“Chateau le Blanc?” Zenna’s eyes flashed gold. Her pupils narrowed to slits. “Why? What happened?”
Thierry shook his head reluctantly. Morgane captured us in the tunnels. Or rather, she did. He jerked his chin toward Nicholina, who giggled and leaned forward, smacking her lips as if blowing him a kiss. Zenna growled. Thierry, however, continued undeterred. When the lights went out, she attacked. She’d cut my arm before I knew what had happened. She drank my blood. When she commanded Toulouse and me to lock ourselves away from La Mascarade des Crânes—to wait for her return—we had no choice. We had to obey. He looked to me apologetically. We heard your screams, but we couldn’t intervene. I am sorry.
I returned his gaze with as much solemnity as I could manage while Nicholina attempted to twirl in my arms. Like we were dancing. “I don’t blame you for what happened.”
He nodded. She collected us eventually. She and her mistress. La Voisin. They handed us and the wolves over to La Dame des Sorcières without hesitation. Morgane was . . . interested in us. In our magic. She incapacitated us with her injections and led us to the Chateau.
Smoke unfurled from between Zenna’s clenched teeth.
I cannot relive the horrors she inflicted upon us there. I will not. She wanted to—to discover the source of our magic. To test its limits. To study its differences from hers. I believe she did the same with the wolves. He watched silently as Beau, Coco, and I bore Nicholina to the ground like we’d done in the lighthouse. Coco forced her mouth open. Nicholina smashed her forehead into Coco’s face. Or perhaps now she simply likes to inflict pain. Either way, she experimented on us.
“Thierry,” said Seraphine.
“I will rend her head from her shoulders,” said Zenna. “And I will eat it.”
Célie waited with bated breath. “How did you escape?”
In the end, my voice saved me. Thierry gave a sardonic laugh. The witches on duty that night were younger. They’d never tended me before. Some sort of celebration raged above, and they arrived late, tipsy, to administer my injection. I could just feel my hands. My feet. I doused the lantern, waited for them to unlock the door. When they did, I projected my voice down the corridor. It disoriented them. When they turned toward the projection, I—I— He closed his eyes then. As if he couldn’t bear the memory. I overpowered them.
“They deserved it,” Zenna snapped.
Perhaps. Their last cries alerted others to my escape, however. I couldn’t find Toulouse. They’d separated us, used each to torture the other— He broke off abruptly, chest heaving. At last, he whispered, I had no choice but to leave him.
Seraphine touched his shoulder. “You could never have saved him without first saving yourself.”
I lost my way in the forest. I intended to go back. I need to go back. Unshed tears sparkled in his dark eyes when he finally opened them. I can’t leave him alone.
Zenna bent to meet his gaze directly. “And we won’t. We will return to Chateau le Blanc for Toulouse. For the wolves. Then we will raze that wretched castle to the ground with Morgane le Blanc and her Dames Blanches inside. This I promise you.”
“Promises, promises,” Nicholina muttered beneath her breath. “Empty promises. My mistress will be safe, yes, my mistress will be waiting.”
“Your mistress will keep waiting.” I readjusted my grip to enunciate the point. The crows couldn’t happen again. We’d need to be more vigilant. From here until L’Eau Mélancolique, I’d release her only for Coco to recoat her ropes. If she still planned to take Lou to Josephine—to Morgane—she’d have to drag my corpse behind. Exhaling slow, heavy, I asked Zenna, “How are you here? You said Claud sensed Thierry?”
She turned those golden eyes toward me. “Claud is not like you. He is not even like me.”
“Yes, but—why didn’t he sense Thierry before? Why couldn’t he have found Thierry in the tunnels? Before Morgane—” I stopped myself from asking the next question. Nicholina asked it for me.
“Before she tortured him?”
Fresh smoke erupted from Zenna’s nose. “Claud has never claimed to be the supreme deity, huntsman. Only divine. He is not omniscient, and he is not omnipotent. He did sense Thierry in the tunnels. When the Hellfire sparked, however”—she cast a baleful look in Coco’s direction—“he lost the connection. We believed the fire’s magic had cloaked Thierry’s presence. We didn’t realize it was Chateau le Blanc. When Thierry escaped its enchantment three days ago, Claud felt him once more. I flew north to find him immediately.” After blinking with secondary, vertical eyelids, her eyes flicked back to brown. “Seraphine and I have scoured these mountains for days. We couldn’t fly low enough to properly search without risking exposure, forcing us to walk.” Her lip curled at the word.
Seraphine patted her arm. “When we reached Fée Tombe this morning, Zenna finally caught Thierry’s scent. Still fresh. We followed it to the lighthouse, where we met with an angry mob.”
“They’d already chased you away,” Zenna growled, “but we followed.” A cruel smile curved her painted lips. “The crows were a tasty coincidence. You are welcome.”
“Wait a moment.” Lifting a finger, Beau frowned between them, incredulous. Perhaps indignant. “Does this mean Claud didn’t send you for us? Did he not hear our prayer?”
Zenna arched a brow. “Your arrogance astounds.”
“It’s hardly arrogant to expect the help of a friend—”
“He is not your friend. He is a god. If you speak to him, he will listen. He will not, however,” she added firmly, eyes narrowing, “always answer. You do not have a god at your beck and call, any of you. He is of the Old World, and as such, he is bound by the Old Laws. He cannot directly intervene.”
Beau’s frown deepened to a scowl. I spoke before he could argue. “Can you help us, then? Nicholina has possessed Lou. We have to exorcise her.”
“Do not insult my intelligence.” Nostrils flaring once more, Zenna leaned forward to stare into Lou’s eyes. “Yes, I recognize the blight you call Nicholina. Long ago, I knew her by a different name. Nicola.”
Nicholina jerked, snarling, “We do not speak that name. We do not speak it!”
Zenna tilted her head. “But I am only a dragon. I cannot exorcise anyone.”
“The Wistful Waters can,” I said swiftly. “We’re journeying there now. Perhaps you could . . . join us.” I held my breath as I waited, hardly daring to hope. With a dragon on our side, we would reach L’Eau Mélancolique within the day. She could fly us there. She could protect us. Nicholina—even Morgane—wouldn’t dare threaten a dragon.
Zenna didn’t answer right away. Instead she stepped backward, away from us. She straightened her shoulders. Stretched her neck. “Witches are gathering at Chateau le Blanc. We have spied them in the mountains, through the forest. More than we have ever seen. If we are to rescue Toulouse, we must act swiftly. I am sorry.”
“But we can help you! No one knows Chateau le Blanc like Lou does. After we find the pearls for Le Cœur, after we exorcise her—”
“After Toulouse dies, you mean.” Her teeth continued lengthening. Her eyes gleamed gold. “Let me be clear, huntsman—Louise le Blanc may be the center of your universe, but she is not the center of mine. I have made my decision. Every moment I spend arguing with you is a moment Toulouse could lose his life.”
“But—”
“Every moment I spend arguing with you is a moment I might eat you instead.”
“He understands,” Coco said smoothly, stepping in front of Nicholina and me. She raised a hand to motion me backward. Nicholina lunged forward to snap at it. “Go.” Coco jerked her head. “Save Toulouse and the wolves. Raze the Chateau. Just—kill Morgane while you’re at it.” She gestured to the crow carcasses all around us. “Two birds, you know.”
Zenna nodded as Thierry moved to clasp my shoulder, considered Nicholina’s teeth, and thought better of it. We shall see each other soon, mon ami.
I managed a small smile. Zenna was right,
of course. Lou was my priority. Toulouse was theirs. “Good luck, frère. Be careful.”
The two of them backed toward the cliff without another word. Seraphine lingered beside us, however, as if searching for words and finding none. At last, she whispered, “I wish we could help more.”
Coco kicked aside a burning crow. “You’ve helped enough.”
“We will kill Morgane if we can,” Seraphine promised.
Zenna didn’t change as the werewolves did. Her bones didn’t crack or break. Instead, she shifted with the grace and showmanship of a performer, lifting an elegant arm in the air. The other clutched her train. With a flourish of satin, she whirled, and at the center of her turn, her entire body exploded upward. Outward. Like a flame sparked into existence.
“Beautiful,” Célie breathed as Zenna extended a jeweled claw to Thierry. He climbed atop it, and she lifted him to the smooth amethyst scales between her wings.
Seraphine smiled. “She is, isn’t she?”
Then the dragon collected her maiden, and they launched into the sky.
Litany
Lou
Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel, Madame Labelle. Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel, Madame Labelle.
I repeat the names like a litany in the darkness. I envision each face. The copper of Reid’s hair, the cut of Coco’s cheekbones, the arch of Beau’s brows, the color of Ansel’s eyes. Even the fabric of Madame Labelle’s gown when I first saw her: emerald silk.
A pretty color, Legion muses, remembering the gold leaf walls and marble floors of the Bellerose, the grand staircase and the naked ladies. A pretty . . . brothel?
Yes. Those are tits.
They press closer, listening to each name in fascination, examining each memory. Except Etienne. His presence lingers apart from the rest, but weaker now. Faded. He’s forgotten his own name again, so I remind him. I will keep reminding him. Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel, Madame Labelle. It’s Etienne. You are Etienne.
I am Etienne, he whispers faintly.
We hoped once too. Legion coils around him, not to bolster but to soothe. They see only one outcome to our situation, but I refuse to accept it. I refuse. Instead, I remember the scent of Pan’s patisserie, the sweet cream of sticky buns. The wind in my hair as I leap rooftop to rooftop. The sensation of flying. The first light of dawn on my cheeks. Hope matters not.
Hope matters most, I say fiercely. Hope isn’t the sickness. It’s the cure.
As they consider my words, the darkness saturates with their confusion, their skepticism. I don’t allow it to taint my own thoughts. Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel, Madame Labelle. Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel, Madame Labelle.
The darkness has thinned in places, however, and within it, I can see glimpses of . . . Nicholina. Her memories. They slip across the surface of the shadows, as slick and bright as oil in water, mingling with my own. Snippets of a lullaby here. Ginger hair and warm hands there, a clandestine smile and an echo of laughter—genuine laughter, not the eerie, artificial kind she uses now. Warmth envelops that particular memory, and I realize it isn’t her laughter at all. It comes from another, someone she once held dear. A sister? A mother? Pale skin, freckled flesh. Ah . . . a lover.
Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel . . .
Panic seizes me at the last. There’s someone else, isn’t there? I’ve forgotten—who have I forgotten?
Legion croons mournfully. Hope matters not.
I am Etienne, he breathes.
The darkness drifts apart in answer, revealing the temple of Chateau le Blanc. But this place . . . I’ve never known it. Blood runs as a river from the temple down the mountainside, soaking the hair and hems of the fallen witches in its path. I recognize none of them. Except one.
Nicholina stands in the center of the clearing, her hands and mouth dripping blood.
Oh my god.
Never before have I seen such carnage. Never before have I seen such death. It pervades everything, coating each blade of grass and permeating each beam of moonlight. It hovers like a disease, thick and foul in my nose. And Nicholina revels in it, her eyes bright and silver as she turns to face La Voisin, who steps down from the red-slicked temple. Behind her, she drags a bound woman. I can’t see her face. I can’t tell if she’s alive or dead.
When I look closer, horrified, the scene returns to darkness, and a familiar voice slithers down my spine.
Do you fear death, little mouse?
I do not recoil, reciting their names. Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel. Then— Everyone fears death. Even you, Nicholina.
Her ghostly chuckle reverberates. If you cannot master this one simple fear, you will not survive L’Eau Mélancolique. Oh, no. Our husband plans to baptize us, but he doesn’t realize. He doesn’t understand. Our mistress will stop him. The image of a dragon flashes—there and gone before I can properly see. Even if not, the waters go down, down, down, down, and there they drown, drown, drown, drown.
My own surprise and bewilderment stretch between us now. L’Eau Mélancolique? Though I wrack my memory to place the name, the darkness only seems to condense around it. I know those words. I know them. I just can’t—I can’t seem to remember them. Fresh panic swells at the realization, but—no. I won’t give in. I push against the darkness angrily.
Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel. If Reid plans to baptize me in these waters, he must have a reason. I have to trust him. I can swim.
It has nothing to do with swimming. Another image arises through the inky mist. A woman. She walks with purpose toward an unnaturally smooth sea—a sea so smooth it resembles the face of a mirror. Endless. Gleaming. She doesn’t break stride as she crosses into its depths, and the water . . . it seems to absorb her movements. Not a single ripple breaks its surface. She keeps walking, submerging her knees. Her hips. Her chest. When her head slips beneath the water, she does not reemerge. You aren’t the first to seek the waters’ embrace. Many have come before you, and many will come behind. She cherishes her lovers. She kisses each to sleep, tucking them in bed and healing them with brine.
A thought strikes like lightning. What happens to you if I die?
You’ve seen an Ascension, she says. I feel rather than see her turn her attention to Etienne, who trembles beneath her observation. He’s forgotten his name again. The soul can live for an indefinite amount of time without a body.
Indefinite isn’t forever.
No.
So . . . you could die if I do.
It will not come to that.
Why not?
Another chuckle. My mistress resides at the Chateau. She will have brought my body. If you succumb to the waters’ lure, I will return to it. You will die, and I will live.
How do you know your body is there? I ask her, pushing again. Repeating the names. You’ve failed, Nicholina. My mother attacked you, and you openly challenged her. Your mistress needs her more than she needs you. Perhaps your body won’t be there at all. Perhaps you will die.
I have not failed. The darkness writhes in agitation at the words, and Legion hisses and spits. The emotion only partly belongs to them, however. No, they also feel . . . curious, and there—deep within their essence—a sense of longing pervades. A sense of hope. My mistress tasked me with bringing you to Morgane le Blanc—Nicholina spits the name—and I will do so, regardless of your foul family. We will see who dances and who drowns.
Reid, Coco, Beau.
Laughing again, Nicholina withdraws.
Reid Coco Beau Reid Coco Reid Coco Reid Coco
Hold on, Etienne says.
Then he slips into Legion once more.
Wake up, little mouse.
I rouse as if waking from deep sleep, and immediately, I sense something has changed. Though darkness still shrouds everything, it dissipates into eerie wisps at Nicholina’s words, drifting in the wind. Clinging to trees and rocks and—
And people.
I study the man beside me. Copper hair tousled, he stalks along a mountain path with rope in his hand, bickering with the young woman beside him. Look at the
m, Louise. Look one last time. Your family. A hateful pause. Have you forgotten them?
Though their names rise slowly, as if through tar, I hold on to each for dear life. Reid and Coco. No.
Coco’s dark eyes—so dark they’re almost black—lift to the sky before landing on me. No. Not on me. On Nicholina. “Even with the pearls, you know we’re walking into a trap, right?”
Nicholina giggles.
Shaking his head, Reid pulls us along faster. My vision pitches with each step. “Not necessarily.”
They will die, Nicholina croons. All of them. My mistress will come. She will cut out their hearts.
They will not. She will not.
“We don’t have a choice.” Reid’s words brook no argument. “The Wistful Waters are our only hope.”
“And after? What then, Reid?” They both stare at me for a long moment. “Chateau le Blanc is near. With Lou as herself again—if Zenna doesn’t raze the castle to the ground—maybe we could slip inside and . . . finish this.”
The two walking in front slow their footsteps at the last. Both black-haired. Both unfamiliar.
“It was Nicholina who wanted to storm the Chateau,” Reid says adamantly, “not Lou. Which means it’s the last thing we should do. Morgane and Josephine might be expecting . . .”
But his voice begins to fade as the scene shifts around me.
Say goodbye, Louise. The shadows thicken and solidify into darkness once more. It crushes me beneath its weight, and I’m swept away—away from Reid, away from Coco, away from light. You will not see them again.
Yes, I will.
The words are quiet and small, so insignificant that Nicholina doesn’t hear them. But others do. Though Etienne is gone, Legion wraps their presence around me, folding me into their depths. Their intent is not to harm, however, not to claim. Instead they hold me apart. They keep me together. Hope isn’t the sickness. They hum their own litany now. Their own prayer. It’s the cure.
Another Grave
Reid
Célie emerged from the trees clad in fitted pants and knee-high leather boots. She’d tucked a billowing shirt into them. Jean Luc’s shirt. I recognized the stitching on the collar, the sleeves. Deep blue—Chasseur blue—and gold. On her head, she wore a feathered cavalier hat. On her face, she wore a neatly trimmed beard.
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