Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(121)

“Keep your mouths shut and your eyes open,” Madame Labelle had warned. “I’ll find you inside.”

Vague, unsatisfactory instructions. No further explanations. No contingencies. We were a Chasseur, initiate, Lyon prince, and blood witch walking into Chateau le Blanc blind. Lou wasn’t the only one who would die if things went badly tonight.

Elaina introduced me to her friends before curling her fingers around mine and resting her head on my arm. I bared my teeth in a smile, imagining she was Lou instead.

Lou, vibrant and alive. Flicking my nose and swearing at me affectionately. I pictured her face. Held on to it.

It was the only way I could continue without throttling someone.

Elodie eyed one of the women beside Coco with obvious interest before patting my cheek. “Sorry, pet. If you’d had a sister . . .”

She strode away without a backward glance, and Ansel fell into step beside me. Under cover of the girls’ prattling, he nudged my arm, nodding in front of us to where the trees thinned out. “Look.”

A bridge stretched out before us. Impossibly long. Wooden. Fabled. Above it, towering over the peak of the mountain, sat Chateau le Blanc.

We had arrived.





Modraniht


Reid


There were witches everywhere.

My breath caught as they swept me into the snowy courtyard. It was almost too crowded to walk. Everywhere I turned, I bumped into someone. There were hags and babies and women of every age, shape, and color—all bright-eyed with excitement. All flushed. All laughing. All praising the pagan goddess.

A dark-haired woman ran up to me through the crowd, standing on tiptoe to press a kiss to my cheek. “Merry meet!” She giggled before disappearing into the crowd once more.

A decrepit old witch with a basket of evergreens came next. I eyed her suspiciously, remembering the hag from the market, but she only placed a juniper crown on my head and croaked a blessing from the goddess. Little girls ran shrieking past my legs in a wild game of tag. Feet bare and faces dirty. Ribbons in their hair.

It was madness.

Elaina and Elinor—who had abandoned Ansel after realizing Elodie had traded up—pulled me in opposite directions, each determined to introduce me to every person they’d ever known. I didn’t bother remembering their names. A month ago, I would’ve wanted them all dead. Now, a hollow sort of pit opened up in my stomach as I greeted them. These women—with their pretty smiles and shining faces—wanted Lou dead. They were here to celebrate Lou’s death.

The revelry soon became intolerable. As did the undiluted stench of magic, stronger here than anywhere I’d ever encountered it.

I tugged away from Elaina with a strained smile. “I need the washroom.”

Though my eyes roamed for Madame Labelle, I had no idea what face she’d taken—or if she’d even gotten inside.

“You can’t!” Elaina clutched me tighter. The sun had sunk below the castle, lengthening the shadows in the courtyard. “The feast is about to start!”

Sure enough, the witches began moving toward the doors as if answering a silent call. Perhaps they were. If I concentrated hard enough, I could almost feel the faint whispering of it across my skin. I shuddered.

“Of course,” I ground out as she tugged me forward. “I can wait.”

Ansel and Beau stuck close to me. Coco had been dragged away as soon as we crossed the bridge, and I hadn’t seen her since. Her absence made me uneasy.

Beau elbowed a plump witch aside to keep up. “Will our Lady be attending the feast?”

“Excuse you.” She nearly leveled him in retaliation, and he skidded into me before righting himself.

“Good Lord.” He eyed the witch’s broad back as she shoved through a set of stone doors. Above them, an elaborate depiction of the waxing, full, and waning moons had been carved.

“I think you have the wrong deity,” I muttered.

“Are you coming or not?” Elinor yanked me past the carving, and I had little choice but to follow.

The hall was vast and ancient—larger than even the sanctuary in Saint-Cécile—with vaulted ceilings and giant beams covered in snow and foliage, as if the courtyard had somehow spilled inside. Vines crept in from the arched windows. Ice glittered on the walls. Long wooden tables ran the length of the floor, overflowing with moss and flickering candles. Thousands of them. They cast a soft glow on the witches who lingered nearby. No one had yet seated themselves. All watched the far side of the room with rapt attention. I followed their gazes. The very air around us seemed to still.

There, on a throne of saplings, sat Morgane le Blanc.

And beside her—eyes closed and limbs dangling—floated Lou.

My breath left in a painful whoosh as I stared at her. Only a fortnight had passed, yet she appeared skeletal and sickly. Her wild hair had been trimmed and neatly braided, and her freckles had disappeared. Her skin—once golden—now appeared white. Ashen.

Morgane had suspended her in midair on her back, with her body bowed nearly in two. Her toes and fingertips just brushed the dais floor. Her head lolled back, forcing her long, slender throat to extend for the entire room to see. Displaying her scar prominently.

Rage unlike anything I’d ever felt exploded through me.

They were making a mockery of her.

Of my wife.