Serpent & Dove

There were witches everywhere.

My breath caught as they swept me into the snowy courtyard. It was almost too crowded to walk. Everywhere I turned, I bumped into someone. There were hags and babies and women of every age, shape, and color—all bright-eyed with excitement. All flushed. All laughing. All praising the pagan goddess.

A dark-haired woman ran up to me through the crowd, standing on tiptoe to press a kiss to my cheek. “Merry meet!” She giggled before disappearing into the crowd once more.

A decrepit old witch with a basket of evergreens came next. I eyed her suspiciously, remembering the hag from the market, but she only placed a juniper crown on my head and croaked a blessing from the goddess. Little girls ran shrieking past my legs in a wild game of tag. Feet bare and faces dirty. Ribbons in their hair.

It was madness.

Elaina and Elinor—who had abandoned Ansel after realizing Elodie had traded up—pulled me in opposite directions, each determined to introduce me to every person they’d ever known. I didn’t bother remembering their names. A month ago, I would’ve wanted them all dead. Now, a hollow sort of pit opened up in my stomach as I greeted them. These women—with their pretty smiles and shining faces—wanted Lou dead. They were here to celebrate Lou’s death.

The revelry soon became intolerable. As did the undiluted stench of magic, stronger here than anywhere I’d ever encountered it.

I tugged away from Elaina with a strained smile. “I need the washroom.”

Though my eyes roamed for Madame Labelle, I had no idea what face she’d taken—or if she’d even gotten inside.

“You can’t!” Elaina clutched me tighter. The sun had sunk below the castle, lengthening the shadows in the courtyard. “The feast is about to start!”

Sure enough, the witches began moving toward the doors as if answering a silent call. Perhaps they were. If I concentrated hard enough, I could almost feel the faint whispering of it across my skin. I shuddered.

“Of course,” I ground out as she tugged me forward. “I can wait.”

Ansel and Beau stuck close to me. Coco had been dragged away as soon as we crossed the bridge, and I hadn’t seen her since. Her absence made me uneasy.

Beau elbowed a plump witch aside to keep up. “Will our Lady be attending the feast?”

“Excuse you.” She nearly leveled him in retaliation, and he skidded into me before righting himself.

“Good Lord.” He eyed the witch’s broad back as she shoved through a set of stone doors. Above them, an elaborate depiction of the waxing, full, and waning moons had been carved.

“I think you have the wrong deity,” I muttered.

“Are you coming or not?” Elinor yanked me past the carving, and I had little choice but to follow.

The hall was vast and ancient—larger than even the sanctuary in Saint-Cécile—with vaulted ceilings and giant beams covered in snow and foliage, as if the courtyard had somehow spilled inside. Vines crept in from the arched windows. Ice glittered on the walls. Long wooden tables ran the length of the floor, overflowing with moss and flickering candles. Thousands of them. They cast a soft glow on the witches who lingered nearby. No one had yet seated themselves. All watched the far side of the room with rapt attention. I followed their gazes. The very air around us seemed to still.

There, on a throne of saplings, sat Morgane le Blanc.

And beside her—eyes closed and limbs dangling—floated Lou.

My breath left in a painful whoosh as I stared at her. Only a fortnight had passed, yet she appeared skeletal and sickly. Her wild hair had been trimmed and neatly braided, and her freckles had disappeared. Her skin—once golden—now appeared white. Ashen.

Morgane had suspended her in midair on her back, with her body bowed nearly in two. Her toes and fingertips just brushed the dais floor. Her head lolled back, forcing her long, slender throat to extend for the entire room to see. Displaying her scar prominently.

Rage unlike anything I’d ever felt exploded through me.

They were making a mockery of her.

Of my wife.

Two sets of hands gripped the back of my coat, but they weren’t necessary. I stood with preternatural stillness, eyes locked on Lou’s inert form.

Elinor stood on tiptoes to get a better look. She giggled behind her hand. “She’s not as pretty as I remember.”

Elaina sighed. “But look how slender she is.”

I turned to look at them. Slowly. The hands at my back tightened.

“Easy,” Beau breathed at my shoulder. “Not yet.”

I forced a deep breath. Not yet, I repeated to myself.

Not yet not yet not yet.

“What’s the matter with you three?” Elaina’s voice rang unnaturally loud in the hush of the room. Shrill and unpleasant.

Before we could answer, Morgane rose from her seat. The murmured conversation in the room died instantly. She smiled down at us with the air of a mother beholding her favorite child.

“Sisters!” She lifted her hands in supplication. “Blessed be!”

“Blessed be!” the witches hailed back in unison. A rapturous joy lit their faces. Alarm tempered my rage. Where was Madame Labelle?

Morgane took a step down the dais. I watched helplessly as Lou floated along behind her. “Blessed be thy feet,” Morgane cried, “which have brought thee in these ways!”

“Blessed be!” The witches clapped their hands and stomped their feet in wild abandon. Dread snaked down my spine as I watched them.

Morgane took another step. “Blessed be thy knees, that shall kneel at the sacred altar!”

“Blessed be!” Tears ran down the plump witch’s face. Beau watched her in fascination, but she didn’t notice. No one did.

Another step. “Blessed be thy womb, without which we would not be!”

“Blessed be!”

Morgane had fully descended now. “Blessed be thy breasts, formed in beauty!”

“Blessed be!”

She stretched her arms wide and threw her head back, chest heaving. “And blessed be thy lips, that shalt utter the Sacred Names of the gods!”

The witches’ cries rose to a tumult. “Blessed be!”

Morgane lowered her arms, still breathing heavily, and the witches gradually quieted.

“Welcome, sisters, and merry Modraniht!” Her indulgent smile returned as she stepped to the head of the middle table. “Draw near to me, please, and eat and drink your fill! For tonight we celebrate!”

The witches cheered once more, and they scrambled for the chairs nearest her.

“Consorts can’t sit at the tables,” Elaina called hastily over her shoulder. She rushed after her sister. “Va-t’en! Go stand by the wall with the others!”

Relief surged through me. We quickly joined the other consorts at the back wall.

Beau directed us toward one of the windows. “Here. I’m getting a headache from all the incense.”

The position offered an unimpeded view of Morgane. With a lazy wave of her hand, she called forth the food. Soon sounds of clinking cutlery joined the laughter echoing through the hall. A consort beside us turned and said in awe, “She is almost too beautiful to look upon, La Dame des Sorcières.”

“So don’t look at her,” I snapped.

The girl blinked, startled, before shuffling away.

I turned my attention back to Morgane. She looked nothing like the drawings in Chasseur Tower. The woman was beautiful, yes, but also cold and cruel—like ice. She had none of Lou’s warmth in her. She had none of Lou in her at all. The two were night and day—winter and summer—and yet . . . there was something similar in their expression. In the set of their jaw. Something determined. Both confident in their ability to bend the world to their will.

But that was how Lou used to look. Now, she floated near Morgane as if sleeping. A witch stood by her side. Tall and ebony-skinned. Sprigs of holly braided through her black hair.

“A poor witch’s Cosette,” a voice murmured beside me. Coco. She watched Lou and the ebony witch with an unfathomable expression.

A small hand touched my arm through the window. I spun swiftly.

“Don’t turn around!”

I stopped moving abruptly, but not before glimpsing strawberry blond hair and Madame Labelle’s alarmingly familiar blue eyes.

“You look the same.” I attempted to move my lips as little as possible. Coco and I inched back until we were pressed against the windowsill. Ansel and Beau fell in on either side of us, completely blocking Madame Labelle from view. “Why aren’t you disguised? Where have you been?”

She huffed irritably. “Even my power has its limits. Between casting the protective enchantment on our camp and transforming all your faces—as well as maintaining those transformations—I’m spent. I could barely manage lightening my hair, which means I can’t come inside. I’m too recognizable.”

“What are you talking about?” Coco hissed. “Lou never had to maintain patterns in the infirmary. She just—I don’t know—did them.”

“Did you want me to alter your face permanently, then?” Madame Labelle skewered her with a glare. “By all means, it would be much easier for me to be done with it and have you all remain lecherous little cretins forever—”

Heat crept up my throat. “Lou practiced magic in the church?”

“So what’s the plan?” Ansel whispered hastily.

I forced myself to refocus on the tables. The meal was quickly coming to an end. Music drifted in from somewhere outside. Already some had risen from their chairs to retrieve their consorts. Elaina and Elinor would soon be upon me.

“The plan is to wait for my signal,” Madame Labelle said tersely. “I’ve made arrangements.”

“What?” I resisted the urge to turn around and throttle her. Now was not the time or place for vague and unhelpful instructions. Now was the time for conciseness. For action. “What arrangements? What signal?”

“There’s no time to explain, but you’ll know when you see it. They’re waiting outside—”

“Who?”

I stopped talking abruptly as Elinor bounded up to us.

“Ha!” she cried, triumphant. Her breath smelled sweet with wine. Her cheeks flushed pink. “I beat her here! That means I get first dance!”

I dug in my feet as she pulled me away, but when I glanced back over my shoulder, Madame Labelle had gone.

I spun Elinor around the clearing without seeing her. It’d taken a quarter of an hour to trek to this unnatural place, hidden deep within the shadow of the mountain. The same thick mist from La Forêt des Yeux clung to the ground here. It swirled around our legs as we danced, matching the lilting melody. I could almost see the spirits of witches long dead dancing within it.

The ruins of a temple—pale, crumbling—opened up to the night sky in the middle of the clearing. Morgane sat there with a still unconscious Lou, overseeing minor sacrifices. A stone altar rose from the ground beside them. It shone pristine in the moonlight.

My mind and body warred. The former screamed to wait for Madame Labelle. The latter itched to throw itself between Lou and Morgane. I couldn’t stand to look upon her lifeless body any longer. To watch her drift along as if she were already a spirit of the mist.

And Morgane—never before had I longed to kill a witch as I did now, to plunge a knife into her throat and sever her pale head from her body. I didn’t need my Balisarda to kill her. She would bleed without it.

Not yet. Wait for the signal.

If only Madame Labelle had told us what the signal was.

The music played endlessly, but there were no musicians in sight. Elinor grudgingly passed me to Elaina, and I lost track of time. Lost track of everything but the panicked beat of my heart, the cold night air on my skin. How much longer would Madame Labelle expect me to wait? Where was she? Who was she expecting?

Too many questions and not enough answers. And still no sign of Madame Labelle.

Panic rapidly gave way to despair as the last sheep was slain, and the witches began presenting other tokens to Morgane. Wooden carvings. Bundled herbs. Hematite jewelry.

Morgane watched them place each gift at her feet without a word. She stroked Lou’s hair absently as the ebony witch approached from within the temple. I couldn’t hear their murmured conversation, but Morgane’s face lit up at whatever the witch said. I watched the witch return to the temple with a sense of foreboding.

If it made Morgane happy, it couldn’t be good for us.

Elaina and Elinor soon left me to add their gifts to the pile. I craned my neck to search for anything amiss, anything that might be construed as a signal, but there was nothing.

Ansel and Coco sidled up beside me, their distress nearly palpable. “We can’t wait much longer,” Ansel breathed. “It’s almost midnight.”

I nodded, remembering Morgane’s wicked smile. Something was coming. We couldn’t afford to wait any longer. Whether Madame Labelle gave the signal or not, the time had come to act. I looked to Coco. “We need a distraction. Something to draw Morgane’s attention away from Lou.”

“Something like a blood witch?” she asked, grim.

Ansel opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. “It’ll be dangerous.”

She slit her wrist with a flick of her thumb. Dark blood welled, and a sharp, bitter stench pierced the cloying air. “Don’t worry about me.” She turned and wove through the mist out of sight.

I checked the bandolier of knives beneath my coat as inconspicuously as possible. “Ansel . . . before we do this . . . I—I just want to say that I’m”—I broke off, swallowing hard—“I’m sorry. About before. In the Tower. I shouldn’t have touched you.”

He blinked in surprise. “It’s fine, Reid. You were upset—”

“It’s not fine.” I coughed awkwardly, unable to meet his eyes. “Er, what weapons do you have?”

Before he could answer, the music stopped abruptly, and the clearing plunged into silence. Every eye turned to the temple. I watched in horror as Morgane stood, eyes shining with malicious intent.

This was it. We really were out of time.

I followed the witches as they moved closer, moths drawn to the flame. Gripping a knife under my coat, I maneuvered to the front of the crowd. Ansel shadowed my movements, and Beau soon joined him.

Good. They could protect each other. Though if I failed, they were as good as dead anyway.

Morgane was the target.

A blade in the chest would distract her just as well as Coco could. If I was lucky, it would kill her. If I wasn’t, it would at least buy enough time to grab Lou and run. I prayed the others would be able to slip away undetected.

“Many of you have traveled long and far to pay homage on this Modraniht.” Morgane’s voice was soft, but it carried clearly across the silence of the glade. The witches waited with bated breath. “I am honored by your presence. I am humbled by your gifts. Your revelry tonight has restored my spirit.” She searched each face carefully, her eyes seeming to linger on mine before continuing on. I released a slow breath.

“But you know this night is more than revelry,” she continued, voice softer still. “This is a night to honor our matriarchs. It is a night to worship and pay tribute to the Goddess—she who brings light and darkness, she who breathes life and death. She who is the one true Mother of us all.” Another pause, this one longer and more pronounced. “Our Mother is angry.” The anguish on her face had even me nearly convinced. “Suffering has plagued her children at the hand of man. We have been hunted.” Her voice rose steadily. “We have burned. We have lost sister and mother and daughter to their hatred and fear.”

The witches stirred restlessly. I gripped my knife tighter.

“Tonight,” she cried passionately, lifting her arms to the heavens, “the Goddess will answer our prayers!”

Then she brought them slashing down, and Lou—still floating, still insentient—tipped forward. Her feet dangled uselessly above the temple floor. “With my daughter’s sacrifice, the Goddess shall end our oppression!” Her hands clenched, and Lou’s head snapped upright. Nausea rolled in my gut. “In her death, we shall forge new life!”

The witches stomped and shouted.

“But first,” she crooned, barely audible. “A gift for my daughter.”

And with one last flick of her hand, Lou’s eyes finally opened.

I hesitated just long enough to see those blue-green eyes—beautiful, alive—widen in shock. Then I lunged forward.

Ansel grabbed my arms with surprising strength. “Reid.”

I faltered at his tone. In the next second, I understood: the ebony witch had reappeared, and now she dragged a second woman—limp and immobilized—out of the temple. A woman with strawberry blond hair and piercing blue eyes that searched the crowd desperately.

I stopped dead, stricken. Unable to move.

My mother.

“Behold this woman!” Morgane shouted over the sudden din of voices. “Behold the treacherous Helene!” She grabbed Madame Labelle by the hair and threw her down the temple steps. “This woman—once our sister, once my heart—conspires with the human king. She birthed his bastard child.” Shrieks of outrage rent the air. “Tonight, she was found attempting to force entry on the Chateau. She plots to steal our Mother’s precious gift by taking my daughter’s life herself. She would have us all burn under the tyrant king!”

The cries reached a deafening pitch, and Morgane’s eyes shone with triumph as she descended the steps. As she drew a wickedly sharp dagger from her belt. “Louise le Blanc, daughter and heir to La Dame des Sorcières, I shall honor you with her death.”

“No!” Lou’s body spasmed as she fought to move with her entire being. Tears poured down Madame Labelle’s cheeks.

I tore viciously from Ansel’s grasp and lunged forward, diving for the temple steps—desperate to reach them, desperate to save the two women I needed most—just as Morgane plunged the dagger into my mother’s chest.