, as the horse careened toward the city. One man was too slow, and a hoof caught his leg, breaking it. The Chasseurs on horseback pounded after me. They gained ground quickly. Theirs were stallions, bred for speed and strength, and mine was an emaciated mare on her last leg. I urged her on anyway.

  If I could clear the city limits, perhaps I could lose them in the streets—

  The crowd thickened as the road narrowed, transitioning from dirt to cobblestone. The first buildings rose up to swallow me. Above, a shadow leapt lithely from rooftop to rooftop, following the shouts that chased me. It pointed frantically to the dormer looming ahead.

  I nearly wept with relief.

  Lou.

  Then I realized what she wanted me to do.

  No. No, I couldn’t—

  “Got you!” A Chasseur’s hand snaked out and caught the back of my coat. The others closed in behind him. Legs cinching the mare like a vise, I twisted to break his grip, but the mare had had enough.

  Braying wildly, she reared once more, and I saw my opportunity.

  Climbing up her neck—praying to whoever might be listening—I caught the metal sign overhead with the tips of my fingers. It splintered under my weight, but I kicked hard, leveraging myself against the mare’s back and leaping onto the dormer. The mare and Chasseurs’ stallions cantered past below.

  “STOP HIM!”

  Gasping for air, I scrabbled for purchase against the rooftop. My vision pitched and rolled.

  “Just keep climbing!” Lou’s voice rang out above me, and my head snapped up. She leaned over the roof’s edge, fingers splayed and straining to reach me. But her hand was so small. So far away. “Don’t look down! Just look at me, Reid! Keep looking at me!”

  Below, the Chasseurs roared orders, urging the crowd to part as they turned their horses around.

  “AT ME, REID!”

  Right. Swallowing hard, I set to finding pockmarks in the stone wall. I inched higher. My head spun.

  Higher.

  My breath caught.

  Higher.

  My muscles seized.

  Higher.

  The Chasseurs had maneuvered back to me. I heard them dismounting. Heard them starting to climb.

  Lou’s hand caught my wrist and heaved. I focused on her face, on her freckles. Through sheer willpower alone, I clambered over the eave and collapsed. But we didn’t have time to relax. She pulled me to my feet, already sprinting for the next rooftop. “What happened?”

  I followed her. Concentrated on my breathing. It was easier now, with her here. “Your plan was shit.”

  She had the gall to laugh, but quickly stopped when an arrow whizzed past her face. “C’mon. I’
ll lose these jackasses within three blocks.”

  I didn’t reply. It was best I kept my mouth closed.

  The Drowning

  Lou

  Always aiming to please, I lost them in two.

  Their voices faded as we ran, dipping into shadowy alcoves and dropping behind ramshackle dormers. The key was breaking their line of sight. Once that happened, it was too easy to slip into the boundlessness of the city.

  No one could disappear like I could.

  No one had the practice.

  I dropped to a forgotten backstreet in East End. Reid landed a second later, collapsing against me. Though I tried to hold him steady, we both tumbled to the dirty cobblestones. He kept his arms locked around my waist, however, and buried his face in my lap. His heart pulsed a frantic rhythm against my thigh. “I can’t do that again.”

  Throat suddenly thick, I stroked his hair. “That’s fine. They’re gone.” His breathing gradually slowed, and finally, he sat up. I let him go reluctantly. “Before your fiasco, I sent Charles to find Madame Labelle. She booked us rooms at an inn called Léviathan.”

  “Charles?”

  “The rat.”

  He expelled a harsh breath. “Oh.”

  Shame—now familiar—washed through me all over again. Though sharp words rose to my tongue in response, I bit down on them hard, drawing blood, and offered him a hand. “I already sent Absalon and Brigitte to fetch Coco, Ansel, and Beau. Charles went to the werewolves and blood witches. We’ll all need to strategize before the funeral this afternoon.”

  We climbed to our feet together, and he kissed the back of my hand before releasing it. “It’ll be difficult to gain an audience with the king. Thierry said all Chasseurs who aren’t at the blockade are inside the castle. Maybe Beau can—”

  “Wait.” Though I forced a chuckle, there was nothing funny about that obstinate gleam in his eyes. “You can’t seriously mean to still speak with Auguste? Jean Luc tipped him off. He knows you’re coming. He—he knows Madame Labelle’s a witch, and if those Chasseurs’ shouts were any indication, he’ll soon know you’re one too.” Reid’s face blanched at the last. Ah. It seemed he hadn’t yet drawn that conclusion. I hurried to press my advantage. “He knows you’re a witch,” I repeated. “He won’t help you. He certainly won’t help me. We don’t need him, Reid. The Dames Rouges and loup garou are powerful allies.”

  His lips pursed as he considered this—his jaw clenched—and I waited for him to see the sense in my plan. But he shook his head and muttered, “No. I’ll still speak with him. We need a united front against Morgane.”

  I gaped at him. “Reid—”

  A group of children raced past our alley at that moment, chasing a snarling cat. The slowest of them hesitated when he saw us. I jerked my brim lower on my forehead, and Reid hastily retied the bandage over his eye. “We need to get off the streets,” he said. “Our entrance into the city wasn’t exactly subtle—”

  “Thanks for that—”

  “And East End will be crawling with Chasseurs and constabulary soon.”

  I waved to the child, who grinned and took off after his friends, before slipping my elbow through Reid’s. I poked my head into the street. It was less crowded here, the majority of funeral visitors congregating in the wealthier West district. The shops lining the streets were closed. “Léviathan is a few blocks past Soleil et Lune.”

  Reid quickened his pace, adopting a limp once more. “Given our history, the theater will be the first place the Chasseurs look.”

  Something in his voice made me pause. I frowned up at him. “That wasn’t intentional, by the way. My little stunt in the theater. I don’t think I ever told you.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not.” With nonchalance, I tipped my hat to a nearby woman. Her mouth parted at my velvet suit. Not exactly mourning attire, but at least it was a nice deep shade of aubergine. Knowing Claud, it could’ve been canary yellow. “Completely accidental, but what could I do? It’s not my fault you couldn’t keep your hands off my breasts.” When he sputtered indignantly, I pressed on, smirking. “I don’t blame you in the slightest.”

  Careful to keep my brim low, I kept a sharp eye on passersby. A familiar air of trepidation hung heavy and thick overhead, as it always did when a crowd this size gathered in Cesarine. People from every walk of life had come to honor the late Archbishop: aristocrats, clergymen, and peasants held vigil together as we neared the cathedral, where the Archbishop’s body waited to receive burial rites. Dressed all in black, they leeched the color from an already dreary city. Even the sky was overcast today, as if it too mourned the fate of the wrong man.

  The Archbishop didn’t deserve anyone’s grief.

  The only color in the streets came from the fanfare. The usual Lyon flags had been replaced with brilliant red banners depicting the Archbishop’s coat of arms: a bear spouting a fountain of stars. Drops of blood in a sea of black and gray.

  “Stop.” Reid’s eyes widened with horror at something in the distance. He pivoted in front of me, clutching my arms as if to shield me from it. “Turn around. Let’s go a different way—”

  I shook him off, rising to my toes to see over the crowd.

  There, at the base of the cathedral, stood three wooden stakes. And chained to those stakes—

  “Oh my god,” I breathed.

  Chained to those stakes were three charred bodies.

  Limbs crumbling—hair gone—the corpses were near indistinguishable. Behind them, ash coated the cathedral steps, thicker than the snow on the street. Bile rose in my throat. There had been others before these women. Many others. And recently. The wind hadn’t yet carried away their ashes.

  But true witches were careful and clever. Surely so many hadn’t been caught since Modraniht.

  “These women”—I shook my head in disbelief—“they can’t all have been witches.”

  “No.” Cradling the back of my head, Reid pulled me to his chest. I inhaled deeply, ignoring the sting of pain in my eyes. “No, they probably weren’t.”

  “Then what—?”

  “After the Archbishop, the king would’ve needed a show of power. He would’ve needed to reestablish control. Anyone suspicious would have burned.”

  “Without proof?” I leaned back, searching his face for answers. His eyes were pained. “Without trial?”

  He clenched his jaw, looking back at the blackened corpses. “He doesn’t need proof. He’s the king.”

  I spotted her the moment Reid and I turned away—thin as a reed with ebony skin and onyx eyes, standing so still she could’ve been the statue of Saint-Cécile if not for her hair blowing in the breeze. Though I’d known her my entire life, I couldn’t read the emotion in her eyes as she stared at the women’s remains.

  As she turned on her heel and fled into the crowd.

  Manon.

  “Léviathan is that way.” I craned my neck to keep her in my sights, jerking my chin westward. A golden-haired man had followed her, catching her hand and spinning her into his arms. Instead of protesting—of spitting in his face—she gave him a tight smile. That arcane emotion in her eyes melted to unmistakable warmth as she gazed at him. Just as unmistakable, however, was her sorrow. As if trying to banish the emotion, he peppered her cheeks with kisses. When the two started forward once more, I hurried after them. “I’ll meet you there in a quarter hour.”

  “Hold on.” Reid seized my arm with an incredulous expression. “We aren’t separating.”

  “I’ll be fine. If you keep to the side streets and maybe hunch a bit, you will be too—”

  “Not a chance, Lou.” His eyes followed mine, narrowing as they searched the crowd, and he slid his grip from my elbow to my hand. “What is it? What did you see?”

  “You are the most obstinate—” I stopped short with an impatient huff. “Fine. Come with me. But stay low and stay quiet.” Without another word, fingers still entwined with his, I slipped through the crowd. No one spared us a second g
lance, their eyes rapt on the three burning women. Their fascination sickened me.

  Manon appeared to be leading the golden-haired man to a less congested area. We followed as quickly and noiselessly as we could, but twice we were forced to duck out of sight to avoid Chasseurs. By the time we found them again, Manon had steered the man down a deserted alley. Smoke from a nearby trash pile nearly obscured its entrance. If not for the man’s panicked cry, we might’ve walked straight past.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said, voice cracking. Exchanging a wary glance, Reid and I crouched behind the trash and peered through the smoke. Manon had cornered him against a wall. Hands raised, she wept openly, her tears flowing so thick and so fast that she struggled to breathe. “We can find another way.”

  “You don’t understand.” Though her entire body spasmed, she lifted her hands higher. “Three more burned this morning. She’ll be wild—crazed. And if she finds out about us—”

  “How can she?”

  “She has eyes everywhere, Gilles! If she even suspects I’m attached to you, she’ll—she’ll do horrible things. She tortured the others for no other reason than their parentage. She’ll do worse to you. She’ll enjoy it. And if—if I return to her again today empty-handed, she’ll know. She’ll come for you herself, and I would rather die than see you in her hands.” She pulled a blade from her cloak. “I promise you won’t suffer.”

  He extended his hands, beseeching, reaching to hold her even as she threatened his life. “So we run away. We leave this place. I have some money saved from cobbling. We can sail to Lustere or—or anywhere. We can build a new life far, far away from here. Somewhere Morgane’s influence doesn’t reach.”

  At my mother’s name, Reid stiffened. I glanced at him, watching as he finally placed Manon’s face.

  Head thrashing, she wept harder. “No. No, stop. Please. I can’t.”

  “You can, Manon. We can. Together.”

  “She gave me orders, Gilles. If—if I don’t do this, she will.”

  “Manon, please—”

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” Her hands shook around the blade. “None of this was supposed to happen. I—I was supposed to find you and kill you. I wasn’t supposed to—to—” A strangled sound tore from her throat as she stepped closer. “They killed my sister, Gilles. They killed her. I—I swore on her pyre I’d avenge her death. I swore to end this. I—I—” Her face crumpled, and she lifted the blade to his throat. “I love you.”