Gods & Monsters Read online

  “Statue?” Lou asked.

  “The statue in the cemetery . . . fell,” I murmured. I didn’t mention the tears.

  Ignoring both of us, cheeks still pink under Beau’s perusal, Célie sank into a deep curtsy. “Y-Your Highness. They alone have not forgotten their manners. Please forgive me.”

  He arched a brow, smirking at me over her bowed head. “I like her.”

  Coco lifted her hood to hide her face. Though she didn’t settle into Beau’s arm, she didn’t lean away, either. “She shouldn’t be here.”

  “It’s that dog,” Beau repeated emphatically. “Wherever he goes, catastrophe follows. He was there when the fisherman tried to drown us too.”

  Célie frowned. “But the fisherman didn’t—” At our stares, she stopped abruptly, blush deepening. She lifted a delicate shoulder. “The boat capsized on a swell. Do you not remember?”

  “Have you been following us?” Lou asked.

  Célie refused to look at anyone.

  I sat heavily, resting my forearms on my knees. “What are you doing here, Célie?”

  “I—” Her expression open, painfully vulnerable, she glanced between Lou, Beau, and Coco before settling on me. “I would like to help.”

  “Help,” Lou echoed. Mocking.

  Célie’s brows furrowed at her tone. “I believe I—I believe I have resources that could benefit the group in its pursuit of M-M—” She broke off again, hoisting her leather bag higher and squaring her shoulders. “In its pursuit of La Dame des Sorcières.”

  “You can’t even say her name,” I muttered, rubbing my temples.

  “I do not need to say her name to kill her.”

  Kill her.

  Good Lord.

  An unexpected cackle sounded from Lou, who grinned wide and lifted her hands to clap once. Twice. Three times. The odd glint had returned to her eyes. “Well, well, it seems the kitten has finally found her claws. I’m impressed.” Her laughter burrowed under my skin, clawed at my stomach. “But my mother is not a mouse. How do you plan to kill her? Will you curtsy? Invite her to tea?”

  Yes, I’d clearly misinterpreted their relationship.

  By the flex of Beau’s jaw, he’d done the same. “Leave her alone, Lou.”

  Célie flashed him an appreciative look. Bolstered, she continued in a stronger voice, “I don’t know how to kill her—not precisely, not yet—but I do have information in my possession. You were correct before, Your Highness.” From her leather bag, she withdrew a crisp linen envelope. I recognized Jean Luc’s handwriting on the front. “King Auguste has postponed your mother’s execution indefinitely. He plans to utilize her magic to eradicate the fire.”

  Beau nodded to me. “I told you so.”

  When she extended the envelope, I skimmed its contents before handing it back. “Thank you for this, Célie. Truly. But I can’t let you stay. What if something happened to you? I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.” I paused, frowning anew. Come to think of it— “What did your parents say about this?”

  She sniffed reprovingly. “Nothing at all.”

  My frown deepened.

  “They don’t know you’re here, do they?” Beau smirked, arching a brow. “Clever little minx. I suppose it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

  Groaning at the implication, I buried my face in my hands. “Célie.”

  “What?” Her tenuous composure snapped in an instant, and I straightened. Startled. In all the years I’d known her, Célie didn’t snap. “You needn’t worry about them sending the kingdom after me, Reid. When I last disappeared, it took quite some time before help arrived, if you care to remember. Heaven forbid anyone know my father cannot control his own household.”

  I blinked to hide my shock. Though I’d known Monsieur Tremblay had failed as a father, apparently, I’d underestimated how much. “Jean Luc will come after you. He’ll bring the whole of the Chasseurs with him.”

  She shook the envelope in my face. “Jean Luc knows I am here. He watched me steal my father’s carriage, for God’s sake, and scolded me through the whole ordeal.” I stared at her. I’d never known her to thieve, either. Or take the Lord’s name in vain. She exhaled hard through her nose, stuffing the envelope into her cloak. “Regardless, I’d have thought you would appreciate my intervention. If I travel with your band of notorious witches and fugitives—pardon, Your Highness—Jean cannot arrest any of you without also arresting me. That will not happen. He will pursue you no further.”

  “Oh, to have seen the look on his face.” Beau’s own face twisted as if pained. “Further proof that there is a God, and He hates me.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I shoved myself to my feet, eager to end this argument. To find Father Achille and alert him of the situation, to request an additional blanket for the night. “You can’t come with us.”

  Seething, she watched me pass in silent fury, her shoulders square and her spine ramrod straight. Her fingers white around her leather bag. “What I cannot do,” she finally said through clenched teeth, “is look my parents in the eye. They want to pretend nothing happened. They want to return to life as it was before. But they cannot make me.” Her voice dipped dangerously low. “You cannot make me. The thought of s-sitting at home—curtsying to noblemen, sipping tea—while Morgane remains at large physically sickens me.” When I didn’t pause my stride, she continued desperately, “She trapped me in that coffin with Filippa for weeks, Reid. Weeks. She—she t-tortured me, and she mutilated those children. What I cannot do is nothing.”

  I froze at the pulpit. Surely I’d misheard her. Surely this sudden dread in my chest—it was misplaced. I didn’t turn. “She what?”

  A sniff in response. “Do not make me repeat it,” she said.

  “Célie—” When I finally moved toward her, nausea churning, she stopped my advance with the swipe of her hand. Tears fell freely down her cheeks. She didn’t hide them. Didn’t brush them away. That hand swung her leather bag from her shoulder, dumped its contents on the rotten floor: jewelry, couronnes, gemstones, even a chalice. The others stared at the small treasure trove, agog, but I couldn’t see past Célie’s words. Couldn’t stop . . . picturing them.

  Filippa had been older than us by a few years. Unlike Célie, she’d acted as my sister. A prim, disapproving sort of sister, but a sister nonetheless. The thought of Célie trapped with her corpse—months after burial—made my stomach roll violently. I choked down bile.

  “I didn’t just steal my father’s carriage,” Célie whispered into the silence. She gestured to the glittering pile. “I robbed his vault as well. I assumed we would need currency for our travels.”

  Beau rose for a closer look, dragging Coco along with him. “How did you carry all of this?” He eyed Célie’s arms with unabashed skepticism as Lou shadowed their footsteps.

  Coco toed the coins without interest. “And where is your carriage?”

  At last, Célie dropped the leather bag. Her fingers flexed. “I left it with the stable boy at the inn.”

  “And your footman?” Kneeling, Beau prodded the bag cautiously, like it was crafted from human skin. Perhaps it was. Monsieur Tremblay had once dealt in dangerous magical objects. The witches had killed Filippa for it. “Your driver?”

  “I drove myself.”

  “What?” Though Beau whirled, it was my voice that cut through the room. “Are you out of your mind?”

  Lou cackled again, inordinately pleased with the entire situation.

  Shooting her a glare, I stormed back to the group, my own temper brewing dangerously close to the surface. I took a deep breath. Another. “That’s it. This is over. I’ll speak to Father Achille, and he’ll arrange an escort to take you back to Cesarine at daybreak.” Roughly, I began shoving the jewelry back into her leather bag. Even filled with heavy jewels, it remained weightless in my hand. Perhaps not human skin, but assuredly magic. Fucking Tremblay. Fucking Célie. If a witch had happened upon her with this bag, she would’ve met the same fate
as Filippa. Perhaps that was what she wanted. Perhaps after La Mascarade des Crânes, she had a death wish.

  I sure as hell wouldn’t indulge it.

  “Hold it.” Coco seized my arm unexpectedly, her voice the sharpest I’d heard in days. Her fingers shook. Pushing back her hood, she snatched a locket from me. When she lifted it to the candlelight, her face—paler now, nearly ashen—reflected back on its golden surface. Filigree twined around the diamond at the oblong pendant’s center. The pattern they created resembled . . . waves. Quietly, coldly, she asked, “Where did you get this?”

  Lou appeared at her shoulder in an instant. With the diamonds reflected in them, her eyes gleamed almost silver.

  Célie had the sense to yield a step. “I—I told you. I stole it from my father’s vault.” She glanced at me for reassurance, but I could give her none. I’d never before seen this intensity—this possession—in either Coco’s or Lou’s gaze. Their reactions were . . . unsettling. Whatever relic Célie had inadvertently brought us, it must’ve been important. “It was my favorite piece as a child, but it—it doesn’t open. Father couldn’t sell it.”

  Coco shuddered as if insulted before withdrawing a blade from her cloak. I stepped hastily in front of Célie. “Oh, please,” Coco snarled, pricking the tip of her finger instead. A single droplet of blood dripped onto the diamond and beaded into a perfect circle. Then—incredibly—it sank beneath the stone’s surface, swirling bright crimson. When the color dissipated, the locket clicked open.

  We all leaned closer, entranced, to see a crystal-clear surface within.

  Lou recoiled.

  “La Petite Larme,” Coco said, her voice softening. Her anger momentarily forgotten.

  “The Little Tear,” Beau echoed.

  “A mirror made from a drop of L’Eau Mélancolique.” She gazed at her reflection with an inscrutable expression before refocusing on Célie. Her lip curled in distaste once more. “It wouldn’t open because it doesn’t belong to you. It belonged to my mother.”

  A pin could’ve dropped in the sanctuary, and we would’ve heard its every echo. Even Father Achille—who’d stormed through the scullery doors in an apron, clutching a soapy dish and growling about noise—seemed to realize he’d interrupted a tense moment. His eyes narrowed on Célie and the gold at her feet. “Célie Tremblay,” he acknowledged gruffly. “You’re a long way from home.”

  Though she offered him a polite smile, it was brittle. Fraught. “I beg your pardon, monsieur, but I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

  “Achille,” he said, lips pursing. “Father Achille Altier.”

  Coco snapped the locket shut. Without a word, she replaced her hood.

  “Nice apron.” Beau grinned at the hand-painted roses on Father Achille’s apron. Brushstrokes large and uneven, they looked as though they’d been painted by a child. In blue and red and green.

  “My nieces made it for me,” Father Achille muttered.

  “It really brings out your eyes.”

  Father Achille chucked the dish at him. Though Beau managed to catch the slippery plate against his chest, water still splattered his face on impact. Father Achille nodded in righteous satisfaction. “That’s the last dish of yours I’ll be washing, boy. You can scrub the rest of them yourself—and the scullery, thanks to her.” He jerked his thumb toward Lou in irritation. “There’s a bucket and a mop waiting for you.”

  Beau opened his mouth to protest indignantly, but Célie interrupted. “Father Achille.” She swept into another curtsy, though not as low this time. Not as grand. She eyed his flowered apron and disheveled robes—the disrepair of the sanctuary—in thinly veiled disapproval. “I am pleased to meet you.”

  Father Achille shifted awkwardly before her, as if unaccustomed to such pristine manners. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve said he looked uncomfortable under her scrutiny. Embarrassed, even. “I knew your mother,” he finally said by way of explanation. “When I lived in Cesarine.”

  “Of course. I will pass along your regards.”

  He snorted again. “Better not. I said I knew her, not that I particularly liked her.” At Célie’s scandalized expression, he muttered, “The feeling was mutual, I assure you. Now”—he straightened with as much dignity as he could muster—“it isn’t my business to ask what you’re doing in Fée Tombe, Mademoiselle Tremblay. It isn’t my place to tell you how stupid you are for taking up with this lot. So I won’t. Because I don’t care. Just make sure you don’t cause any trouble before you leave.”

  I stepped forward as he turned on his heel. “She needs an escort back to Cesarine.”

  “Reid.” Célie actually stamped her foot now. “Stop being so—so—”

  “Pigheaded?” Beau suggested.

  Father Achille scowled at us over his shoulder. “I am not a babysitter.”

  “See?” Triumphant, she beamed, pointing a finger in the air. “He will not take me, and the journey is far too hazardous to travel alone. I must remain here. With you.”

  My jaw clenched. “You had no problem hazarding it before.”

  “Yes, but—” Something akin to nervousness flitted through her eyes, and her smile vanished. “I—I might’ve . . . fibbed before. A small, inconsequential thing,” she added hastily at my expression. “I told you I’d left my coach at the stable, but really, er, in actuality, I might’ve made a wrong turn—”

  “A wrong turn where?” I demanded.

  “To the lighthouse.”

  Father Achille slowly turned.

  “I lost sight of you all just before dawn.” Célie twisted her hands together at her waist. “When I came to the fork in the road, I—I chose the path leading away from the village. I never dreamed you’d seek shelter in a church. Really, I am extraordinarily lucky to have found you at all—”

  “Darling Célie,” Beau interrupted. “Please get on with it.”

  She flushed again, dipping her head. “O-of course, Your Highness. Forgive me. When I neared the lighthouse, something moved in the shadows. It—it spooked Cabot, of course, and he nearly drove us off the cliff in his haste to flee. A wheel snapped on the bluff. I managed to free Cabot before the whole carriage tumbled into the sea . . . or at least, it would’ve if the creature hadn’t wrenched it free.” She shuddered. “I’ve never seen such a monster. Long, matted hair and skin cloaked in shadow. Sharp white teeth. It smelled of rot too. Decaying flesh. I’m quite certain if I hadn’t escaped on Cabot’s back, it would’ve eaten us both.” She exhaled heavily, lifting her eyes to mine. “So, you see, I left Cabot at the stable, not my carriage. I simply cannot return for it while it remains in the creature’s possession, and I cannot risk traveling without it either. I must stay with you, Reid, or I’ll never make it home at all.”

  “Cauchemar,” Lou murmured.

  I extended a weary hand to her. “What?”

  With a small smile, she laced her fingers through mine. They remained like ice. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Yes, you—”

  “A cauchemar has indeed taken up residence in the lighthouse.” At our blank looks, Father Achille grudgingly added, “A nightmare. That’s what the villagers call it, anyway. It found us here in Fée Tombe three days ago, and they’re all terrified.” He scowled and shook his head. “The fools are planning to raze the lighthouse in the morning.”

  Something in his scowl made me pause. “Has this cauchemar harmed anyone?”

  “Aside from me?” Célie asked. “It nearly frightened Cabot and me to death!”

  Coco scoffed beneath her hood. “What a tragedy that would’ve been.”

  “Coco,” Beau admonished. “That was beneath you. If you’re going to be spiteful, at least be clever about it.”

  “Not spiteful at all,” she said sweetly. “I would’ve mourned the horse.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Célie wheeled around to face her, mouth slack with disbelief. “I—I am terribly sorry about your m-mother’s necklace, Cosette, but I
didn’t know—”

  I spoke over her. “Has the cauchemar harmed anyone?”

  Father Achille shrugged. “It hardly matters.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “That mob is coming, boy. You’ll get yourself killed.”

  “You don’t care.”

  “That’s right.” His nostrils flared. “I don’t. Cauchemars are notoriously cruel, but this creature hasn’t yet attacked. Last night, it broke into the boucherie and stole some scraps, but that’s the extent of my knowledge.” When I exchanged a glance first with Lou, then with Beau, he gritted his teeth and said, as if the words physically pained him, “You should stay out of it. This isn’t your fight.”

  But a mob burning an innocent creature alive sounded exactly like my fight. They would do the same to Lou, if given the chance. The same to Coco. My mother. Me. Familiar anger, thick and viscous, simmered in my gut. These villagers alone weren’t guilty. Though they would slaughter this innocent, Morgane had tortured and maimed my siblings, my brothers and sisters—all collateral damage in this war they hadn’t chosen. A war this cauchemar hadn’t chosen.

  No more.

  A brief stop at the lighthouse wouldn’t hurt anything. We could warn the cauchemar before the mob struck—perhaps even free it—and still leave by sunrise. It was the noble thing to do. Lou might’ve chosen the wrong path for us, but this felt a step in the right direction. Perhaps it would set us on a new course. A better one.

  At the very least, it would delay our arrival to Chateau le Blanc. And perhaps . . .

  “I vote no.” Coco’s voice cut sharp from beneath her hood. “Cauchemars are dangerous, and we can’t afford distractions. We should proceed to the Chateau.”

  Lou grinned and nodded.

  “If we help this cauchemar,” I murmured, “perhaps it’ll help us. Here is your mysterious ally, Cosette. No trees required.”

  Though I couldn’t see her face, I could feel her glower.

  Shaking my head, I handed Célie my blanket before returning to my pew. Lou didn’t let go of my hand. Her thumb traced the veins along my wrist. “We need Célie’s carriage,” I said. “Whether or not she returns home.”