Blood & Honey

But there was little time to argue. The wagon and carriage were almost upon us.

She squeezed my hand, tearing her gaze from the carriage to look at me. “I know things have changed between us. But I want you to know that I love you. Nothing can ever change that. And if you die today, I will find you in the afterlife and kick your ass for leaving me. Understand?”

My voice was weak. “I—”

“Good.”

And then she was gone, tugging a book from her pack and dashing toward the carriage. “Excusez-moi, monsieur!” she called to the driver, pushing her spectacles up her nose. “But my horse has thrown a shoe. . . .”

A hollow pit opened in my stomach as her voice faded into the crowd.

I love you. Nothing can ever change that.

Damn it.

I didn’t get to say it back.

Adopting a limp, leaning heavily on my crutch, I navigated the crowd to the wagon. The convoy was at a standstill, and the farmer—preoccupied with a dirty child throwing rocks at his horse—didn’t see me. I knocked once, twice, on the frame. Nothing. I knocked louder.

“What d’yeh want?” A reedy woman with sharp cheekbones and horselike teeth finally poked her head out. A cross dangled from her throat, and a cap covered her hair. Pious, then. Probably traveling to Cesarine to pay her respects. Hope swelled in my chest. Perhaps she would take pity on me. It was the mandate of our Lord to help the helpless.

Her scowl quickly punctured that hope. “We don’t ’ave no food fer beggars, so clear off!”

“Apologies, madame,” I said hastily, catching the flap when she moved to yank it shut, “but I don’t need food. Bandits set upon me down the road”—I rapped my crutch against the wagon for emphasis—“and I cannot continue my journey on foot. Do you have room in your wagon for one more?”

“No,” she snapped, trying to wrestle the flap from my hand. No hesitation. No remorse. “Not fer the likes o’ you. Yer the third one oo’s come knockin’ at our wagon this mornin’, and I’ll be tellin’ you the same as I told them: we won’t be takin’ no chances wif strange folk today. Not wif His Eminence’s funeral this evenin’.” She clutched the cross at her throat with spindly fingers and closed her eyes. “May God keep ’is soul.” When she cracked an eye open and saw me still standing there, she added, “Now shove off.”

The wagon inched forward, but I held firm, forcing myself to remain calm. To think like Lou would think. To lie. “I’m not a witch, madame, and I’m in desperate need of aid.”

Her mouth—deeply lined—twisted in confusion. “O course yer not a witch. D’yeh think I’m daft? Everyone knows menfolk can’t have magic.”

At the word, those nearest us turned to stare. Eyes wide and wary.

I cursed inwardly.

“Bernadette?” The farmer’s voice rose above the din of the crowd. More heads swiveled in our direction. “Is this lad botherin’ you?”

Before she could answer—before she could seal my fate—I hissed, “‘He that despiseth his neighbor sinneth, but he that hath mercy on the poor, happy is he.’”

Her eyes narrowed. “What did you just say?”

“‘He that giveth unto the poor shall not lack: but he that hideth his eyes shall have many a curse.’”

“Are you quotin’ scripture at me, boy?”

“‘Withhold not good from them to whom it is due, when it is in the power of thine hand to do it.’”

“Bernadette!” The farmer stood from his box. “Did you hear me, love? Shall I fetch a Chasseur?”

“Should I continue?” White-knuckled on the wagon flap, my fingers trembled. I fisted them tighter, glaring at her. “For as the Lord commands—”

“That’s enough o’ you.” Though her wrinkled lip curled, she surveyed me with grudging appreciation. “I don’t be needin’ no lessons in ’oliness from guttersnipes.” To her husband, she called, “Everythin’s fine, Lyle! This one ’ere busted ’is ankle and needs a lift is all.”

“Well, tell ’im we don’t want no—”

“I’ll tell ’im what I want to tell him!” Jerking her head behind her, she drew the wagon flap aside. “Come inside, then, Yer Holiness, a’fore I change me mind.”

The inside of Bernadette’s wagon looked nothing like the inside of Troupe de Fortune’s. Every inch of the troupe’s wagons had been crammed full. Trunks of costumes and trinkets. Crates of food. Props. Lanterns. Cots and bedrolls.

This wagon was bare save a single blanket and a near empty satchel of food. A lonely pot sat beside it.

“Like I said,” Bernadette muttered, hunkering down on the floor. “No food fer beggars here.”

We waited in stony silence as the wagon crept closer to the Chasseurs. “You look familiar,” she said after several moments. She peered at me suspiciously, eyes sharper than I would’ve liked. They studied my black wig, my charcoal-dark eyebrows. The bloody bandage on my nose. I readjusted it involuntarily. “’Ave we met a’fore?”

“No.”

“Why is you goin’ to Cesarine, then?”

I stared at my hands without seeing them. To attend the funeral of the man I killed. To fraternize with blood witches and werewolves. To kill the mother of the woman I love. “Same as you.”

“You don’t strike me as the religious type.”

I pinned her with a glare. “Likewise.”

She harrumphed and crossed her arms. “Mouthy lit’le imp, isn’t you? Ungrateful too. Should’ve made you walk like all the rest, busted ankle an’ all.”

“We’re comin’ up on ’em now!” Lyle called from outside. “City’s straight ahead!”

Bernadette rose and marched to the front of the wagon, sticking her head out once more. I strode after her.

Framed by the gray skyline of Cesarine, a dozen Chasseurs rode through the crowd, slowing traffic. Some inspected the faces of those on foot. Some dismounted to check wagons and carriages intermittently. I recognized eight of them. Eight out of twelve. When one of those eight—Philippe—started toward our wagon, I cursed.

“Watch yer mouth!” Bernadette said in outrage, elbowing me sharply. “And budge over, would you—” She stopped short when she saw my face. “Yer white as a sheet, you are.”

Philippe’s deep voice rumbled through the procession, and he pointed toward us. “Have we cleared this one yet?”

Older than me by several decades, he wore a beard streaked through with silver. It did nothing to diminish the breadth of his chest or heavy muscle of his arms. A scar still disfigured his throat from his battle with Adrien’s kin in the werewolf raid.

He’d hated me for stealing his glory that day. For stealing his advancement.

Shit.

Jean Luc’s Balisarda weighed heavier than the other knives in my bandolier. If Philippe recognized me, I’d need to kill or disarm him. And I couldn’t kill him. I couldn’t kill another brother. But if I disarmed him instead, I’d have to—

No. My mind raged against the thought.

This isn’t the time for a principled stand, Reid, Lou had said. If even one person recognizes us, we’re dead.

She was right. Of course she was right. And even if it made me a hypocrite—even if it condemned me to Hell—I would channel those insidious voices. I would hang myself with their golden patterns. If it meant Lou would live, I would do it. Damn the consequences. I would do it.

But how?

Open yourself up to your magic. Accept it, welcome it, and it’ll come to you.

I hadn’t welcomed anything on Modraniht, yet the pattern had still appeared. The same had happened at the pool near the Hollow. In both situations, I’d been desperate. Hopeless. Morgane had just cut Lou’s throat, and I’d watched as her blood poured into the basin, draining her life by the second. The golden cord had risen from my pit of despair, and I’d reacted instinctively. There hadn’t been time for anything else. And—and at the pool—

The memory of Lou’s blue lips surfaced. Her ashen skin.

But this wasn’t like that. Lou wasn’t dying in front of me now. I tried to summon the same sense of urgency. If Philippe caught me, Lou would die. Surely that possibility should trigger something. I waited anxiously for the floodgates to burst open, for gold to explode in my vision.

It didn’t.

It seemed imagining Lou dying wasn’t the same as watching it happen.

Philippe continued toward us, close enough now to touch the horses. I nearly roared in frustration. What was I supposed to do?

You could ask. A small, sinister voice echoed through my thoughts at last, reverberating as if legion. The hair on my neck rose. You need only seek us, lost one, and you shall find.

Panicking, I shoved at it instinctively.

An unearthly chuckle. You cannot escape us, Reid Labelle. We are part of you. As if to prove its words, it latched tighter, the pressure in my head building—painful now—as tendrils of gold snaked outward, stabbing deep and taking root. Into my mind. My heart. My lungs. I choked on them, struggling to breathe, but they only pressed closer. Consuming me. For so long we have slept in the darkness, but now, we are awake. We will protect you. We will not let you go. Seek us.