Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(16)

“If you don’t mind me asking, Helene,” Madame Tremblay said through clenched teeth, “what business do you have here?”

Madame Labelle turned to her with polite disinterest. “I was passing and saw a disturbance, of course.”

“Passing? Whatever were you doing in this part of town, dear? One would expect you might have, ah, business to attend to on your own street at this hour of night.”

Madame Labelle arched a brow. “You’re quite right.” Her smile widened, and she glanced at Tremblay before returning his wife’s icy stare. “I do have business to attend to.”

Célie stiffened, bowing her head, and Tremblay hastened to intervene before his wife could respond. “You are, of course, welcome to question my staff yourselves, good sirs.”

“Don’t worry, Monsieur Tremblay. We will.” Glaring at him for Célie’s sake, I raised my voice to the constabulary and Chasseurs. “Spread out and form a perimeter. Block all exits. Constables, partner yourselves with a Chasseur. If this is a witch, do not allow it to catch you defenseless.”

“It isn’t a witch,” Madame Tremblay insisted, glancing around anxiously. Lights in neighboring townhouses began to flicker on. Already a handful of people had appeared by the broken gate. Some wore nightclothes. Others wore finery similar to the Tremblays’. All wore familiar, wary expressions. “It’s just a thief. That’s all—”

She stopped abruptly, her eyes flicking toward the townhouse. I followed her gaze to an upstairs window. A curtain moved, and two faces peered out.

One of them was familiar, despite the wig. Blue-green eyes—vivid even at a distance—widened in panic. The curtain snapped shut.

Satisfaction spread through my chest, and I allowed a grin. Let justice roll on like a river, and righteousness like a never-failing stream.

“What is it?” Jean Luc looked toward the window too.

Justice.

“They’re still here—a man and a woman.”

He drew his Balisarda with a flourish. “I’ll dispatch the woman quickly.”

I frowned, remembering the woman’s mustache. Her baggy trousers and rolled shirtsleeves and freckles. The way she’d smelled when she’d crashed into me at the parade—like vanilla and cinnamon. Not magic. I shook my head abruptly. But witches didn’t always smell evil. Only when they’d been practicing. The Archbishop had been clear in our training—every woman was a potential threat. Even so . . . “I don’t think she’s a witch.”

Jean Luc lifted a black brow, nostrils flaring. “No? Surely it isn’t coincidence we received a tip on this particular night—before these particular thieves robbed this particular home.”

Scowling, I looked back at the window. “I met her this morning. She—” I cleared my throat, heat creeping up my cheeks. “She didn’t seem like a witch.”

The excuse fell flat, even to my own ears. Célie’s eyes burned on my neck.

“Ah. She can’t be a witch because she didn’t seem like one. My mistake, of course.”

“She was wearing a mustache,” I muttered. When Jean Luc scoffed, I resisted the urge to flatten him. He knew Célie was watching. “We can’t discount Brindelle Park next door. It’s possible the man and woman are simply thieves, despite the circumstances. They could deserve prison. Not the stake.”

“Very well.” Jean Luc rolled his eyes and marched toward the door without my order. “Let’s hurry this up, then, shall we? We’ll interrogate the two of them and decide—prison or the stake.”

Gritting my teeth at his insolence, I nodded to the constabulary, and they hurried after him. I didn’t follow. Instead, I kept my gaze trained on the window—and the rooftop. When she didn’t reappear, I crept around the side of the house, waiting. Though Célie’s presence was an open flame on my back, I did my best to ignore it. She’d wanted me to focus on the Chasseurs. That was what I needed to do.

Another moment passed. And another.

A small cellar door obscured by hydrangeas flew open to my right. Jean Luc and a man with amber skin barreled out of it, knives flashing in the moonlight. They rolled once before Jean Luc landed on top, knife pressed to the man’s throat. Three constables burst from the cellar door after them with handcuffs and rope. Within seconds, they had his wrists and ankles bound. He snarled and twisted, shouting a tirade of curses. And one other word.

“Lou!” He pulled uselessly at his bonds, face purpling with rage. One of the constables moved to gag him. “LOU!”

Lou. A man’s name. It figured.

I continued on, still searching the windows and roofline. Sure enough, I soon spotted a slight shadow moving up the wall. Slowly. I looked closer. This time, she wore a cloak. It parted as she climbed, revealing a dress as fine as Madame Tremblay’s. Probably stolen. But it wasn’t the dress that seemed to cause her problems.

It was her hand.

Each time it touched the wall, she drew it back sharply, as if in pain. I squinted, trying to locate the source of the problem, but she was too high. Much too high. As if in response to my fear, her foot slipped, and she plummeted several feet before catching herself on a window ledge. My stomach dropped with her.

“Oi!” I rushed forward. Footsteps sounded as the Chasseurs and constabulary closed in behind me. Jean Luc shoved the bound man to the ground at my feet. “You’re surrounded! We already have your boyfriend! Come down now before you kill yourself!”