Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(10)

Her toothless grin widened as if she could read my mind. Before I could move—before I could unsheathe my blade and send her back to Hell where she belonged—she turned on her heel and disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

But not before blowing me a kiss.

Thick green carpet muffled my footsteps in the Archbishop’s study hours later. Ornate wood paneling covered the windowless walls of the room. A fireplace cast flickering light on the papers strewn across his desk. Already seated behind it, the Archbishop gestured for me to sit in one of the wooden chairs opposite him.

I sat. Forced myself to meet his gaze. Ignored the burning humiliation in my gut.

Though the king and his family had escaped the parade unscathed, many others had not. Two had died—one girl at her brother’s hand and the other at her own. Dozens more bore no visible injury but were currently strapped to beds two floors above. Screaming. Speaking in tongues. Staring at the ceiling without blinking. Vacant. The priests did what they could for them, but most would be transported to the asylum within a fortnight. There was only so much human medicine could do for those inflicted with witchcraft.

The Archbishop surveyed me over steepled fingers. Steely eyes. Harsh mouth. Silver streaks at his temples. “You did well today, Reid.”

I frowned, shifting in my seat. “Sir?”

He smiled grimly and leaned forward. “If not for you, the casualties would have been much greater. King Auguste is indebted to you. He sings your praises.” He gestured to a crisp envelope on his desk. “Indeed, he plans to hold a ball in your honor.”

My shame burned hotter. Through sheer willpower, I managed to unclench my fists. I deserved no one’s praise—not the king’s, and especially not my patriarch’s. I had failed them today. Broken the first rule of my brethren: Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

I had suffered four.

Worse—I’d actually—I’d wanted to—

I shuddered in my chair, unable to finish the thought. “I cannot accept, sir.”

“And why not?” He arched a dark brow, leaning back once more. I shrank under his scrutiny. “You alone remembered your mission. You alone recognized the hag for what it was.”

“Jean Luc—”

He waved an impatient hand. “Your humbleness is noted, Reid, but you mustn’t assume false modesty. You saved lives today.”

“I— Sir, I—” Choking on the words, I stared resolutely at my hands. They fisted in my lap once more.

As always, the Archbishop understood without explanation. “Ah . . . yes.” His voice grew soft. I looked up to find him watching me with an inscrutable expression. “Jean Luc told me about your unfortunate encounter.”

Though the words were mild, I heard the disappointment behind them. Shame reared and crashed within me once more. I ducked my head. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what came over me.”

He heaved a great sigh. “Fret not, son. Wicked are the ways of women—and especially a witch. Their guile knows no bounds.”

“Forgive me, sir, but I’ve never seen such magic before. The witch—it was a hag, but it . . . changed.” I stared down at my fists again. Determined to get the words out. “It changed into a beautiful woman.” I took a deep breath and looked up, jaw clenched. “A beautiful woman with child.”

His lip curled. “The Mother.”

“Sir?”

He rose to his feet, clasping his hands behind him, and began to pace. “Have you forgotten the sacrilegious teachings of the witches, Reid?”

I shook my head curtly, ears burning, and remembered the stern deacons of my childhood. The sparse classroom by the sanctuary. The faded Bible in my hands.

Witches do not worship our Lord and Savior, nor do they acknowledge the holy trinity of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. They glorify another trinity—an idolatrous trinity. The Triple Goddess.

Even if I hadn’t grown up in the Church, every Chasseur learned the witches’ evil ideology before taking his vows.

“Maiden, Mother, and Crone,” I murmured.

He nodded approvingly, and warm satisfaction spread through me. “An embodiment of femininity in the cycle of birth, life, and death . . . among other things. ’Tis blasphemous, of course.” He scoffed and shook his head. “As if God could be a woman.”

I frowned, avoiding his eyes. “Of course, sir.”

“The witches believe their queen, La Dame des Sorcières, has been blessed by the goddess. They believe she—it—can shift into the forms of the trinity at will.” He paused, mouth tightening as he looked at me. “Today, I believe you encountered La Dame des Sorcières herself.”

I gaped at him. “Morgane le Blanc?”

He nodded curtly. “The very same.”

“But, sir—”

“It explains the temptation. Your inability to control your basest nature. La Dame des Sorcières is incredibly powerful, Reid, particularly in that form. The witches claim the Mother represents fertility, fulfillment, and . . . sexuality.” His face twisted in disgust, as if the word left a bitter taste in his mouth. “A lesser man than you would have succumbed.”

But I wanted to. My face burned hot enough to cause physical pain as silence descended between us. Footsteps sounded, and the Archbishop’s hand came down on my shoulder. “Cast this from your mind, lest the creature poison your thoughts and corrupt your spirit.”