Gods & Monsters Page 2

  How times had changed.

  Beau reappeared with an earthen bowl and leaned casually against the doorway. Steam from the stew curled around his face. When my stomach rumbled again, he smirked. I spoke through gritted teeth. “Why would you help us, Father?”

  Reluctantly, the priest’s gaze trailed over my pale face, Lou’s grisly scar, Coco’s numb expression. The deep hollows beneath our eyes and the gaunt cut of our cheeks. Then he looked away, staring hard at the empty air above my shoulder. “What does it matter? You need food. I have food. You need a place to sleep. I have empty pews.”

  “Most in the Church wouldn’t welcome us.”

  “Most in the Church wouldn’t welcome their own mother if she was a sinner.”

  “No. But they’d burn her if she was a witch.”

  He arched a sardonic brow. “Is that what you’re after, boy? The stake? You want me to mete out your divine punishment?”

  “I believe,” Beau drawled from the doorway, “he’s simply pointing out that you are among the Church—unless you’re actually the sinner of this story? Are you unwelcome amongst your peers, Father Achille?” He glanced pointedly at our dilapidated surroundings. “Though I abhor jumping to conclusions, our beloved patriarchs surely would’ve sent someone to repair this hovel otherwise.”

  Achille’s eyes darkened. “Watch your tone.”

  I interrupted before Beau could provoke him further, spreading my arms wide. In disbelief. In frustration. In . . . everything. Pressure built in my throat at this man’s unexpected kindness. It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be real. As horrible a picture as Lou painted, a cannibal spider luring us into its web seemed likelier than a priest offering us sanctuary. “You know who we are. You know what we’ve done. You know what will happen if you’re caught sheltering us.”

  He studied me for a long moment, expression inscrutable. “Let’s not get caught, then.” With a mighty harrumph, he stomped toward the scullery door. At the threshold, however, he paused, eyeing Beau’s bowl. He seized it in the next second, ignoring Beau’s protests and thrusting it at me. “You’re just kids,” he muttered, not meeting my eyes. When my fingers wrapped around the bowl—my stomach contracting painfully—he let go. Straightened his robes. Rubbed his neck. Nodded to the stew. “Won’t be worth eating cold.”

  Then he turned and stormed from the room.

  Darkness Mine

  Lou

  Darkness.

  It shrouds everything. It envelops me, constricts me, pressing against my chest, my throat, my tongue until it is me. Trapped within its eye, drowning in its depths, I fold in on myself until I no longer exist at all. I am the darkness. This darkness, mine.

  It hurts.

  I should not feel pain. I should not feel anything. I am unformed and unmade, a speck in all of Creation. Without shape. Without life or lung or limb to control. I cannot see, cannot breathe, yet the darkness—it blinds. The pressure chokes, smothers, building with each passing second until it rends me apart. But I cannot scream. I cannot think. I can only listen—no, sense—a voice unfurling within the shadows. A beautiful, terrible voice. It snakes around me, through me, and whispers sweetly, promising oblivion. Promising respite.

  Surrender, it croons, and forget. Feel no pain.

  For a moment or a thousand moments, I hesitate, considering. To surrender and forget appeals more than to resist and remember. I am weak, and I do not like pain. The voice is so beautiful, so tempting, so strong, that I nearly let it consume me. And yet . . . I cannot. If I let go, I will lose something important. Someone important. I cannot remember who it is.

  I cannot remember who I am.

  You are the darkness. The shadows press closer, and I fold myself tighter. A grain of sand below infinite black waves. This darkness is yours.

  Still I hold on.

  Coco’s Flame

  Reid

  Coco leaned against the headstone beside me. A weatherworn statue of Saint Magdaleine towered over us, her bronze face shadowed in the gray twilight. Though she had long closed her eyes, Coco didn’t sleep. She didn’t speak either. She merely rubbed a scar on her palm with her opposite thumb, over and over until the skin chafed. I doubted she noticed it. I doubted she noticed anything.

  She’d followed me into the cemetery after Lou had ransacked the scullery for red meat, unsatisfied with the fish Father Achille had prepared for supper. There’d been nothing inherently wrong with the way Lou had attacked the beef, even if the cut hadn’t been fully cooked. We’d been famished for days. Our breakfast of stew and lunch of hard bread and cheese hadn’t assuaged our hunger. And yet . . .

  My stomach contracted without explanation.

  “Is she pregnant?” Coco asked after a long moment. Her eyes flicked open, and she rolled her head to face me. Voice flat. “Tell me you’ve been careful. Tell me we don’t have another problem.”

  “She bled two weeks ago, and since then, we haven’t—” I cleared my throat.

  Coco nodded and tipped her chin skyward once more, closing her eyes on a heavy exhale. “Good.”

  I stared at her. Though she hadn’t cried since La Mascarade des Crânes, her lids remained swollen. Traces of kohl still flecked her cheeks. Tear tracks. “Are you . . .” The words caught in my throat. Coughing to clear it, I tried again. “I saw a tub inside if you need to bathe.”

  Her fingers clamped around her thumb in response, as if she could still feel Ansel’s blood on her hands. She’d scrubbed them raw in the Doleur that night. Burned her garments in Léviathan, the inn where so much had gone wrong. “I’m too tired,” she finally murmured.

  The familiar ache of grief burned up my throat. Too familiar. “If you need to talk about it . . .”

  She didn’t open her eyes. “We aren’t friends.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  When she didn’t answer, I turned away, fighting a scowl. Fine. She didn’t want to have this conversation. I wanted to have it even less. Crossing my arms against the chill, I’d just settled in for a long night of silence when Ansel’s fierce expression rose behind my lids. His fierce conviction. Lou is my friend, he’d once told me. He’d been willing to follow her to Chateau le Blanc before I had. He’d kept her secrets. Shouldered her burdens.

  Guilt tore through me. Jagged and sharp.

  Like it or not, Coco and I were friends.

  Feeling stupid, I forced myself to speak. “All I’m saying is that after the Archbishop passed, it helped me to talk about it. About him. So . . .” I shrugged stiffly, neck hot. Eyes burning. “If you need to . . . to talk about it . . . you can talk to me.”

  Now she did open her eyes. “The Archbishop was a sick fuck, Reid. Comparing him to Ansel is despicable.”

  “Yeah, well”—I stared at her pointedly—“you can’t help who you love.”

  She dropped her gaze swiftly. To my shame, her lip quivered. “I know that.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course I do,” she said with a hint of her old bite. Fire lit her features. “I know it’s not my fault. Ansel loved me, and—and just because I didn’t love him the same way doesn’t mean I loved him any less. I certainly loved him more than you.” Despite her heated assurance, her voice cracked on the last. “So you can take your advice and your condescension and your pity, and you can shove them up your ass.” I kept my face impassive, refusing to rise. She could lash out. I could take it. Lurching to her feet, she pointed a finger at me. “And I won’t sit here and let you judge me for—for—” Her chest heaved on a ragged breath, and a single tear tracked down her cheek. When it fell between us, sizzling against the snow, her entire body slumped. “For something I couldn’t help,” she finished, so soft I almost didn’t hear.

  Slowly, awkwardly, I rose to stand beside her. “I’m not judging you, Coco. I don’t pity you either.” When she scoffed, I shook my head. “I don’t. Ansel was my friend too. His death wasn’t your fault.”

  “Ansel isn’t the only one who died that night.”
/>
  Together, we looked to the thin plume rising from her teardrop.

  Then we looked to the sky.

  Smoke obscured the setting sun, dark and ominous above us. Heavy. It should’ve been impossible. We’d been traveling for days. The skies here, miles and miles from Cesarine—where smoke still billowed from tunnel entrances, from the cathedral, the catacombs, the castle, from cemeteries and inns and alleyways—should’ve been clear. But the flame beneath the capital wasn’t simple fire. It was black fire, unnatural and unending, as if birthed from the bowels of Hell itself.

  It was Coco’s fire.

  A fire with smoke to envelop an entire kingdom.

  It burned hotter than regular flame, ravaging both the tunnels and the poor souls trapped within them. Worse, according to the fisherman who’d accosted us—a fisherman whose brother happened to be an initiate of the Chasseurs—no one could extinguish the blaze. King Auguste contained it only by posting a huntsman at each entrance. Their Balisardas prevented the blight from spreading.

  It seemed La Voisin had spoken truth. When I’d pulled her aside in Léviathan, before she’d fled to the forest with her surviving Dames Rouges, her warning had been clear: The fire rages with her grief. It will not stop until she does.

  Toulouse, Thierry, Liana, and Terrance were trapped in those tunnels.

  “It still isn’t your fault, Coco.”

  Her face twisted as she stared at the statue of Saint Magdaleine. “My tears started the fire.” Sitting heavily, she folded her knees to her chest. Wrapped her arms around her shins. “They’re all dead because of me.”

  “They aren’t all dead.” Immediately, my mind snapped to Madame Labelle. To her hemlock chains, her damp prison cell. To the king’s hard fingers on her chin. Her lips. Rage kindled my blood. Though it made me despicable, relief flickered as well. Because of Coco’s fire, King Auguste—my father—had more important things to deal with than my mother.

  As if reading my thoughts, Coco said, “For now.”

  Fuck.

  “We have to go back,” I said gravely, the wind picking up around us. I imagined the scent of charred bodies in the smoke, of Ansel’s blood on the earth. Even armed with the Dames Rouges and loup garou—even armed with the Woodwose—we’d still lost. Once again, I was struck by the utter foolishness of our plan. Morgane would slaughter us if we marched alone on the Chateau. “Lou won’t listen to me, but maybe she’ll listen to you. Deveraux and Blaise stayed behind to search for the others. We can help them, and afterward, we can—”

  “They aren’t going to find them, Reid. I told you. Anyone left in those tunnels is dead.”

  “The tunnels shifted before,” I repeated for the dozenth time, wracking my thoughts for something—anything—I could’ve missed in our previous arguments. If I persuaded Coco, she could persuade Lou. I was sure of it. “Maybe they shifted again. Maybe Toulouse and Thierry are trapped in a secure passage, safe and whole.”

  “And maybe Liana and Terrance turn into house cats on the full moon.” She didn’t bother lifting her head, her voice dangerously apathetic once more. “Forget it, Reid. Lou is right. This has to end. Her way is as good as any—better, even. At least we’re moving forward.”

  “What was the point of gathering allies, then?” I fought to keep the frustration from my voice. “We can’t kill Morgane on our own.”

  “We clearly can’t kill her with allies either.”

  “So we find new ones! We return to Cesarine, and we strategize with Deveraux—”

  “What exactly are you expecting him to do? Who are these mysterious allies you hope to find? Shall Claud just . . . grow them on trees?” Her eyes hardened. “He couldn’t save Ansel in La Mascarade des Crânes. He couldn’t even save his own family, which means he can’t help us either. He can’t kill Morgane. Face it, Reid. This is our path forward. We can’t search Cesarine for ghosts.”

  I unclenched my jaw. Heat worked up my throat. I didn’t know what to do. “My mother isn’t a ghost.”

  “Your mother can take care of herself.”

  “Her life—”

  “—depends entirely on how adeptly she can lie.” Beau strolled toward us casually from the church’s kitchen, pointing a lazy finger at the smoke-filled sky. “Our father will be desperate to end this fire, even if he must enlist a witch to do it. As long as the clouds quite literally hang above our heads, your mother is safe. Apologies for eavesdropping, by the way,” he added. “I wanted to know if either of you had noticed my new beard.” He paused. “Also, Lou hasn’t blinked in half an hour.”

  I frowned. “What?”

  “She hasn’t blinked,” he repeated, dropping to the ground beside Coco and lifting a hand to her nape. His fingers kneaded gently. “Not once. She’s spent the last thirty minutes staring at the stained glass in silence. It’s unsavory. She even managed to frighten the priest away.”

  Unease pricked my stomach. “You timed her blinks?”

  “You haven’t?” Beau arched a brow in disbelief. “She’s your wife—or lady friend, paramour, whatever label you’ve settled on. Something is clearly wrong with her, brother.”

  The wind built around us. At the edge of the church, the white dog reappeared. Pale and spectral. Silent. Watching. I forced myself to ignore it, to focus on my brother and his asinine observations. “And you don’t have a beard,” I said irritably, gesturing to his bare chin, “if we’re voicing the obvious.” I glanced at Coco, who still hid her face on her knees. “Everyone grieves differently.”

  “I’m telling you this goes beyond different.”

  “Do you have a point?” I glared at him. “We all know she’s undergone recent . . . changes. But she’s still Lou.” Unbidden, I glanced back to the dog. He stared at me with preternatural stillness. Even the wind didn’t ripple his fur. Standing, I lifted my hand and whistled low. “Here, boy.” I stepped closer. Closer still. He didn’t move. To Beau and Coco, I muttered, “Has she named him yet?”

  “No,” Beau said pointedly. “Or acknowledged him at all, for that matter.”

  “You’re fixating.”

  “You’re deflecting.”

  “You still don’t have a beard.”

  His hand shot to his whisker-less chin. “And you still don’t have—”

  But he stopped short when several things happened at once. The wind picked up suddenly as the dog turned and disappeared into the trees. An alarmed “Look out!” rent the air—the voice familiar, too familiar, and sickeningly out of place amidst the smoke and shadows—followed by the earsplitting screech of metal tearing. As one, we looked up in horror. Too late.

  The statue of Saint Magdaleine splintered at the waist, bust careening in the wind toward Beau and Coco. She seized him with a shriek, attempting to drag him out of the way, but their legs—

  I launched forward, tackling the fallen statue midair, landing hard as Coco and Beau snatched their feet away. Time stood still for a brief second. Beau checked Coco for injury, and she closed her eyes, shuddered on a sob. Wincing at the pain in my side, I struggled to catch my breath, to sit up—to—

  No.

  Pain forgotten, I whirled, scrambling to my feet to face the newcomer.

  “Hello, Reid,” Célie whispered.

  White-faced and trembling, she clutched a leather bag to her chest. Shallow cuts and scrapes marred her porcelain skin, and the hem of her gown hung in tatters around her feet. Black silk. I recognized it from Filippa’s funeral.

  “Célie.” I stared at her for a beat, unable to believe my eyes. She couldn’t be here. She couldn’t have traversed the wilderness alone in only silk and slippers. But how else could I explain her presence? She hadn’t just happened upon this exact spot at this exact moment. She’d . . . she must’ve followed us. Célie. The reality of the situation crashed over my head, and I gripped her shoulders, resisting the urge to shake her, hug her, scold her. My pulse pounded in my ears. “What the hell are you doing here?” When she drew back, nose wrinkling, I dr
opped my hands and staggered backward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “You didn’t hurt me.” Her eyes—wide, panicked—dropped to my shirt. Belatedly, I noticed the dark liquid there. Metallic. Viscous. The fabric beneath clung to my skin. I frowned. “It’s just that you—well, you’re covered in blood.”

  Bewildered, I half turned, lifting my shirt to examine my ribs. The dull ache in my side felt more like a bruise than a wound.

  “Reid,” Beau said sharply.

  Something in his voice halted my movements. Slowly, I followed his finger to where Saint Magdaleine lay in the snow.

  To where tears of blood dripped down her cheeks.

  La Petite Larme

  Reid

  After a moment of harried, whispered conversation—as if the statue could hear us—we retreated to the safety of the sanctuary. “It was that wretched dog,” Beau said, throwing himself into the pew beside Coco. Near the pulpit, Lou rose. Candlelight illuminated half of her face, bathing the rest in shadow. A chill swept down my spine at the chthonic image, as if she were cut in two. Part Lou and part . . . something else. Something dark.

  She frowned, eyes flicking between Célie and me. “What is this?”

  “This,” I said, rougher than intended, turning to scowl at Célie, “is nothing. She’s going home in the morning.”

  Célie lifted her chin. Tightened her hands on the strap of her leather bag. They trembled slightly. “I am not.”

  “Célie.” Exasperated, I led her to the pew beside Lou, who made no move to greet her. Odd. I’d thought the two had formed a tentative bond after what they’d endured in La Mascarade des Crânes. “You just saw how dangerous it is here. Everyone in the kingdom wants us dead.”

  “I don’t want us dead.” Beau crossed his ankles on the pew in front of him, slinging an arm over Coco’s shoulders. When his gaze flicked to Célie, she flushed crimson. “Thank you for the warning, by the way, Mademoiselle Tremblay. It seems everyone else has forgotten their manners. Appalling, really. That statue would have crushed us if not for you.”