Gods & Monsters

by Shelby Mahurin

  Together.

  I let my body go limp against the floorboards as she slipped belowdecks, as voices called out to Jean Luc in recognition, as our small boat slipped into port and men leapt aboard to help him tie it down. Reid pressed his head atop mine. The only show of comfort he could give me. Heightened sensation rose like needles along my skin as my magic fought to rise, to protect him, to protect my home, but I tamped it down. It was too late to turn back now. We’d entered the belly of the beast.

  All Seven of Us

  Lou

  Mostly everything went according to plan.

  It took a moment for anyone to notice us there, lifeless and forgotten on the floor, but when a hook-nosed gentleman nearly trod on Reid’s foot, he yelped in surprise—then yelped louder in fear, recognition dawning over his swarthy features. “Is that—that isn’t—?”

  “Reid Diggory, yes,” Jean Luc said with a sneer, materializing beside us. He nudged my ribs with his boot, and I slipped sideways into Reid. He stiffened subtly. “And his wife, the heiress of La Dame des Sorcières. I apprehended them in a small village north of Amandine.”

  The sailor’s eyes boggled. “All by yourself?”

  “I disabled Morgane le Blanc by myself, did I not?” Jean raised an arrogant brow at the man’s spluttering. “I think you’ll find anything is possible with the proper motivation.” He jerked his chin toward Célie, who cowered in proper fashion near the helm, and added, “They had something that belonged to me.”

  Others had gathered around us now, wide-eyed and curious. Fear hadn’t yet taken root. These men lived predominantly on the seas, where witches were little more than fairy stories compared to the very real danger of Isla and her melusines. “Who is that, then?” another asked, staring at Célie.

  “Mademoiselle Célie Tremblay, daughter of the viscount. Her father is personal advisor to His Majesty.” Jean Luc’s jaw hardened. “You might’ve heard of him in connection to his eldest daughter, Filippa, who was murdered by witches last year. Célie fancied herself a vigilante and went after these two herself.” At the sailors’ derisive snorts, Célie straightened her shoulders defensively—just for a second—before remembering her role. Casting her eyes downward, she heeded Jean Luc’s command when he called her over, tucking her under his arm. His hand on her shoulder clenched tighter than necessary, the only visible sign of his strain. Still, his voice oozed conceit as he added, “She’s a foolish girl, but what can we expect from one so pretty?” When the men laughed—like brainless sheep—he snapped his fingers at one on the edge of the group. “Send word to her father. He shall collect and discipline her as he sees fit.”

  The messenger glanced at Beau with a frown. “Hers ain’t the only father who’ll be administerin’ discipline.” Then he leapt from the boat and disappeared, replaced almost instantly by the harbormaster. A short, portly man with a spectacular handlebar mustache, he held himself with the ferociousness of a badger as he seized my face to examine it. He wasn’t gentle. Reid’s muscles tensed beneath me.

  “I didn’t believe it,” the harbormaster growled, jerking my chin this way and that, hard enough to bruise. “But it’s her, after all. The bitch witch’s daughter in the flesh.” He grinned and straightened once more, turning to address Jean Luc. “We’ll alert your brethren straightaway, of course, if they’re not already on their way. Word like this travels quickly.” With the jerk of his hand, another sailor departed. “I’ll expect some sort of commendation for allowing you to port. A dual capture, if you will.”

  Jean Luc glared at him. “You dare to extort a captain of the Chasseurs?”

  “Not a captain, no.” Undaunted by Jean Luc’s ire, the man crossed his arms, still grinning. “Auguste is an old friend of mine, did you know? Rumor has it you’ve been missed, Captain.”

  Jean Luc’s eyes narrowed as my own stomach plunged. “What are you saying?”

  The man simply shrugged and glanced behind at the commotion up the street. “I expect you’ll find out soon enough.”

  A virtual battalion of Chasseurs thundered toward us on horseback, eliciting shrieks from pedestrians in their path. More and more people—sailors, fishermen, peddlers—collected around our boat now. All craned their necks from the dock to see what the fuss was about, some clapping hands over their mouths when they spotted us, others hissing through their teeth. One woman even threw a fish with unerring aim. It struck Reid’s cheek before falling, dead, to the floor. Beau pretended to struggle in his binds. “That’s enough,” he snarled.

  The harbormaster clicked his tongue. “Well, well, well, Your Highness.” He squatted before him, examining Beau’s face from every angle. “The last time I saw you, you were in nappies—” Before he could finish the rest of his humiliating diatribe, however, the first of the huntsmen reached us. I recognized him from La Mascarade des Crânes.

  “Philippe.” Jean Luc scowled as the man in question—a rather large, frightening man, though not nearly so large and frightening as Reid—shouldered past him with a pointed lack of respect. Indeed, he knocked into Jean Luc like he was a piece of furniture, sending him back two steps. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Secure the area.” Philippe snapped and pointed as his brethren fell into place around the boat, around us. He ignored Jean Luc completely. To the harbormaster, he said, “His Majesty arrives posthaste.”

  “He’s coming here?” Jean Luc lifted his voice above the tumult, determined to be heard. Boots jostled as the King’s Guard arrived—the constabulary too—heedless of my fingers. When Philippe stepped on Reid’s intentionally, I heard the cruel crack of bone. Reid didn’t so much as flinch. “Why?”

  “To secure the prisoners, of course,” the harbormaster said.

  “No.” Jean Luc shook his head wildly. “No, he shouldn’t travel out in the open like this. Morgane is here. She’s in the city—”

  Philippe’s smile chilled my very bones. “It isn’t up to you, Jean. Not anymore.”

  The king arrived the next moment—at precisely the same time as Monsieur and Madame Tremblay. Absolute pandemonium ensued. The Tremblays’ carriage screeched to a halt beyond the dock, and Madame Tremblay barreled straight into the barricade of soldiers, shouting for her daughter without decorum. “Célie! Célie!” She hardly noticed the guards chasing after her. Jean Luc stepped in front of them, blocking their advance, as she enveloped her daughter in her arms. “Oh, thank God—”

  “Control yourself, woman!” Monsieur Tremblay snarled as he too bolted on deck, skirting around Reid, me, and the barricade of Chasseurs encircling us. “Have you no shame? You will apologize this instant—” I would’ve laughed at the spectacle they’d created if the king hadn’t followed. If his eyes hadn’t locked on Reid’s. If he hadn’t reached into his velvet pocket to extract two metal syringes.

  Oh, shit.

  “Rebonjour, fils.” His eyes moved from Reid to me, and something predatory sparked in them. Something poisonous. A broad, brilliant smile transformed his face from attractive to breathtaking. Quite literally, my breath caught in my throat. That smile belonged to Reid. To Beau. I knew it like the back of my own hand. “Fille.”

  Chasseur, soldier, and constable alike parted at his approach, and even Madame Tremblay quieted, finally realizing the precariousness of the situation. People didn’t smile like that for no reason. Especially kings. I hardly dared breathe as he crouched before me. As he too gripped my chin between thumb and forefinger. His touch was lighter than the harbormaster’s. Indeed, he handled me like fine china, his thumb sweeping over the welts as if to soothe them. “Shh, shhh. Fret not, Louise. You cannot know how I have longed for this moment.”

  Jean Luc hurried to intercede. “Your Majesty, please allow me to—”

  “I will allow you nothing.” Auguste’s coldly spoken words stopped Jean in his tracks. The former’s gaze didn’t stray from mine, however. He studied my lips as he continued. “You are henceforth stripped of your captaincy, Chasseur Toussaint. All future du
ties will be handled by your new captain, Philippe Brisbois.”

  “Philippe?” Jean Luc’s face twisted, and he glanced between the two, his chest swelling with rage. “I have apprehended and incapacitated two of the most notorious witches in the kingdom. I have returned your son—”

  “What you have done,” Auguste snapped, “is disobey my direct command. Your presence at the conclave was not requested. It was required. In forfeiting your responsibilities, you have forfeited your title. I do hope she was worth it.” His lip curled as he glanced to Célie. “She is very pretty.”

  Jean Luc opened and closed his mouth, near apoplectic now. Even amidst the dire circumstances, I felt a twinge of sorrow for him. In the breadth of a single moment, he thought he’d lost everything. When Auguste dropped his hand from my chin, however, flicking the first syringe, fear surpassed all other emotions. I cast a panicked glance at Jean Luc, willing him to pull himself together.

  “I met your mother once, Louise,” Auguste said, still tap, tap, tapping the syringe. “Now she—she is exquisite. A diamond of the first water. It’s too bad, really, that she’s a soul-sucking demoness. Just like your mother,” he added to Reid, tilting his head to examine the quill. A bead of hemlock trickled from its tip. My magic reared its head at the sight, white patterns unfurling all around me. They hummed with the need to protect Reid. To protect all of them. I nearly trembled with restraint. Oblivious, Auguste stroked my hair and pulled my limp body to his lap. “You look nothing like her, of course, poor thing. All your father, aren’t you?” He leaned so close that I could smell the mint on his breath. “I loathed that man. Makes this easier, I suppose—a bit too easy. When I announced Helene’s execution, I knew you’d come, but I never expected this sort of weakness.”

  He pressed the syringe to my throat.

  “Your Majesty.” Though Jean Luc didn’t dare step closer, his voice rose urgently. “I re-injected the prisoners only moments before docking. If you dose them again so quickly, I fear they’ll die before the stake.”

  Auguste lifted a golden brow. “You fear their death?”

  “A poor choice of words.” Jean Luc ducked his head. “Please forgive me.”

  But Auguste’s gaze had already sharpened with suspicion. “There is only one way to kill a witch, huntsman, and it is not poison. You have nothing to fear. Still, however, I am benevolent. I will not dose the prisoners again.”

  I breathed a long, slow sigh of relief.

  Perhaps Auguste felt the movement. Perhaps he didn’t. Either way, he gestured Jean Luc toward us, pressing the injection into his palm before rising to his feet. He brought me with him, cradling me within his arms. My limbs dangled helplessly. “You will.”

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Jean Luc blinked, his expression flattening. “Me, Your Majesty?”

  “Yes, huntsman. You. A great honor, is it not? To apprehend and incapacitate two of the most notorious witches in the kingdom?”

  The implication rang clear in the ensuing silence. Even the wind had fallen silent to listen. As if hoping to prove his suspicions, Auguste pinched the flesh of my thigh and twisted—hard. I clenched my teeth against the pain. He would not break us with a pinch, nor a bruised chin or broken finger. The white patterns still writhed in fury, however. They demanded retribution. I wouldn’t use them. Not yet. If I did, all would know Jean Luc had been lying. They would know he’d betrayed them, and he really would lose everything—his coat, his Balisarda, his life. Célie would be implicated too.

  All seven of us.

  No, our plan could still work. Jean Luc could fake the injection somehow, and we—

  “I am waiting,” Auguste said darkly.

  Though Jean Luc fought to keep his face impassive, panic flickered within his eyes’ pale depths—panic and remorse. They met mine for only a second before dropping to the syringe. In that second, I knew. He would fake nothing. He could fake nothing—not with so many eyes on us now. Not under the king’s very nose.

  Which left me with two options.

  I could attack the king now, and we could likely fight our way out, condemning Jean Luc, Célie, and Madame Labelle in the process. Or I could allow the injection and trust the others to rescue us. Neither option was foolproof. Neither option guaranteed escape. With the latter, at least, we’d be in a centralized location with Madame Labelle. If they rescued one, they could rescue us all. And though Claud claimed he couldn’t intervene, he wouldn’t truly leave us to die, would he?

  I had a split second to decide before Jean plunged the quill into my throat.

  Sharp pain flared on impact, and the hemlock—as cold and viscous as I remembered it—spread like mire through my veins. I could just feel the warm trickle of blood before numbness crept in, before my vision faded, before Coco slipped unnoticed from the water to the Tremblays’ carriage.

  The white patterns resisted the darkness, blazing brighter and hotter as I dimmed.

  Auguste held one of my eyes open, even as it rolled back into my head. “Do not fret, fille. This pain shall pass. At sunset, you shall burn with my son and his mother in a lake of black fire.” When he stroked my cheek—almost tenderly—the white patterns finally softened, finally succumbed, finally dissolved into nothing.

  We’d gone from the belly of the beast straight into the shitter.

  Our Story

  Lou

  My body awoke in increments. First a twitch of my hand, a tingle in my feet, before lights danced on my eyelids and cotton grew on my tongue. Both felt thick and heavy as my stomach pitched and rolled. My consciousness followed shortly after that—or perhaps not shortly at all—and I felt cold stones beneath my back, hard ridges, dull pain blossoming across my ribs, my temple. Sharper pain at my throat.

  Realization trickled in slowly.

  Jean Luc had poisoned us. We’d been thrown in prison. We would burn at sunset.

  My eyes snapped open at the last.

  What time was it?

  Staring at the ceiling overhead, I tried to move my fingers, to breathe around the suffocating nausea. I needed to find Reid and Beau. I needed to make sure they were all right—

  Only then did I realize two things, like cards flipped over in a game of tarot: warm skin pressed against mine on the right, and wooden bars intersected the ceiling in a cross pattern overhead. Swallowing hard, I turned my head with enormous difficulty. Thank God. Reid lay beside me, his face pale but his chest rising and falling deeply.

  Wooden bars.

  A muffled cough sounded from nearby, and I slammed my eyes shut, listening intently. Footsteps shuffled closer, and what sounded like a door creaked open. After a few more seconds, it clicked shut once more. I opened my eyes carefully this time, peering out through my lashes. The same wooden bars across the ceiling and floor ran perpendicular as well. Smooth and hand planed, they bisected the room and formed a sort of cage around us.

  A cage.

  Oh god.

  Once more, I forced myself to breathe. Though the room beyond remained dark, lit only by a single torch, it didn’t look like a dungeon. A colossal table dominated the center of the room—circular and covered in what looked like a map, scraps of parchment, and—and—

  Realization didn’t trickle now. It rushed in a great flood, and I rolled to my left, away from Reid. We weren’t in the castle dungeon at all, but the council room of Chasseur Tower. I would’ve recognized that table anywhere, except now—instead of charcoal drawings of my mother—portraits of my own face stared back at me. Portraits of Reid. Clearing my throat of bile, I tentatively sat up on my elbows, glancing around the cage. No cots or even chamber pots filled the space. “Beau?” A hoarse whisper, my voice still reverberated too loud in the darkness. “Are you here?”

  No one answered.

  Cursing quietly, I crawled back to Reid, feeling steadier with each moment. I didn’t know why. By all accounts, I too should’ve been unconscious on the floor, not moving and thinking with relative ease. It made little sense, excep
t . . . I took another deep breath, summoning my magic, both gold and white. Though the golden patterns curled sluggish and confused across the cage, the white ones burst into existence with a vengeance. Their presence soothed the sickness in my body like a balm. My vision cleared, and my stomach settled. The stabbing pain in my temples eased. Of course. Of course. These patterns had been gifted by a goddess. They were greater than me, eternal, stronger than my own human flesh and bone.

  They’d saved me.

  We were going to be fine.

  With a triumphant smile, I checked Reid’s pupils, his heartbeat, and his breathing. I could sense the poison polluting his blood, could almost see it beneath his skin like a black, noxious cloud. Gently, a white pattern coiled around him, illuminating his wan features in a subtle glow. At the brush of my hand, it pulsed and began to sieve the hemlock from his body. The stone around him absorbed the sap like a sponge, returning it to the earth where it belonged. When the last of the poison had gone, the pattern dissolved into white dust, and Reid’s eyes fluttered open. I sat back on my heels as he oriented himself with the room. With me.

  He reached up to touch a strand of my hair. “You’re glowing.”

  I shrugged, grinning impishly now. “Goddess Divine, you know.”

  “Such arrogance.”

  “Such beauty and grace.”

  He scoffed, sitting up and rubbing his neck. It might’ve been my imagination, but I thought a rueful grin played on his lips. “Why don’t I feel sick?”

  I grinned wider. “I healed you.”

  Groaning, he shook his head, and I didn’t imagine it now—he definitely smiled. “You really don’t know the meaning of humility, do you?”

  “And you really don’t know the meaning of gratitude—”