Blood & Honey

Reid gave a terse nod.

“And . . . did you happen to persuade them into joining us against Morgane?”

Though his entire body tensed, he still didn’t turn. “No.”

My nausea intensified to something akin to guilt. “Reid . . .” Something in my voice finally made him turn. “Last night was my fault. Sometimes I just react—” I blew out a frustrated breath, worrying a strand of my hair. “I didn’t mean to lose your Balisarda. I’m so sorry.”

For everything.

He caught the strand of my hair, and we both watched it slide through his fingers. I willed him to hold me, to kiss away this tension between us. He handed me a clean shirt instead. “I know.”

The rigidity of his shoulders said what he did not.

But it’s still gone.

I wanted to shake him. I wanted to scream and rage until I shattered the reproachful silence he cloaked himself in like armor. I wanted to tie us together until we bruised from the binds and force him to talk to me.

Of course, I did none of those things.

Whistling low, I trailed my fingers across the lowest shelf. Unable to sit still. Baskets of dried fruit, eggs, and bread cluttered the space, along with wooden toy soldiers and peacock feathers. An odd coalition. “I can’t believe you found others so quickly. I’d gone my entire life without meeting a single one.” I shrugged and a slid a peacock feather behind my ear. “True, most of that life I spent sequestered in the Chateau—where no one would believe such a thing—and the rest I spent thieving in the streets, but still.” Whirling to face him, I stuck a feather behind his ear as well. He grumbled irritably but didn’t remove it. “I know I’m the first to flip fate the bird, but what are the chances?”

Reid stuffed the last of his clothing in his bag. “Deveraux collects things.”

I eyed the cluttered shelves. “I can see that.”

“No. He collects us.”

“Oh.” I grimaced. “And no one thinks that’s weird?”

“Everything about Deveraux is weird.” He cinched his bag shut, throwing it over his shoulder—then stilled, gaze falling to the table. Mine followed. A book lay open there. A journal. We both stared at it for a split second.

Then we lunged.

“Ah ah ah.” Snatching the book from beneath his fingers, I cackled and danced away. “You’re getting slow, old man. Now—where were we? Ah, yes.” I pointed at the leather cover. “Another delicious journal. One would think you’d have learned your lesson about leaving these lying about.” He sprang at me, but I leapt atop his cot, swinging the pages out of reach. He didn’t return my grin. A small voice in my head warned I should stop—warned this behavior, once entertaining, was now decidedly not—even as I opened my mouth to continue. “What shall we find in this one? Sonnets praising my wit and charm? Portraits immortalizing my beauty?”

I was still laughing when a leaf of parchment shook free.

I caught it absently, turning it over to examine it.

It was a drawing of his face—a masterful charcoal portrait of Reid Diggory. Clad in full Chasseur regalia, he stared up at me with an intensity that transcended the page, unnerving in its depth. I leaned closer in fascination. He seemed younger here, the lines of his face smoother, rounder. The cut of his hair short and neat. Save the four angry gashes peeking above his collar, he looked as immaculate as the man I’d married.

“How old were you here?” I traced the captain’s medal on his coat, vaguely recognizing it from our time together at the Tower. It’d been nondescript then, a simple piece of his uniform. I’d hardly noticed it. Now, however, it seemed to consume the entire portrait. I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

Abruptly, Reid stepped backward, dropping his arms. “I’d just turned sixteen.”

“How can you tell?”

“The wounds at my neck.”

“Which are from . . . ?”

He tugged the portrait away and shoved it into his bag. “I told you how.” His hands moved swiftly now, gathering my own bag and tossing it to me. I caught it without a word. The beginning of a memory took shape in my mind, blurry around the edges. Sharpening with every second.

How did you become captain?

Are you sure you want to know?

Yes.

“Are you ready?” Reid threw his bag over his shoulder, eyes sweeping the clutter of the cot for any forgotten belongings. “If we’re going to reach Le Ventre by nightfall, we need to leave now. Les Dents is treacherous, but at least it’s a road. We’re venturing into the wild.”

I stepped down from his cot on wooden legs. “You’ve been to Le Ventre before, haven’t you?”

He nodded tersely.

A few months after I joined the Chasseurs, I found a pack of loup garou outside the city.

“There won’t be any bounty hunters or thieves there,” he added. “No witches either.”

We killed them.

I grew roots at the realization.

Glancing at me over his shoulder, he pushed open the door. “What is it?”

“The werewolves you found outside the city . . . the ones you killed to become captain . . . were they—?”

Reid’s expression shuttered. He didn’t move for a long moment. Then, curiously, he drew a peculiar knife from his bandolier. Its handle had been carved from bone into the shape of a howling— The breath left my chest in a rush.

A howling wolf.

“Oh, god,” I whispered, acid coating my tongue.

“A gift from the”—Reid’s throat bobbed—“from the Archbishop. To celebrate my first kill. He gave it to me at my captain ceremony.”

I retreated a step, knocking into the table. The teacups there shuddered. “Tell me that isn’t what I think it is, Reid. Tell me that isn’t the bone of a werewolf.”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Shit, man.” I charged toward him now, reaching behind to wrench the door shut. The others couldn’t overhear this. Not when we were moments away from journeying deep into the belly of the beast—a beast that’d be much less amenable to an alliance while we carried around the bones of its dead. “Whose bone was it? Fuck. What if it belonged to one of Blaise’s relatives? What if he remembers?”

“He will.”

“What?”

“He’ll remember.” Reid’s voice resumed that irritating steadiness, that deadly calm. “I slaughtered his son.”

I gaped at him. “You cannot be serious.”

“You think I’d joke about this?”

“I think it’d better be a joke. I think a piss poor joke would be a hell of a lot better than a piss poor plan.” I sank onto his cot, eyes still wide with disbelief. “I can’t believe you. This—this was your plan. You were the one who wanted to tear across the kingdom in a mad dash to gather allies. Do you really think Blaise will want to cozy up with the murderer of his child? Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

“Would it have changed anything?”

“Of course it would have!” I pinched the bridge of my nose, squeezing my eyes shut tight. “All right. We’ll adapt. We can—we can ride into Cesarine with Claud. Auguste might still join us, and La Voisin has already agreed—”

“No.” Though he knelt between my knees, he took care not to touch me. Tension still radiated from his shoulders, his clenched jaw. He hadn’t yet forgiven me. “We need Blaise as an ally.”

“Now isn’t the time for one of your principled stands, Reid.”

“I’ll accept the consequences of my actions.”

I barely resisted the urge to stamp my foot. Just barely. “Well, I’m sure he’ll appreciate your gallantry. You know—when he’s tearing out your throat.”

“He won’t tear out my throat.” Now Reid did touch me, the slightest brush of his fingers across my knee. My skin there tingled. “The werewolves value strength. I’ll challenge Blaise to a duel to fulfill my blood debt. He won’t be able to resist the opportunity to avenge his son. If I win, we’ll have demonstrated we’re strong allies—perhaps stronger than even Morgane.”

A beat of silence.

“And if you lose?”

“I’ll die.”



Until One of Us is Dead



Reid



The forest swallowed us when we left the road. Trees grew thicker, the terrain rugged. In some places, the canopy above blocked all sunlight. Only our footsteps broke the silence. It was slightly warmer here. Muddier. From experience, I knew the farther south we traveled, the wetter the ground would become. With luck, it would be low tide when we reached the cold-water swamp of Le Ventre.

“What an absolute armpit of a place.” Beau blew into his hands to warm them. “It’s been woefully misnamed.”

When no one answered him, he heaved a dramatic sigh.

Coco had taken shelter beside me. Ansel didn’t return her covert glances. With the threat of imminent death no longer upon them, their rift had reopened. He hadn’t spoken a word since our departure. Neither had Lou. Her silence weighed upon me heavily, but I couldn’t bring myself to assuage it. Shame and anger still smoldered deep in my gut.