My lips barely moved. “We run.”

Madame Labelle clasped my forearms. “Everything will be fine,” she repeated. Beau didn’t look convinced. With one last nod, he strode in the opposite direction from whence we’d come. Unconsciously, I stepped closer to the gap between wall and tapestry. Waited for him to reappear. Watched as two familiar figures cut toward the dais.

Pierre Tremblay and Jean Luc.

Expression drawn, stricken, Jean Luc pushed Tremblay forward with inappropriate force. Those nearest the king stilled. Tremblay was a vicomte. Jean Luc assaulting him—in public, no less—was a punishable offense. Frowning, Auguste waved the women away, and the two climbed the dais steps. They leaned close to whisper in Auguste’s ear. Though I couldn’t hear their hasty words, I watched as Auguste’s frown deepened. As Oliana leaned forward, concerned.

The throne room doors burst open a moment later, and Beau strode in.

Audible gasps filled the chamber. All conversation ceased. One woman even emitted a small shriek. He winked at her. “Bonjour, everyone. I am sorry if I kept you waiting.” To his mother’s family in the corner, he added in a softer voice, “Ia orana.”

Tears filled Oliana’s eyes as she leapt to her feet. “Arava.”

“Metua vahine.” Upon seeing her, Beau’s smile warmed to something genuine. He tilted his head to peer behind her at someone I couldn’t see. “Mau tuahine iti.” When delighted squeals answered him, my heart stuttered painfully. Two someones. Violette and Victoire. I pressed closer, trying in vain to see them, but Madame Labelle pulled me back.

Auguste stiffened visibly at his son’s arrival. His eyes never left Beau’s face. “The prodigal son returns.”

“Père.” Beau’s smirk reappeared. His armor, I realized. “Did you miss me?”

Absolute silence reigned as Auguste studied his son’s rumpled hair, his filthy clothes. “You disappoint me.”

“I assure you, the sentiment is mutual.”

Auguste smiled. It held more promise than a knife. “Do you think you’re clever?” he asked softly. He still didn’t bother to rise. “Do you mean to embarrass me with this tawdry display?” With a lazy flick of his wrist, he gestured around the chamber. “By all means, do continue. Your audience is rapt. Tell them of how disappointed you are in your father, the man who ravaged the countryside for weeks to find his son. Tell them of how your mother wept herself to sleep all those nights, waiting for word. Tell them of how she prayed to her gods and mine for your return.” Now he did stand. “Tell them, Beauregard, of how your sisters slipped out of the castle to find you, how a witch nearly cut off their heads.”

Fresh gasps sounded as Beau’s eyes widened.

Auguste descended the steps slowly. “They’re all waiting to hear, son. Tell them of your new companions. Tell them of the witches and werewolves you call friends. Perhaps they’re already acquainted. Perhaps your companions have murdered their families.” His lip curled. “Tell them of how you abandoned your family to help the daughter of La Dame des Sorcières—the daughter whose blood could kill not only you, but also your sisters. Tell them of how you freed her.” He reached Beau at last, and the two stared at each other. For a second. For an eternity. Auguste’s voice quieted. “I have long tolerated your indiscretions, but this time, you go too far.”

Beau tried to sneer. “You haven’t tolerated them. You’ve ignored them. Your opinion means less to me now than it ever has—”

“My opinion,” Auguste snarled, fisting the front of Beau’s shirt, “is the only reason you haven’t been lashed to a stake. You dare to dismiss me? You dare to challenge your father for the sake of a witch’s dirty cunt?” Auguste shoved him away, and Beau stumbled, blanching. No one lifted a hand to steady him.

“It isn’t like that—”

“You are a child.” At the venom in Auguste’s voice, the aristocrats drew back further. “A cosseted child in a gilded tower, who has never tasted the blood of war or smelled the stench of death. Do you fancy yourself a hero now, son? After a fortnight of playing pretend with your friends, do you call yourself a warrior? Do you plan to save us?” He shoved him again. “Have you ever seen a loup garou feast on the intestines of a soldier?” And again. “Have you ever watched a Dame Blanche desiccate a newborn babe?”

Beau struggled to his feet. “They—they wouldn’t do that. Lou wouldn’t—”

“You are a child and a fool,” Auguste said coldly, “and you have humiliated me for the last time.” Expelling a hard breath from his nose, he straightened to his full height. My height. “But I am not without mercy. Captain Toussaint told me of your grand plan to defeat La Dame des Sorcières. Tell me the location of her daughter, and all will be forgiven.”

No. Panic caught in my throat. I forgot to breathe. To think. I could only watch as Beau’s eyes widened. As he yielded a step to his father. “I can’t do that.”

Auguste’s face hardened. “You will tell me where she is, or I will strip you of your title and inheritance.” Shocked whispers erupted, but Auguste ignored them, his voice growing louder with each word. With each step. Oliana touched a hand to her mouth in horror. “I will banish you from my castle and my life. I will condemn you as a criminal, a conspirator, and when you burn beside your friends, I will think of you no more.”

“Father,” Beau said, aghast, but Auguste did not stop.

“Where is she?”

“I—” Beau’s gaze darted helplessly to his mother, but she merely closed her eyes, weeping softly. He cleared his throat and tried again. I held my breath. “I can’t tell you where she is because I—I don’t know.”

“Frère!” From behind Oliana, a beautiful girl with Beau’s black hair and tawny skin darted forward. My chest seized as she wrung her hands, as Auguste swept her backward, away from Beau. “Frère, please, tell him where she is. Tell him!”

Her twin raced to join them. Though she glared, her chin quivered. “You don’t need to beg, Violette. Of course he’ll tell him. The witches tried to kill us.”

Beau’s voice turned strangled. “Victoire—”

Auguste’s eyes narrowed. “You would protect a witch over your own sisters?”

“We should go.” Madame Labelle tugged fruitlessly on my arm, her breathing shallow. Panicked. “This was a mistake. Clearly Auguste won’t help us.”

“We can’t just leave him—”

Beau lifted his hands, gesturing to the aristocrats. “It doesn’t have to be this way. They aren’t all evil. If you’d just help us, we can eliminate Morgane. She’s in the city—here, now—and she’s planning something terrible for the Archbishop’s funeral—”

Madame Labelle pulled more insistently. “Reid—”

“You truly are a fool.” Auguste wrapped a possessive arm around each of his daughters, dragging them backward. “I must confess, however, I am not surprised. Though you loathe me, I know you, son. I know your habits. I know your haunts. For fear of losing your newfound friends, I knew you would visit me on this foolish errand.”

Vaguely, I recognized the sound of footsteps behind me. Of voices. Madame Labelle clawed at my arm now, shouting my name, but my mind followed too slow, sluggish. The realization came too late. I turned just as Auguste said, “And I knew you would use the tunnels to do it.”

“Flibbertigibbet!” Beau’s shouts filled the chamber as he whirled toward us with wild eyes. “Bumfuzzle!”

The hilt of a Balisarda smashed into my temple, and I saw no more.

Pride Goeth Before the Fall

Lou

He’d left without me. I stared into my whiskey, tipping it sideways, pouring it slowly onto the wooden bar. Coco took the tumbler from me without missing a beat in her conversation with Liana. Across the tavern, Ansel sat between Toulouse and Thierry. They all laughed at a joke I couldn’t hear.

One big, happy family.

Except they all stared at me, whispering, like I was a cannon about to explode.

And that bastard had left without a word.

I don’t know what I’d expected—I’d practically doused him in whiskey and lit the match. But I hadn’t lied. I hadn’t said anything untrue. That’s what he’d wanted, right? He’d wanted the truth.

Don’t lie to me, he’d said.

I shoved away from the bar, stalking to the filthy window up front and staring through its dirt-streaked panes. He should’ve been back by now. If he’d left when Deveraux said he’d left—when I’d been sulking upstairs in misery—he should’ve climbed back through the tunnel a half hour ago. Something must’ve happened. Perhaps he’d found trouble—

Do you understand now? Does that make me a monster?

No. It makes you your mother.