Gods & Monsters Page 4

  Célie’s head snapped up. “A carriage would speed our travel considerably.”

  “Yes.” I considered her for a long moment. Rather, I reconsidered her. A muscle twitched in my jaw at her hopeful expression, at the determined set of her shoulders. This was not the Célie I’d always known. “It would.”

  Throwing his hands in the air, Achille stalked to the scullery to be rid of us. “Fools, all of you,” he said over his shoulder, voice grim. “A cauchemar is strongest at night. Act at first light before the mob attacks. Whatever you do, don’t let them see you. Fear makes people stupid.” With one last look between Célie and me, he shook his head. “But courage makes ’em stupid too.”

  An Insidious Presence

  Lou

  From the darkness, a voice arises.

  Not that voice. Not the terrible one that croons and beckons. This voice is sharper, biting, cutting. Familiar. It does not tempt me. It—it scolds me.

  Wake up, it snaps. You aren’t dead yet.

  But I do not know this word. I do not understand death.

  No one does. That’s not the point—or maybe that’s the entire point. You’re fading.

  Fading. The darkness offers oblivion. Sweet relief.

  Fuck that. You’ve worked too hard and too long to give up now. Come on. You want more than oblivion. You want to live.

  A ghostly chuckle reverberates through the shadows. Through the unending black. It curls around me, caressing the jagged edges of my consciousness, soothing the broken shards at my center. Surrender, little mouse. Let me devour you.

  I hurt. With each pulse of the darkness, the pain intensifies until I cannot bear it.

  It’s your heart. The sharp voice returns, louder now. Louder than even the rhythmic drumming. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Instinctively, I shy away, but I cannot hide from the sound. From the pain. It echoes everywhere, all around me. It’s still beating.

  I try to process this, try to peer through the darkness to where a heart might indeed beat. But still I see nothing.

  Don’t hide from it, Lou. Own your pain. Use it.

  Lou. The word is familiar, like the exhalation on a laugh. The breath before jumping, the gasp when you fly instead. It’s a sigh of relief, of irritation, of disappointment. It’s a shout of anger and a cry of passion. It’s . . . me. I am not the darkness. I am something else entirely. And this voice—it’s mine.

  There you are, it says—I say—in unabashed relief. About time too.

  However, on the wings of one realization comes another, and I flex abruptly, pushing against the crushing black. It responds in kind, no longer simple darkness but a sentient presence all its own. An insidious presence. It feels wrong, somehow. Foreign. It shouldn’t be here—wherever here is—because this place . . . it belongs to me too. Like my heartbeat. Like my name. Though I flex again, testing my strength, spreading myself further, pushing and pushing and pushing, I meet only ironclad resistance.

  The darkness is unyielding as stone.

  A Game of Questions

  Reid

  Lou’s fingertips skimmed my leg in time with the others’ rhythmic breathing. With each inhale, she walked them upward. With each exhale, she turned her wrist, trailing downward with the back of her hand. Wind whistled through the cracks in the sanctuary, raising gooseflesh on my arms. I sat rigid beneath her touch, heart pounding in my throat at the subtle friction. Tense. Waiting. Sure enough, those fingers gradually crept up, up, up my thigh in slow seduction, but I caught her wrist, slid my hand to cover hers. To pin it in place.

  A foreign emotion congealed in my blood as I stared at her hand beneath mine. I should’ve ached, should’ve tightened with that familiar hunger, that heat, that left me almost fevered when we touched. But this knot in my stomach . . . it wasn’t need. It was something else. Something wrong. While the others had prepared for bed a half hour ago, a general sense of dread had enveloped me. That dread had only intensified when Beau, the last awake, had finally drifted to sleep, leaving Lou and me alone.

  Clearing my throat, I squeezed her fingers. Forced a smile. Brushed a kiss against her palm. “We have an early morning. We’ll need to leave Fée Tombe after we free the cauchemar. It’ll be another long few days on the road.”

  It sounded like an excuse.

  It was one.

  A low noise reverberated from her throat. She hadn’t worn her ribbon since we left Cesarine. My gaze dropped to her scar, healing yet still puckered, angry. She stroked it with her free hand. “How does one free a cauchemar?”

  “Maybe we can reason with it. Convince it to return to the forest.”

  “And if we can’t?”

  I sighed. “We can only warn it about the mob. We can’t force it to do anything.”

  “And if it decides to eat the mob? If our warning allows it the chance to do so?”

  “It won’t,” I said firmly.

  She considered me with a half smile. “You’ve developed quite an affinity for us, haven’t you?” Her grin spread. “Monsters.”

  I pressed a kiss to her forehead. Ignored the unfamiliar scent of her skin. “Sleep, Lou.”

  “I’m not tired,” she purred, her eyes too bright in the darkness. Too pale. “We slept all day.” When her hand crept up my chest once more, I caught it, lacing my fingers through her own. She misinterpreted the movement. Mistook it for an invitation. Before I could blink, she’d hoisted her knee across my lap to straddle me, lifting our hands awkwardly above our heads. When she arched her lower back, pressing her chest into mine, my stomach dropped like a stone. Shit.

  I fought to keep my gaze impassive. Of course she wanted to—to touch me. Why wouldn’t she? Less than a month ago, I’d craved her like an addict. The subtle curve of her hip, the thick wave of her hair, the impish gleam in her eyes. I’d been unable to keep from pawing at her every moment of the day—the presence of my own mother hadn’t stopped me. Even then, however, it’d been so much more than physical.

  From the very start, Lou had woken me up. Her presence had been infectious. Even infuriated, exasperated, I’d never stopped wanting to be near her.

  Now I glanced at Beau, at Coco, at Célie, praying one of them would stir. Hoping they’d open their eyes and interrupt. But they didn’t wake. They slept on, heedless of my inner struggle.

  I loved Lou. I knew that. Felt it in my bones.

  I also couldn’t stand the sight of her.

  What was wrong with me?

  Anger cracked open as she moved her lips against my ear, nibbling the lobe. Too many teeth. Too much tongue. Another wave of revulsion swept through me. Why? Was it because she was still mourning? Because I was? Because she’d attacked her supper like a rabid animal, because she’d only blinked twice in the past hour? I mentally shook myself, irritated with Beau. With myself. She’d been stranger than usual, yes, but that didn’t justify the way my skin crawled when she touched me.

  Worse still, these thoughts—this looming dread, this unsettling aversion—they felt like a betrayal. Lou deserved better than this.

  Swallowing hard, I turned to meet her lips. She kissed me back enthusiastically, without hesitation, and my guilt only deepened. She didn’t seem to sense my reluctance, however. She pressed closer instead. Rocked her hips against mine. Clumsy. Eager. When she again dropped her mouth to my throat, sucking at my rapid pulse, I shook my head in defeat. It was no good. My hands descended on her shoulders.

  “We need to talk.”

  The words came of their own volition. She blinked in surprise, and what looked like . . . insecurity flickered in her pale eyes. I hated myself for it. I’d seen Lou insecure approximately twice in our entire relationship, and neither instance had boded well for us. It vanished as quickly as it’d come, however, replaced by a wicked gleam. “That involves tongues, yes?”

  Gently, firmly, I slid her from my lap. “No. It doesn’t.”

  “Are you sure?” Crooning, she leaned into me seductively. Or at least, that was her intent. But t
he movement lacked her usual finesse. I leaned back, studying her overbright eyes. Her flushed cheeks.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Tell me what it is. I’ll fix it.

  “You tell me.” Again, her hands sought my chest. I seized them with tightly leashed frustration, squeezing her icy fingers in warning.

  “Talk to me, Lou.”

  “What would you like to talk about, darling husband?”

  I took a deep breath, still watching her closely. “Ansel.”

  His name fell between us like a carcass. Heavy. Dead.

  “Ansel.” She tugged her hands away with a frown. Her eyes grew distant. Shuttered. She stared at a spot just over my shoulder, her pupils expanding and contracting in tiny, nearly imperceptible movements. “You want to talk about Ansel.”

  “Yes.”

  “No,” she said flatly. “I want to talk about you.”

  My own eyes narrowed. “I don’t.”

  She didn’t respond right away, still staring intently as if searching for . . . what? The right words? Lou had never cared for the right words before. Indeed, she reveled in saying the wrong ones. If I was honest with myself, I reveled in hearing them. “Let’s have another game of questions, then,” she said abruptly.

  “What?”

  “Like in the patisserie.” She nodded quickly, almost to herself, before facing me at last. She tilted her head. “You didn’t eat your sticky bun.”

  I blinked at her. “What?”

  “Your sticky bun. You didn’t eat it.”

  “Yes, I heard you. I just—” Shaking my head, I tried again, bewildered. “I don’t have your sweet tooth.”

  “Hmm.” She licked her lips salaciously. When her arm snaked behind me along the pew, I resisted the urge to lean forward. When her fingers threaded through my hair, however, I couldn’t resist. She followed like a plague. “Venison is delicious too. Salty. Tender. At least,” she added with a knowing smile, “if you eat it directly.” I stared at her in confusion. Then horror. She meant if you ate it raw. “Otherwise rigor mortis toughens the meat. You have to hang the animal for a fortnight to break down the connective tissue. Makes it hard to avoid the flies, of course.”

  “When the hell have you eaten raw deer?” I asked incredulously.

  Her eyes seemed to glow at the expletive, and she hummed with excitement, leaning toward me. “You should try it. You might like it.” Then— “But I suppose a huntsman would have no need to skin a deer in his ivory tower. Tell me, have you ever suffered hunger?”

  “Yes.”

  “Real hunger, I mean. Have you ever suffered cold? The kind that freezes your insides and leaves you like ice?”

  Despite the hostility of her words, her voice held no contempt. Only curiosity. Genuine curiosity. She rocked back and forth, unable to keep still, as she watched me. I glared back at her. “You know I have.”

  She cocked her head. “Do I?” After pursing her lips, she nodded once more. “I do. Yes, of course. The Hollow. Dreadfully cold, wasn’t it?” Her index and middle fingers walked up my leg. “And you’re hungry even now, aren’t you?”

  She giggled when I returned her hand to her lap.

  “What”—I cleared my throat—“is your next question?”

  I could humor her. I could play this game. If it meant breaking through to her, if it meant unraveling what had . . . changed in her, I would sit here all night. I would help her. I would. Because if this truly was grief, she needed to talk about it. We needed to talk about it. Another stab of guilt shot through me when I glanced down at her hands. She’d clasped them together tightly.

  I should’ve been holding those hands. I couldn’t force myself to do it.

  “Oooh, questions, questions.” She brought her interlaced knuckles to her lips, musing. “If you could be anyone else, who would you be?” Another grin. “Whose skin would you wear?”

  “I—” I glanced at Beau without thinking. She didn’t miss the movement. “I wouldn’t want to be anyone else.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Defensive, I asked, “Who would you be?”

  She lowered her hands to her chest. With her fingers still laced together, she could’ve been praying. Except for the calculated gleam in her eyes, her fiendish smile. “I can be whoever I want to be.”

  I cleared my throat, fought to ignore the hair lifting on my neck. Lost. “How do you know about cauchemars? I’ve studied the occult my entire life, and I’ve never heard of such a creature.”

  “You’ve extinguished the occult. I’ve lived with it.” She cocked her head. The movement sent a fresh shiver down my spine. “I am it. We learn more in the shadows than we ever do in the sun.” When I didn’t answer, she asked abruptly, simply, “How would you choose to die?”

  Ah. I eyed her knowingly. Here we go. “If I could choose . . . I suppose I’d want to die of old age. Fat and happy. Surrounded by loved ones.”

  “You wouldn’t choose to die in battle?”

  A startled breath. A sickening thud. A scarlet halo. I pushed my last memory of Ansel aside, looking her squarely in the eye. “I wouldn’t choose that death for anyone. Not even myself. Not anymore.”

  “He chose it.”

  Though my heart twisted—though even his name brought uncomfortable pressure to my eyes—I inclined my head. “He did. And I’ll honor him for it every day of my life—that he chose to help you, to fight with you. That he chose to face Morgane with you. He was the best of us.” Her smile finally slipped, and I reached out to grip her hand. Despite its icy temperature, I didn’t let go. “But you shouldn’t feel guilty. Ansel made the decision for himself—not for you or for me, but for him. Now,” I said firmly before she could interrupt, “it’s your turn. Answer the question.”

  Her face remained inscrutable. Blank. “I don’t want to die.”

  I rubbed her frigid hand between my own, trying to warm it. “I know. But if you had to choose—”

  “I would choose not to die,” she said.

  “Everyone dies, Lou,” I said gently.

  She leaned closer at my expression, running her hand up my chest. In my ear, she whispered, “Says who, Reid?” She cupped my cheek, and for just a second, I lost myself in her voice. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend a different Lou held me this way. I could pretend this icy touch belonged to another—to a foul-mouthed thief, a heathen, a witch. I could pretend her breath smelled of cinnamon, and her hair flowed long and brown down her shoulders. Could pretend this was all part of an elaborate joke. An inappropriate joke. She would’ve laughed and flicked my nose at this point. Told me I needed to loosen up. Instead, her lips hovered over mine. “Who says we have to die?”

  Swallowing hard, I opened my eyes, and the spell broke.

  My Name Is Legion

  Lou

  There are very few advantages to losing possession of one’s body—or rather, losing awareness of one’s body. With no eyes to see and no ears to hear, no legs to walk and no teeth to eat, I pass my time floating in darkness. Except . . . can one even float without a body? Or am I merely existing? And this darkness isn’t quite darkness, is it? Which means—

  Oh god. I’m now existing inside Nicholina le Clair.

  No. She is existing inside me, the body-snatching bitch.

  Hopefully I’m on my monthly bleed. She’d deserve it.

  Though I wait for her response, impatient, no ghostly chuckle answers my provocation, so I try again. Louder this time. Shouting my thoughts—can one have thoughts without a brain?—into the abyss. I know you can hear me. I hope my uterus is rioting against you.

  The darkness seems to shift in reply, but still she says nothing.

  Forcing myself to concentrate, I push against her oppressive presence. It doesn’t budge. I try again, harder this time. Nothing. I don’t know how long I push. I don’t know how much time has passed since I regained consciousness. Time has no meaning here. At this rate, I’ll reclaim my body in approximately three hundred year
s, waking in a grave as more dust than skeleton. At least my mother can’t kill a skeleton. At least they don’t have uteruses.

  I think I’m going mad.

  With one last vicious shove, I resist a fit of rage. Emotions seem . . . different in this place. They run wild and unchecked without a body to cage them, and sometimes, in moments like these, I feel myself—whatever form I’ve now taken—slip into them, unadulterated. As if I become the emotion.

  Reid would hate it here.

  The thought of him lances through my consciousness, and a new emotion threatens to consume me. Melancholy.

  Has he noticed I’m not myself? Has anyone? Do they realize what’s happened to me?

  I refocus on Nicholina, on the darkness, before the melancholy swallows me whole. It does little good to dwell on such things, yet debilitating cold creeps through the mist, my subconscious, at another unwelcome thought: how could they have noticed? Even before La Voisin and Nicholina betrayed us, I wasn’t myself. I still feel those splintered edges, those fissures in my spirit I broke willingly.

  One bites deeper than the rest. An open wound.

  I shy away from it instinctively, though it pulses with whiskey-colored eyes and curling lashes and soft, lyrical laughter. It aches with a lanky arm around my shoulders, a warm hand in my own. It throbs with empathy, with a feigned accent and a stolen bottle of wine, with shy blushes and not-quite birthdays. It burns with the sort of loyalty that no longer exists in this world.

  He didn’t make it to seventeen.

  Ansel sacrificed everything, cracked me wide open, and I allowed Nicholina to slither into that crack. That’s how I repaid him—by losing myself entirely. Self-loathing churns, black and noxious, in the pit of my consciousness. He deserved better. He deserved more.

  I would give it to him. As God or the Goddess or just the dark of my fucking soul as witness, I would give it to him. I would ensure he didn’t die in vain. In response, an unfamiliar voice startles me by murmuring, Oh, bravo.

  The inky mist contracts with my fright, but I push against it viciously, searching for the new presence. This isn’t Nicholina. This certainly isn’t me. And that means . . . someone else is here.