Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(118)

I looked away. I could imagine it all too clearly. Her silver scar reared in my mind’s eye—followed swiftly by the gaping wound at the dead witch’s throat. I forced the memory away, bile rising.

“I wanted to kill her,” Coco said bitterly. “Or kiss her.”

I chuckled ruefully. “I can empathize.”

“And even after—after everything—she still wouldn’t talk about it. To this day, two years later, I don’t know what happened that night. I don’t know how she escaped. I—I don’t know anything.” A solitary tear leaked down her cheek, but she wiped it away angrily. “She kept it locked in tight.”

Her eyes finally turned to me, beseeching. I didn’t quite know what she was asking.

“We have to save her.” The breeze picked up, ruffling her hair. She closed her eyes and lifted her face into it. Chin trembling. “I have to tell her I’m sorry.”

My brows dipped. “For what?”

Lou hadn’t mentioned a fight with Coco. But I now realized Lou hadn’t mentioned much. She was an incredibly private person. The grins, the easy laughter, the tricks and coarse language and sarcasm—all defense mechanisms. Distractions. Meant to deflect anyone from looking too close. Even Coco.

Even me.

“I should’ve been there when Morgane attacked. I should’ve helped her . . . protected her. But I wasn’t. Again.” Her eyes snapped open, and she turned her sudden vehemence on me. “We argued at your ball. I told her not to fall in love with you.”

I couldn’t keep myself from scowling. “Why?”

“It’s no secret Chasseurs kill witches. I don’t like you, Diggory, and I won’t apologize for it.” She paused, seeming to struggle with herself a moment, before sighing heavily. “But even I can see you’re trying. You and I are the best chance Lou has now. I don’t think even she can walk out of that place twice.”

“Don’t underestimate her.”

“I’m not,” she snapped. “I’m being realistic. You don’t know the Dames Blanches like I do. They’re zealots. There’s no telling what sorts of torture Morgane has inflicted on her.”

Unease dropped in my stomach like lead.

“Whatever happens,” she continued in a steely voice, “you get her out. I’ll worry about the others.” She glanced over her shoulder to where Madame Labelle sat beside Ansel and Beau. “Madame Labelle shouldn’t need much help, but the other two will be vulnerable.”

“Ansel has trained in combat.” But my voice lacked conviction even to my own ears. At sixteen, the boy had yet to fight outside the training yard.

“So has Beau.” She rolled her eyes. “But he’ll be the first to piss down his leg when faced with a witch’s magic. Neither of them have the protection of your Balisarda, and these witches aren’t like Lou. She’s been out of practice, hiding her magic for years. These witches will be highly skilled and out for our blood. They won’t hesitate to kill us.”

Everyone kept saying that. Everyone kept saying Lou was weak. My unease spread. She hadn’t seemed weak when she’d bound me to the witch—when she’d nearly torn my spine in half and stitched my limbs together like a rag doll. If that was weak, the other witches must possess the power of God.

Madame Labelle marched up behind us. “What are you two whispering about?”

Unwilling to relive such a painful conversation, I took a page out of Lou’s book and deflected. “How are we to form a strategy if we can’t see the walls we’re meant to breach?”

She tossed her hair over a shoulder. “Dear boy, I’ve already answered this question at least a dozen times. We won’t be breaching anything. We will be walking through the front doors.”

“And I’ve already told you that you won’t be changing our faces.”

Madame Labelle shrugged and looked toward Ansel and Beau with feigned nonchalance. “Too late.”

Sighing in irritation—or perhaps resignation—I followed her gaze. Two young men sat behind us, but they appeared as strangers. When the taller of the two flashed me a sheepish grin, however, I recognized Ansel. He still had his straight nose and curly hair—black now instead of brown—but the similarities ended there. Beau too had completely changed. Only his disdainful sneer remained.

Raising thick, dark brows at my appraisal, he called, “Like what you see?”

“Shut up,” Ansel hissed. “Do you want the witches to hear us?”

“No need to fret, dear,” Madame Labelle said. “I’ve cast a protective bubble for the time being. In this moment, we cease to exist.”

She returned her attention to me. I stared at her as if she’d sprouted another head. “Now, dear, let me explain this one last time: we cannot hope to enter the Chateau your way. Scaling the walls or whatever other nonsense you’re contemplating simply won’t work. The entire castle is protected by a thousand-year-old enchantment to prevent such endeavors from succeeding, and besides, that is precisely what Morgane will expect from you têtes carrées. Brute strength. A show of force. We would be playing right into her clawed hands.”

Beau drifted closer. “Are they really clawed?” Savage satisfaction stole through me when I saw Madame Labelle had given him a bulbous nose and a wart on his chin.