My brethren moved purposefully around us. Some carried in corpses from the street. Though most of the witches had escaped, a handful joined the pile of bodies in the foyer—separate from the others. Untouchable. Theirs wouldn’t be a public execution. Not after Ye Olde Sisters. Not after that performance. Even if the Archbishop controlled the damage, word would spread. Even if he denied the accusation—even if some believed him—the seed had been planted.

The Archbishop had conceived a child with La Dame des Sorcières.

Though he was nowhere to be seen, his name filled the hall. My brothers kept their voices low, but I still heard them. Still saw their sidelong glances. Their suspicion. Their doubt.

Jean Luc elbowed Ansel aside to stand before me. “If you’re looking for your wife, she’s gone. I watched her dash through here not a quarter hour ago . . . crying.”

Crying.

“What happened upstairs, Reid?” He tilted his head to consider me, arching a brow. “Why would she flee? If she fears the witches, surely the Tower is the safest place for her.” He paused, and a truly frightening smile split his face. “Unless, of course, she now fears us more?”

I dropped my corpse on top of the pile of witches. Ignored the trepidation settling in my stomach like lead.

“I think your wife has a secret, Reid. And I think you know what it is.” Jean Luc inched closer, watching me with too-sharp eyes. “I think I know what it is.”

My trepidation dropped to outright panic, but I forced my face to remain calm. Blank. Void of all emotion. I wouldn’t tell them about Lou. They would hunt her. And the thought of their hands on her—touching her, hurting her, tying her body to the stake—I wouldn’t allow it.

I looked Jean Luc directly in the eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Where is she then?” He raised his voice and gestured around us, drawing the eyes of our brethren. My fingers curled into fists. “Why did the little witch flee?”

Red crept steadily into my vision, blurring those closest to us—those who had stilled, heads turning, at Jean Luc’s accusation. “Take care what you say next, Chasseur Toussaint.”

His smile faltered. “So it’s true, then.” He scrubbed a hand down his face and sighed heavily. “I didn’t want to believe it—but look at you. You would defend her still, even though you know she’s a—”

I lunged at him with a snarl. He attempted to dodge, but he wasn’t quick enough. My fist struck his jaw with an audible crack, breaking the bone. Ansel leapt forward before I could strike again. Despite him tugging on my arms, I barreled past him, barely feeling his weight. Jean Luc scrambled backward, screaming in pain and outrage, as I drew my fist once more.

“Enough,” the Archbishop said sharply from behind us.

I froze, fist cocked midair.

A few of my brethren bowed, fists to hearts, but most remained standing. Resolute. Wary. The Archbishop eyed them with growing fury, and a few more dropped their heads. Ansel released my arms and followed suit. To my surprise, so did Jean Luc—though his left hand remained pressed to his swelling jaw. He glared at the floor with murder in his eyes.

A tense second passed as they waited for me, their captain, to honor our forefather.

I didn’t.

The Archbishop’s eyes flashed at my insolence, but he hastened forward anyway. “Where is Louise?”

“Gone.”

Disbelief contorted his face. “What do you mean gone?”

I didn’t answer, and Ansel stepped forward in my stead. “She—she fled, Your Eminence. After this witch attacked her.” He gestured to the corpse on top of the pile of witches.

The Archbishop moved closer to inspect it. “You killed this witch, Captain Diggory?”

“No.” My fist throbbed from striking Jean Luc’s jaw. I welcomed the pain. “Lou did.”

He clasped my shoulder in a show of camaraderie for my brethren, but I heard the unspoken plea. Saw the vulnerability in his eyes. In that second, I knew. Any doubts I’d had vanished, replaced by a disgust deeper than any I’d ever known. This man—the man I’d looked to as a father—was a liar. A fraud. “We must find her, Reid.”

I stiffened and shrugged away. “No.”

His expression hardened, and he motioned one of my brothers forward. A mutilated corpse hung over his shoulder. Angry red burns riddled its face and neck, disappearing down the collar of its dress.

“I’ve had the pleasure of speaking with this creature for the past half hour. With a bit of persuasion, it became a plethora of information.” The Archbishop took the corpse and dumped it atop the pile. The bodies shifted, and blood seeped onto my boots. Bile rose in my throat. “You don’t know what the witches have planned for the kingdom, Captain Diggory. We cannot allow them to succeed.”

Jean Luc straightened, instantly alert. “What do they have planned?”

“Revolution.” The Archbishop’s eyes remained fixed on mine. “Death.”

Silence settled over the hall at his ominous pronouncement. Feet shifted. Eyes darted. No one dared ask what he meant—not even Jean Luc. Just as no one dared ask the one other question that mattered. The one other question on which our entire creed hinged.

I glanced at my brothers, watching as they stared between the Archbishop and the tortured, mutilated witch. As the conviction returned to their faces. As their suspicion shifted to excuses, bridging the way back to the comfortable world we’d once known. The comfortable lies.

It was all a diversion.

Yes—a diversion.

The witches are cunning.

Of course they would frame him.

Except Jean Luc. His sharp eyes were not so easily fooled. Worse—a garish grin stretched across his face. Warped by his swelling jaw.

“We must find Louise before the witches do,” the Archbishop urged. Pleaded. “She is the key, Reid. With her death, the king and his posterity will die. We all will die. You must put aside your quarrel with her and protect this kingdom. Honor your vows.”

My vows. True fury coursed through me at the words. Surely, this man who had lain with La Dame des Sorcières—this man who had deceived and betrayed and broken his vows at every turn—couldn’t be speaking to me about honor. I exhaled slowly through my nose. My hands still shook with anger and adrenaline. “Let’s go, Ansel.”

The Archbishop bared his teeth at my dismissal—and turned unexpectedly to Jean Luc. “Chasseur Toussaint, assemble a team of men. I want you on the street within the hour. Alert the constabulary. She will be found by morning. Do you understand?”

Jean Luc bowed, flashing me a triumphant smile. I glared back at him, searching his face for any flicker of hesitation, of regret, but there was none. His time had finally come. “Yes, Your Eminence. I will not disappoint you.”

Ansel followed hurriedly as I departed. We ascended the stairs three at a time. “What are we going to do?”

“We are going to do nothing. I don’t want you caught up in this.”

“Lou is my friend!”

His friend.

At those two small words, my patience—already stretched too thin—snapped completely. Swiftly, before the boy could so much as gasp, I grabbed his arm and shoved him into the wall. “She’s a witch, Ansel. You must understand this. She is not your friend. She is not my wife.”

His cheeks flushed with anger, and he shoved me in the chest. “Keep telling yourself that. Your pride is going to get her killed. She’s in trouble—” He shoved me again for emphasis, but I caught his arm and twisted it behind his back, slamming his chest into the wall. He didn’t even flinch. “Who cares if the Archbishop lied? You’re better than him, better than this.”

I snarled, quickly approaching my breaking point.

Lou, Ansel, Morgane le Blanc, the Archbishop . . . it was all too much. Too sudden. My mind couldn’t rationalize the emotions flooding through me—each too quick to name, each more painful than the last—but the time to choose rapidly approached.

I was a huntsman.

I was a man.

But I couldn’t be both. Not anymore.

I let go of Ansel and backed away, breathing ragged. “No, I’m not.”

“I don’t believe that.”

I balled my hands into fists, resisting the urge to smash them through the wall—or Ansel’s face. “All she’s ever done is lie to me, Ansel! She looked me in the eyes and told me she loved me! How do I know that wasn’t a lie too?”

“It wasn’t a lie. You know it wasn’t.” He paused, lifting his chin in a gesture so like Lou I nearly wept. “You . . . you called her she. Not it.”

Now I did strike the wall. Pain exploded from my knuckles. I welcomed it—welcomed anything to distract me from the agony ripping my chest in two, the tears burning my eyes. I leaned my forehead against the wall and gasped for breath. No, Lou wasn’t an it. But she’d still lied to me. Betrayed me.

“What should she have done instead?” Ansel asked. “Told you she was a witch and tied herself to the stake?”

My voice broke. “She should’ve trusted me.”

He touched my back, voice softening. “She’ll die, Reid. You heard the Archbishop. If you do nothing, she’ll die.”

And just like that, the rage left me. My hands fell to my sides. Limp. My shoulders slumped . . . defeated.