Blood & Honey

by Shelby Mahurin

  I returned the pressure but said nothing. Though I knew she longed for a bath—for a change of clothes—the tub remained empty. The fresh clothing Deveraux had procured for her remained folded on the bed. Untouched. Instead, she stood beside me, with me, staring down at the street below. Listening to the rain, to the faint chants of liturgy from Saint-Cécile. Waiting for the procession to pass through East End to the cemetery beyond.

  I couldn’t imagine what she felt. Did she too mourn him? Did she too feel the keen loss of a father?

  Will there be a funeral?

  Yes.

  But . . . he was my father. I remembered her wide eyes back in the Hollow. Her hesitance. Her guilt. Yes, she’d felt something. Not grief, exactly, but perhaps . . . regret.

  He slept with La Dame des Sorcières. A witch.

  I couldn’t blame her. I couldn’t hate her for what had happened. I’d made a choice, same as the Archbishop. Lou might’ve lied. She might’ve deceived me. But when I’d followed her to the Chateau, I’d chosen my fate, and I’d done it with my eyes wide open. I’d chosen this life. This love. And with my fingers trembling in hers, with her heart beating alongside mine, I still chose it.

  I still chose her.

  The king can’t possibly honor him.

  Once, I would’ve agreed with her. A man tainted by witchcraft deserved no honor. He deserved only judgment—only hatred. But now . . . now I tired of hating that man. Of hating myself. That hatred could crush a person. Even now, it weighed heavily, a millstone around my neck. Strangling me. I couldn’t hold it much longer. I didn’t want to.

  Perhaps . . . perhaps Lou had been right. Perhaps a small part of me did resent her magic. My magic. The small part of me still connected to the man below. After seeing what I’d seen, it’d be easy to disparage magic. I couldn’t deny its effects on Lou. And yet . . . Lou had proven time and time again she wasn’t evil. Despite those changes, despite the hurt between us, she was still here—holding my hand, comforting me—as I mourned the father she’d never know. The father I’d taken from her.

  Magic was just one part of her.

  It was part of me.

  And we would find a way forward together.

  The voices outside grew louder, rising over the crowd, and an assemblage of clergymen turned down our street. They moved slowly, regally, and incanted the Song of Farewell, their holy vestments soaked through from rain. Behind them, a small army of Chasseurs surrounded the royal carriage. Auguste and Oliana had changed into full mourning regalia. Their faces solemn. False.

  Between just the two of us, I’m pleased you killed him.

  More carriages rounded the corner, bringing with them notable members of the aristocracy. At the end of the line, the Tremblay carriage appeared. The grief on Pierre’s face seemed genuine, at least. I couldn’t see beyond him to Célie, but her tears would’ve been too. The Archbishop had doted on her.

  “Reid.” Lou’s voice lowered to a whisper, and she stared at the last carriage as it appeared around the corner. “It’s him.”

  Crafted from gold brighter than even the king’s crown—engraved with angels and skulls and crossbones, his name and reign of service—the Archbishop’s casket remained closed. Of course it did. My chest ached. He’d been unrecognizable, in the end. I didn’t want to imagine him, didn’t want to remember—

  My hand slips, and Morgane hisses as blood trickles down her throat. The ebony witch steps closer. “Let her go, or he dies.”

  “Manon,” Lou pleads. “Don’t do this. Please—”

  “Be quiet, Lou.” Her eyes glow manic and crazed—beyond reason. The Archbishop continues screaming. The veins beneath his skin blacken, as do his nails and tongue. I stare at him in horror.

  No. I shook my head, dropping Lou’s hand and reeling backward. He’d once been immortal in my eyes. Strong and unbreakable. A god in himself.

  “I know it hurts,” Lou whispered. “But you need to grieve him, Reid, or you’ll never be able to let him go. You need to feel.”

  At her words, another memory surfaced, uninvited:

  Blood drips from my nose. Father Thomas says I’m a hateful child for brawling with the local street rats. They resent me for my situation in the Church, for the hot food in my belly and the soft bed in my room. Father Thomas says I was found in the trash. He says I should’ve been one of them, should’ve grown up in their hovel of poverty and violence. But I didn’t, and the Church’s hot food made me tall and the Church’s soft bed made me strong.

  And I taught them for attacking when my back was turned.

  “Come back here!” Father Thomas chases me through the cathedral with a switch. But he’s old and slow, and I outrun him, laughing. He doubles over to catch his breath. “Wicked boy, I shall inform the Archbishop this time, mark my words!”

  “Inform me of what?”

  That voice makes me stumble, makes me fall. When I look up, the Archbishop looms over me. I’ve only seen him from afar. From the pulpit. After the priests force me to wash my hands and face. After they thrash my backside so I can’t sit during Mass.

  I sit anyway.

  Father Thomas draws himself up, struggles to breathe. “The boy nearly crippled a child in East End this morning, Your Eminence.”

  “I was provoked!” I wipe the blood from my nose, glaring at them. I am not afraid of the switch. I am not afraid of anything. “He and his friends ambushed me.”

  The Archbishop raises a brow at my insolence. At my defiance. “And you dealt their punishment?”

  “They deserved what they got.”

  “Indeed.” He circles me now, assessing. Despite my anger, I am uneasy. I’ve heard of his soldiers. His huntsmen. Perhaps I have grown too tall. Too strong. “‘Let justice roll on like a river, and righteousness like a never-failing stream.’”

  I blink at him. “What?”

  “What is your name, young man?”

  “Reid Diggory.”

  He repeats my name. Tastes it. “You have a very bright future ahead of you, Reid Diggory.” To Father Thomas, he nods curtly. “After you’ve finished with the boy, bring him to my study. We begin his training immediately.”

  In the street below, Jean Luc marched in my place beside the casket. Beside the Archbishop. Even from afar—even in the rain—I could see his eyes were red. Raw. Hot tears spilled down my own cheeks. I wiped them away furiously. Once, we would’ve comforted each other. We would’ve mourned together. But no longer.

  “Again, Reid.”

  The Archbishop’s voice cuts through the din of the training yard. I pick up my sword and face my friend. Jean Luc nods encouragingly. “You can do it,” he whispers, lifting his sword again. But I can’t do it. My arm trembles. My fingers ache. Blood runs from a cut on my shoulder.

  Jean Luc is better than me.

  Part of me wonders why we’re here. The initiates around us are older. They are men, and we are boys. And fourteen-year-olds have no hope of becoming Chasseurs.

  “But you’re growing stronger every day.” Inside my head, the Archbishop reminds me. “Channel your anger. Sharpen it. Hone it into a weapon.”

  Anger. Yes. Jean Luc and I are very angry.

  This morning, Julien cornered us in the commissary. Captain Aurand had left with the others. We were alone.

  “I don’t care if you are the Archbishop’s pet,” he said, lifting his blade to my throat. Though he’s several years older than Jean Luc and me, his head only brushes my chin. “When Chasseur Delcour retires, his position is mine. No trash boy will carry a Balisarda.”

  Trash boy. That is my name in this place.

  Jean Luc punched him in the stomach, and we ran.

  Now, I turn my blade on Jean Luc, determined. I am no trash boy. I am worthy of the Archbishop’s attention. Of his love. I am worthy of the Chasseurs. And I will show them all.

  Small hands touched my shoulder, easing me onto the bed. I sat without thinking. My lips trembled, but I fought viciously against the despair risi
ng inside me. The hopelessness. He was gone. The Archbishop was gone, and he was never coming back.

  I’d killed him.

  The crowd’s cheers drown out Jean Luc’s roar of pain. I do not stop. I do not hesitate. Despite my too-small coat, the bile on my tongue, I strike swift and sure, knocking his sword from his hand. Disabling him. “Yield,” I say, lifting my boot to his chest. Adrenaline makes me dizzy. Clouds my thoughts.

  I have won.

  Jean Luc bares his teeth, clutching his wounded leg. “I yield.”

  Captain Aurand steps between us. Lifts my arm. “The winner!”

  The crowd goes wild, and Célie cheers loudest of all.

  I think I love her.

  “Congratulations,” the Archbishop says, striding into the arena. He draws me into a tight embrace. “I am so proud of you, my son.”

  My son.

  The pride in his eyes makes my own prick and sting. My heart threatens to burst. I am no longer trash boy. I am the Archbishop’s son—Chasseur Diggory—and I belong. I hug him so tightly that he gasps, laughing.

  “Thank you, Father.”

  Behind us, Jean Luc spits blood.

  “I killed my father,” I whispered.

  Lou stroked my back. “I know.”

  Heat washes over me as her lips touch mine. Slowly, at first, and tentative. As if fearful of my reaction. But she has nothing to fear from me. “Célie,” I breathe, looking at her in wonder.

  She smiles, and the entire world lurches to a halt at her beauty. “I love you, Reid.”

  When her lips descend once more, I forget the bench in this dark confessional. I forget the empty sanctuary beyond. There is only Célie. Célie, standing between my legs. Célie, twining her fingers in my hair. Célie—

  The door bursts open, and we break apart.

  “What is going on here?” the Archbishop asks, appalled.

  With a horrified squeak, Célie covers her mouth and ducks beneath his arm, fleeing into the sanctuary and out of sight. The Archbishop watches her go incredulously. Finally, he turns back to me. Scrutinizes my rumpled hair. My flushed cheeks. My swollen lips.

  Sighing, he extends a hand to help me up. “Come, Reid. It seems we have much to discuss.”

  He was the only man who’d ever cared for me. The tears fell faster now, soaking my shirt. My hands. My tarnished, ugly hands. Gently, Lou wrapped her arms around me.

  The loup garou’s blood coats the grass in the clearing. It stains the wildflower petals, the riverbank. My Balisarda. My hands. I rub them on my pants as inconspicuously as possible, but he still sees. He approaches warily. My brothers part for him, bowing low.

  “To mourn them would be a waste of your compassion, son.”

  I stare at the corpse at my feet. The body, once lupine, reverted back to humanoid after death. His dark eyes stare at the summer sky without seeing. “He’s my age.”

  “It,” the Archbishop corrects me, voice gentle. “It was your age. These creatures are not as you and me.”

  The next morning, he presses a medal into my palm. Though the red is gone, the blood remains. “You have done the kingdom a great service,” he says. “Captain Diggory.”

  “I’m sorry, Reid.” Despite my shaking shoulders, Lou held me tightly. Tears streamed down her own cheeks. I crushed her against me, breath shuddering—each gasp painful, burning—as I buried my face in the crook of her neck. As I finally, finally allowed the grief to win. To consume me. In great, heaving sobs, it burst forth—a torrent of hurt and bitterness, of shame and regret—and I choked on it, helpless to stop its wrath. Helpless to do anything but cling to Lou. My friend. My shelter. My home. “I’m so sorry.”

  I don’t hesitate. I don’t think. Moving quickly, I sweep a second knife from my bandolier and charge past Morgane. She lifts her hands—fire lashing from her fingertips—but I don’t feel the flames. The gold light wraps around my skin, protecting me. But my thoughts scatter. Whatever strength my body claimed, my mind now forfeits. I stumble, but the gold cord marks my path. I vault over the altar after it.

  The Archbishop’s eyes fly open as he realizes my intent. A small, pleading noise escapes him, but he can do little else before I fall upon him.

  Before I drive my knife home in his heart.

  The Archbishop’s eyes are still wide—confused—as he slumps forward in my arms.

  “I did it all for you too, Lou.”

  And with that—as his casket faded from view in the cemetery beyond, as the crowd swallowed up my last memory of him—I let the Archbishop go.

  Something New

  Lou

  I didn’t know how much time passed as Reid and I held each other on that bed. Though my limbs ached from sitting still for so long—from the cold creeping into the room—I didn’t dare let go. He needed this. He needed someone to love him. To comfort him. To honor and keep him. I would’ve laughed at the irony of the situation if it hadn’t been so heartbreaking.

  How many people in this world had truly loved Reid? A lost little boy in a trash can grown into a hardened young man in a uniform. Two? Maybe three? I knew I loved him. I knew Ansel did too. Madame Labelle was his mother, and Jean Luc had cared once. But our love was fleeting, all things considered. Ansel had only grown to love him in the last few months. Madame Labelle had abandoned him. Jean Luc had grown to resent him. And I . . . I’d given up on him at the first opportunity. No, for all his hypocrisy and hatred, the Archbishop had loved him most and loved him longest. And I would always be grateful to him for it—that he’d been a father to Reid when he hadn’t been one to me.

  But now he was dead.

  Reid’s shoulders stopped shaking as the sun dipped below the windowsill—his sobs gradually quieting—but still he didn’t loosen his grip. “He would’ve hated me,” he finally said. More tears leaked onto my shoulder. “If he’d known, he would’ve hated me.”

  I stroked his back. “It wouldn’t have been possible for him to hate you, Reid. He adored you.”

  A beat of silence passed.

  “He hated himself.”

  “Yes,” I said grimly. “I think he did.”

  “I’m not like him, Lou.” He leaned back to look at me, though his arms didn’t leave my waist. His poor face was splotched with color, and his eyes were nearly swollen shut. Tears clung to his lashes. But there—resolving behind the sorrow—was a hope so keen and sharp I might’ve cut my finger on it. “I don’t hate myself. I don’t hate you either.”

  I gave him a wary smile but said nothing.

  Releasing my waist, he lifted a hand to cup my jaw, brushing a tentative thumb across my lips. “You still don’t believe me.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but the words died in my throat when he lifted his hand to the open window. The temperature had fallen with the sun, and the raindrops had solidified to snowflakes. They drifted into the room on a gentle breeze. At the coaxing of his fingers, they transformed into fireflies.

  I exhaled in delight as they floated toward me, as they landed on my hair. “How are you . . . ?”

  “You said it yourself.” Their glow reflected in his eyes. “Magic isn’t good or evil. It heeds those who summon it. When life is a choice between fighting or fleeing—every moment life or death—everything becomes a weapon. It doesn’t matter who holds them. Weapons harm. I’ve seen it. I’ve experienced it firsthand.”

  He touched the dingy, floral paper on the walls, and the blooms exploded upward, outward, until he reached up to pluck one, tucking it behind my ear. The scent of winter jasmine filled the room. “But life is more than those moments, Lou. We’re more than those moments.”

  When he dropped his hands, the flowers returned to their paper, and the fireflies dimmed, white and wet once more. But I didn’t feel the cold. I stared at him for a while, memorizing the lines of his face with a sense of wonder. I’d been wrong about him. About everything. I’d been so very, very wrong.

  A tremble of my lips betrayed me. “I’m sorry, Reid. I am out of co
ntrol. I—I set Coco on fire this afternoon. Maybe . . . maybe you were right, and I shouldn’t use magic at all.”

  “I spoke with Coco earlier. She told me what happened. She also said she’d exsanguinate me if I judged you for it.” He brushed the snow from my hair, swallowing hard. “Not that I ever would. Lou . . . we’ve both made mistakes. You’re a witch. I shouldn’t have resented you using magic. Just—don’t let it take you somewhere I can’t follow.” When he glanced out the window, my gaze followed instinctively, and I saw what he saw.

  A cemetery.

  He shook his head. “Where you go, I go, remember? You’re all I have now. I can’t lose you too.”

  I crept into his lap. “What am I, Reid? Say it again.”

  “You’re a witch.”

  “And what are you?”

  He didn’t hesitate, and my heart swelled. “I am too.”

  “Only partly right, I’m afraid.” My smile—now genuine—grew at his confusion, and I leaned forward, rubbing my nose against his. He closed his eyes. “Allow me to fill in the gaps for you.” I kissed his nose. “You are a huntsman.” Though he recoiled slightly, I didn’t let him escape, kissing his cheek. “You are a son.” I kissed his other cheek. “You are a brother.” His forehead. “You are a husband.” His eyelids and his chin. “You are brave and strong and good.” And, finally, his lips. “But most important, you are loved.”

  A fresh tear trickled down his face. I kissed it too. “You’re also sanctimonious and stubborn and short-tempered.” His eyes flicked open, and he frowned. I kissed his lips again. Gentle and slow. “Not to mention brooding, with a shit sense of humor.” When he opened his mouth to argue, I spoke over him. “But despite all that, you aren’t alone, Reid. You’ll never be alone.”

  He stared at me for a long moment.

  And then he was kissing me.

  “I’m sorry too,” he breathed, hands cradling my face as he lowered me to the bed. Gently. So, so gently. But those hands burned as they trailed down my throat, down my chest. Burned and trembled. “I’m so sorry—”

  I caught them before they could reach my belt. “Reid. Reid, we don’t have to do this. If it’s too soon—”