Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(109)

My fingers twitched in agitation. “Don’t pretend you’re above slaughtering a grandchild.”

She sank the quill deep into my throat in response. I bit my cheek to keep from screaming as my fingers grew heavy once more.

“Thy blood is the price.” She caressed my throat longingly. “Your womb is empty, Louise. You are the last of my line. It’s almost a shame . . .” She bent down, brushing her lips against my scar. Déjà vu swooped sickeningly through my stomach as I remembered Reid kissing the same spot only days ago. “I think I would’ve enjoyed killing the huntsman’s baby.”

“Wake up, darling.”

I blinked awake to Morgane’s whisper in my ear. Though I had no way of knowing how much time had passed—whether minutes, hours, or days—the wagon’s cover had finally been discarded, and night had fallen. I didn’t bother trying to sit up.

Morgane pointed to something in the distance anyway. “We’re almost home.”

I could see only the stars above me, but the familiar, crashing sound of waves on rock told me enough. The very air here told me enough. It was different than the fishy air I’d suffered in Cesarine: crisp and sharp, infused with pine needles and salt and earth . . . and just a hint of magic. I inhaled deeply, closing my eyes. Despite everything, my stomach still flipped at being this close. At finally returning home.

Within minutes, the wheels of the wagon clicked against the wooden slats of a bridge.

The bridge.

The legendary entrance to Chateau le Blanc.

I listened harder. Soft, nearly indiscernible laughter soon echoed around us, and the wind picked up, swirling snow into the cold night air. It would’ve been eerie had I not known it was all an elaborate production. Morgane had a flair for the dramatic.

She needn’t have bothered. Only a witch could find the Chateau. An ancient and powerful magic surrounded the castle—a magic to which each Dame des Sorcières had contributed for thousands of years. I would’ve been expected to strengthen the enchantment myself someday if things had been different.

I glanced up at Morgane, who smiled and waved to the white-clad women now running barefoot alongside the wagon. They left no footprints in the snow. Silent specters.

“Sisters,” she greeted warmly.

I scowled. These were the infamous guardians of the bridge. Actors in Morgane’s production—though they did enjoy luring the occasional man to the bridge at night.

And drowning him in the murky waters below.

“Darling, look.” Morgane propped me up in her arms. “It’s Manon. You remember her, don’t you? You were inseparable as witchlings.”

My cheeks burned as my head lolled onto my shoulder. Worse, Manon was indeed there to witness my humiliation, her dark eyes bright with excitement as she ran. As she smiled joyously and showered the wagon with winter jasmine.

Jasmine. A symbol of love.

Tears burned behind my eyes. I wanted to cry—to cry and rage and burn the Chateau and all its inhabitants to the ground. They’d claimed to love me, once. But then . . . so had Reid.

Love.

I cursed the word.

Manon reached for the wagon and pulled herself up. A garland of holly rested atop her head; the red berries looked like drops of blood against her black hair and skin. “Louise! You’ve finally returned!” She threw her arms around my neck, and my limp body fell against hers. “I feared I’d never see you again.”

“Manon has volunteered to accompany you at the Chateau,” Morgane said. “Isn’t that lovely? You’ll have such fun together.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” I muttered.

Manon’s ebony face fell. “Did you not miss me? We were sisters once.”

“Do you often try to murder your sisters?” I snapped.

Manon had the decency to flinch, but Morgane only pinched my cheek. “Louise, stop being naughty. It’s dreadfully dull.” She lifted her hand to Manon, who hesitated, glancing at me, before hurrying to kiss it. “Now run along, child, and prepare a bath in Louise’s room. We must rid her of this blood and stench.”

“Of course, my Lady.” Manon kissed my limp hands, transferred me back to Morgane’s lap, and leapt from the wagon. I waited until she’d melted into the night before speaking.

“Drop the pretense. I don’t want company—her or anyone else. Just post guards at my door, and be done with it.”

Morgane picked the jasmine blooms from the wagon floor and wove them through my hair. “How incredibly rude. She’s your sister, Louise, and desires to spend time with you. What a poor way to repay her love.”

There was that word again.

“So, according to you, love made her watch as I was chained to an altar?”

“You resent her. How interesting.” Her fingers raked through my tangled hair, braiding it away from my face. “Perhaps if it had instead been the stake, you would’ve married her.”

My stomach twisted. “Reid never hurt me.”

For all his faults, for all his prejudice, he hadn’t lifted a finger against me after the witch attacked. He could’ve, but he hadn’t. I wondered now what might’ve happened if I’d stayed. Would he have tied me to the stake? Perhaps he would’ve been kinder and driven a blade through my heart instead.