Blood & Honey

by Shelby Mahurin

  God, I’d tried.

  She will not remain the girl with whom you fell in love.

  My hands curled into fists.

  I’ll don the teeth and claws to make it easier for you. I’ll get worse, if that justifies your twisted rhetoric. Much, much worse.

  Tendrils of anger curled around the words now, charring them. Setting fire to their sharp tips. I welcomed each flame. Relished them. The smoke didn’t damage the fortress—it added to it. Swathed it in heat and darkness. Time and time again, I’d trusted her. And time and time again, she’d proven herself unworthy of my trust.

  Did I not deserve her respect?

  Did she truly think so little of me?

  I’d given her everything. Everything. My protection, my love, my life. And she’d tossed each aside as if they meant nothing. She’d stripped me of my name, my identity. My family. Every word from her mouth since the day we’d met had been a lie—who she was, what she was, her relationship with Coco, with Bas. I’d thought I’d moved past them. I’d thought I’d forgiven her. But that hole . . . it hadn’t healed quite right. The skin had grown over infection. And hiding my siblings from me, preventing me from saving them . . .

  She’d torn me back open.

  I couldn’t trust her. She obviously didn’t trust me.

  Our entire relationship had been built on lies.

  The fury, the betrayal, burned up my throat. This anger was visceral, a living thing clawing from my chest—

  I pounded a fist against the stone wall, sinking to my knees. The others—they couldn’t see me like this. Alliance or not, if they scented blood in the water, they’d attack. I had to master myself. I had to—to—

  You are in control. Another voice—this one unbidden, still painful—echoed through my mind. This anger cannot govern you, Reid.

  I’d—I’d killed the Archbishop to save her, for Christ’s sake. How could she say I’d scorned her?

  Breathing deeply, I knelt in silence for another moment. The anger still burned. The betrayal still ached. But a deadly sense of purpose overpowered both of them. Lou no longer wanted me. She’d made that perfectly clear. I still loved her—I always would—but she’d been right: we could not continue as we were now. Though ironic, though cruel, we’d fit together as witch and witch hunter. As husband and wife. But she’d changed. I’d changed.

  I wanted to help her. Desperately. But I couldn’t force her to help herself.

  On steadier feet, I rose, pushing open the door to Léviathan.

  What I could do was kill a witch. It’s what I knew. It’s what I’d trained for my entire life. At this very moment, Morgane hid within the city. She hunted my family. If I did nothing—if I sat in this alley and wept over things I could not change—Morgane would find them. She would torture them. She would kill them.

  I would kill her first.

  To do that, I needed to visit my father.

  When I stepped over the threshold, Charles, Brigitte, and Absalon turned and fled upstairs. She was here, then. Lou. As if reading my thoughts, Madame Labelle touched my forearm and murmured, “She came in a few moments before you did. Coco and Ansel followed her up.”

  Something in her eyes spoke further, but I didn’t ask. Didn’t want to know.

  Small and unremarkable—contrary to its namesake—Léviathan sat tucked within the farthest reach of Cesarine, overlooking the cemetery. Gaps in the floorboards. Cobwebs in the corners. Cauldron in the hearth.

  No patrons beyond our own group.

  At the bar, Deveraux sat with Toulouse and Thierry. Déjà vu swept through me at the sight of them together. Of another time and another place. Another tavern. That one hadn’t housed blood witches and werewolves, though. It’d caught fire instead. “There’s a joke here somewhere,” Beau muttered, nursing a pint at the table nearest me. His hood still shadowed his face. Beside him sat Nicholina and a woman I didn’t recognize. No—a woman I did. Tall and striking, she had Coco’s face. But her eyes gleamed with unfamiliar malice. She held her spine rigid. Her mouth pursed.

  “Good evening, Captain.” She inclined her neck stiffly. “At last we meet.”

  “La Voisin.”

  At the name, Blaise and his children bared their teeth, snarling softly.

  Heedless of the tense silence—of the palpable antagonism—Deveraux laughed and waved me over. “Reid, how splendid to see you again! Come hither, come hither!”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “La Mascarade des Crânes, dear boy! Surely you haven’t forgotten? One of the entrances lies below this very—”

  I turned away, ignoring the rest of his words. I didn’t have time for a happy reunion. Didn’t have time to make peace between blood witches and werewolves. To entertain them.

  “We’re lucky he’s here,” Madame Labelle murmured, though her voice held more strain than reproach. “After Auguste burned the Bellerose, my contacts in the city are too frightened to speak with me. I would’ve had a devil of a time procuring a safe place for us if Claud hadn’t stepped in. Apparently, the innkeeper owes him a favor. We’re the only patrons of Léviathan tonight.”

  I didn’t care. Instead of answering, I nodded to Beau, who plunked his tankard down with a sigh. He joined Madame Labelle and me at the door. “If you’re still planning what I think you’re planning, you’re an idiot of the highest order—”

  “What’s the timetable?” I asked brusquely.

  He blinked at me. “I assume the priests are finishing preparation of the body now. They’ll administer last rites soon. Mass will commence in under an hour, and afterward, the Chasseurs will escort my family in the burial procession. They’ll lay it to rest around four o’clock this afternoon.”

  It. The implication of the word stung. It. Not him.

  I forced the thought away. “That gives us an hour to breach the castle. Where will Auguste be?”

  Though Beau and Madame Labelle shared an anxious look, neither protested further. “The throne room,” he said. “He, my mother, and my sisters will be in the throne room. It’s tradition to hold court before ceremonial events.”

  “Can you get us in?”

  He nodded. “Like Claud said, there is a system of tunnels that span the entire city. I used to play in them as a child. They connect the castle, the catacombs, the cathedral—”

  “The Bellerose,” Madame Labelle added, arching a wry brow. “This pub.”

  Beau dipped his head with a chuckle. “There’s also a passage behind a tapestry in the throne room. You and your mother can hide while I approach my father. After Jean Luc’s explanation of events in Le Ventre—and your own rather unfortunate entrance to the city—I think it best I speak with him first. It’ll prevent him from arresting you on sight.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “But word will have spread, Reid. He’ll know you’re a witch now. They all will. I don’t know what he’ll do. Approaching him on the day of the Archbishop’s funeral is a huge risk, especially since you’re—” He broke off with an apologetic sigh. “Since you’re the one who killed him.”

  Emotion choked my throat, but I swallowed it down. I could not dwell. I had to move forward. “I understand.”

  “If I judge him to be amenable, I’ll summon you forth. If I don’t, you’ll run like hell.” He looked me in the eye then, squaring his shoulders. “I won’t concede that point, brother. If I tell you to run, you will run.”

  “Perhaps you should have a code word for when things go wrong.” With a skeletal grin, Nicholina slipped her face between Beau’s and mine. “I suggest flibbertigibbet. Or bumfuzzle. Bumfuzzle, bumfuzzle, meaning to puzzle—”

  Beau pushed her face away without hesitation. “If for some reason we’re separated, take the left-hand tunnel at each fork you meet. It’ll take you to La Mascarade des Crânes. Find Claud, and he’ll lead you back here.”

  My brow furrowed. “Won’t taking the left-hand tunnel lead us in a circle?”

  “Not underground it won’t. The left-hand tunnel i
s the only way to reach the Skull Masquerade.” He nodded again, this time to himself. “Right. The entrance is in the storeroom behind the bar, and the castle is a twenty-minute walk from here. If we’re going to do this, we need to leave now.”

  “What’s this, then?” Nicholina’s brows wriggled as she circled us. Her girlish voice pitched higher. “To the castle, to the snare, you rush to save your lady fair—”

  “Would you shut up, woman?” Beau whirled, incredulous, and tried to shoo her back toward La Voisin. “She’s been doing this since I arrived.” To her, he added, “Go on, now. Go. Back to your—your master, or whoever—”

  Nicholina giggled. “Flibbertigibbet.”

  “What an odd creature,” Madame Labelle murmured, staring after her with a frown. “Quite touched in the head. She called Louise a mouse earlier. Do you have any idea what that means?”

  I ignored her, signaling for Beau to lead the way. He hesitated. “Should someone—fetch her? Lou? I thought she’d planned on joining us?”

  And I thought she’d planned on loving me forever.

  I stepped around him, around the counter, disregarding the barkeep’s objections. “Plans change.”

  The King’s Court

  Reid

  I had a rock in my boot.

  It’d lodged there immediately upon entering the tunnels. Small enough for me to endure. Large enough for me to fixate. With each step, it jostled against my foot. Curling my toes. Setting my teeth on edge.

  Or perhaps that was Beau.

  He’d thrown back his hood in the semidarkness, and he strolled through the earthen tunnels with hands in his pockets. Torchlight flickered over his smirk. “So many rendezvous down here. So many memories.”

  The rock slid under my heel. I shook my foot irritably. “I don’t want to know.”

  Apparently, however, Madame Labelle did. She arched a brow. Lifted her skirt to step over a divot in the earth. “Come now, Your Highness. I’ve heard rumors your exploits are grossly exaggerated.”

  His eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

  “I owned a brothel.” She fixed him with a pointed look. “Word spread.”

  “What word?”

  “I don’t want to hear,” I repeated.

  It was her turn to smirk. “You forget I knew you as a child, Beauregard. I remember the gap in your teeth and the spots on your chin. And then—when you developed that unfortunate stutter—”

  Cheeks flushing, he thrust out his chest, nearly stumbling on another rock. I hoped it found quarter in his heel. “I didn’t develop a stutter,” he said, indignant. “That was a complete and utter misunderstanding—”

  I kicked at the air surreptitiously, and the rock caught between my toes. “You had a stutter?”

  “No—”

  Madame Labelle cackled. “Tell him the story, dear. I’d quite like to hear it again.”

  “How do you—?”

  “I told you—brothels are hotbeds of information.” She winked at him. “And I do intend that pun.”

  He looked mutinous. Though pink still tinged his cheeks, he expelled a breath, blowing a limp strand of hair from his eye. Madame Labelle’s smile broadened with expectation. “Fine,” he snapped. “As I’m sure you heard the incorrect story, I will set the matter straight. I lost my virginity to a psellismophiliac.”

  I stared at him, the rock in my boot forgotten. “A what?”

  “A psellismophiliac,” he repeated irritably. “Someone who is aroused by stuttering. Her name was Apollinia. She was a chambermaid in the castle and several years older than me, the beautiful hag.”

  I blinked once. Twice. Madame Labelle cackled louder. Gleeful. “Go on,” she said.

  He glared at her. “You can imagine how our encounter proceeded. I thought her fetish normal. I thought everyone enjoyed stuttering in the bedchamber.” Recognizing the horror in my eyes, he nodded fervently. “Yes. You see the problem, don’t you? When I found my next lover—a peer in my father’s court—I’m sure you can imagine how that encounter proceeded, as well.” He lifted a hand to his eyes. “God. I’ve never been so mortified in my entire life. I was forced to flee to these very tunnels to escape his laughter. I couldn’t look him in the eye for a year.” He snapped his hand to his side in agitation. “A year.”

  An unfamiliar tickle built in my throat. I pursed my lips against it. Bit my cheek.

  It escaped anyway, and I laughed, sharp and clear, for the first time in a long time.

  “It’s not funny,” Beau snapped as Madame Labelle joined in. She bent double, clutching her ribs, her shoulders shaking. “Stop laughing! Stop it now!”

  At long last, she wiped a tear from her eye. “Oh, Your Majesty. I shall never tire of that story—which is, in fact, the story my girls thought so amusing. If it soothes your wounded pride, I’ll confess I too have experienced my share of humiliating encounters. I often perused these tunnels myself as a younger woman. Why, there was a time your father spirited me down here—”

  “No.” Beau shook his head swiftly, waving a hand. “No. Do not finish that sentence.”

  “—but there was a feral cat.” She chuckled to herself, lost in memory. “We didn’t notice him until it was too late. He, ah, mistook part of your father’s anatomy—or rather, two parts of your father’s anatomy—”

  The laughter died in my own throat. “Stop.”

  “—for a plaything! Oh, you should’ve heard Auguste’s shrieks. One would’ve thought the cat had gutted his liver instead of scratched his—”

  “Enough.” Horrified, wide-eyed with disbelief, Beau physically clapped a hand over her mouth. She snorted against his fingers. “Never, ever tell that story again. Do you understand me? Ever.” He shook his head sharply, clenching his eyes shut. “The psychological scars you’ve just inflicted, woman. I cannot unsee what my mind’s eye has conjured.”

  She knocked his hand away, still laughing. “Don’t be such a prude, Beauregard. Surely you understand your father’s extracurricular activities, given the situation we’re all—” Her smile slipped, and the playful atmosphere between us vanished instantly. She cleared her throat. “What I mean to say is—”

  “We shouldn’t talk anymore.” With a grim expression, mouth drawn, Beau pointed ahead to a northward tunnel. “We’re nearing the castle. Listen.”

  Sure enough, in the quiet that followed, muffled footsteps could be heard overhead. Right. I knelt to wrench off my boot. Shook the damn rock free and replaced it. No more distractions. Though I appreciated Madame Labelle’s attempt to lift our spirits, this wasn’t the time or the place.

  It hadn’t been the time or place in weeks.

  We walked the rest of the way in silence. As the tunnel sloped gradually upward, the voices grew louder. As did my heartbeat. I shouldn’t have been nervous. I’d seen the king before. Seen him, talked to him, dined with him. But I’d been a huntsman then, esteemed, celebrated, and he’d been my king. Everything had changed.

  Now I was a witch—reviled—and he was my father.

  “Everything will be fine,” Madame Labelle whispered as if reading my thoughts. She nodded to me. To herself. “You are his child. He will not harm you. Even the Archbishop did not burn his child, and Auguste is twice the man the Archbishop was.”

  I flinched at the words, but she’d already turned to the cavernous fissure in the wall. The warp and weft of a muted tapestry covered it. I recognized it from my brief time in the castle—a man and a woman in the Garden of Eden, naked, fallen before the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. In their hands, each held a golden fruit. Above them, a giant serpent coiled.

  I stared at the reverse of its black coils now, feeling sick.

  “Watch through here,” Beau breathed, pointing to a thin gap between the wall and tapestry. Less than an inch. Bodies shifted beyond it. Aristocrats and clergymen from all over the kingdom—all over the world. An assemblage of black caps, veils, and lace. Their low voices reverberated in a steady hum. And there—raised on a s
tone dais, draped over a colossal throne—sat Auguste Lyon.

  From the window directly behind, a shaft of sunlight traced his silhouette. His gilded crown and golden hair. His fur cape and broad shoulders. The placement of the window, the throne . . . they’d been arranged intentionally. An optical illusion to trick the eye into believing his very body emitted light.

  Backlit, however, his face remained shadowed.

  But I could still see his smile. He laughed with three young women, heedless of Queen Oliana beside him. She stared determinedly at nothing, expression as stony as the steps beneath her. In the corner of the room, a handful of aristocrats in foreign clothing shared her features. Shared her anger. Theirs were the only sober faces in the room.

  Resentment prickled beneath my skin as I took in the bards, the wine, the food.

  These people did not mourn the Archbishop. How dare they mock his death with their revelry? How dare they speak idly beneath black hoods? No mourning veil could hide their apathy. Their hedonism. These people—these animals—did not deserve to grieve him.

  On the heels of that thought, however, came another. Shame burned away my righteousness.

  Neither did I.

  Beau beat the dust from his cloak, smoothed his hair as best he could. It did little to help his travel-worn appearance. “Right. I’ll enter the proper way and request an audience. If he’s amenable—”

  “You’ll call us forward,” I finished, mouth dry.

  “Right.” He nodded. Kept nodding. “Right. And if he’s not . . . ?” He waited expectantly, brows climbing upward each second I didn’t answer. “I need to hear a confirmation, Reid.”

  My lips barely moved. “We run.”

  Madame Labelle clasped my forearms. “Everything will be fine,” she repeated. Beau didn’t look convinced. With one last nod, he strode in the opposite direction from whence we’d come. Unconsciously, I stepped closer to the gap between wall and tapestry. Waited for him to reappear. Watched as two familiar figures cut toward the dais.

  Pierre Tremblay and Jean Luc.

  Expression drawn, stricken, Jean Luc pushed Tremblay forward with inappropriate force. Those nearest the king stilled. Tremblay was a vicomte. Jean Luc assaulting him—in public, no less—was a punishable offense. Frowning, Auguste waved the women away, and the two climbed the dais steps. They leaned close to whisper in Auguste’s ear. Though I couldn’t hear their hasty words, I watched as Auguste’s frown deepened. As Oliana leaned forward, concerned.