Gods & Monsters

by Shelby Mahurin

  “Old Florin took the title, and no one heard from Achille for nearly thirty years—until now.”

  A knock sounded on the vaulted doors, and the men paused, watching as Philippe slipped into the hall, closing them behind. The balding man snorted and resumed his malicious gossip. “I heard his brother fell in with a witch. I can’t remember his name.”

  “Audric,” the bearded one supplied, his expression thoughtful. Unlike his peer, he seemed less inclined to loathe Achille. He peered down at the man in question almost curiously. “My father said Achille helped the whole family slip past the border.”

  The younger’s lip curled. “I didn’t know he sympathized with witches.”

  “How could you not?” The balding man pointed to where Achille still shielded my mother. “He stands no chance of procuring the vote. Not with the way he carries on—all this talk of peace and civility with the creatures of this kingdom. The conclave will never appoint him. Clearly, his seclusion has altered his senses.”

  Lou scoffed with unexpected vehemence. “Do you think he’d feel it if I cut out his tongue?”

  Unable to remain still, I stalked down the steps toward my mother. “You will not touch them.”

  “Why?” She hurried to trail after me. “He’s clearly a bastard—”

  The vaulted doors burst open before she could finish.

  Clad in a cape made of lion’s fur—the mane draped across his shoulders—my father strode inside the courtroom. Philippe and three huntsmen I didn’t recognize accompanied him. As one, the entire congregation rose and bowed at his arrival. Every man. Even Achille. My stomach turned as I lurched to a halt by the podium.

  He’d threatened torture the last time I saw him. Threatened rats. Immediately, my gaze dropped to my mother, who lay very still. Though her dress had once been emerald green, I couldn’t now place its color—an unpleasant shade of brown, perhaps. I knelt to examine her stomach. When her eyes fluttered at the movement, I froze.

  “Yes, yes, bonjour.” Auguste waved an agitated hand. He offered no smiles today. No empty platitudes. I surveyed him with mounting hatred. His hair remained immaculate, of course, but shadows deepened his eyes. His fingers trembled inexplicably. He hid them in his cape. “I cannot stay long. Though this damned fire has abated slightly”—several around the room stared at the expletive, but Auguste didn’t apologize—“the healers at last believe they’ve discovered the solution: a rare plant in La Fôret des Yeux.” Sweeping forward, he motioned for Achille to move away from my mother. “Let us be done with this.”

  Coco snorted and muttered, “There is no solution, fruit or otherwise.”

  I frowned. “How do you know?”

  “Because the fire stemmed from my grief.” Expression solemn, she met my eyes directly. “And there is no solution for grief. Only time. The fire might abate, yes, but it will never truly die.”

  Lou nodded in agreement, staring at my mother, and my mother—I swore she stared back. Crouching beside her, Lou laid a hand on her arm as Auguste continued his tirade.

  “We all know the crimes of the creature.” Pointing, he sneered at her soiled form. “From its own lips, it admitted its guilt. It is a witch. A powerful one. It promised to douse this lake of black fire in exchange for its life, but God has found our cure. The healers have already begun testing. By the end of the week, they promise an extinguishant to the Hellfire, and at such time, this witch shall burn for her sins.”

  This witch. The words shouldn’t have chafed. She was a witch. But she was also my mother and his former lover. He’d laid with her. He’d even loved her once, if she were to be believed. She’d certainly loved him. Now her stomach bled from rat bites, and she lifted a ruined hand to Lou’s cheek. Lou tried and failed to hold it, her own hand passing through without purchase.

  Only then did I grasp the rest of his words: by the end of the week. My heart sank like a stone. She would burn by the end of the week. Too soon for us to reach her. Much too soon.

  Several in the audience applauded the king’s outburst—including the balding man—but only Achille made a noise of protest. “Your Majesty, there are protocols in place. Without an Archbishop elect, the conclave must cast an official vote—”

  “Ah.” Auguste’s nose crinkled as he turned. “You again, Father . . . ?”

  “Achille, Your Majesty. Achille Altier.”

  “Achille Altier, you do realize the support of the Crown is necessary to obtain bishopric?”

  “Preferable. Not necessary.”

  Auguste arched a brow, scrutinizing him with new eyes. “Is that so?”

  “Please, Achille,” Gaspard interrupted smoothly. “His Majesty’s word is divine. If he proclaims the witch shall burn, the witch shall burn.”

  “If his word is divine,” Achille grumbled, “he should have no qualms putting the matter to vote. The outcome will comply.”

  “Something ought to.” Auguste glared at him before lifting his arms to address the room at large, his voice curt and impatient. Out of bounds. “You heard the man. Your Father Achille would like a vote, and a vote he shall have. All those in favor of burning the witch, raise your hand.”

  “Wait!” Achille lifted his own arms, eyes widening in panic. “The witch could still prove valuable! The healers have not yet perfected their extinguishant—if it fails, if we burn this woman, what hope have we of dousing the fire?” He spoke to Auguste alone now. “Her knowledge has proved valuable to the healers. I can bring in another to testify.”

  August spoke through his teeth. “That will not be necessary. This conclave has heard enough of your ludicrous ramblings.”

  “With all due respect, Your Majesty, the pursuit of knowledge isn’t ludicrous. Not when a woman’s life is in jeopardy—”

  “Careful, Father, lest I deem it heretical instead.”

  Achille’s mouth snapped shut in response, disappearing into his beard, and Auguste addressed the congregation once more. “Let us try this again, shall we? All those in favor of burning the witch?”

  Every hand in the courtroom rose. Every hand but one. Though Achille watched his peers decide my mother’s fate with an inscrutable expression, he kept both hands fixed at his sides. Firm. Implacable. Even under the king’s baleful gaze. “It seems you have been outvoted,” Auguste sneered. “My word is divine.”

  “We’ll rescue you,” Lou whispered furiously to Madame Labelle. “I don’t know how, but we will. I promise.”

  Madame Labelle might’ve shaken her head.

  “Why wait until week’s end?” Achille’s voice shook with restraint. “You’ve made our decision. Why not burn the witch now?”

  Auguste chuckled and clapped a threatening hand on Achille’s shoulder. “Because she is only the bait, you foolish man. We have much bigger fish to catch.” To Philippe, he said, “Spread word far and wide throughout the kingdom, Captain. Madame Helene Labelle will burn”—he cast a pointed look at Achille now—“and any who object will meet the same fate.”

  Achille bowed stiffly. “You must follow your conscience, Your Majesty. I must follow mine.”

  “See that your conscience leads you outside the cathedral in three days’ time. At sunset, you shall light her pyre.” With that, he strode through the vaulted doors once more, and the courtroom vanished into smoke.

  Part IV

  Qui sème le vent, récolte la tempête.

  He who sows the wind shall reap the tempest.

  —French proverb

  What Happiness Looks Like

  Lou

  Though Angelica and her iron chalices had gone when we resurfaced, Beau, Célie, and Jean Luc floated atop the inlet in a fishing boat. A fishing boat. Célie grinned with palpable excitement from the flybridge, gripping the helm with both hands. Her smile quickly fell at our grim expressions, however, and she called out, “What’s wrong?”

  I waited until we’d climbed aboard to answer. “Isla’s gift was shit.”

  We wouldn’t be able to reach Cesarine
before Madame Labelle burned to ash. When Coco said as much—explaining the conclave’s decision, Father Achille’s involvement, and Auguste’s last words—Beau patted the stern. “This is her gift. Or at least, this is Angelica’s. It’ll get us there in time.” He shrugged and added, “I wouldn’t worry about my father. He has a flair for dramatics, but he knows what he’s doing even less than we do.”

  “You didn’t see him.” I wrung out my hair, cursing at the cold. The strands had already started to freeze, and gooseflesh steepled my entire body. “He wasn’t acting. He knows we’ll come to rescue Madame Labelle. He plans to trap us, like he did before.” I glanced around the ramshackle boat. “And this won’t get us to Cesarine anytime soon.”

  “It will.” Nudging Célie aside, Beau nodded as Jean Luc dropped the sail, and we slipped through the waters with speed. “I learned to sail when I was three.” He arched a smug brow at Coco, adding, “The admiral of the Royal Navy taught me himself.”

  Beside me, Coco rubbed her arms, and Reid clenched every muscle, refusing to shiver despite his lips turning blue. Célie hurried to fetch us blankets in the cabin belowdecks. But blankets wouldn’t help. Not really. Reluctantly, I reached for the white patterns, bracing as they shimmered into existence. I frowned at the sensation—the breadth of possibility still startled, but after a second or two of adjustment, it felt . . . good. Like stretching after sitting too long in one position. More curious still, instead of pulling me toward Chateau le Blanc, the magic seemed to be pulling me toward—

  What matters now is whether you—La Dame des Sorcières—still consider this place your home. If not, it stands to reason your magic won’t protect it anymore. It’ll shift to your new home. Wherever that is.

  It was too easy to pluck a cord now. A burst of hot air enveloped Reid and Coco—then me—and I watched, bemused, as the snow along the path melted. Warmth for warmth. The white pattern dissipated with it.

  “How did you do that?” Coco asked suspiciously.

  “I melted the snow.”

  “I thought nature demanded sacrifice?” Her eyes narrowed, skimming my face and body for signs of damage. “How is melting snow a sacrifice?”

  I shrugged helplessly, struggling to articulate this strange new power even to myself. Morgane had seemed limitless as La Dame des Sorcières, and—at least in this natural way—perhaps she had been. “I am the snow.”

  She blinked at me in response. They all did. Even Célie, as she returned with slightly moldy blankets. I wrapped mine around my shoulders, burrowing into its warmth. The pattern had dried us, yes, but the bitter wind still remained. I tried and probably failed to clarify. “It’s like . . . before, my magic felt like a connection to my ancestors. I gained my patterns through them. Now, as La Dame des Sorcières, I am them. I’m their ashes, their land, their magic. I’m the snow and the leaves and the wind. I’m . . . boundless.” It was my turn to blink, to stare. I probably sounded like a raving lunatic, but I didn’t know how else to describe it. Perhaps words couldn’t describe it.

  “But”—Coco cleared her throat, visibly uncomfortable—“you heard what happened to my aunt without checks and balances. She and her followers pushed too far. They slaughtered their coven as a result, and the Goddess punished them. She—she punished your mother too.”

  “The Goddess gave my mother a chance to redeem herself at La Mascarade des Crânes. She gave her a warning. When Morgane didn’t heed it, Aurore revoked her blessing. See? There are checks and balances. And I can’t”—I turned my sight inward, examining the patterns there—“I can’t do anything unnatural with it. At least, I don’t think I can. I can’t kill anyone, or—”

  “Death is natural.” Reid stared determinedly over the gunwale. As we hadn’t yet cleared L’Eau Mélancolique, the waters below didn’t ripple. He clutched his blanket tighter and swallowed hard. “Everyone dies eventually.”

  “Yes,” I said slowly, recalling Ansel’s previous words. His had somehow felt comforting, like a benediction. Reid’s, however, did not. They felt more like a threat—no, like a promise. I frowned again, eyes narrowing on his heavy brow, his downcast expression. For the first time since he’d lost his memories—aside from our drunken encounter—he didn’t project malevolence. He didn’t keep one hand on his bandolier. “Death is natural, but murder is not.”

  Shrugging, he said nothing.

  I fought the urge to move closer. “Are you okay, Chass? Beau is right. We will reach your mother in time—”

  He turned on his heel and stalked belowdecks before I could finish. The door slammed behind him.

  Awkward silence descended in his wake, and heat crept up my cheeks.

  Coco rummaged in her pack, turning her back to the frigid wind. “You shouldn’t need a lesson to know he wants you to go after him.” She withdrew a scrap of parchment, a pot of ink, and a quill before sinking to the boat’s floor. Without ceremony, she used her knee as a table and began to pen a message. To Claud, probably. To Blaise. “Unless you do need a lesson? I could teach you an excellent way to relieve stress—”

  “I know plenty of ways to relieve stress, thank you.” When the wind made it impossible to keep the parchment steady, I waved a hand. It stilled for just a moment, stilling the boat as well. We’d just reached the broader expanse of sea, and waves finally broke against the helm. “He wouldn’t be interested in any of them.”

  “Oh, I think he’s very interested.” Her smirk faded as she looked up, and she tapped her quill upon the paper pointedly. “What am I telling Claud?”

  Resigned, I plopped down next to her, spreading my blanket over her as well. Across the small deck, Beau manned the helm while Célie perched atop the boat’s single bench. Jean Luc joined her. “My father might plan to trap us,” Beau conceded, “but we still have one thing in our favor.” He pointed to Célie and Jean Luc in turn. “We have these two this time. He doesn’t know about them.”

  “He knows I abandoned my post,” Jean Luc muttered.

  Coco shook her head. “But he doesn’t know why. If he’s learned of Célie’s absence—which I doubt, knowing Tremblay—he might suspect you followed her, but no one would ever believe she’d seek us out, let alone ally with us. Not after everything that’s happened.”

  “We do have the element of surprise.” At the edge of my thoughts, the beginning of a plan began to take shape. I didn’t look at it too closely, instead worrying a loose thread in the blanket. Allowing it to form. It wouldn’t solve the Morgane problem—though in truth, problem seemed too mild a word for the picture Angelica had painted. A battle brews on the horizon more catastrophic than this world has ever seen.

  We couldn’t focus on that now. The plan had changed. Madame Labelle would come first, and then—then came catastrophic battles. I tugged at the thread viciously, unraveling part of the blanket. “We won’t be able to slip into the city undetected. We couldn’t manage it before, even when no one knew we were coming. Now they’ll be expecting us.”

  “Do I hear a but?” Beau asked.

  I looked up at him then. Looked up at them all. “Maybe we don’t need to slip in undetected. Maybe we announce our arrival.” I grinned slightly, though I didn’t particularly feel like grinning. “Maybe we let them arrest us.”

  “What?” Beau exclaimed.

  “No, listen.” I leaned forward, pointing again at Célie and Jean Luc. “We have an aristocrat with a death wish and a huntsman madly in love with her. A captain. He’s deadly skilled and highly trained, and—more importantly—he has the respect of the Crown and Church. If Célie struck out on a quest for vengeance—against me, against Reid, against all witches—of course he would catch up with her. Of course he would incapacitate us, and of course he would bring us back to Cesarine to burn. He would even arrest the lawless crown prince in the process.”

  “They’ll throw you all in prison.” The wind ruffled Coco’s wild curls as she considered. “The same prison where they hold Madame Labelle.”

  “Exactl
y. Jean Luc can relieve the guard, and I’ll magic us all out.”

  “They’ll inject you with hemlock,” Jean Luc said.

  “Not if you’ve already done it.” I slumped as if incapacitated to demonstrate, my head lolling on Coco’s shoulder. “You forget I’m an accomplished liar, and your brethren trust you.”

  “If you escape under my watch, they’ll know I’ve helped you. They’ll strip my captaincy.”

  Coco, who’d been penning our plan—scratching out and writing anew as it formed—looked up with a dark expression. “They’ll do a lot worse than that.” Slipping a knife from her cloak, she cut a fine line on her forearm, positioning the cut over the paper. With each drop, the paper sizzled and vanished. To me, she said, “I asked Claud—and I assume Zenna and Seraphine—to find Blaise and meet us at Léviathan afterward. If they managed to heal Toulouse, Liana, and Terrance, they’ll be able to heal Madame Labelle.”

  When Jean Luc said nothing, Célie scooted closer, threading her fingers through his. “It’s the right thing to do, Jean. Chasseurs are meant to protect the innocent. Madame Labelle has done nothing but love her son. If not for her sacrifice, the king would’ve tortured Reid instead.”

  “Also,” Beau said, pursing his lips, “not to be that person, but your captaincy won’t matter after Morgane kills everyone.”

  “He has a point,” Coco said.

  Jean Luc closed his eyes, his face tight and strained. Overhead, gulls cried in the filtered sunlight, and to starboard, waves crashed upon the distant shore. Though I didn’t know Jean Luc, he still wore his emotions like he wore his coat—a coat he’d worked hard to receive. Harder than most. And all that hard work—all that pain, all that envy, all that spite—it’d be for nothing if he helped us now. In doing the right thing, he’d lose everything.

  No, I didn’t know Jean Luc, but I understood him better than most.

  After another moment, he dipped his chin in assent. In sorrow. “Of course. Just tell me what to do.”