Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(95)

Glass shattered, and we looked up to see a witch scuttling through the rose window hundreds of feet above us. “Oh my God,” Ansel breathed, face twisting in horror.

Jean Luc shoved me forward. “Take her upstairs! I’ll handle the witch!”

Reid grabbed my hand, and together we sprinted for the staircase. Ansel pounded along behind.

When we reached our bedroom, Reid slammed the door shut and thrust his Balisarda through the handle. In the next moment, he strode across the room to peer out the window, hand darting into his coat to retrieve a small pouch. Salt. He dumped the white crystals along the window ledge frantically.

“That won’t help.” My voice came out low and fervent—guilty.

Reid’s hands stilled, and he turned slowly to face me. “Why are the witches after you, Lou?”

I opened my mouth, searching desperately for a reasonable explanation, but found none. He grabbed my hand and leaned down, lowering his voice. “The truth now. I can’t protect you without it.”

I took a deep breath, bracing myself. Every laugh, every look, every touch—it all came down to this moment.

Ansel made a strangled noise behind us. “Look out!”

We turned as one to see a witch hovering outside the window, her dun-colored hair whipping around her in a violent wind. My heart stopped. She stepped onto the sill, right through the line of salt.

Reid and I moved in front of each other at the same instant. His foot crushed mine, and I crashed to my knees. The witch cocked her head as he dove after me—after me, not his Balisarda.

Ansel didn’t make the same mistake. He lunged toward the knife, but the witch was faster. At a curt flick of her wrist, the sharp tang of magic scorched my nose, and Ansel flew into the wall. Before I could stop him—before I could do anything but shout a warning—Reid launched himself at her.

With another flick, his body flew upward, and his head smashed into the ceiling. The entire room trembled. Another, and he collapsed to the ground at my feet, alarmingly still.

“No!” Heart leaping to my throat, I rolled him over with frantic fingers. His eyes fluttered. Alive. My head snapped toward the dun-haired witch. “You bitch.”

Her face twisted into a feral snarl. “You burned my sister.”

A memory surfaced—a dun-haired woman at the back of the crowd, sobbing as Estelle burned. I pushed it away.

“She would’ve taken me.” Lifting my hands warily, I wracked my brain for a pattern. Bits of gold flickered rapidly all around her. I willed them to solidify as she floated down from the sill.

Deep circles lined her bloodshot eyes, and her hands trembled with rage. “You dishonor your mother. You dishonor the Dames Blanches.”

“The Dames Blanches can burn in Hell.”

“You aren’t worthy of the honor Morgane bestows upon you. You never have been.”

Golden cords snaked between her body and mine. I caught one at random and followed it, but it branched into hundreds of others, wrapping around our bones. I recoiled from them, the cost—and risk—too great.

She bared her teeth and lifted her hands in response, eyes alight with hatred. I braced myself for the blow, but it never came. Though she thrust her hand toward me again and again, each blast washed over my skin and dissipated.

Angelica’s Ring burned hot on my finger—dispelling her patterns.

She stared at it incredulously. I lifted my hands higher with a smile, eyes lighting on a promising pattern. Backing away, she glanced at the Balisarda, but I clenched my fists before she could reach it.

She collided with the ceiling in an identical arc to Reid’s, and bits of wood and mortar rained down on my head. My heartbeat slowed in response, my vision spinning, as she toppled to the floor. I lifted my hands—groping for a second pattern, something to steal her consciousness—but she tackled me around the waist into the desk.

The desk.

I jerked the drawer open, hand closing around my knife, but she caught my wrist and twisted sharply. With a feral cry, she smashed her head into my nose. I staggered sideways—blood pouring down my chin—as she wrenched the knife from my grasp.

Reid’s Balisarda glinted from the doorway. I lunged for it, but she slashed my knife in front of my nose, blocking my path. Gold flared briefly, but I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think. I thrust my elbow into her ribs instead. When she broke away, doubled over and gasping, I finally saw my opportunity.

My knee connected with her face, and she dropped my knife. I swooped it up triumphantly.

“Go ahead.” She clutched her side, blood dripping from her nose to the floor. “Kill me like you killed Estelle. Witch killer.”

The words were more weapon than the knife ever could be.

“I—I did what I had to—”

“You murdered your kin. You married a huntsman. You are the only Dame Blanche who will burn in Hell, Louise le Blanc.” She straightened, spitting a mouthful of blood on the floor and wiping her chin. “Come with me now—accept your birthright—and the Goddess may still spare your soul.”

Tendrils of doubt snaked around my heart at her words.

Perhaps I would burn in Hell for what I’d done to survive. I’d lied and stolen and killed without hesitation in my relentless quest to live. But when had such a life become worth living? When had I become so ruthless, so accustomed to the blood on my hands?