Serpent & Dove

I woke with a cool cloth on my forehead. Blinking reluctantly, I allowed my eyes to acclimate to the semidarkness. Moonlight bathed the room in silver, illuminating a hunched figure in the chair beside my bed. Though the moon bleached his coppery hair, there was no mistaking him.

Reid.

His forehead rested against the edge of the mattress, not quite touching my hip. His fingers lay inches from my own. My heart contracted painfully. He must’ve been holding my hand before he’d fallen asleep.

I didn’t know how I felt about that.

Touching his hair tentatively, I fought the despair in my chest. He’d burned Estelle. No—I had burned Estelle. I’d known what he would do if I waited for him to wake in that alley. I’d known he would kill her.

That’s what I’d wanted.

I withdrew my hand, disgusted with myself. Disgusted with Reid. For just a moment, I’d forgotten why I was here. Who I was. Who he was.

A witch and a witch hunter bound in holy matrimony. There was only one way such a story could end—a stake and a match. I cursed myself for being so stupid—for allowing myself to get too close.

A hand touched my arm. I turned to find Reid staring at me. Stubble shadowed his jaw, and dark circles colored his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in a long time.

“You’re awake,” he breathed.

“Yes.”

He sighed in relief and closed his eyes, squeezing my hand. “Thank God.”

After a second of hesitation, I returned the pressure. “What happened?”

“You collapsed.” He swallowed hard and opened his eyes. They were pained. “Ansel went running for Mademoiselle Perrot. He didn’t know what to do. He said—he said you were screaming. He couldn’t get you to stop. Mademoiselle Perrot couldn’t calm you either.” He stroked my palm absently, staring at it without truly seeing it.

“When I arrived, you were . . . sick. Really sick. You screamed when they touched you. You only stopped when I—” He cleared his throat and looked away, throat bobbing. “Then you—you went still. We thought you might be dead. But you weren’t.”

I stared at his hand in mine. “No, I’m not.”

“I’ve been feeding you ice chips, and maids have been changing the bedsheets hourly to keep you comfortable.”

At his words, I noticed the dampness of my nightgown and sheets. My skin, too, felt sticky with sweat. I must’ve looked like hell. “How long was I out?”

“Three days.”

I groaned and sat up, rubbing my clammy face. “Shit.”

“Has this ever happened before?” He searched my face as I threw off the blankets and shivered from the cold night air.

“Of course not.” Though I tried to remain civil, the words came out sharp, and his expression hardened.

“Ansel thinks the burning did it. He said he told you not to watch.”

The burning. That’s all it was to Reid. His world hadn’t gone up in flames at that stake. He hadn’t betrayed his people. Anger rekindled in my belly. He probably didn’t even know Estelle’s name.

I headed to the washroom, refusing to meet his eyes. “I rarely do what I’m told.”

My anger burned hotter when Reid followed. “Why? Why watch when it upset you so?”

I turned the tap and watched the steaming water fill the tub. “Because we killed her. It was the least we could do to watch it happen. She deserved as much.”

“Ansel said you were crying.”

“I was.”

“It was a witch, Lou.”

“She,” I snarled, whirling on him. “She was a witch—and a person. Her name was Estelle, and we burned her.”

“Witches aren’t people,” he said impatiently. “That’s a child’s fantasy. They aren’t little fairy creatures who wear flowers and dance under the full moon, either. They’re demons. You’ve seen the infirmary. They’re malevolent. They’ll hurt you if given the chance.” He raked an agitated hand through his hair, glaring at me. “They deserve the stake.”

I clenched my hands on the tub to prevent myself from doing something I’d regret. I wanted—no, needed—to rage at him. I needed to wrap my hands around his throat and shake him—to make him see sense. I was half tempted to slit my arm open again, so he could see the blood that flowed there. The blood that was the same color as his own.

“What if I were a witch, Reid?” I asked softly. “Would the stake be what I deserve?”

I turned off the tap, and absolute silence filled the chamber. I could feel his eyes on my back . . . wary, assessing. “Yes,” he said carefully. “If you were a witch.”

The unspoken question hung in the air between us. I met his eyes over my shoulder, daring him to ask it. Praying he wouldn’t. Praying he would. Unsure of how I would answer if he did.

A long second passed as we stared at each other. Finally, when it became clear he wouldn’t ask—or perhaps couldn’t—I turned back to the water and whispered, “We both deserve the stake for what we did to her.”

He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with the new direction of the conversation. “Lou—”

“Just leave me alone. I need time.”

He didn’t argue, and I didn’t watch him leave. When the door closed, I inched into the hot water. It steamed, nearly boiling, but was still a cool caress compared to the stake. I slipped beneath the surface, remembering the agony of the flames on my skin.

I’d spent years hiding from La Dame des Sorcières. My mother. I’d done terrible things to protect myself, to ensure my survival. Because above all else, that is what I did: I survived.

But at what cost?

I’d reacted instinctively with Estelle. It’d been her life or mine. The way forward had seemed clear. There had been only one choice. But . . . Estelle had been one of my own. A witch. She hadn’t wanted me dead—only to be free of the persecution plaguing our people.

Unfortunately, those two were mutually exclusive now.

I thought of her body, of the wind carrying away her ashes—and all the other ashes that had been carried away over the years.

I thought of Monsieur Bernard, rotting away on a bed upstairs—and all the others who had waited to die in torment.

Witches and people alike. One and the same. All innocent. All guilty.

All dead.

But not me.

When I was sixteen, my mother had tried to sacrifice me—her only child. Even before my conception, Morgane had seen a pattern no other Dame des Sorcières had seen before, had been willing to do what none of her predecessors had ever dreamed: kill her lineage. With my death, the king’s line also would’ve died. All his heirs, legitimate and bastard, would’ve ceased breathing with me. One life to end a hundred years’ worth of persecution. One life to end the Lyons’ reign of tyranny.

But my mother didn’t just want to kill the king. She wanted to hurt him. To destroy him. I could still imagine her pattern at the altar, shimmering around my heart and branching out into the darkness. Toward his children. The witches planned to strike amidst his grief. They planned to eviscerate what remained of the royal family . . . and everyone who followed them.

I broke through the surface of the water, gasping for breath.

All these years, I’ve been lying to myself, convinced I’d fled the altar because I couldn’t take the lives of innocents. Yet here I was with innocent blood on my hands.

I was a coward.

The pain of the realization went beyond my sensitive skin, beyond the agony of the flames. This time, I’d damaged something important. Something irrevocable. It ached deep inside me.

Witch killer.

For the first time in my life, I wondered if I’d made the right choice.

Coco checked on me later that day, her face drawn as she sat beside me on the bed. Ansel became inordinately interested in his coat buttons.

“How are you feeling?” She lifted a hand to stroke my hair. At her touch, all my wretched emotions flooded back to the surface. A tear escaped down my cheek. I wiped it away, scowling.

“Like hell.”

“We thought you were a goner.”

“I wish.”

Her hand stilled. “Don’t say that. You’ve just got a soul ache, that’s all. Nothing a few sticky buns can’t fix.”

My eyes snapped open. “A soul ache?”

“Sort of like a headache or stomachache, but much worse. I used to get them all the time when I lived with my aunt.” She smoothed my hair away from my face and leaned down, brushing another tear from my cheek. “It wasn’t your fault, Lou. You did what you had to.”

I stared at my hands for a long moment. “Why do I feel like such shit about it, then?”

“Because you’re a good person. I know it’s never pretty to take a life, but Estelle forced your hand. No one can blame you for what you did.”

“I’m sure Estelle would feel differently.”

“Estelle made her choice when she put her faith in your mother. She chose wrong. The only thing you can do now is move forward. Isn’t that right?” She nodded to Ansel, who blushed scarlet in the corner. I looked hastily away.

He knew now, of course. He would’ve smelled the magic. Yet here I was . . . alive. More tears pooled in my eyes. Stop it, I chided. Of course he didn’t tell on you. He’s the only decent man in this entire tower. Shame on you for thinking otherwise.

Throat constricting, I toyed with Angelica’s Ring, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

“I have to warn you,” Coco continued, “the kingdom is praising Reid as a hero. This is the first burning in months, and with the current climate, well . . . it’s been a celebration. King Auguste invited Reid to dine with him yesterday, but Reid refused.” At my questioning look, she pursed her lips in disapproval. “He didn’t want to leave you.”

Suddenly much too warm, I kicked my blankets away. “There was nothing heroic about what he did.”

She and Ansel exchanged a glance. “As his wife,” she said carefully, “you’re expected to think otherwise.”

I stared at her.

“Listen, Lou.” She sat back, heaving an impatient sigh. “I’m just looking out for you. People heard your screams during the execution. Many are very interested in why a witch burning sent you into hysterics—including the king. Reid finally accepted his dinner invitation this evening to placate him. You need to be careful. Everyone will be watching you extra closely now.” Her gaze flicked to Ansel. “And you know the stake isn’t just for witches. Witch sympathizers can meet a similar fate.”

My heart sank as I looked between them. “Oh, god. The two of you—”

“The three of us,” Ansel murmured. “You’re forgetting Reid. He’ll burn too.”

“He murdered Estelle.”

Ansel stared down at his boots, swallowing hard. “He believes Estelle was a demon. They all do. He . . . he was trying to protect you, Lou.”

I shook my head, furious tears threatening to spill once more. “But he’s wrong. Not all witches are evil.”

“I know you believe that,” Ansel said softly, “but you can’t force Reid to believe it.” He finally looked up, and his brown eyes held profound sadness—sadness someone his age never should’ve known. “There are some things that can’t be changed with words. Some things have to be seen. They have to be felt.”

He walked to the door but hesitated, looking over his shoulder at me. “I hope you can find your way forward together. He’s a good person, and . . . so are you.”

I watched him go in silence, desperate to ask how—how could a witch and witch hunter find their way forward together? How could I ever trust a man who would have me burned? How could I ever love him?

Ansel had been right about one thing, however. I couldn’t hold Reid fully accountable for what had happened to Estelle. He truly believed witches were evil. It was a part of him as much as his copper hair or towering height.

No, Estelle’s death wasn’t on Reid’s hands.

It was on mine.

Before Reid returned that evening, I crawled out of bed and dragged myself to his desk. My skin itched and burned as I healed—a constant reminder of the flames—but my limbs were a different story. My muscles and bones felt stiffer, heavier, as if they would pull me through the floor if they could. Each step to the desk was a struggle. Sweat beaded along my forehead, matted the hair on my neck.

Coco had said my fever would linger. I hoped it’d break soon.

Collapsing into the chair, I pulled the desk drawer open with the last of my energy. Reid’s faded old Bible still lay inside. With trembling fingers, I opened it and began to read—or tried to read, at least. His cramped handwriting filled every inch of the narrow margins. Though I brought the silk-thin pages clear to my nose, I couldn’t focus on the scripture without my vision swimming.

I tossed it back in the drawer with a disgruntled sigh.

Proving witches weren’t inherently evil might be harder than I anticipated.

Still, I’d formed a plan after Coco and Ansel had left this afternoon. If Ansel could be convinced we weren’t evil, perhaps Reid could too. In order to do that, I needed to understand his ideology. I needed to understand him. Cursing quietly, I rose to my feet once more, steeling myself for the descent into hell.

I’d have to visit the library.

Nearly a half hour later, I pushed open the dungeon door. A welcome draft of cold air swept across my sticky skin, and I sighed in relief. The corridor was quiet. Most of the Chasseurs had retired for the evening, and the rest were busy doing . . . whatever it was they did. Guarding the royal family. Protecting the guilty. Burning the innocent.

When I reached the library, however, the council room door swung open, and the Archbishop strolled out, licking what appeared to be icing from his fingers. In his other hand, he held a half-eaten sticky bun.

Shit. Before I could shove Angelica’s Ring in my mouth to disappear, he turned and spotted me. We both froze with our hands halfway to our mouth—equally absurd—but he recovered first, hiding the sticky bun hastily behind his back. A bit of icing remained on the tip of his nose.

“Louise! What—what are you doing down here?” He shook his head at my bewildered expression, clearing his throat, before rising to his full, inconsiderable height. “This is a restricted area. I must ask you to leave at once.”

“Sorry, I—” With a shake of my own head, I averted my gaze, looking anywhere but his nose. “I wanted to borrow a Bible.”

He stared at me as if I’d sprouted horns—ironic, given my request. “A what?”

“Is that a . . . bun?” I inhaled the cinnamon and vanilla deeply, brushing a strand of sweaty hair from my forehead. Despite the fever, saliva pooled in my mouth. I’d know that smell anywhere. That was my smell. What the hell was he doing with it? It didn’t belong in this dark, dismal place.

“Enough impertinent questions.” He scowled and wiped his fingers on the back of his robes surreptitiously. “If you truly seek to procure a Bible—which I doubt—I shall of course provide you with one, so long as you return to your room directly.” Reluctantly, his eyes assessed my face: the pale skin, the sweaty brow, the shadowed eyes. His expression softened. “You should be in bed, Louise. Your body needs time to—” He shook his head once more, catching himself, as if not quite sure what had gotten into him. I empathized. “Do not move from this spot.”

He pushed past me into the library, returning a moment later. “Here.” He thrust an ancient, dusty tome into my hands. Icing smeared the spine and cover. “Ensure you take care of it properly. This is the word of God.”

I ran my hand over the leather binding, tracing lines through the dust and icing. “Thank you. I’ll return it when I’m finished.”

“No need.” He cleared his throat again, frowning and clasping his hands behind his back. He looked as uncomfortable as I felt. “It is yours. A gift, if you will.”

A gift. The words sent a bolt of displeasure through me, and I was struck by the oddity of this situation. The Archbishop, hiding the icing on his fingers. Me, clutching a Bible to my chest. “Right. Well, I’m going to go—”

“Of course. I, too, must retire—”

We parted ways with equally awkward nods.

Reid opened the bedroom door quietly that night. I shoved the Bible beneath his bed and greeted him with a guilty “Hello!”

“Lou!” He nearly leapt out of his skin. I might’ve even heard him curse. Eyes wide, he tossed his coat on the desk and approached warily. “It’s late. What are you doing awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” My teeth chattered, and I burrowed deeper into the blanket in which I’d cocooned myself.

He touched a hand to my forehead. “You’re burning up. Have you visited the infirmary?”

“Brie said the fever would last a few days.”

When he moved to sit beside me on the bed, I clambered to my feet, abandoning my blanket. My muscles protested the sudden movement, and I winced, shivering. He sighed and stood as well. “I’m sorry. Please, sit. You need to rest.”

“No, I need to get this hair off my neck. It’s driving me mad.” Inexplicably furious, I yanked the offending strands away from my sensitive skin. “But my arms, they’re so . . . heavy . . .” A yawn eclipsed the rest of my words, and my arms drooped. I sank back onto the bed. “I can’t seem to hold them up.”

He chuckled. “Is there something I can do to help?”

“You can braid it.”

The chuckle died abruptly. “You want me to—to what?”

“Braid it. Please.” He stared at me. I stared back. “I can teach you. It’s easy.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Please. I can’t sleep with it touching my skin.”

It was true. Between the scripture, the fever, and the lack of sleep, my mind whirled deliriously. Every brush of hair against my skin was agony—somewhere between cold and pain, tingle and ache.

He swallowed hard and stepped around me. A welcome shiver swept down my back at his presence, his proximity. His heat. He expelled a resigned breath. “Tell me what to do.”

I resisted the urge to lean into him. “Divide it into three sections.”

He hesitated before gently wrapping his hands around my hair. Fresh gooseflesh rose on my arms as he threaded his fingers through the strands. “Now what?”

“Now take an outside section and cross it over the middle section.”

“What?”

“Must I repeat everything?”

“This is impossible,” he muttered, trying and failing to keep the strands separated. He gave up after a few seconds and started over. “Your hair is thicker than a horse’s tail.”

“Hmm.” I yawned again. “Is that a compliment, Chass?”

After several more attempts, he successfully managed the first step. “What’s next?”

“Now do the other side. Cross it over into the middle. Make sure it’s tight.”

He growled low in his throat, and a different sort of chill swept through me. “This looks terrible.”

I let my head fall forward, relishing the feel of his fingers on my neck. My skin didn’t protest as it had earlier. Instead, it seemed to warm under his touch. To melt. My eyes fluttered closed. “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“How did you become captain?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“A few months after I joined the Chasseurs, I found a pack of loup garou outside the city. We killed them.”

Though no witch could ever claim friendliness with a werewolf, my heart contracted painfully at his pragmatism. His tone held no remorse, no emotion whatsoever—a simple statement of fact. As cold, barren, and improbable as a frozen seascape. Jean Luc would’ve called it truth.

Unable to muster the energy to continue the conversation, I sighed heavily, and we lapsed into silence. He braided steadily down my back, his movements quickening as he gained confidence. His fingers were nimble. Skilled. He seemed to sense the tension in my shoulders, however, because his voice was much softer when he asked, “How do I finish it?”

“There’s a leather cord on the nightstand.”

He wrapped the cord around the braid several times before tying it into a neat knot. At least, I assumed it was neat. Every aspect of Reid was precise, certain, every color in its proper place. Undiluted by indecision, he saw the world in black and white, suffering none of the messy, charcoal colors in between. The colors of ash and smoke. Of fear and doubt.

The colors of me.

“Lou, I . . .” He ran his fingers down my braid, and fresh chills washed over my skin. When I finally turned to look at him, he dropped his hand and stepped back, refusing to meet my eyes. “You asked.”

“I know.”

Without another word, he strode into the washroom and closed the door.