La Voisin’s eyes bulged slightly as she glared at him, but—one by one—her fingers gradually loosened. I sucked in a harsh breath and staggered forward. “Coco.”

But both blood witches and werewolves shielded her as I approached, and I could see little more than her eye above Ansel’s arm. He too had positioned himself between us. My breath caught at the hostility in their gazes. At the fear. “Coco, I’m so sorry—”

She struggled to rise. “I’ll be fine, Lou,” she said weakly.

“It was an accident. You have to believe me.” My voice broke on the last, but my heart—it broke at the tears welling in her eyes as she looked at me. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stem her sobs. “Coco, please. You know I never would’ve—would’ve never intentionally—”

Behind her, Nicholina grinned. Her inflection deepened, changed, as she said, “The Lord doth say, ‘Come, heed him, all. Pride goeth before the fall.’”

The finality of what I’d done cleaved through me, and I heard his voice. Felt his soft touch on my hair.

You haven’t been yourself.

You see what you want to see.

Do you think I want to see you as—

As what? As evil?

Burying my face in my hands, I sank to my knees and wept.

Proper Knights

Reid

A face.

I woke to a face. Though mere inches from my own, I struggled to bring its features into focus. They remained shapeless, dark, as if I stood in heavy fog. But I wasn’t standing. I couldn’t move my limbs. They felt heavier than normal—impossibly heavy and cold. Except my wrists. My wrists burned with black fire.

Eyes closing, opening—lethargic, each blink enormous effort—I tried to lift my head. It slumped uselessly against my shoulder. I thought the shape of lips might’ve moved. Thought a voice might’ve rumbled. I closed my eyes again. Someone pried my jaw apart, forced something bitter down my throat. I vomited instantly.

I vomited until my head pounded. My throat ached.

When something hard struck my face, I spat blood. The taste of copper, of salt, jarred my senses. Blinking faster now, I shook my head to clear it. The room swam. At last, the face before me took shape. Golden hair and gray eyes—like a wolf—with straight nose and chiseled jaw.

“You’re awake,” Auguste said. “Good.”

Beside me, Madame Labelle sat with her wrists bound behind her chair. It forced her shoulders out of socket. Though blood trickled from a puncture at the side of her throat, her eyes remained clear. It was then I noticed the metal syringes in Auguste’s hand. The bloody quills.

Injections.

He’d drugged us—drugged me—like I was a—a—

Bile burned up my throat.

Like I was a witch.

Madame Labelle struggled against her binds. “Really, Auguste, this isn’t necessary—”

“You dare address His Majesty so informally?” Oliana asked. Her voice pitched and rolled with my consciousness.

“Forgive me,” Madame Labelle snapped. “After birthing a man’s child—and all that predicates such a happy occasion—I assumed formalities would cease. An egregious mistake.”

I vomited again, unable to hear Oliana’s reply.

When I reopened my eyes, the room sharpened. Mahogany shelves filled with books. A carved mantel. Portraits of stern-lipped kings and embroidered carpet beneath booted feet. I blinked, vision honing in on the Chasseurs lining the walls. At least a dozen. Each held a hand to the Balisarda at his waist.

Except the Chasseur who stood behind me. He held his at my throat.

A second moved to stand behind Madame Labelle. His blade drew blood, and she stilled. “At least clean him up,” she said weakly. “He isn’t an animal. He is your son.”

“You insult me, Helene.” Auguste crouched before me, tracking a hand in front of my face. My eyes struggled to follow it. “As if I’d allow even my hounds to sit in their own spew.” He snapped his fingers. “I need you to focus, Reid. Mass starts in a quarter hour, and I cannot be late. The kingdom expects me to mourn that sanctimonious prick. I shan’t disappoint them.”

Hatred burned through the haze of my thoughts.

“But you understand the importance of keeping up pretenses, don’t you?” He arched a golden brow. “You had all of us fooled, after all. Including him.” My stomach heaved again, but he leapt backward just in time, lip curling. “Between the two of us, I’m pleased you killed him. I cannot count the times that filthy hypocrite presumed to admonish me—me—when all this time, he’d stuck his cock in Morgane le Blanc.”

“Yes, a filthy hypocrite,” Madame Labelle echoed pointedly. The Chasseur behind her ripped her hair backward, pressing his blade deeper into her throat. She said no more.

Auguste ignored her, tilting his head to study me. “Your body reacted to the injection. I suppose that proves Philippe’s claim. You are a witch.”

I forced my head upright through sheer power of will. For one second. Two seconds. “I would like to see . . . your body . . . react to hemlock . . . Your Majesty.”

“You poisoned them?” Beau asked in disbelief. Another Chasseur held him in the corner of the room. Though his mother shook her head desperately, he didn’t acknowledge her. “You put hemlock in those injections?”

“A fucking gilded tower.” Auguste rolled his eyes. “I have little patience for your voice at the moment, Beauregard—or yours, Oliana,” he added when she tried to interrupt. “If either of you speak again, you will regret it.” To me, he said, “Now, tell me. How is it possible? How did you come to exist, Reid Diggory?”

A grin rose, unbidden, and I heard Lou’s voice in my head. Even then—trapped backstage with two of her mortal enemies—she’d been fearless. Or perhaps stupid. Either way, she hadn’t known how right she was. “I believe,” I gasped, “when a man and a . . . witch . . . love each other very much—”

I anticipated his strike. When it came, my head thudded against the chair and stayed there. A laugh bubbled from my lips, and he stared at me like I was an insect. Something to quash beneath his boot. Perhaps I was. I laughed again at the irony. How many times had I drugged a witch? How many times had I worn his exact expression?

He grabbed my chin, crushing it between his fingers. “Tell me where she is, and I promise you a quick death.”

My grin receded slowly. I said nothing.

His fingers bit harder. Hard enough to bruise. “Are you fond of rats, Reid Diggory? They’re ugly little creatures, to be sure, but beneath their beastly hides, I must admit to sharing a certain kinship with them.”

“I’m not surprised.”

He smiled then. It was cold. “They’re intelligent, rats. Resourceful. They value their own survival. Perhaps you should heed their good instinct.” When still I said nothing, his smile grew. “It’s a curious thing when you trap a rat atop a man’s stomach—let’s say, for example, with a pot. Now, when you apply heat to said pot, do you know how the rat responds?” He shook my head for me when I didn’t answer. “It burrows through the man’s stomach, Reid Diggory. It bites and claws through skin and flesh and bone to escape the heat. It kills the man, so it might survive.”

At last, he released me, standing and flicking a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped the vomit from his fingers in distaste. “Unless you desire to be that man, I suggest you answer my question.”

We stared at each other. The shape of his face wavered. “I won’t,” I said simply.

The words echoed in the silence of the room.

“Hmm.” He picked something up from his desk. Small. Black. Cast iron. “I see.”

A pot, I realized.

I should’ve felt fear. Perhaps the hemlock prevented it. Perhaps the rolling nausea or splitting headache. He wanted me to fear him. I could see it in his eyes. In his smile. He wanted me to tremble, to beg. This was a man who relished dominance. Control. I’d helped him, once. As his huntsman. I’d sought his approval as my king. Even after—when I’d learned his role in my conception, my suffering—I’d wanted to know him, deep down.

I’d dreamed up a version of him from my mother’s stories. I’d accepted her rose glasses. But this man was not him.

This man was real.

This man was ugly.

And—looking at him now—all I felt was disappointment.

Slowly, he placed the pot on a rack above the fire. “I shall ask you one more time—where is Louise le Blanc?”

“Father—” Beau started, pleading, but with the wave of Auguste’s hand, the Chasseur struck him in the head. When he slumped, dazed, Oliana’s shrieks filled the cabinet. She rushed toward him, but Auguste caught her around the waist, flinging her against his desk. She collapsed to the ground with a sob.

“I said be silent,” Auguste snarled.

Madame Labelle’s eyes widened.