Coco pulled her mother apart from the rest, fighting tears. Heedless of the fighting around her.
I staggered to her side. When she saw me, she gasped my name, flinging her arms around me. “Are you all right?” She pulled back to look at me, frantic, wiping her tears. Her fingers touched my face. “Oh my god. Here—let me—let me heal you—”
“Save your strength. I’m already healing.”
Her eyes dropped back to her mother. “We need to finish this, Lou.”
Slowly, I knelt to the ground, closing each of their eyes in turn. Even Nicholina’s. Even Josephine’s. “And we will.”
She supported my shoulders as we hobbled through the trees to the street. To Coco’s surprise—and less to mine—a handful of blood witches ceased fighting when they recognized Josephine’s corpse on the ground. Some knelt beside her. Others fled. Still more looked to Coco as if lost, mirroring her own unnerved expression. At the blood witches’ abrupt withdrawal, the melusines moved on, following the sounds of shouts and steel.
Claud—still shaped as the Woodwose—thundered around the corner at the far end of the street. When he saw us, he moved faster, raising his voice to shout, “What is it? What happened? I heard your call—”
Something moved too quickly behind us.
A flash of white. Of moonbeam hair.
“LOOK OUT!” Célie’s unexpected shriek nearly rent the sky, but it was too late. We couldn’t stop it. Paralyzed with fear, we stood rooted as Morgane rose up to meet us. As she lifted her hand to thrust a dagger in my heart. As Claud blasted us backward, and her lips curled into a macabre smile.
“Oh no.” Her ghostly laughter reverberated through the grove. “Oh no, no, no.”
The ground beneath us began to quake.
“It seems you’ve broken the rules, darling.” Tutting, she shook her head. “Old ones.”
Sickening realization dawned. “He’s intervened,” I repeated on a whisper.
As one, Coco and I turned to Claud, who stood alone in the street, his face a mask of calm. The cobblestones cracked and fissured around him. The earth trembled. He looked us squarely in the eyes. “Run.”
The Chasm
Reid
“Would you run?” Incredulous, I glanced over my shoulder at Beau, who lagged behind. He clutched his ribs with one hand. With each stride, he nearly impaled himself with his Balisarda.
He’d stolen it from Philippe.
We hadn’t bothered to free him.
“You run.” Panting, he gestured around the empty street with his other hand. It held another knife. “I can’t fucking breathe, and if you haven’t noticed—there’s no one here!”
I scowled and pushed onward.
He had a point.
This street—that street, every street we’d passed for the last quarter hour—had been virtually empty. We’d succeeded in sequestering most pedestrians inside their homes, inside shops. Inside any buildings we could fortify. Father Achille and Johannes Pan had converted the boucherie next door into an infirmary. They treated the injured there. They gathered the dead.
The witches had . . . withdrawn.
It’d happened slowly. Almost imperceptibly. One moment, we’d fought scores of them. Too many to count. Werewolves and huntsmen, men and women—even melusines, rising up from the Doleur like sea serpents—had fought tooth and nail to contain them. As the hour had passed, however, each had slipped from the fray one by one. Slipped through our fingers. As if answering some unspoken call.
My own breath quickened with each step. They couldn’t have simply vanished.
My voice hardened with resolution. “We need to find them.”
“We need to find our wretched little sisters.” Waving his knife for me to stop, Beau clutched his knees. I scowled, doubling back, and pulled him onward. We would find them. If not, we’d regroup with Lou and Coco, with Father Achille and Jean Luc and Célie, and we’d determine another strategy.
When we rounded the corner, however, all plans of planning fled.
At the end of the street, a horde of witches collected in the shadows.
Beau hissed as I shoved him behind a garbage can, but it mattered not—dozens of heads snapped in our direction. I exhaled a heavy breath. A resigned one. Slowly, I rose to my feet. Beau followed with a curse, muttering, “Have you ever heard of manifestation?”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.” He lifted his Balisarda and knife with white knuckles as three witches broke apart from the rest. The others refocused their attention on something at the center of the group. Something that . . . rattled. Eyes narrowing, I stepped closer. “Actually, don’t. I’d love to hear the next step in your let’s find the bloodthirsty witches plan—”
The clink of metal. Thick rings.
A chain.
My brow furrowed as the three witches moved shoulder to shoulder, blocking my view. It was a chain. An ancient, crusted chain. From the glimpse I’d gotten, it’d looked long enough to encircle half of Cesarine. Wide enough too. A memory harried my subconscious, half-realized. I’d seen this chain in Chateau le Blanc’s treasury. “Hello, princelings,” the middle witch crooned.
With a jolt of shock, I recognized her amber face from Modraniht. It felt like years ago. “Elaina.”
“No.” Beau winced as they drew to a halt before us. Identical black hair and narrow noses. Full lips. They twisted with identical menace. “That one is Elinor. I’d recognize her aura of disdain anywhere.” He pointed a finger to his teeth, flashing a charming smile. “Do you remember me now, sweetheart? Do you see the opportunity you missed?”
“Oh, I remember you, Burke. You made me look a fool in front of the entire coven.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” her sister said, either Elaina or Elodie.
“We’ve been looking for you both all night,” the other finished. “Thank you for making this easy.”
Though all three crooked their fingers at once, nothing happened. No patterns reared to strike. Beau waggled his Balisarda at them, grinning anew. “Something wrong?”
Elinor bared her teeth. “Ask your sister.”
“What does that—”
They attacked before he could finish, slipping knives from their sleeves and launching toward us. Elaina and Elodie at me. Elinor at him. Though quick—though furious—the sisters clearly hadn’t trained for physical combat sans magic. With a sense of dread at those chilling last words, I dispatched the first of them swiftly while Beau battled Elinor strike for strike. Her sister’s blood still dripped from my blade when I turned to face Elodie.
The earth beneath us rolled.
I staggered at the movement, glancing down incredulously. Cobblestones broke to pieces. All around, foundations cracked. Tiles littered the street. And Zenna—from somewhere above, she let out a mighty roar. The witches ahead tensed, renewing their efforts with haste. Half had climbed the drainpipes, stringing the chain taut between rooftops, like a wire. Magic coated everything.
I couldn’t make sense of it. Couldn’t think. The ground kept shaking. Sensing my distraction, the sister slashed her blade down in a mighty strike. Though I recoiled, though I lifted my own blade to parry, another knife whizzed past my face—close enough to feel its heat on my cheek—and lodged in the sister’s chest.
With a squeak of surprise, she sank to her knees, slipped sideways, and moved no more.
Behind us, Beau stood triumphant. Elinor stilled at his feet. “Did you see that?” Though he waved his Balisarda at the vengeful witch’s body, he glanced away quickly. He swallowed hard. “I saved your life.”
I blocked his view of their corpses. Knocked his shoulder with my own. Forced him to turn. “You also set me on fire.”
“Perhaps you could conjure some up for the rest of these—”
With another thunderous roar, Zenna swept into view. The sight of her wings against the sky, of her white-hot flame, stole the breath from my throat. And I remembered. A torch-lit stage. A starry cloak. And Z
enna—Zenna weaving a heart-wrenching tale of dragon and maiden.
A magic chain, her kin doth wield to stay him on an even keel.
And when Tarasque did spiral down, her father felled him to the ground.
With Seraphine atop her back, Zenna dove low—too low—scouring the streets for persons unknown. When she saw us, she swooped even lower. She didn’t see the chain until it was too late.
“Wait! No, STOP!”
At the desperate wave of my arms, she banked, but her foot still caught the links. The chain moved of its own volition, slinging rapidly around her leg, up her haunch. With a bellow of rage, she began to fall, and as she did, her leg—it transformed into that of a human. Gruesomely. The witches descended like ants when she crashed to the ground. The impact threw Seraphine through the air with frightening speed. She collided with the trash cans nearest us.
“Oh my god,” Beau said. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”
Zenna’s roars transitioned to screams as Seraphine struggled to move. I bolted toward her, kicking the trash cans aside. “Seraphine—”
She pushed my hands away with surprising strength. “Go.” Though Beau attempted to drag her upright, she shook him off too, unsheathing another sword from down her back. She swung both equally with surprising dexterity. “Find Claud and the others. Find Lou. He intervened.”
“What?” Beau asked, perplexed.
My gaze darted toward Zenna, who the witches had lashed and beaten with the chain. She’d fully transformed now. Human once more. Vulnerable. “Let us help—”
“I am no damsel.” Springing to her feet, she knocked us aside and streaked toward her mate. “Find Claud. Leave Zenna to me.”
The ground gave a mighty lurch in response, and we had no choice.
We sprinted up the street.
“Where are we going?” Though Beau’s shout tore through my senses, I ignored him, pressing harder. Faster. Blood roared in my ears as we followed the fissure, tracking its path through West End, past the Tremblays’ townhouse, and skidding to a halt outside Brindelle Park. Buildings crumbled now. Witches and melusines alike scattered.
Claud stood in the middle of the street, completely and carefully still. He faced the spindly Brindelle trees.
He faced Coco and Lou.
The fissure ran directly between them, cracking wide, forcing them to leap apart. “LOU!” Her name shredded my throat, but I shouted it louder. I shouted it crazed. When her face jerked up—her eyes meeting mine—a cold fist of fear gripped my heart. Though I cast for a golden pattern, none could’ve prevented this. None could’ve stopped it. She tried anyway, flinging both hands toward the ground. Her entire body strained. Trembled. The sharp scent of magic exploded over the grass, the rocks, the trees—stronger than ever before—but this fissure was stronger, deeper, older, than even La Dame des Sorcières.
Together, helpless, we watched as the earth broke open completely.
As Claud plummeted into its depths without a word.
As the fissure kept growing, kept spreading, until Brindelle Park—until half of the entire city—fractured from the rest, separated by a yawning chasm. Still it grew. Coco’s voice rose to join mine, and she backpedaled, preparing to take an impossible leap—
Beau caught her shirt at the last second. He ripped her toward him. “Are you crazy?”
“Let me go!” She pounded his chest, stomped on his feet, twisted to elbow him viciously. Only then did he release her with a gasp.
“Please, Coco, don’t—!”
But she didn’t leap this time. Instead she dove to the chasm’s edge, hands latching onto a blood witch’s wrist. Another. Screaming, they dangled hopelessly. Their nails clawed at rock, at Coco’s skin. Realizing her intent, Beau dashed to help, and together, they pulled the witches to safety, collapsing together in a heap.
When the dust settled, Beau, Coco, and I stood on one side of the chasm.
Lou and Célie clutched each on the other.
Behind them loomed Morgane le Blanc.
As We Started
Lou
The horror on Reid’s face, the absolute terror, was an image I’d never forget. Though he charged up and down the chasm’s edge, searching for the narrowest lip, for a pattern, for a miracle—it was better this way. Truly. Whatever happened now, it would be between my mother and me.
Just as we’d started.
In line with my thoughts, Morgane swept her hand in a burst of magic, and Célie soared through the air, crashing into a Brindelle tree. Two blood witches who’d been trapped here dropped to seize her, to—no. Hope burned savage and bright in my heart. To help her. They were helping her. In that split second, I thought of Manon, of Ismay, or Dame Blanche and Dame Rouge alike who’d been harmed by Morgane’s hatred. Who’d felt trapped between Church and coven. Who’d lived in fear as debilitating as mine.
Hope isn’t the sickness. It’s the cure.
Of all people, of course it had been Célie to find Morgane. To stalk her unseen as she slipped through the city. My mother never would’ve suspected it. She never would’ve believed such a pretty porcelain doll could grow teeth. If she thought Célie would shatter, however—if she thought I would—it would be the last mistake of her life.
This time, I wouldn’t hesitate.
“Lou! LOU! Célie!”
Reid, Coco, Beau, Jean Luc—they called our names in a frenzy, voices blending into one. Resolve hardened to a sharpened point in my chest as I looked at them. We’d already lost so much, each of us. Fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers. Our homes. Our hope. Our very hearts.
No more.
I found Reid’s gaze last, holding it longer than the others. When I shook my head slowly, determinedly, he drew to a swift halt, chest heaving. We stared at each other for the span of a single heartbeat.
Then he nodded.
I love you, I told him.
As I love you.
Morgane sneered, lowering the hood of Auguste’s lion-skin cloak as she advanced. She’d stolen it from his corpse at the cathedral. Though charred black in places, she wore it as a trophy now. Its teeth glinted around her throat in a gruesome smile, and its mane spread proudly across her shoulders. “No more running, Louise. No more hiding.” She jabbed a finger across the chasm, where Blaise and the remains of his pack had gathered. Where Elvire and her melusines still attempted to cross, where Claud had fallen to fate unknown. “Your god has fallen, your dragon has perished, and your precious allies cannot reach you here. I must admit . . . you are far cleverer than I ever gave you credit. How cunning it was to hide behind those more powerful than yourself. How cruel. We are more alike than you realize, darling, but the time has come at last. You are alone.”
But I wasn’t alone. Not truly. In life or in death, I’d have someone to meet me. Someone to love me. My stomach curdled at Nicholina’s congealed throat. At Josephine’s empty expression. Though the former might’ve found peace with her son, could the latter say the same? Could Morgane? She stepped over their corpses without acknowledgment. Already, they meant less to her than the mire beneath her boots. “Your generals are dead,” I said quietly. “I think you are the one alone.”
The blood witches stiffened as Morgane paused, turning to kick Josephine’s vacant face. “Good riddance.”
With a crippling sense of sorrow, I stared at her as my white patterns undulated weakly. I couldn’t kill her with them. Not outright. Death was natural, yes, but murder was not. It hardly mattered now either way. When I’d clasped two sides of the very world, trying to save Claud—a god, a friend—from his own magic, I’d nearly rent myself apart. My patterns had distended past the point of reparation. Some had snapped altogether. Those remaining had grown dim with weariness.
Morgane didn’t know that.
I searched each carefully now, seeking a distraction, something to allow me near. Something to debilitate her long enough for me to strike. Gently, I fed the patterns outward. “Have you loved anyone in this world,
maman?”
She scoffed and lifted her hands. “Love. I curse the word.”
“Has anyone loved you?”
Her eyes narrowed on mine. Her mouth twisted in question. “It’s true,” I admitted, quieter still. “I did love you once. Part of me still does, despite everything.” I twitched my finger, and the water of the Doleur trickled steadily, silently, through the grass beneath our feet. It melted the snow. It cleansed the blood. If Morgane noticed, she didn’t react. Though her features remained riddled with spite, she studied me as if enthralled. As if she’d never heard me say it, though I’d told her a thousand times. A single tear slid down my cheek in response, and the pattern dissipated. A tear for a river. Both held endless depths.
“You gave me life,” I continued, stronger now, the words spilling faster than I’d intended. Cathartic. “Of course I loved you. Why do you think I allowed them to chain me to an altar? At sixteen years old, I was willing to die for you. My mother.” Another tear fell, and the water flowed faster. It touched her hem now. “You never should’ve asked me. I’m your daughter.”
“You were never my daughter.”
“You gave me life.”
“I gave you purpose. What should I have done, darling? Cradled you in my arms while others’ daughters perished? While they burned? Should I have valued your life more than theirs?”
“Yes!” The confession burst from me in a shock of cold regret, and I capitalized on it, clenching my fist. The water around Morgane’s feet froze to solid ice. It trapped her. “You should have valued me—you should’ve protected me—because I am the only person in this world who still loves you!”
“You are a fool,” she snarled, fire lashing from her fingertips. “And a predictable one at that.”
With the slash of her hand, the ice melted, and the ground itself desiccated in a fiery path toward me. It didn’t burn my skin, however, instead passing through it—straight to my organs. My body temperature spiked as my blood literally began to boil, as my muscles cramped and my vision spun. Crying out, Célie attempted to leap to my aid, but the blood witches held her back, recoiling from Morgane. In fear. In hatred.
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