No one.
“Lou.” Careful not to move my lips—to keep my voice quiet—I tried to nudge her with my elbow. My arms wouldn’t move. “Can you . . . hear me?”
She might’ve stirred. Just a little.
More shouts sounded as a child broke free of the line. A little girl. She chased a . . . ball. She chased a ball. It rolled to a stop at the base of the platform. “You aren’t as tall as I thought you’d be,” she mused, peering up at me beneath auburn fringe. Familiar. My eyes fluttered. There were two of her now. No—another child had joined her. A pale boy with shadows in his eyes. He held her hand with a solemn expression. Though I’d never seen it before, I almost recognized his face.
“Do not lose hope, monsieur,” he whispered.
Another shout. A Chasseur strode forward to shoo them away.
My mouth couldn’t properly form the words. “Do I . . . know you?”
“Le visage de beaucoup,” he said with an unnerving smile. It pitched and rolled with my vision. Garish in the firelight. “Le visage d’aucun.” His voice faded as he trailed away.
The face always seen, the face never remembered.
Meaningless words. Nonsensical ones. “Lou,” I pleaded, louder now. Desperate. “Wake up. You have to wake up.”
She didn’t wake.
Imperious laughter beside me. Golden patterns. No—hair. Auguste stepped into my line of vision, a torch in one hand. The flames burned not orange, but black as pitch. Hellfire. Eternal fire. “You’re awake. Good.”
Behind him, Gaspard Fosse and Achille Altier climbed the platform, the former with an eager smile and the latter with a sickened expression. Achille glanced at me for only a second before murmuring something to Auguste, who scowled and muttered, “It matters not.” To me, Auguste added, “Your Balisarda’s fruit may not have curbed this wretched fire—not yet—but its wood certainly carried this momentous day.” He lifted his hand to catch a strand of Lou’s hair. “We had the cage crafted just for the two of you. A bittersweet end, is it not? To be killed by your own blade?”
When I said nothing—only stared at him—he shrugged and examined the torch. “Though I suppose it will not be the Balisarda to deliver the final blow. Perhaps I should be grateful the priests have failed. Now you shall burn eternal.”
“As will your . . . city,” I managed.
The words cost me. Achille flinched and looked away as I choked on bile, coughed on smoke. He didn’t intervene this time. He didn’t say a word. How could he? The pyre had been built. He would burn next.
With one last sneer, Auguste turned to address his kingdom. “My loving people!” He spread his arms wide. His smile wider. The crowd quieted instantly, rapt with attention. “Tonight, at last we eradicate a great evil plaguing our kingdom. Behold—Louise le Blanc, the new and nefarious La Dame des Sorcières, and its husband, the man you once knew as Captain Reid Diggory.”
Boos and hisses reverberated from the street.
Though I tried to summon my patterns, they shimmered in and out of focus in a golden blur. The hemlock had served its purpose. My stomach rolled. My hands refused to move, to even twitch. They’d coated the ropes. Concentrate.
“Yes, behold,” Auguste continued, quieter now. He lifted the torch to our faces. “A witch and a witch hunter, fallen in love.” Another chuckle. Some in the crowd echoed it. Others did not. “I ask you this, dear subjects—” The torch moved to Achille now, illuminating his dark eyes. They simmered with revulsion as he stared at his king. With rebellion. “Did it save the kingdom? Their sweeping romance? Did it unite us, at last?” Now he gestured to the smoke overhead, the charred stone of the church, the blackened and broken buildings that littered the street. Chasseurs stood at every ruin, containing the flames. “No,” Auguste whispered, his gaze lingering on their blue coats. “I think not.”
When he spoke again, his voice lifted to a shout. “Do not think I haven’t heard your whispers! Do not think I haven’t seen your doubt! Do not fear that the Peters and Judases among you, the forsakers and betrayers, will continue to roam free! They will not. Ours is a nation divided—we stand at the very precipice—but allow me to elucidate the truth, here and now: we shall not fall.”
He seized Lou’s chin. “This witch, this she-devil, may resemble a woman—your mother, perhaps. Your sister or daughter. It is not them, dear ones. It is not human at all, and it is certainly not capable of love. No, this demoness has cursed our kingdom with death and destruction. It has stolen your children and livelihoods, corrupted our once great and noble protector.” Dropping her chin, he turned to me, lip curling. I fought for sensation in my hands. Any sensation. The golden patterns flickered.
“Reid Diggory.” He shook his head. “Traitor. Murderer. Witch. You are this kingdom’s greatest disappointment.”
Behind him, Achille rolled his eyes.
I frowned at the incongruent gesture. The first needle of awareness pierced my palm as Lou’s head lifted.
“Lou,” I whispered desperately.
It fell once more.
“Hear me and hear me well!” Auguste raised his arms, the torch, with wild passion in his gaze. The people watched with bated breath, following the torch’s trajectory hungrily. “I shall not be deceived again, loving people! I have captured this great foe, and with their deaths, we shall alight on a path of victory and salvation. I shall lead you through it. The Lyon legacy shall endure!”
Great cries rose from the crowd at the last, evoked by Father Gaspard. They stomped their feet, clapped their hands, even as Philippe and his Chasseurs exchanged cautious glances. Moonbeam hair flashed. Thrusting the torch toward Achille, Auguste said, “Do it, Father. Kill them—kill these creatures you so pity—or you shall join them in Hell.”
Though Achille hesitated, he had no choice. His fingers curled slowly around the torch. My frown deepened. They looked . . . straighter than I remembered. The skin younger. Tawny and smooth. When my gaze snapped to his face, his cheeks seemed to broaden, to move, the bones inching higher. His eyes lengthened. His nose too. His grizzled beard fell out in pieces, his hair deepened, and his skin—the wrinkles faded as he winked at me.
Then he turned to the king. “You know, père,” he drawled, the last of Father Achille’s features melting with the words, “it’s rich of you to speak of great disappointments.”
Disgusted, Beau shook his head.
I gaped at him.
Beau.
“But you—you were—” Mouth slack, Auguste raked his eyes over his son before his teeth snapped together audibly. A vein bulged in his forehead. “Magic.”
The real Father Achille emerged from an alley behind the cathedral. Expression hard, he held the hand of the auburn-haired girl from earlier. With a cheery wave, Claud Deveraux stepped from behind, and—and Coco. She grinned at me in triumph, blowing a kiss. The cut on her palm still bled.
They’d come.
Relief so keen I nearly laughed swept through me.
Lou expelled a ragged breath. “Reid . . .”
The tingling in my palm spread to my fingers. The patterns began to sharpen. “I’m here, Lou. They’re all here.”
“Sorry we’re late, sister mine.” Beau darted to her—careful of his torch—as the Chasseurs surged forward, their shouts lost amidst the sudden mayhem. Philippe gestured wildly as those in the crowd fled. As they screamed. As they pulled children away or pressed closer to watch, shoving past the King’s Guard, the constabulary. One man even vaulted to the platform with a fierce “Burn the king!” before Philippe caught his collar and threw him back to the ground.
“Maintain the line!” he roared.
When Chasseurs charged the platform, Blaise materialized from beneath it—and Liana and Terrance, Toulouse and Thierry. The werewolves had half-changed, their eyes glowing and their canines lengthening. Dozens more spilled forth from the crowd to join them. Snapping. Snarling. Fully transformed wolves hurtled from every alley. They met the Chasseurs’ steel with claws and
teeth.
Beau tugged at Lou’s ropes with one hand. Hasty. Clumsy. “Turns out Chasseur Tower is a bit of a fortress. Who knew? We couldn’t reach you there, but here—” His rapid explanation broke off at Lou’s moan, and his gaze dropped to the blood on her chemise. The punctures in her arms, her chest. His voice dripped with quiet menace. “What the hell happened to her?”
Though my hands twitched and spasmed, I couldn’t readily move them. Couldn’t help. I strained to regain control. “Poisoned arrows. Hurry—”
“You dare to choose them?” Auguste hissed. Another vein throbbed in his throat. He looked less handsome now. More deranged. “Over your own father?”
Before Beau could answer, Philippe finally breached the platform, and Auguste lunged.
It happened in slow motion.
Beau whirled to drive him back, sweeping the torch wide, and a single spark snapped into the air. It hung motionless for a second—for a thousand seconds—before drifting almost lazily to the platform. To the hay.
I could do nothing but watch, horrified, as we went up in flames.
A Shower of Light
Reid
The fire spread quicker than natural, licking up the haystack, our feet, within seconds.
The Hellfire. The eternal flame.
There is no solution, Coco had told me, fruit or otherwise.
How do you know?
Because the fire stemmed from my grief. And there is no solution for grief. Only time.
Despite the sweltering heat, cold dread seized me. Shouting Lou’s name, I twisted toward her, determined to shield her. To protect her from the inevitable. I would not give up. I would not cede. If we could free ourselves, we could jump to safety—
Panicked, Philippe crashed into Auguste, knocking him from the platform. A flame caught the king’s sleeve. It engulfed him instantaneously, and he fell to the ground—writhing, shrieking—as Philippe swiftly stripped the king of his lion’s cloak, attempted to strip him of his burning shirt. But the fabric had already melted into his skin. Philippe recoiled instantly, recognizing the battle lost. “Oliana!” Auguste flung a hand toward his wife, who stood beside the platform. Without a word, she turned and entered the church. Blanching at the havoc on the street, Father Gaspard followed quickly behind.
Philippe crushed Auguste’s hand underfoot as he too fled.
“Get . . . out of here.” Barely audible, Lou jerked her head toward Beau. He still grappled with the rope, grimacing against the flames. They curled up his boots. His leather boots. “Leave.”
“No,” he snarled.
The heat was all-consuming now. The pain. Below us, Auguste’s shrieks stopped abruptly. His limbs stilled. Skin and flesh melting into bone. With empty eyes, he stared at his burning city forevermore.
The flames danced on his corpse.
“I can’t—I can’t extinguish them.” Adrenaline roared through my ears, deadening Lou’s voice. Though her face contorted with concentration, I could scarcely see through the smoke, could scarcely breathe. The fire raged on. It crept from the alleys, the hidden doors, the cracks and the crannies as Chasseurs left their posts. It snaked up drainpipes. It slithered through windows. Devouring the city inch by inch. Homes. Shops. People.
A keen cry sounded from the street.
Coco.
She fought to reach us, knives flashing, plunging into anyone foolish enough to block her path. The crowd compounded to a mob around her. Bodies collided. Women pulled their children from the street, shrieking and pounding on the nearest doors, while foolish men attempted to enter the fray.
“The magic—it’s too—” Lou shuddered on a cough, still immersed in her patterns, as Coco finally broke through the crowd. “It isn’t mine.”
Coco circled the platform frantically, seeking a gap in the flames. Her cries were lost amidst the tumult.
“I’ve almost”—Beau’s fingers scrabbled at the ropes—“got them.”
Lou’s voice rose to a scream now. It tore from her throat, raw and vicious. Terrified. “It’s too late—”
“Just leave, brother!” My own voice joined hers. “GO!”
The fire climbed up our legs now. Up his. It consumed all in its path: rope, clothing, skin. Without the stake to support him, Beau fell against us. “I’m not leaving you.” But his knees gave out with the words, and he crumpled. His face contorted as he bellowed in pain, as blisters ruptured his throat, his face.
“Yes, you are,” Lou said through gritted teeth. She looked to Coco with tears in her eyes. “Take care of each other.”
The ropes at her ankles had disintegrated, and she lifted a leg, kicking him squarely in the chest. He stumbled backward from the platform—a pillar of flame—and fell straight into Coco’s arms.
Coco stared at him in horror.
“No.” She shook her head frantically, dropping to the snow. Packing it over his skin. He thrashed helplessly. “Beau. Beau, look at me—” Tendrils curled up her arms now, but she ignored them. My own muscles jerked and twitched as I watched, helpless. The snow did nothing to suppress the flame. There was no escape from this, no extinguishant, no magic to help us now. Not even Lou’s. “No, no, no. Please, Beau. Beau.”
“I’m so sorry, Reid,” Lou gasped. “I can’t stop it, but I can—I can help—” She twisted to look in my eyes. “I love you. Find peace.”
Find peace.
The words snapped and cracked between us, out of place. Surely I’d misheard her. They couldn’t be right. Because here—burning in a lake of black fire—there could be no peace. Not for her. Not for me. Not as our bones melted and our skin peeled.
She flexed her hand.
The ropes on my wrists snapped in response, and I flew from the platform in a rush of hot air. Landing hard on the street, I twisted to look at her. But I could no longer see, no longer hear. Pain stole my senses, and my golden patterns scattered into dust, settling as a veil over the scene.
Except it wasn’t this scene any longer.
The mob dimmed amidst the gold, replaced by another crowd. The black fire vanished. A different stake pierced the sky, and a different witch writhed against it. Her cornsilk hair burned first. I stood before the platform, hands clasped, with the Archbishop beside me. A Balisarda gleamed at my chest.
Witch killer witch killer witch killer
The memory dissipated before I could fully grasp it.
But the pain—the excruciating heat—it vanished abruptly as new magic burst around us. Its scent overpowered the smoke. The cooked flesh. Though flames still devoured my clothing, blistered my skin, I felt only cold snow. Beside me, Beau’s eyes snapped open. He settled in Coco’s arms.
Then Lou began to scream.
She screamed, and she screamed until her throat should’ve torn open at the sound. Until her heart should’ve stopped. The agony on her face shone clear as she writhed. Like her pain had tripled. Quadrupled.
Understanding dawned.
I struggled to my feet.
She’d taken our pain from us. It was all she could do.
“Lou.” Coco sobbed her name, rocking Beau as they burned. Pleading. When her tears fell, they hissed against his face. Instead of stoking the fire, however, the drops quenched it. His skin sizzled. Healed. Thunder rumbled overhead. “Don’t do this, Lou, please—”
Another memory resurfaced without warning. Stronger than the first. I fell to my knees once more.
When? When did you know?
During the witch burning. When—when Lou had her fit. Everyone thought Lou was seizing, but I saw her. I smelled the magic.
A deeper pain than fire erupted at the memory, even as Coco’s tears thickened. As the first drops of rain fell—Coco’s rain. She’d said all along her grief had sparked this fire. Now it seemed her love would soothe it. Wherever the drops touched, the ground sputtered and steamed. The flames quelled. But Lou’s screams—they continued. They cleaved me in two. Clutching my head, I pitched forward. The rain soaked my shirt. My skin.
My blisters closed.
She was burning, Reid. I don’t know how, but she took away that witch’s pain. She gave it to herself.
But I’d already known. In the deepest part of me, I’d drawn the connection. I’d recognized Lou’s selflessness, even then. Her sacrifice. I’d been unable to admit it at the time. Unable to confront the truth, even as I’d nursed my dying wife back to health. Because she had almost died to save another.
In that moment, I’d fallen in love with her.
The pain in my head built to a crescendo at the realization. I couldn’t bear it. Incoherent—aching, roaring—I clawed at my hair. Tore at my face. Vaguely, I heard the platform collapse, felt urgent hands on my shoulders. “Reid! Reid!” But Beau’s and Coco’s shouts couldn’t pierce the turmoil of my mind. Darkness edged my vision. Unconsciousness loomed. The ground rose up to meet me.
A pattern shimmered into existence.
At first look, it appeared gold, winding from my chest to the wreckage of the platform. To where wood and smoke and fire had engulfed Lou. When I lifted a trembling hand, however, I realized I’d been wrong. The cord glimmered with dimension.
The blue of my coat. The white of snowflakes. The red of blood in a blacksmith’s shop.
A hundred more colors—memories—all twining together, pressed into a single strand.
I pulled it.
Energy pulsed outward in a wave, and I collapsed beneath its weight, ears ringing with silence. Bleeding with it.
A high-pitched, primal scream shattered the street.
Not from Lou. Not from Coco. Struggling to lift my head—to see through the hysterical crowd, the pouring rain—I recognized the pale features and moonbeam hair of Morgane le Blanc. She too had crumpled. Those nearest her bolted when they saw her, slipping in the melted snow. The mud. Weeping and crying out for loved ones. Their faces smeared with soot.
Gods & Monsters Page 41