Blood & Honey

“Well?” She released my chin, her eyes blazing with fury. “Have you nothing to say?”

My hands were heavy, leaden, but I forced them upward anyway. “I think . . . if you plan to dismember all of his children, one by one . . . I have quite a bit of time to stop you.” She bared her teeth, and I grinned at her, faking bravado. That stretch of my mouth cost everything. It also provided a distraction for the half step I took in Gabrielle’s direction. “And I will stop you, Maman—especially if you blather about your plans every time we meet. You really love the sound of your voice, don’t you? I never took you for narcissistic. Deranged and fanatical, yes, at times even vain, but never narciss—”

Morgane hauled Gaby to her feet before I could finish, and I cursed mentally. When she twisted a hand, a ball of fire bloomed atop her palm. “I had thought to offer you an ultimatum, darling, between Célie and Gabrielle—just a bit of fun—but it seems you’ve quite tested my patience. Now I will kill them both. Though I know you prefer ice, I’m partial to fire. It’s rather poetic, don’t you think?”

Célie whimpered behind me.

Shit.

At the stroke of Morgane’s finger, Gaby’s eyes snapped open—then widened, darting around us. “Lou.” Her voice cracked on my name, and she thrashed in Morgane’s arms. “Lou, she’s a maniac. She and—”

She stopped talking on a scream when Morgane swept the fire against her face—when Morgane swept and kept sweeping, drawing the flames down her throat, her chest, her arms. Though she screamed and screamed, thrashing anew, Morgane didn’t release her. Panicked, I cast about for a pattern, for the pattern, but before I could commit, a blade sliced through the air, through Morgane’s hand.

Howling in outrage, she dropped Gaby and jerked toward—

My breath caught in my throat.

Ansel. She jerked toward Ansel.

He’d followed me again.

Eyes narrowing, she looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time. Her blood dripped onto the hem of her robes. One drop. Two drops. Three. “I remember you.” When she smiled, her face twisted into something ugly and dark. She didn’t stop Gaby as she scrambled backward, away from us, and disappeared into the tunnel below the aisles. “You were at Modraniht. Such a pretty little bird. You’ve finally found your wings.”

He gripped his knives tighter, jaw set, and widened his stance, planting his feet and preparing to use both his upper-and lower-body strength. Pride and terror warred inside my heart. He’d saved Gaby. He’d drawn Morgane’s blood.

He’d been marked.

The patterns came without hesitation as I stepped to his side. When I raised my hands, determined, he nudged the knife in my boot instead. I drew it swiftly. “First lesson,” he breathed. “Find your opponent’s weaknesses and exploit them.”

“What are you whispering?” she hissed, drawing another fireball into her hand.

She’d chosen fire to make a statement, but fire could be stoked. It meant passion. Emotions. In combat, she’d react swiftly, without forethought, and that impulsivity could be her undoing. We’d have to be careful, quick. “I knew you’d choose fire.” I smirked, tossing the blade in my hand with casual nonchalance. “You’re growing predictable in your old age, Maman. And wrinkled.” When she launched the first fireball, Ansel ducked swiftly. “It’s a good thing your hair is naturally white. It hides the gray, yes?”

With a scream of indignation, she flung the second. This time, however, I moved swifter still, catching the flames on my blade and hurling them back at her. “Second lesson,” I said, laughing as her cloak caught fire. “There’s no such thing as cheating. Use every weapon in your arsenal.”

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” Morgane flung her cloak to the ground, panting. It smoldered gently, sending clouds of smoke to curl around her. “But I taught you how to fight, Louise. Me.” Barely discernible through the smoke, she gathered a third ball of fire between her palms, eyes glittering with malice. “Third lesson: the fight isn’t over until one of you is dead.” When she threw the fireball, it grew into a sword—a pillar—and neither Ansel nor I could move swiftly enough. It razed our skin as it passed, knocking us from our feet, and Morgane lunged.

Anticipating the movement—body screaming in pain—I swiped Ansel’s knife and rolled over him, slashing his blade at her face. Her upper half reared backward, but the movement propelled her lower half toward me—toward my knife, which I drove through her stomach. She gasped. The flames vanished, and the bodies floating above thudded to the ground. Horrified gasps rose from the audience as her spell lifted. With Ansel’s blade, I moved to finish the job, watching her every movement, every emotion, as if time had slowed. Memorizing her face. Her brows as they dipped in confusion. Her eyes as they widened in surprise. Her lips as they parted in fear.

Fear.

It was one emotion I’d never seen on my mother’s face.

And it made me hesitate.

Above us, footsteps thundered, and Reid’s shout splintered the silence.

No.

Faster than humanly possible, Morgane’s hand snaked out, catching my wrist and twisting. The world rushed back into focus with vivid clarity, and I dropped the knife with a cry.

“You tried to kill me,” she whispered. “Me. Your mother.” Wild, cackling laughter stole her breath, even as—as Chasseurs descended. Reid and Jean Luc led them with Blaise snarling behind, fully shifted. “And what if you’d succeeded, daughter? Is that why you came here? Did you think you’d become queen?” She twisted brutally, and I heard my bone snap. Pain radiated up my arm, consuming everything, and I screamed. “A queen must do what is necessary, Louise. You were almost there, but you stopped. Shall I show you the path to continue? Shall I show you everything you lack?”

She dropped my wrist, and I staggered backward, watching through tears as Reid sprinted toward us, pulling away from the rest, knives drawn. I couldn’t move fast enough. I couldn’t stop him. “Reid, NO—!”

Morgane hurled a fourth and final ball of fire, and it exploded against his chest.



The Woodwose



Reid



Smoke engulfed me, thick and billowing. It smothered my nose, my mouth, my eyes. Though I couldn’t see her, I could still hear Lou as she screamed, as she raged against her mother, who laughed. Who laughed and laughed and laughed. I waded through the smoke to reach her, to tell her I was fine—

“Reid!” Ansel bellowed. Jean Luc’s voice soon joined his, shouting over the din as audience members fled for safety. As witches shrieked and footsteps pounded, thick as the smoke in the air.

But where was the fire?

I patted my chest, searching for the sharp heat of flames, but there were none. Instead, there was—there was—

Claud Deveraux stood beside me, offering me a sly smile. In his hands, he held the ball of flames—shrinking now, smoking wildly—and in his eyes . . . I blinked rapidly through the smoke. For just a moment, his eyes seemed to flicker with something ancient and wild. Something green. I yielded a step in astonishment. The faint earthiness I’d smelled within Troupe de Fortune’s wagons had returned tenfold. It overwhelmed the smoke, doused the cavern in the scent of pine sap and lichen, fresh soil and hay. “I thought—you said you weren’t a witch.”

“And I’m still not, dear boy.”

“We couldn’t find you. In the tunnels, we couldn’t—”

“My ducklings had gone missing, hadn’t they?” He straightened my coat with a tight smile. “Never fear. I shall find them.” Beyond the smoke, Lou still screamed. It filled my ears, hindering all other thought. “And though sweet Zenna knew better, the temptation of violence proved too much to resist—such bloodlust in that one. I found her in the tunnels while I searched for the others. Poor Seraphine had no choice but to follow, and I couldn’t very well leave them unprotected. I had hoped to return before the situation here escalated—better to prevent than to heal, you know—but alas.” He looked over his shoulder toward Morgane’s laughter. “Her sickness may consume us all. If you’ll excuse me.”

He parted the smoke with the flick of his wrist.

Lou and Morgane materialized, circling each other with their hands raised. Past them, Ansel shielded Célie in his arms, and Jean Luc and Coco fought back-to-back against a trio of witches. Above us, Beau ushered panicked revelers to the exits. The body of a witch cooled at Blaise’s feet, throat torn open, but another had cornered him. Her hands contorted wildly.

Two Chasseurs reached her first.

When Deveraux stepped out of the smoke, Lou and Morgane both froze. I followed behind.

“You,” Morgane snarled at him, and she stumbled—actually stumbled—backward.