But agonized shouts soon sounded from the hedges, and I turned to see witches impaling men on the thorns. Shit.
Reid tore after them without hesitation. His hands moved in the air, searching, pulling, as fresh magic burst around us. Three of the witches screamed in response, and fresh burns licked up Reid’s arms. But he couldn’t save the men. Without Balisardas, each person here stood vulnerable—including Reid.
The fourth witch clenched her fist, and Reid stumbled, clutching his chest.
Shit, shit, shit.
My feet moved instinctively. Seizing the Balisarda from a trapped Chasseur, I sprinted toward him. Veins bulged in his neck, his face. His hands moved instinctively to his bandolier for a knife. They came away with only seeds. Tossing them aside, he collapsed on his hands and knees.
I hurled the Balisarda straight through the witch’s forehead.
Zenna took care of the rest. Her jaws snapped viciously as she swooped low, incinerating witch and thorn alike. When the flame abated, I wrenched the Balisarda from the witch’s skull and shoved it at Reid. “I am a weapon.” Panting, I imitated his stupid voice. Breathless laughter rose. I didn’t fight it, despite the gruesome circumstances. Despite the charred witches at our feet. I’d never fight laughter again. Not for their sake. “The world shall tremble and fear me—”
“Shut”—his own voice broke on a gasp of laughter—“up.”
I dragged him to his feet. “My enemies shall rue the day they ever dared to challenge—”
“I’m fine.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Go help the others.”
“I am.” Pressing a hard kiss to his lips, I shoved him back toward the patisserie. “I’m helping them by helping you, you great selfless prick. If you give that Balisarda away again, I’ll make you swallow it. Consider chivalry dead.”
He huffed another laugh as we rejoined the fray.
The next moments passed in a blur of magic and blood. Following Reid’s instruction, free huntsmen hacked at witches’ hands, while those trapped in Claud’s trees hacked at roots. Father Achille led a party of able-bodied men and women to the nearest smithy for weapons. Those unable to fight followed Célie into boucheries and confiseries, any shop that would open its doors. Jean Luc and Reid kicked down the rest. I followed behind, feeding my magic into each lock.
The witches were undaunted. I felt them attack each door, each window, their patterns hissing and striking like snakes against my magic. They taunted those within—taunted me—whispering the ways they would kill them. Reid and Jean Luc hacked their way through them, leaving a trail of bodies behind.
Halfway down the street, Reid noticed my pale face, and his brows furrowed. I only shrugged and continued. It didn’t matter. Fewer allies littered the ground than foes. Though Zenna couldn’t breathe fire freely—not without roasting us in the process—she snatched witch after witch from the street. When they backed Coco and Toulouse into a corner, she plucked the two free. When they pursued Beau and Thierry—the former shouting for Coco at the top of his lungs—Seraphine cut them down from above. We’d prepared for this. Blaise and his pack, Troupe de Fortune, even Jean Luc and his Chasseurs—all around, they exacted their vengeance. Liana and Terrance gnawed hands from wrists while Toulouse and Thierry injected a trio of witches with hemlock.
Still, overwhelming unease crept down my spine. It near paralyzed me.
Morgane had vanished without a trace.
As the battle spread down the streets, I searched for her. For Claud. Any sign of horn or moonbeam hair. He could’ve disposed of her already, but for some strange reason, I didn’t think so. The air in the city remained foul with the stench of magic and rot. Where Balisardas had pierced the trees, dark sap wept like blood. Fungi crept up the front of homes. Of the castle itself. The entire atmosphere felt charged—angry—and continued to build.
More than once, I swore I heard Morgane’s laughter. My unease deepened to dread.
For his part, Reid had procured three more Balisardas—from where, I didn’t know—for Gaby, Violette, and Victoire, who cropped up every few minutes, hissing and spitting and bloody in their pursuit of those who pursued them. He and Beau had exploded, near apoplectic with rage, on the third time.
“They are trying to kill you!” Beau had torn open the door of Soleil et Lune and thrust them inside. “I swear to God, I will tie you to those seats—”
“They’re trying to kill you too,” Victoire had snarled as Reid slammed the door behind. She’d pounded on the door. “Let us out! Let us fight!”
Another bout of laughter drifted on the wind, and I whirled, searching. The hair rose on my neck. I hadn’t imagined it that time. She’d sounded close enough to touch. In proof of my point, Reid frowned at the theater door. “What was that?”
“Lock them in.”
“What?” His gaze snapped to mine. Sensing my intent, he stepped forward, but Victoire flung the door open once more. He hesitated. “Lou, what are you—where are you going?”
I didn’t answer, already racing down the street, ignoring his shouts. It didn’t matter how many times Beau interceded, how many people Reid led to safety. No one was safe here, not truly—not with Morgane still pulling the strings. Every move she’d ever made had been calculated. Tonight was no different. She’d known Claud and Zenna would join us—she’d known about the loup garou too—and she would’ve taken offensive action. The witches would keep coming. They wouldn’t stop until they’d finished this, destroying the Crown, the Church, their persecutors at last. But witches alone couldn’t down a dragon. They couldn’t kill a god.
No, these witches were the defense, not the offense.
And this was undoubtedly a trap.
“Where are you?” I slid down a side street, following a flash of moonbeam hair ahead. Reid’s voice faded behind. “I thought you didn’t want to play anymore? Come out. Come out and face me, maman. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Just the two of us?”
Another street. Another. I gripped my dagger in one hand, white patterns coiling and twisting through cobblestones, trash bins, wooden doors and broken windows and herb gardens. She laughed again. When I darted after the sound—bursting into Brindelle Park—a hand snaked out to catch mine.
I nearly stabbed Manon straight in the eye.
“She isn’t here, Louise.” Voice quiet, she didn’t meet my gaze, hers darting all around us. Twin gashes slashed each cheek. Though one bled freely—fresh—the other looked older. It’d started to scab. She backed away, pulling her clammy hand from mine and melting into the shadows. “You must turn back.”
“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with our sisters?”
She hesitated at the bitter note in my voice. Quieter still, she said, “You speak as if we have a choice.”
“Where is she? Tell me, Manon.”
“She’ll kill us.” When she brushed the healing wound with her fingertips, I understood. Though Manon hadn’t revealed our identities to Morgane, she had let thieves escape. Backing away once more, Manon touched her other cheek now. The one with fresh blood. “Or your huntsmen will.”
My stomach sank. Conscious of every step, every sound, I followed after her, extending a hand. A lifeline. “Come with me. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
She only shook her head. “The dragon will fall, but still we’re outmatched. Morgane knows this. Don’t allow her to manipulate the—”
A branch snapped behind us. I jumped, slashing my knife backward, but Coco’s voice rose in a shout. She lifted her hands wildly. “It’s me! It’s only me! What’s going on? I saw you tearing past earlier. Is it Reid? Is it Beau? I lost track of him, and—”
“They’re both fine.” I clutched my chest with insidious relief. “It’s Manon. She said—she said that—”
But when I turned to face her once more, she wasn’t there. She’d vanished.
In her place stood Josephine and Nicholina.
When a God Intervenes
Lou
It happened too quickly to stop. Snarling, Coco pulled me behind a tree, slashing open her arm in the same movement. The instant my back touched the trunk, I registered two things: first, a warm, wet substance coated the bark—mixed with stinging nettles—and second, it melted my armor instantly.
Then came pain. Violent pain.
It ripped through my limbs as serrated branches pierced my hands and my feet, lifting me in the air like Jesus to the cross. Though I tried to scream for Claud, for Zenna, for anyone, thorns shot forth across my mouth. They lacerated my lips, my cheeks, gagging me with poisoned tips. Helplessly, I thrashed, but the spikes and thorns bit deeper.
Though Coco reached for me in horror, Nicholina pounced, giggling when Coco sprayed blood across her face—then punching her fist into Coco’s rib cage. No. Through it. Straight toward her heart. Choking on a gasp, Coco clawed at Nicholina’s wrist, her eyes wide and unseeing.
When Nicholina squeezed, she fell frighteningly still.
“Nicholina.” Josephine’s deep voice cut through the night. “Enough.”
Nicholina glanced back at her mistress, laughter fading. They held gazes for a second too long before—reluctantly—Nicholina withdrew her hand from Coco’s chest cavity. The latter’s eyes rolled, and she collapsed, unconscious, to the ground. “Nasty,” Nicholina muttered.
Josephine didn’t react. She only stared at me. No longer impassive, she lifted her chin with the chilling words, “Bring me her heart.”
If Nicholina hesitated—if a shadow crossed her expression—the movement was near indiscernible. I could do nothing but watch, delirious with pain, as she took a single step in my direction. Two. Three. My heart pounded savagely, pumping more of Josephine’s blood through my veins. More poison. I wouldn’t close my eyes. She would see her reflection in their depths. She would see this monster she’d become, this perversion of the person she’d once been: her own features, her son’s features, twisted into something sick and wrong. Four steps now. Coco’s blood still dripped from her hand. It scorched the skin there.
She ignored it.
On the fifth step, however, her eyes flicked to the Doleur. It wound behind us though the city, the river where the Archbishop had almost drowned me, where Reid and I had spoken our vows. Josephine followed her gaze, snarling at something I couldn’t see. I strained to hear, but the dull roar of the water revealed nothing. “Do it,” Josephine said quickly. “Do it now.”
Though Nicholina moved with renewed urgency, her entire body shuddered with the next step. Her foot lurched. Slipping, she crashed to her knees in a graceless movement. Confusion warped her ghastly face. Confusion and—and panic. Gritting her teeth, she struggled to stand as her muscles spasmed. As they rioted against her.
I stared at her now, hardly daring to hope.
“Naughty, nasty.” Each word burst from her in a sharp exhale, as if she suffered terrible pain. Her entire body bowed. Still she crawled forward, her nails tearing through earth. “Tricky—little—mice—”
“Useless.” Lip curling with disgust, Josephine strode toward me, kicking Nicholina’s ribs as she went. Hard. “I will do it myself.”
Nicholina’s head lifted with a frighteningly blank expression.
On my first day in Cesarine, a stray dog had meandered into the garbage where I’d hidden. Shivering and alone, his only possession had been a bone. I’d watched as a cruel child had stolen it from him, as she’d beaten him with it until the dog had snapped, lunging forward to bite her hand. Later that day—after the girl had scampered away, crying and bleeding—a man had patted the dog’s head as he passed, feeding him a bit of calisson. The dog had followed him home.
Like a stray dog in the garbage, Nicholina snapped, plunging her nails into her mistress’s calf.
Josephine jerked as if startled, her eyes narrowing with incredulity—then widening with rage. With a feral snarl, she swooped to seize Nicholina’s hair, wrenching her attendant upward and sinking her teeth deep into her throat. Bile rose in my own as those teeth crunched and snapped—feasting hungrily—while Nicholina kicked helplessly. Her screams ended in a gurgle.
Josephine had torn out her vocal cords.
Even then, she didn’t stop. She drank and drank until Nicholina’s hands slackened and her feet fell limp. She drank until splashes sounded behind us, accompanied by piercing undulations. Battle cries. When the first naked woman sprinted past—silver hair rippling and trident flashing—I never thought I’d be so grateful to see Elvire’s backside.
Dropping Nicholina’s body, Josephine whirled with wild eyes. Blood poured from her mouth, but she caught Elvire’s trident before it connected with her skull. Aurélien felled my tree with the single stroke of his club. He caught me with surprising tenderness, while Lasimonne dropped to his knees beside us. “My lady sends her regards,” he rumbled. “Forgive me. This is going to hurt.”
He peeled the thorns from my mouth, drew the spikes from my hands and feet, as Olympienne, Leopoldine, and Sabatay fell upon Josephine. Dozens of others streaked past, finding prey within the trees—the blood witches who’d gathered to watch my execution.
As I coughed and spluttered, Aurélien and Lasimonne dragged me from harm’s way. “What can we do?” the former asked. “How may we heal you?”
“You can’t do anything unless you’re hiding an antidote to poison in your . . . not pocket.” I coughed on a laugh, cradling my hands in my lap. They’d rested me against another tree. This one thankfully free of blood. “Go. My body will heal.”
Just slowly.
They didn’t need to be convinced. With two impeccable bows, they charged into the fray once more. I tried to breathe, to anchor myself in my magic. It had purged the hemlock from my body. It would cleanse Josephine’s blood too. Though the patterns shone dimmer than before—stretched too far and too thin across the city—the Brindelle trees helped. Even now, the power of this sacred grove flowed through me, deepening my connections. Restoring my balance.
I just needed time.
With a jolt of panic, I remembered Coco.
Trying and failing to stand, I searched for her amidst the chaos—blood witches and melusines weaving through the shadows of the trees—and found her sitting up amidst the roots of another sapling. At her back, Angelica helped her stand.
I heaved a shaky sigh of relief—until the two turned to face Josephine.
She fought with blood and blade, slicing and swiping at the melusines with preternatural strength and speed. If their blood didn’t spill, hers did, and she spattered it in their eyes, ears, noses, and groins. Every vulnerable spot in their human bodies. When Elvire fell backward, tangling in another witch’s black thorns, Angelica cut her free with equal skill.
Josephine snarled.
With the shake of her head, Angelica cleaned the thorn’s sap from her blade, wiping it on her gown. She’d worn a gown. “You’ve chosen the wrong side, sister.”
“At least I’ve chosen a side.” Josephine didn’t cower as Angelica approached. Coco crept behind, her eyes wide and anxious. I tried again to stand. “For too long, you have spoken of right and wrong, of good and evil, of facile concepts that do not exist. Not truly.” She prowled around Angelica, who waved her hand to still Elvire’s approach. “There is only pursuit, dear sister. Of knowledge. Of power. Of life. But you have always been afraid to live, haven’t you? You craved power, yet you betrayed your own people. You sought love and affection, yet you abandoned your child. Even now, you yearn for freedom, yet you remain trapped beneath the sea. You are a coward.” She spat the word and continued circling.
Angelica turned with her, keeping Coco at her back. “You’re such a fool,” she whispered.
“I am the fool? How do you envision this ends, sister?” Josephine’s mouth twisted as she gestured between the two of them. “Shall we carry on the pretense? Will you cut yourself to cut me? We both know it cannot go beyond that. One cannot live without the other. I cannot kill you, and you cannot kill me.”
<
br /> “You’re wrong.”
Josephine’s eyes narrowed at the words. “I think not.”
“We must all play our parts.” Lacing her fingers through Coco’s, Angelica glanced back and squeezed. “For a new regime.”
Josephine stared between them. Perhaps it was the way Coco shook her head, the tears in her eyes, or perhaps it was the profound acceptance in Angelica’s smile. The way she touched Coco’s locket and whispered, “Wear it always.”
Whatever the reason, she yielded a step. Then another. Indeed, when Angelica faced her once more, advancing slowly—knife in hand—Josephine abandoned all pretense. She turned and fled.
Nicholina caught her ankle.
Unseen by all, she’d dragged herself forward, throat mangled, each breath a wet, hollow sound. Her skin had grayed beyond pale. Corpselike. Even now, she struggled to keep her eyes open as her lifeblood poured freely.
She didn’t let go.
Appalled, Josephine tried to kick free, but she slipped in Nicholina’s blood, falling hard to the ground. The movement cost her. Mustering the last of her strength, Nicholina crawled up her legs as Angelica advanced. “Get off of me, you disgusting little—” Though Josephine scrambled backward, kicking harder, she couldn’t dislodge her attendant.
“Miss . . . tress . . .” Nicholina gurgled.
Josephine’s eyes widened in true panic now. Turning, she attempted to push to her feet, but Nicholina held on, trapping her legs. Angelica loomed behind. When Josephine crashed back to the ground—twisting, snarling—Angelica knelt beside her, sliding her blade neatly through her sister’s neck.
Right at the base of the skull.
The three of them died together.
It wasn’t poetic. It wasn’t grand or heroic or momentous, like one might’ve expected. The heavens didn’t part, and the earth didn’t swallow them whole. These three women—the oldest and most powerful in the world—died just like anyone would: with their eyes open and their limbs cold.
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