Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(100)

The drug, I reassured myself. The drug dimmed them.

But deep down, I knew better. Lou had broken in that moment. My wild-hearted, foul-mouthed, steel-willed heathen had broken. I had broken her.

You are not my wife.

I hated myself for what I’d done to her. I hated myself more for what I still felt for her. She was a witch. A bride of Lucifer. So what did that make me?

“You’re a coward,” Ansel spat.

I lurched to a halt, and he stumbled into me. His anger flickered out at my expression—at the rage coursing through my blood, heating my face.

“By all means, go,” I snarled. “Go after her. Protect her from Morgane le Blanc. Perhaps the witches will let you live with them at the Chateau. You can burn with them too.”

He reared back, stunned. Hurt.

Good. I turned savagely and continued into the foyer. Ansel walked a dangerous line. If the others found out he empathized with a witch . . .

Jean Luc strode through the open doors, carrying a witch over his shoulder. Blood dribbled down the demon’s neck from an injection. Behind him, a dove lay amongst the dead on the cathedral steps. Feathers bloodstained and rumpled. Eyes empty. Unseeing.

I looked away, ignoring the stinging pressure behind my own eyes.

My brethren moved purposefully around us. Some carried in corpses from the street. Though most of the witches had escaped, a handful joined the pile of bodies in the foyer—separate from the others. Untouchable. Theirs wouldn’t be a public execution. Not after Ye Olde Sisters. Not after that performance. Even if the Archbishop controlled the damage, word would spread. Even if he denied the accusation—even if some believed him—the seed had been planted.

The Archbishop had conceived a child with La Dame des Sorcières.

Though he was nowhere to be seen, his name filled the hall. My brothers kept their voices low, but I still heard them. Still saw their sidelong glances. Their suspicion. Their doubt.

Jean Luc elbowed Ansel aside to stand before me. “If you’re looking for your wife, she’s gone. I watched her dash through here not a quarter hour ago . . . crying.”

Crying.

“What happened upstairs, Reid?” He tilted his head to consider me, arching a brow. “Why would she flee? If she fears the witches, surely the Tower is the safest place for her.” He paused, and a truly frightening smile split his face. “Unless, of course, she now fears us more?”

I dropped my corpse on top of the pile of witches. Ignored the trepidation settling in my stomach like lead.

“I think your wife has a secret, Reid. And I think you know what it is.” Jean Luc inched closer, watching me with too-sharp eyes. “I think I know what it is.”

My trepidation dropped to outright panic, but I forced my face to remain calm. Blank. Void of all emotion. I wouldn’t tell them about Lou. They would hunt her. And the thought of their hands on her—touching her, hurting her, tying her body to the stake—I wouldn’t allow it.

I looked Jean Luc directly in the eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Where is she then?” He raised his voice and gestured around us, drawing the eyes of our brethren. My fingers curled into fists. “Why did the little witch flee?”

Red crept steadily into my vision, blurring those closest to us—those who had stilled, heads turning, at Jean Luc’s accusation. “Take care what you say next, Chasseur Toussaint.”

His smile faltered. “So it’s true, then.” He scrubbed a hand down his face and sighed heavily. “I didn’t want to believe it—but look at you. You would defend her still, even though you know she’s a—”

I lunged at him with a snarl. He attempted to dodge, but he wasn’t quick enough. My fist struck his jaw with an audible crack, breaking the bone. Ansel leapt forward before I could strike again. Despite him tugging on my arms, I barreled past him, barely feeling his weight. Jean Luc scrambled backward, screaming in pain and outrage, as I drew my fist once more.

“Enough,” the Archbishop said sharply from behind us.

I froze, fist cocked midair.

A few of my brethren bowed, fists to hearts, but most remained standing. Resolute. Wary. The Archbishop eyed them with growing fury, and a few more dropped their heads. Ansel released my arms and followed suit. To my surprise, so did Jean Luc—though his left hand remained pressed to his swelling jaw. He glared at the floor with murder in his eyes.

A tense second passed as they waited for me, their captain, to honor our forefather.

I didn’t.

The Archbishop’s eyes flashed at my insolence, but he hastened forward anyway. “Where is Louise?”

“Gone.”

Disbelief contorted his face. “What do you mean gone?”

I didn’t answer, and Ansel stepped forward in my stead. “She—she fled, Your Eminence. After this witch attacked her.” He gestured to the corpse on top of the pile of witches.

The Archbishop moved closer to inspect it. “You killed this witch, Captain Diggory?”

“No.” My fist throbbed from striking Jean Luc’s jaw. I welcomed the pain. “Lou did.”

He clasped my shoulder in a show of camaraderie for my brethren, but I heard the unspoken plea. Saw the vulnerability in his eyes. In that second, I knew. Any doubts I’d had vanished, replaced by a disgust deeper than any I’d ever known. This man—the man I’d looked to as a father—was a liar. A fraud. “We must find her, Reid.”