Gods & Monsters

by Shelby Mahurin

  Gently, I pressed him back against the pillow. “You love more than her laugh, Beau.”

  His lashes fluttered. “We’re all going to die, aren’t we?”

  “No.” I pulled the blanket to his chin, tucking it around him. “But I dare you to tell her anyway.”

  “Tell her . . .” His voice drifted on an enormous yawn. “. . . what?”

  “That you love her.”

  He laughed again as his eyes finally closed, and his body succumbed to sleep.

  And then there were two.

  I turned to face Reid, startled to find him directly behind me. His eyes fixed on mine with a deep, unsettling intensity that hadn’t been there before. “Truth or dare.”

  Butterflies erupted in my belly as he stepped closer still. Heat washed across every inch of my skin. “Truth.”

  He shook his head slowly.

  I swallowed hard. “Dare.”

  “Kiss me.”

  My mouth parted without volition as I looked up at him—as I saw that primal fascination in his eyes—but even through the fugue of alcohol, of keen, desperate want, I forced myself back a step. He followed intently. His hand lifted to cradle the nape of my neck. “Reid. You don’t—you’re drunk—”

  The tips of his boots met my bare toes. “What is this between us?”

  “A lot of alcohol—”

  “I feel like I know you.”

  “You did know me once.” I shrugged helplessly, struggling to breathe at his proximity. At his heat. This glint in his eyes—he hadn’t looked at me like this since before the beach. Not on the horse, not on the bridge or in the treasury, not even beneath this very bed. My gaze darted to the whiskey in my hand, and that heat in my belly felt more like nausea now. Alcohol is its own form of truth. “But now you don’t.”

  His hand edged to the side of my throat, and his thumb brushed my jaw. “We were . . . romantic.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why are you frightened?”

  I clutched his wrist to prevent his thumb from moving to my lips. Every instinct in my body raged against me. Every instinct craved his touch. Not like this. “Because this isn’t real. You’ll wake up with a throbbing headache in a couple of hours, and you’ll want to kill me all over again.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m a witch.”

  “You’re a witch.” He repeated the words slowly, languidly, and I couldn’t help it—I leaned into his palm. “And I know you.” When he swayed on his feet, my own hands shot to his waist, steadying him. He leaned down to bury his nose in my hair and inhaled deeply. “I’ve never been drunk before.”

  “I know.”

  “You know me.”

  “I do.”

  “Truth or dare.”

  “Truth.”

  His fingertips traced my scar, and he leaned lower, brushing his nose along the curve of my neck and shoulder. “Why do you have roses on your throat?”

  I clung to him helplessly. “My mother disfigured me with hate. Coco transformed me with hope.”

  He paused then, drawing back slightly to look at me. A nameless emotion shadowed his gaze as it flicked from my scar to my lips. “Why do you smell so sweet?”

  Though pressure built behind my eyes, I ignored it, hoisting one of his arms over my shoulders. He would collapse soon. Clumsy with alcohol, his movements lacked their typical grace—lacked even basic coordination—and he continued to sway on his feet. Fervently, I prayed he wouldn’t remember any of this tomorrow. I shouldn’t have let him drink so much. Pain spiked through my right temple. I shouldn’t have drunk so much. With slow, heavy footsteps, I lugged him across the room toward the bed. “What do I smell like, Reid?”

  His head fell upon my shoulder. “Like a dream.” When I deposited him carefully beside Beau—his entire leg spilling free from the mattress—his hand caught my own and lingered there, even after his eyes had fluttered shut. “You smell like a dream.”

  The Hangover

  Reid

  I felt as if I’d been hit by a runaway horse.

  Our own horses shifted nervously in the alley behind the inn, snorting and stamping their feet. I gripped their reins tighter. Dull pain throbbed behind my eyes. When my stomach rose suddenly, I turned away from them, clenching my eyes against the weak morning light. “Never again,” I promised them bitterly.

  I would never imbibe another ounce of liquor for as long as I lived.

  The horse nearest me lifted his tail and defecated in response.

  The smell nearly undid me. Pressing a fist to my mouth, I struggled to tether their reins to the post and fled to our rooms once more. Inside, the others packed the last of their belongings with slow, sluggish movements. Except for Coco and Célie. Smirking, Coco watched from the bed, while Célie flitted to and fro in an effort to help. But she didn’t help. Instead, she talked. Loudly.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” She swatted Jean Luc’s arm before bending to search under the bed for his missing boot. “You know I have always wanted to try whiskey, and you all drank an entire bottle without me! And played truth or dare too! How could you leave me to sleep in the next room while you had all the fun?”

  “It wasn’t fun,” Beau muttered, accepting his shirt from Lou. Sometime in the course of the night, it’d ended up in the washbowl. He wrung it out now with a miserable expression. “Fun is the last word I’d use to describe it, actually. Can you stop talking now, darling?”

  “Oh, nonsense!” Abandoning her search beneath the bed, Célie rose and planted her hands on her hips. “I want to know every single detail. What questions did you ask? What dares did you undertake? Is that”—her eyes fell to a dark smear on the corner of the dressing table—“is that blood?”

  I strode to wipe it away, cheeks hot, mumbling, “Fell doing a cartwheel.”

  “Oh my goodness! Are you all right? Actually—never mind. Forget I asked. Clearly, you all had a grand time without me, so a little blood can be your penance. You do have to tell me everything that transpired, however, since you couldn’t be bothered to invite me. Fortunately, we have plenty of time to recount every detail on our way to L’Eau Mélancolique—”

  Jean Luc seized her shoulders then, his eyes bloodshot and pleading. “I love you, Célie, but please—shut up.”

  “Hear, hear,” Beau said, lifting his shoe.

  Though she narrowed her eyes at each of them, it was Coco who interrupted, her voice rising to a shout. “What’s that?” She grinned wider at our collective wince. Each word was a spike through my eyes. “You can’t hear us? Célie, darling, we must speak up for them.”

  Célie grinned now too. “Of course, Cosette. How abominably rude of us! Shall I repeat everything I’ve just said?”

  “I think that would be the courteous thing to do.”

  “You’re right. It would be. What I said was—”

  “Please—” Beau turned helplessly to Lou, who sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, folding her soiled clothes and replacing them in her pack. My stomach twisted anew at the sight of her. Fresh bile rose in my throat. She hadn’t acknowledged anyone this morning. Including me. I could’ve been sick from shame alone—from the memory of her skin, soft and sweet. Its scent haunted me still.

  I’d dared her to kiss me.

  Stalking to the washbowl to splash my face, I swallowed acid.

  When she didn’t answer, Beau tapped her shoulder, and she looked up with a vacant expression. Her face wan. Her freckles stark. “Can you force them to shut up somehow?” he asked her. “Perhaps solder their vocal cords?”

  Lou lifted a hand to her ears, pulling a small piece of fabric from each of them. “What’s that?”

  We all stared at her.

  Earplugs. She’d made earplugs from a piece of the innkeeper’s quilt. Beau snatched them from her with an air of reverence, stuffing them into his own ears. “You’re an evil genius.”

  But Lou didn’t laugh. She only blinked. Her eyes focused on the room slowly, as if
she’d been lost in thought. She still held an undergarment in one hand when she asked, “Should we send word to Claud somehow? About Morgane?” The hateful woman’s words echoed between us: The time is now. The trees have mobilized, and we shall follow, striking hard and true while the conclave deliberates. “We should really warn Blaise too, and both should know about Isla. We can coordinate some sort of defense—”

  I couldn’t prevent a scoff. “You think mermaids and werewolves can coordinate anything?”

  Her gaze sharpened abruptly. “I think every plan we’ve ever coordinated has been complete and utter shit and ended in total disaster.”

  “We need them,” Coco agreed firmly, cinching her bag and standing. “I’ll send word to them from the beach.” She paused. “After Isla agrees to help us.”

  As one, we all looked to the ring on Lou’s finger. She twisted it nervously. “Do you think we can trust her?” Her eyes met Coco’s across the room. “Can we trust your mother?”

  “We held up our end of the agreement.” Coco shrugged. “And the waters prevent falsehood.”

  “Right.” Lou continued twisting the ring. Twisting and twisting and twisting. “And—what’s the conclave? What are they deliberating?”

  It was Jean Luc who answered. “Religious leaders from throughout the kingdom have gathered in Cesarine to elect a new Archbishop. They’re also”—he cleared his throat, abruptly busy with his satchel—“they’re eliciting information from Madame Labelle.”

  The word fell heavy with meaning.

  “Eliciting,” Lou repeated.

  Jean Luc still wouldn’t look at her. “Hellfire continues to ravage the city.”

  “What does eliciting mean?” Coco asked him, undeterred.

  “You know what it means.”

  They all stared at me in the ensuing silence. Heat prickled my neck. My face. “I don’t care.”

  Lou pushed to her feet. “She’s your mother.”

  “I said I don’t care.” With a snarl, I pivoted to return to the horses—regretting my decision to rejoin the group, to rejoin her—but Célie pointed to my bag with a frown.

  “Erm . . . Reid? Your satchel is moving.”

  My satchel is . . . Her words pierced my thoughts a second too late. I glanced down.

  Then I threw my bag across the room.

  Something within it shrieked as it hit the wall. Seeds and clothing and weapons spilled forth, along with what looked like a pastry and a—and a rat. Célie screamed and leapt atop the bed. Beau joined her. Lou, however, swooped to seize the pastry as the rat bolted through a crack in the wall. She held it up between two fingers. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “How should I know?” Furious, I swept the seeds back into their pouch. Jean Luc handed me my shirt. My pants. I stuffed them away without ceremony. Then I snatched the pastry from her. “Whatever it is, it’s mine.”

  “This is a sticky bun.” She didn’t let go. “Have you had this with you the entire time?”

  The bun tore between our fingers. “I don’t remember.”

  “Do you remember buying it?”

  “No.”

  “Clearly you bought it for me, then. It’s mine.”

  “It isn’t yours—”

  Célie cleared her throat as we continued to grapple over the admittedly stale pastry. “A rat was just eating that, correct?”

  “Not all of it.” Eyes blazing, Lou tugged hard, and the bun tore in two. She moved to take a mighty bite.

  Fire lit in my own chest, and I swiped at it. “Give that back—”

  Coco slapped the bun from her hand before I could. “No,” she said, matter-of-fact. “We won’t be doing that.” Dropping the pouch of seeds into my bag, she turned to resume her own packing. “Get along, children.”

  Lou and I glared at each other.

  The Rift

  Lou

  The mist enveloped us later that afternoon.

  We dismounted into it at the edge of the path, glancing around for signs of life. Constantin had died; did that mean the waters held no guardian? Could we simply . . . walk to shore? Should we?

  “Beau, Célie, and Jean Luc, you should all stay here, just in case,” I whispered. “Isla’s magic protected you before, but we don’t know if she’ll extend the same courtesy this time. I’ll take the ring to her.” I looked to Coco. “Will you come too?”

  Without a word, she looped her arm through mine in an admirable effort of normalcy. But there was nothing normal about this place. Nothing normal about how we simultaneously bent to draw knives from our boots. Despite the daylight hour, smoke still clouded the sun, and mist darkened the land to perpetual twilight. The latter clung to us as we stepped forward, dense as water, and limited our visibility—which was why we both shrieked when Reid’s hand snaked out and caught my elbow. “Don’t even think about it.”

  I shook him off with an indignant cry. “Don’t do that! If you want to tag along, fine, but announce yourself next time. I could’ve chopped off your hand!”

  Coco’s eyes narrowed. “He might plan worse.”

  He glared at her, the fog undulating around his towering frame. “I don’t trust either of you. You aren’t leaving my sight.”

  “You aren’t exactly endearing yourself to us,” Coco said, poisonously sweet.

  “I have a Balisarda. There could be witches here.”

  “Oh, there are witches here.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Manon could’ve told them what we stole. They could be waiting.”

  She pretended to consider this for a moment before shrugging. “Fine. As long as you don’t stick that Balisarda into me instead.” It was a mark of how far they’d both come that she turned her back on him, pulling me forward. He followed without comment.

  We walked the path as quietly as possible, listening for any sound, but there were none. Not the rustle of leaves or the crash of waves or the cries of gulls. No, this silence was a living creature all its own, unnatural and thick and oppressive. When we stepped onto the beach, we hesitated, blinking into the abrupt sunlight and standing closer together than we normally would’ve.

  “Do we just throw the ring in, or—?”

  As if my whisper had broken some sort of spell, Angelica materialized from the water like a specter, silent and ethereal, water streaming from her gown of pure silver. When her eyes landed on Coco, her tranquil face broke into a breathtaking smile. “Cosette. You’ve returned.”

  “I told you I would.”

  Tugging the golden ring from my hand, I hastily extended it to her. “Here. It’s yours.”

  “Thank you, Louise.” Her smile faded as she examined the simple band in her palm. Though it sparkled innocently in the sun, we both knew better. Its history had been forged in death and magic until the two had become one. “It has been a long time since I’ve seen this ring.” Regretfully, her eyes lifted to Coco. “Almost twenty years, in fact.”

  “Does this mean Isla agrees to help us?” I asked.

  She ignored me, instead moving to clasp Coco’s hands. “Daughter. Events have been set in motion. I fear this is the last opportunity we shall have to speak.”

  Coco pulled away halfheartedly. “I told you I don’t want to talk.”

  “You must.”

  “No—”

  Angelica dropped her voice to a fervent whisper, drawing closer, but in the silence, her voice still carried. We heard every word. “Please understand. I never wanted to leave you, but the thought of you trapped underwater for your entire life—like a fish in a bowl, examined and admired and wooed—I couldn’t bear it. You deserved so much more. Believe me. I have watched you always, desperate to join you on the surface.”

  Now Coco did tear her hands away. “So why didn’t you?”

  “You know that answer.”

  “I know you’re afraid.”

  “You’re right,” Angelica continued to whisper, “I abandoned you to a cruel woman in hopes that she would love you, that she would give you the too
ls to chart your own path—and she did. You outgrew her. You’ve outgrown us both.”

  “Talk to me, Chass,” I hissed, wishing desperately that Beau hadn’t thieved my earplugs.

  He regarded me with open suspicion. “About what?”

  “Anything. Whatever comes to—”

  “You can try to justify it all you’d like.” Coco didn’t bother to lower her voice. “How many times did I visit this beach, crying for you? How many times did you ignore me?”

  “You would’ve lived a half life with me, Cosette. I wanted more for you.”

  Unable to help myself, I glanced behind to see Coco staring at her mother incredulously. “What about what I wanted, maman? You and tante—all either of you have ever cared about is this stupid feud. I’m the collateral damage, aren’t I? I’m the one who suffers.”

  “We all have suffered,” Angelica said sharply. “Do not mistake me, Cosette. Your aunt and I were among the very first of witchkind. Yes”—she nodded at Coco’s dumbfound expression—“I have lived a hundred lives. Perhaps more, even. Time passed differently then.” To me, she lifted an impatient hand. “Come, Louise le Blanc. You should hear this too. A battle brews on the horizon more catastrophic than this world has ever seen, and we must all play our parts. This is mine.”

  I crept closer tentatively. “We really don’t have time for this. Morgane has already started for Cesarine—”

  “If you wish to defeat your mother—and my sister—you will make time.”

  Her tone brooked no argument, and in the next second, she’d drawn a thin blade from her sleeve, slicing it across the palm of each hand. Her blood spilled thick upon the sand, and from it, black vines curled upward into the shape of chairs. She pointed to them, blood still trickling down her wrists. Tiny blooms of purple aconite sprouted where it dripped to the beach. “Sit. Now. I will not ask again.”