With seconds to react, I seized another pattern, and the Brindelle tree nearest me withered and blackened to ash.
The lion of Auguste’s cloak began to reanimate.
I fell to my knees, smoke curling from my mouth, as its teeth sank deep into Morgane’s neck. Screaming, she whirled, pulling a knife from her sleeve, but the half-formed lion clung to her back. Tendon and muscle continued to regenerate with gruesome speed. Where sleeves had been, mighty paws rose to grip her shoulders. Its hind legs kicked at her back.
Morgane’s fiery hold dissipated as she struggled, and I fought to rise. To breathe.
When she buried her blade in the beast’s chest, it gave a final snarl before falling limp. She heaved its carcass between us. Blood poured from wounds on her neck, her shoulders, her legs, but she ignored them, clenching another fist. “Is that the best you can do?” Beneath my armor, against my skin, arose an alarming tickle. The skitter of legs. “You may call yourself La Dame des Sorcières—you may kill trees and steal rivers—but you will never know this magic as I have known it. You will never conquer its power as I once did. Just look at yourself. Already, it has weakened your feeble spirit.” She advanced in earnest now, a lethal gleam in her eyes. “The Goddess has chosen wrong, but I do not need her blessing to conquer you.”
Scrambling backward—hardly hearing her words—I pulled hastily at my armor.
Hundreds of spiders burst from the woven fabric. From their own silk. They scuttled over my body in a wave of legs, piercing my skin with their fangs. Each bite brought a prick of pain, a tingle of numbness. Shrieking instinctively, heart palpitating, I crushed all within reach, sweeping their wriggling corpses from my arms, legs, chest—
“You were born to be immortal, Louise.” Morgane lifted her hands, pouring her rage, her frustration, her guilt into another bout of fire. I rolled to avoid it—squashing the last of the spiders—and seized the lion’s skin as a shield. “Though destined to die, your name would have lived forever. We could have written history together, the two of us. You may scorn me now, you may hate me always, but I gave everything—I sacrificed everything—for you. For love.”
Feeding strength to the fur through another pattern, I crouched lower. The grass beneath her feet ignited instead. She leapt away from it with a hiss. “You cannot imagine the grief of your birth. Even you cannot imagine the bitterness I felt. I should have killed you then. I’d even lifted the knife, prepared to plunge it into your newborn heart, but you—you clasped my finger. With the whole of your fist, you clutched me, blinking those sightless eyes. So peaceful. So content. I couldn’t do it. In a single moment, you softened my heart.” Her flames subsided abruptly. “I failed our people that day. It took sixteen years to harden myself again. Even then, I would have gifted you everything. I would have gifted you greatness.”
“I didn’t want greatness.” Casting my shield aside, I pushed to my feet at last. Her heart might’ve softened for a newborn babe, but she hadn’t ever loved me—not me, not truly, not the person. She’d loved the idea of me. The idea of greatness, of salvation. I’d mistaken her attention for the genuine thing. I hadn’t known what real love looked like then. I glanced across the chasm to Reid, Coco, and Beau, who stood hand in hand at the edge, pale and silent.
I knew what it looked like now—both love and grief. Two sides of the same wretched coin. “I only wanted you.”
When I clenched my fist, exhaling hard, my grief ruptured into a storm wind: grief for the mother she could’ve been, grief for the good moments, for the bad moments, for all the moments in between. Grief for the mother I had lost, truly, long before this one.
The wind blasted her backward, but she twisted midair, and the momentum carried her closer to Célie. Wicked intent flared in Morgane’s eyes. Before I could stop her, she jerked her fingers, and Célie skidded from the blood witches as if pulled by an invisible rope. Morgane caught her. She used her body as a shield, pressing her knife to Célie’s breastbone. “Foolish child. How many times must I tell you? You cannot defeat me. You cannot hope to triumph. Once upon a time, you could’ve been immortal, but now, your name will rot with your corpse—”
She broke off inexplicably, her mouth falling open in a comical O.
Except it wasn’t funny. It wasn’t funny at all.
Stumbling backward, she thrust Célie away with a noise of surprise and—and glanced down. I followed her gaze.
A quill lodged deep in her thigh, its syringe quivering from impact.
An injection.
I stared at it in shock. In relief. In horror. Each emotion flickered through me with wild abandon. A hundred others. Each passed too quickly to name. To feel. I could only stare, numb, as she slid to her knees in a smooth, fluid motion. As her hair rippled down her shoulders, less silver now than bloody scarlet. Eyes still rapt on the syringe, she slipped sideways. She didn’t move.
Cold metal touched my palm, and Célie’s voice drifted from afar. “Do you need me to do it?”
I felt myself shake my head. My fingers curled around the hilt of her dagger. Swallowing hard, I approached my mother’s limp body. When I brushed her hair from her face, her eyes rolled back to look at me. Pleading. I couldn’t help it. I pulled her across my lap. Her throat worked for several seconds before sound came out. “Daugh . . . ter . . .”
I memorized those emerald eyes. “Yes.”
Then I drew Célie’s blade across my mother’s throat.
It Ends in Hope
Lou
The first time I’d slept beside Reid, I’d dreamed of him.
More specifically, I’d dreamed of his book. La Vie Éphémère. He’d gifted it to me that day. His first secret. Later that night, after Madame Labelle had issued her warning—after I’d woken in a fit of tangled sheets and icy panic—I’d crawled next to him on the hard floor. His breathing had lulled me to sleep.
She is coming.
Fear of my mother had literally driven me into his arms.
The dream had crept over me slowly, like the wash of gray before dawn. As in the story, Emilie and Alexandre had lain side by side in her family’s tomb. Their cold fingers had touched forevermore. On the final page, their parents had wept for them, mourning the loss of life so young. They’d promised to set aside their blood feud, their prejudice, in the name of their children. It was of this scene I’d dreamed, except it hadn’t been Emilie’s and Alexandre’s bodies, but mine and Reid’s.
When I’d woken the next morning, unease had plagued me. I’d blamed it on the nightmare. On the memory of my mother.
Now, as I held her in my arms, I couldn’t help but remember that peaceful image of Emilie and Alexandre.
There was nothing peaceful about this.
Nothing easy.
Yet still Reid’s voice drifted back to me as he’d clutched La Vie Éphémère in hand . . .
It doesn’t end in death. It ends in hope.
Pan’s Patisserie
Reid
Lou held her mother for a long time. I waited at the chasm’s edge, even after Coco and a handful of blood witches built a bridge of vines. Even after Célie and her newfound friends—two witches named Corinne and Barnabé—crossed on shaky legs. Jean Luc had enveloped Célie in a desperate hug, while Coco had tentatively greeted the witches. She’d remembered them from childhood. They’d remembered her.
They’d even bared their throats before leaving to find their kin. A sign of submission.
Coco had watched them go, visibly shaken.
Not all had been so courteous. One witch—a sobbing Dame Blanche—had attacked my back as I’d waited. Jean Luc had been forced to inject her. To bind her wrists. He hadn’t killed her, however, not even when Célie had stepped aside to speak with Elvire. Aurélien had fallen. Others too. As the Oracle’s Hand, Elvire had begun to collect their dead, preparing to depart for Le Présage once more.
“We cannot leave our lady waiting,” she’d murmured, bowing low. “Please say you will visit us sometime.�
�
Beau and Coco hurried to find Zenna and Seraphine.
Though I started to follow, Coco shook her head. Her gaze drifted to Lou, who hadn’t moved from beneath her mother. “She needs you more,” Coco murmured. Nodding, I swallowed hard, and after another moment, I took a hesitant step on the bridge.
Someone shouted behind me.
Unsheathing my stolen Balisarda, I whirled, prepared for another witch. Instead, I met two: Babette supporting Madame Labelle as they hobbled into the street. An enormous smile stretched across my mother’s face. “Reid!” She waved with her entire body, presumably healed by Babette’s blood. The lesions and bruises from the trial had vanished, replaced by vibrant skin, if a touch pale. I exhaled a sharp breath. My knees weakened in a dizzying wave of relief.
She was here.
She was alive.
Crossing the street in three great strides, I met her halfway, crushing her in my arms. She choked on a laugh. Patted my arm. “Easy, son. It takes a bit more time for the insides to heal, you know.” Though she still beamed, clapping my cheeks, her eyes tightened at the corners. Babette looked unusually grave behind.
I met her gaze over my mother’s head. “Thank you.”
“Do not thank me.” She waved an errant hand. “Your mother supplied my first job in this city. I owed her one.”
“And still owe me many more,” Madame Labelle added, turning to eye the courtesan waspishly. “Do not think I’ve forgotten, Babette, the time you dyed my hair blue.”
Only then did Babette crack a sheepish grin. After another moment, she glanced around us covertly. “Pray tell, huntsman, have you seen our lovely Cosette?”
“She’s with Beau. They headed north.”
Her smile fell slightly. “Of course. If you’ll excuse me.”
She left without delay, and I wrapped a steadying arm around Madame Labelle’s waist. “Where have you been? Are you well?”
“I am as well as possible, given the circumstances.” She shrugged delicately. “We took a leaf out of your wife’s book and hid in Soleil et Lune’s attic. No one bothered us there. Perhaps none knew of its importance to Lou. If they had, I suspect Morgane would’ve razed it out of spite.” When I nodded to them across the chasm, her expression crumpled. She shook her head. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear. How sickening.” Those piercing blue eyes flitted up to mine, filled with regret. “Babette told me that Auguste perished by his own fire. Stupid, arrogant man.” As if realizing the tactlessness of her words, she patted my arm again. “But he—he was very—”
“He tortured you,” I said darkly.
She sighed, crestfallen. “Yes, he did.”
“He deserved worse than death.”
“Perhaps. We must content ourselves that wherever he is, he is in great pain. Perhaps with rats. Still . . .” She wobbled slightly, unsteady on her feet. My arm tightened around her. “He was your father. I am sorry for it, but I am never sorry for you.” She touched my cheek once more before glancing at Lou. “You must go. If you could walk me to the nearest bench, however, I’d be most grateful. I should like to watch the sun rise.”
I stared at her incredulously. “I can’t leave you on a bench.”
“Nonsense. Of course you can. No witch with any sense would attack us now, and those that do—well, I believe more than one Chasseur survived, and that Father Achille has quite a nice—”
“I’ll stop you there.” Though I shook my head, one corner of my mouth curled upward. Unbidden. “Father Achille is off-limits.”
It wasn’t true. She could have whoever she wanted. I would personally introduce them.
After situating her on a bench—beds of winter jasmine blooming on either side—I kissed her forehead. Though night still claimed the sky, dawn would come soon. With it, a new day. I knelt to catch my mother’s eyes. “I love you. I don’t think I’ve ever told you.”
Scoffing, she busied herself with her skirt. Still, I saw her eyes. They sparkled with sudden tears. “I only expect to hear it every day from this moment onward. You shall visit at least thrice a week, and you and Louise shall name your firstborn child after me. Perhaps your second too. That sounds reasonable, does it not?”
I chuckled and tugged on her hair. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Go on, then.”
As I walked back to Lou, however, I heard low voices down a side street. Familiar ones. A keening wail. Frowning, I followed the sound to Gabrielle and Violette. They stood huddled on a stoop between Beau, who’d wrapped one arm around each of them. Coco hovered behind, one hand clapped to her mouth. At their feet, Ismay and Victoire lay sprawled unnaturally, facedown, surrounded by a half-dozen witches. None stirred.
Stricken, unable to move, I watched as Beau’s face broke on a sob, and he pulled the two girls into his chest. Their shoulders shuddered as they clutched him. Their tears raw. Anguished. Intimate. The sight of them punched me in the gut. My siblings. Though I hadn’t known Victoire as well as Beau, I could have. I would have. The pain cut unexpectedly sharp.
It should’ve been me on those cobblestones. Morgane had wanted me, not her. She’d wanted Beau. Not Victoire, a thirteen-year-old child.
Guilt reared its ugly head, and I finally turned. I walked back to Lou. I waited.
This time, she lifted her head to greet me.
I held her gaze.
Nodding, she smoothed Morgane’s hair, her touch tender. Full of longing. She closed her mother’s eyes. Then she rose heavily to her feet—bent as if bearing the weight of the very sky—and she left her there.
When she crossed the bridge, I extended my arms to her at last, and she fell into them without a sound. Her face pale and drawn. Broken-hearted. I leaned to rest my forehead against hers. “I’m so sorry, Lou.”
She held my face between both hands. Closed her eyes. “Me too.”
“We’ll get through this together.”
“I know.”
“Where you go—”
“—I will go,” she finished softly. Her eyes opened, and she brushed a kiss against my lips. “Who survived?”
“Let’s find out.”
As I’d suspected, the chasm split the entire city in two. Lou and I walked it hand in hand. Near the cathedral, we found Toulouse and Thierry. They stared into the chasm’s depths with Zenna and Seraphine. No one spoke a word.
“What do you think happened to him?” Lou whispered, slowing to a stop. This wake wasn’t meant for us. It was meant for them. Troupe de Fortune. Claud’s family. “Do you think he . . . died?”
I frowned at the prospect. Pressure built in my chest. Behind my eyes. “I don’t think gods can die.”
When we turned to go, Terrance stepped forward from the shadows. Like us, he, Blaise, and Liana hovered a respectable distance away. Ignoring Lou and me, he caught Toulouse’s and Thierry’s eyes. “You could come with us.” His voice resonated deeper than I’d remembered. Blood dripped down his bare chest. The side of his face. His ear had been torn off completely—whether in battle or before, I couldn’t tell. With a start, I realized he must’ve met Toulouse and Thierry at Chateau le Blanc. When they’d all been . . . tortured together. Liana too.
The thought turned my stomach.
Blaise stepped to his son’s side, clasping a hand on his shoulder. “We would be honored.” He cleared the emotion from his throat. “My children . . . they have spoken of how you comforted them. How you gave them hope. I can never repay either of you for this kindness.”
The twins cast subtle glances at Zenna and Seraphine. The former shrugged. Though link-shaped burns marred her visible skin—she’d somehow donned a sparkling fuchsia gown—the rest of her appeared relatively unscathed. Seraphine too. Blood coated her armor, but it didn’t seem to belong to her. I stared at them both incredulously. “How did they escape?”
“Who?” Lou asked. “What happened?”
“The witches—they felled Zenna with a magic chain.”
“Ah.” A hint of a smile touched her lips
. “Tarasque’s chain.”
“Like in Zenna’s story.”
“She did say that wasn’t her real name.”
I frowned as she pulled me away in search of the others.
We ended up in Pan’s patisserie.
Outside the boarded windows, Father Achille and a score of huntsmen attempted to free their brethren. Philippe still bellowed orders within his cage of roots. None listened. When at last they freed him, he swiped wildly at Achille, who dodged with the speed of a much younger man before knocking Philippe to the ground. It took five huntsmen to subdue him. Another to clap irons around his wrists.
“You can’t do this!” Veins throbbed in his forehead as he thrashed. “I am a captain of the Chasseurs! Father Gaspard!” He’d nearly burst blood vessels. “Someone summon him—FATHER GASPARD!”
Father Gaspard hadn’t heeded his summons, instead remaining crouched behind a tree in the sanctuary. The Chasseurs had flushed him out while searching for Queen Oliana, who they’d found trapped beneath the pulpit. Though her leg had been fractured, she would face greater pain soon. I didn’t envy the Chasseur who would tell her about her child. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t envy any Chasseur at all.
Unsure what to do with Philippe, Jean Luc and Célie settled on chaining him to a horse post down the street. Out of hearing distance. Thankfully.
They joined us in the patisserie moments later.
Collapsing in a vacant chair, Jean Luc scrubbed a hand down his face. “We’ll need to coordinate shelter as soon as possible. Petition citizens to open their homes to those without.”
Célie sat beside him with quiet calm. Soot smeared her white cheeks, and her hair hung lank from Coco’s rain. From sweat. A gash still bled from her temple. She gestured next door to the boucherie. “The injured will need treatment. We must summon healers from the nearest metropolises.”
“Oh God.” Jean Luc groaned and shot to his feet. “Were there priests in the infirmary? Has anyone checked for survivors?” At our blank looks, he shook his head and stalked outside to find Father Achille. Instead of joining him, Célie looked between us anxiously. She knitted her hands in her lap.
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