Gods & Monsters

by Shelby Mahurin

  “Thank you, Jean,” Célie said, pressing a kiss upon his cheek.

  The last of the parchment vanished with Coco’s blood, and the message was sent.

  Instead of relief, however, fresh dread crept through me. Fresh dread and stale anger. The latter simmered just beneath my skin as I stared at the cabin door. Jean Luc would help us, yes, and Claud and Blaise would too. We had a dragon on our side, as well as an original witch. Melusines and loup garou. A goddess had gifted me the magic of La Dame des Sorcières, so I could change shape—could alter the very fabric of nature—with the wave of my hand. Morgane didn’t know I existed, and Auguste didn’t know of our plan. Never before had we enjoyed such elements of surprise—indeed, never before had we been quite so prepared for what was to come. Our plan was an excellent one. The best we’d ever concocted.

  Except for one very tall, very obnoxious problem.

  My eyes could’ve bored holes in the door now.

  Following my gaze, Coco nudged my shoulder. “Go talk to him.”

  “He’ll never agree.”

  “You won’t know until you try.”

  I scoffed. “You’re right. He’ll probably love this plan. It’ll give him a chance to act out his martyr fantasies. Hell, he’ll probably want to be lashed to the stake out of self-loathing or shame or—or some sense of misplaced duty.”

  She cast me a sideways grin. “That isn’t what I said.”

  “It’s what you meant.”

  “It really wasn’t.” Wrapping an arm around me now, she leaned close and lowered her voice. “Here’s your first lesson in seduction: honesty is sexy as hell. No, not like you’re thinking,” she added when I scoffed again. “Honesty goes beyond telling him who you used to be, who he used to be, who you used to be together. You’ve tried that, and it hasn’t worked. You need to show him. Allow yourself to be vulnerable, so he can be vulnerable too. That kind of honesty—that kind of honesty is intimate. It’s raw.”

  I plunked my head against the hull, sighing deeply. “You forget I’m a liar. I don’t do honesty.”

  Her smile spread. “You do with him.”

  “He’s fucking infuriating.”

  “That he is.”

  “I want to gouge his eyes out.”

  “I completely agree.”

  “I might steal his Balisarda and shave his eyebrows with it.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “I’ll be honest if you will.”

  Her face snapped toward mine then, confused, and I met her gaze steadily. “What do you mean?” she asked suspiciously. From the way her eyes flicked to Beau, however—so quick I might’ve missed it—she knew exactly what I meant. I pretended to ponder my words, tapping my chin with a finger.

  “Well . . . Célie told me about a certain kiss.”

  Those eyes narrowed in warning. “Célie needs to mind her business.”

  “It sounds like you need to mind your business too.” I fought a grin at her abruptly murderous expression. “Come now. I thought you said honesty was sexy as hell?”

  She yanked her arm from my shoulders, crossing it with her other. Huddling deeper within the blankets. “Don’t project what you and Reid have onto Beau and me. Ours isn’t a grand, sweeping romance. We aren’t star-crossed lovers. We were a casual hookup, and that’s all.”

  “Coco, Coco, Coco.” I bumped her shoulder this time. “Who’s the liar now?”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “I thought you said honesty was raw? I thought you said it was intimate?”

  She grimaced and looked away, clutching the locket at her chest. “Too raw. Too intimate.”

  My grin slowly faded at the hurt in her words. “When was the last time you were vulnerable with anyone?”

  “I’m vulnerable with you.”

  But I didn’t count, and she knew it. I wracked my memory for each of Coco’s serious relationships—a witch named Flore, Babette, and Beau himself. I didn’t know if I should count Ansel. Those emotions had been serious, yes, but unrequited on both sides. “Is this . . . is this about Ansel?” I asked tentatively.

  She shot me a sharp look. “No.” Then— “Well, not anymore.” Her shoulder slumped, and her arms fell loose at her sides. She stared at her palms in her lap. “It was, at first. But he—he visited me in the Wistful Waters, Lou.”

  Moisture gathered in my eyes. “I know.”

  She didn’t seem shocked by the revelation, her gaze instead turning inward. As if she hadn’t heard me at all. “He told me he wanted me to be happy. He said if Beau could do that, I shouldn’t hesitate.” She shook her head sadly. “But I don’t even know what happiness looks like.”

  “Of course you do—”

  “What I know,” she continued determinedly, speaking over me, “is that it isn’t Beau’s job to show me. It isn’t anyone’s job but mine. If I can’t make myself happy, how can he? How can my mother or my aunt or my kin?”

  Ah. A beat of silence pulsed between us as the pieces clicked into place. I stared, longing to wrap my arms around her tense shoulders. Whether intentionally or unintentionally, Coco had been abandoned by everyone she’d dared to love. Except me. It was no coincidence she allowed herself to be vulnerable with just one person. Still . . . my heart ached when I looked to Beau, who cast covert looks in our direction every few seconds. “He isn’t them,” I whispered.

  She sniffed in response. “He’s a prince.”

  “You’re a princess.”

  “We lead two different peoples. His will need him, and mine will need me. Look around, Lou.” She splayed her arms wide, as if Morgane and Josephine and Auguste stood here with us now. “Regardless of how this plays out in Cesarine, our kingdoms are not aligned. They never will be. We can have no future together.”

  I arched a brow, parroting her own words. “You won’t know unless you try.” When she glared at me, saying nothing, I took her hands. “No, listen to me, Coco. If you don’t want Beau, fine. I promise I won’t say another word. But if you do want him—and if he wants you—the two of you will find a way. You’ll make it work.” Unbidden, I glanced back at the cabin door. “Only you can decide what your happiness looks like.”

  She squeezed my hands tighter, tears sparkling. “I told you, Lou. I don’t know what my happiness looks like.”

  “It’s fine not to know.” Abruptly, I pulled her to her feet, throwing my arms around her at last. Beau, Célie, and Jean Luc ceased their murmured conversation to watch us, startled. I ignored them. I didn’t care. “It isn’t fine to stop trying. We have to try, Coco, or we’ll never find it.”

  Coco nodded against my cheek, and her words echoed in my ears.

  Honesty goes beyond telling him who you used to be, who he used to be, who you used to be together. You need to show him.

  Again, I looked to the cabin door. The anger remained, of course—ever stale—but the dread had been replaced with steely resolve. With newfound purpose. My happiness included Reid, and I would never stop fighting for him. Never stop trying. Coco followed my gaze with a small smile. Pushing me forward gently, she whispered, “Here’s to finding our happiness.”

  Take Me to Church

  Reid

  I stooped to enter the cabin, nearly cracking my skull in the process, before straightening to inspect my sanctuary. A cluttered galley full of pots and pans to the right. A threadbare sofa straight ahead. A circular table. I crossed the cabin in two strides. A bed had been tucked behind tartan curtains at the bow of the ship. Two more strides. A second set of curtains hid another bed in the stern. The linens smelled faintly of mildew. Of salt and fish.

  When my stomach gave an audible growl, I rummaged through the cabinets in search of food. It gave my hands purpose. My mind focus. Hunger had a solution. A clear, tangible solution. That pain could be cured with a loaf of hard bread, a jar of pickled vegetables. I stacked them both on the counter now. I cut the loaf with my knife. I uncorked the carrots and radishes. I searched for a plate, for a fork, without
truly seeing. When I found them, I ate swiftly, determinedly, every movement efficient. Focused.

  The pain in my stomach didn’t ease.

  Guilt continued to churn until I shoved the plate away, disgusted with the carrots. With the boat. With myself.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  We’ll rescue you. I don’t know how, but we will. I promise.

  I’d thought myself convicted. I’d never heard conviction until this day.

  You are a witch, and even if you weren’t, you’ve conspired with us plenty. You’ve married a witch, slept with a witch, hidden and protected a witch—multiple times—and best yet: you’ve murdered for a witch. Four of us, to be precise. The most important of those is bleeding out on the carpet right now.

  I’d never heard such vehemence. Such passion.

  I hated it.

  I hated her.

  I hated that I didn’t hate her at all.

  My thoughts spun circles as I washed my plate. The empty jar. As I replaced them in the cupboard, along with the bread. Sinking onto the couch, I stared endlessly at the cabin door. I couldn’t kill her. I couldn’t touch her in that way. In any way. When I thought of it now—thought of giving in to temptation, of trailing my lips down her ribs, or perhaps sliding my knife between them—bile rose in my throat. Maybe I could leave her instead, leave all of them, as originally planned.

  The thought brought physical pain.

  No, I couldn’t leave her, couldn’t kill her, couldn’t have her, which left only one solution. One clear, tangible solution. If I were honest with myself, I should’ve done it already. I should’ve done it as soon as I saw my face on that wanted poster. It should’ve been easy.

  The right thing rarely was.

  The door crashed open before I could finish the thought, and Lou burst into the cabin. Hair wild. Chin determined. She still wore those filthy leather pants, and the top lace of her blouse had loosened. Her neckline had slipped over her shoulder. It revealed a single collarbone. Long and delicate. My gaze lingered there for a second too long before I tore it away, furious at myself. At her. I glared at the floor.

  “That’s quite enough sulking, I think.” Her boots came into view. They stopped an inch from my own. Too close. Trapped on the couch, I couldn’t move away without standing, without brushing my body past hers. This cabin was too small. Too hot. Her sweet scent engulfed it. “Come on, Chass,” she needled, bending at the waist to catch my eyes. Her hair fell long and thick between us. I clenched my hands on my knees. I wouldn’t touch it. I wouldn’t. “I know things got a bit—well, bad in the courtroom, but we have a plan to save her now. We’re going to trick Auguste.”

  “I still don’t care.”

  “And I still don’t believe you.” When I didn’t look at her, she straightened, and my treacherous eyes followed the movement. She planted her hands on her hips. “We’re going to trick Auguste,” she continued, determined to tell me whether or not I wanted to hear, “by pretending Jean Luc has arrested us.”

  Abruptly, my attention sharpened on her face. On her words. “We’re going to turn ourselves in?”

  “Pretend to turn ourselves in.” Her brows flattened at whatever she saw in my expression. “We’re just pretending, Chass. After we free your mother, we too will be getting the hell out of there. Coco will round up Claud and Blaise and hopefully even Angelica, and we’ll meet them all at Léviathan.”

  Claud and Blaise and Angelica. Gods and werewolves and witches and mermaids.

  I shook my head.

  “Stop it.” Lou snapped her fingers to reclaim my attention. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I know what you’re thinking—I can see it all over your stupid face—and the answer is no.”

  I scowled at her finger. “Yeah? What am I thinking?”

  “You want to ruin this brilliant plan of mine—”

  “It is a brilliant plan.”

  The praise should’ve placated her. Instead, it stoked her ire. She jabbed her finger in my chest. “No. No, no, no. I knew you would try this martyrdom bullshit, as if you rotting in prison or burning at the stake will somehow solve everything. Let me clue you in, Chass—it won’t. It won’t solve anything at all. In fact, it’ll complicate an already complex situation because on top of saving your mother and battling Morgane—and La Voisin, Nicholina, and a whole slew of other fucking unpleasantness—I’ll also have to rescue you.”

  My skin flamed hotter at her profanity. At her mouth. “Language,” I snarled.

  She ignored me, prodding my chest again. Harder this time. “I know you’re experiencing some big feelings right now, but you aren’t going to do anything stupid with them. Do you understand? You aren’t going to prison because you love your mother. You aren’t going to die because you want to fuck a witch. Get—over—your—self.”

  Each pause she enunciated with a poke.

  My blood nearly boiled now. Ears ringing, I shoved past her toward the door. If she insisted on staying belowdecks, I would return above. I could endure the others, but she—she spoke to me as if I were a child. An errant, petulant child in need of scolding. Of discipline. It was too much. Wheeling to face her at the last moment, I snapped, “What I do or don’t do is none of your concern.” A brief pause. “And I don’t want to fuck a witch.”

  “No?” Like lightning, she closed the small distance between us. In her eyes, anger glinted brutal and bright and beautiful. And something else—something like resolve. When her chest brushed my stomach, my muscles contracted near violently. “What do you want, then?” She leaned closer still, her face tipping toward mine. A hard edge crept into her voice. “Make up your mind. You can’t string me along forever, blowing hot one minute and cold the next. Do you want to love me, or do you want to kill me?”

  I stared down at her, heat creeping up my neck. Flushing my cheeks.

  “It’s a fine line, isn’t it?” Rising to her tiptoes now, she practically whispered the words against my lips. “Or . . . perhaps you don’t want either. Perhaps you want to worship me instead. Is that it, Chass? Do you want to worship my body like you used to?”

  I couldn’t move.

  “I can show you how if you’ve forgotten,” she breathed. “I remember how to worship you.”

  Red swept across my vision at the image. Whether rage or lust or sheer madness, I didn’t know. I didn’t care. I was damned either way. My hands seized her shoulders, her jaw, her hair, and my lips crashed against hers. She responded instantaneously. Flinging her arms around my neck, she surged upward. I caught her leg as she did, hoisting her higher, wrapping her body around mine. My back collided with the door. We rolled. I couldn’t slow my hips, my tongue. Pressure built at the base of my spine as I ground into her. As she tore away on a ragged breath. As she clenched her eyes shut and threaded her fingers through my hair.

  I didn’t stop.

  My knee slid between her legs, pinning her against the door. I caught her hands above her head. Trapped them there. Worshiped her neck with my tongue. And her collarbone—her fucking collarbone. I bit it gently, relishing how her body responded beneath me. I’d known it would. I didn’t know how, but I’d known she’d make that exact sound. Like my body knew hers in a way my mind didn’t. Oh, and it knew her. It knew her intimately.

  I can show you how if you’ve forgotten. I remember how to worship you.

  The words incited me to a fever pitch. Instinct guided me, and I tasted her throat, her shoulder, her ear. I couldn’t touch enough of her. The wood groaned beneath my knee, the skin there already chafed and abraded from the pressure, the friction. Instinctively, I transferred her wrists to one hand, using the other to yank her closer, away from the door. I trailed that hand down her back, soothing it, as she rolled her hips along my thigh. Along the hard ridge there.

  “Is this how I did it?” I traced her collarbone with my nose, near delirious at the scent of her. My own hips bucked involuntarily. The pressure built. Though a voice at the back of my mind warned me
to go no further, I ignored it. We would burn for our sins, the two of us, here and now. I tugged at the laces of her pants. The laces of mine. “Is this how I worshiped you?”

  Her eyes remained closed as she arched against me, as her entire body shuddered. I savored the sight. I craved it. When her mouth parted on a gasp, I caught the sound hungrily, plunging my hand lower. Fingers curling. Thrusting. Seeking. In this moment, I could have her—I could worship her—and pretend she was mine.

  Just this once.

  My throat constricted inexplicably at the thought, and my chest tightened. I moved my fingers faster now, chasing that empty promise. Pressing her into the door once more. “Show me,” I whispered on a ragged breath. “Please. Show me how we used to be.”

  Her own eyes snapped open, and she stopped moving abruptly. “What’s wrong?”

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. Shaking my head, I kissed her again, desperate to try. Desperate to relieve this ache between us—this yearning I’d once known and almost remembered. I wanted it. I feared it. I kissed her until I couldn’t tell the difference.

  “Reid.” Her fingers curled around my wrist. With a start, I realized she’d pulled free. She eased my hand from her pants now, her eyes fixed steadily upon mine. They shone with keen emotion. Though I wanted to name the feeling I saw there, to acknowledge it, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. “Not . . . not like this. You aren’t ready.”

  “I’m fine—”

  “I don’t think you are.” Leaning forward, she pressed a kiss upon my forehead, featherlight. The tenderness in the movement nearly broke me. The intimacy. “Slow down, Reid. We have time.”

  Slow down, Reid. We have time.

  We have time.

  Defeated, I withdrew at the words, my forehead falling to the crook of her neck. My hands bracing against the door. She sank slowly to the floor as silence descended. When I didn’t break it, only clenched my fists against the wood, she nuzzled her cheek against my hair. She actually nuzzled me. I closed my eyes. “Talk to me,” she whispered.

  “I can’t.” The words fell thick from my tongue. Clumsy. “I’m sorry.”