Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(112)

“So—” Ansel blinked in confusion, his face scrunching as he glanced at the rabbit carcass. “So you just eat the tart cherries? Or . . . ?”

Coco laughed, lifting her sleeve to show him the scars crisscrossing her skin. “My magic lives inside my blood, Ansel. Tart cherries are just tart cherries without it.” She frowned then, as if worried she’d said too much. Ansel wasn’t the only one listening intently. Both Madame Labelle and Beau had been hanging on her every word, and—to my shame—I too had inched closer. “Why the sudden interest?”

Ansel looked away, cheeks coloring. “I just wanted to know more about you.” Unable to resist, his gaze returned to her face seconds later. “Do—do all the blood witches look like you?”

She arched a brow in wry amusement. “Are they all breathtakingly beautiful, you mean?” He nodded, eyes wide and earnest, and she chuckled. “Of course not. We come in all shapes and colors, just like the Dames Blanches—and Chasseurs.”

Her eyes flicked to mine then, and I looked away hastily.

Beau moaned again. “I can’t feel my toes.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that,” Madame Labelle snapped, scooting her log closer to me. To my great irritation, she’d affixed herself to my side for the journey. She seemed intent on making me as uncomfortable as possible. “Several times, in fact, but we’re all cold. Grousing about it hardly helps.”

“A fire would,” he grumbled.

“No,” she repeated firmly. “No fires.”

As loath as I was to admit it, I agreed. Fires brought unwanted attention. All sorts of malevolent creatures roamed these woods. Already a misshapen black cat had started following us—a harbinger of misfortune. Though it kept a wide distance, it had crept into our packs the first night and eaten nearly all our food.

As if in response, Ansel’s stomach gave a mighty gurgle. Resigned, I pulled the last hunk of cheese from my pack and tossed it to him. He opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him short. “Just eat it.”

A morose silence fell over the company as he complied. Though it was very late, no one slept. It was too cold. Coco moved closer to Ansel, offering some of her blanket to him. He buried his hands in it with a groan. Beau scowled.

“We’re very close now,” Madame Labelle said to no one in particular. “Only a few more days.”

“Modraniht is in three,” Beau pointed out. “If we don’t starve or freeze to death first.”

“Our arrival will be close,” Madame Labelle admitted.

“We’re wasting time,” I said. “We should continue on. No one is sleeping anyway.”

Only a few hours into our journey, Madame Labelle had uncovered two witches tailing us. Scouts. Coco and I had dispatched them easily, but Madame Labelle had insisted we chart a new course.

“The road is being watched,” she’d said darkly. “Morgane wants no surprises.”

Seeing no alternative that didn’t involve slaughtering Lou’s kin, I’d been forced to agree.

Madame Labelle glanced to where the black cat had reappeared. It wove between the pine branches nearest her. “No. We remain here. It is unwise to travel these woods at night.”

Beau followed our gazes. His eyes narrowed, and he lurched to his feet. “I’m going to kill that cat.”

“I wouldn’t,” Madame Labelle warned. He hesitated, scowl deepening. “Things are not always as they appear in this forest, Your Highness.”

He dropped back to the ground in a huff. “Stop calling me that. I’m freezing my ass off out here, same as you. Nothing high about it—”

He stopped abruptly as Coco’s head snapped up. Her eyes locked on something behind me.

“What is it?” Ansel whispered.

She ignored him, pushing off her blanket and moving to my side. She glanced at me in silent warning.

I rose slowly to my feet.

The forest was still. Too still. Tendrils of fog curled around us in the silence . . . watching, waiting. Every nerve in my body tingled. Warned me we were no longer alone. A twig snapped somewhere ahead of us, and I sank into a crouch, creeping closer and brushing aside a pine branch to peer into the darkness. Coco shadowed my movements.

There—a stone’s throw away from us—marched a squadron of twenty Chasseurs. They moved silently through the fog, Balisardas drawn. Eyes sharp. Muscles tense. Recognition razed through me at the short, dark hair of the man leading them.

Jean Luc.

The bastard.

As if sensing our gaze, his eyes flicked toward us, and we shrank back hastily. “Stop,” he murmured, his voice carrying to my brethren in the eerie silence. They halted immediately, and he drifted closer, pointing his Balisarda in our direction. “There’s something there.”

Three Chasseurs moved forward to investigate at his command. I unsheathed my own Balisarda slowly, silently, unsure what to do with it. Jean Luc couldn’t know we were here. He would try to detain us, or worse—follow us. I gripped my knife tighter. Could I truly harm my brothers? Disarming them was one thing, but . . . there were too many. Disarming wouldn’t be enough. Perhaps I could distract them long enough for the others to escape.

Before I could decide, the black cat brushed past me, yowling loudly.

Shit. Coco and I both made to grab it, but it darted out of our reach, heading straight toward the Chasseurs. The three in front nearly leapt out of their skin before chuckling and bending to scratch its head. “It’s just a cat, Chasseur Toussaint.”