Blaise’s teeth flashed as he rose from his chair. “You dare threaten us?”

“Louise . . . ,” Claud said, his voice conciliatory. “What are you doing?”

“They think Reid is dead,” I spat. “They’re debating when they can leave us.”

Though La Voisin chuckled, her eyes remained flat and cold. “Of course they are. At the first sign of trouble, they tuck their tails and flee back to their swamp. They’re cowards. I told you not to trust them, Louise.”

When Liana moved toward the door, I slammed it shut with an easy flick of my wrist. My eyes never left Blaise’s. “You aren’t going anywhere. Not until you bring him back to me.”

Snarling, Blaise’s face began to shift. “You do not control the loup garou, witch. We did not harm you for your mate’s sake. If he dies, so too does our benevolence. Be very careful.”

La Voisin stepped to my side, hands clasped. “Perhaps it is you who should be careful, Blaise. If you invoke the wrath of this witch, you invoke the wrath of us all.” She lifted a hand, and the blood witches stood as one—at least a dozen of them. Four times as many as Blaise, Liana, and Terrance, who edged back-to-back, growling low in their throats. Their fingernails extended to lethal points.

“We will leave here in peace.” Despite his words, Blaise met La Voisin’s gaze in open challenge. “No blood must be drawn.”

“How easily you forget.” La Voisin smiled, and it was a cruel, chilling thing. When she lowered her collar, revealing three jagged scars across her chest—claw marks—the blood witches hummed with anticipation. And so did I. God, so did I. “We like blood. Especially our own.”

Tension in the room taut to explode, they stared at each other.

Ansel started to step between them—Ansel, of all people—but Claud stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Stand down, lad. Before you get hurt.” To La Voisin and Blaise, he said, “Let us not forget the grander purpose here. We have a common enemy. We can all play nice until Monsieur Diggory returns, can’t we?” With a pointed glance first at Blaise, then at me, he added, “Because he will return.”

Not a breath sounded in the long, tense silence that followed. We all waited for someone to move. To strike.

At last, Blaise sighed heavily. “You speak wisdom, Claud Deveraux. We will await Monsieur Diggory’s return. If he does not, my children and I will leave this place—and its inhabitants”—his yellow eyes found mine “—unharmed. You have my word.”

“Ah, excellent—”

But La Voisin only smirked. “Coward.”

That was all it took.

With a snarl, Terrance launched himself at her, but Nicholina appeared, seizing his half-shifted throat and twisting. He yelped, flying through the air, and landed at Blaise’s feet. Liana had already shifted. She tore after Nicholina. Blaise quickly followed, as did Ansel and Claud when they realized the blood witches were after, well—blood. Knives in hand, Ismay and her sisters attacked the wolves’ jugulars, but the wolves moved faster, leaping atop the bar to gain higher ground. Though cornered, though outnumbered, Terrance managed to knock away Ismay’s knife, pinning her beneath his paw. When his other slashed open her face, she screamed. Coco rushed to intervene.

And I . . . I touched a finger to the whiskey on the bar. Just a finger. One simple spark—so similar, yet so different from that pub fire long ago. Had it only been a fortnight?

It felt like years.

The flames chased the whiskey down the bar to where Terrance—

No. Not Terrance. I tilted my head, bemused, as the flames instead found another, climbing up her feet, her legs, her chest. Soon she screamed in terror, in pain—trying desperately to draw blood, to claw magic from her wrists—but I only laughed. I laughed and laughed until my eyes stung and my throat ached, laughed until her voice finally pierced the smoke in my mind. Until I realized to whom that voice belonged.

“Coco,” I breathed.

I stared at her in disbelief, releasing the pattern. The flames died instantly, and she crumpled to the floor. Smoke curled from her clothing, her skin, and she gasped between sobs, struggling to catch her breath. The rest of the room came back in pieces—Ansel’s horrified expression, Terrance’s frantic shout, Ismay’s mad dash to find honey. When I stumbled forward to help her, a hand caught my throat.

“No closer,” La Voisin snarled, her nails biting into my skin.

“Enough, Josephine.” Deveraux loomed over us, graver than I’d ever seen him. “Release her.”

La Voisin’s eyes bulged slightly as she glared at him, but—one by one—her fingers gradually loosened. I sucked in a harsh breath and staggered forward. “Coco.”

But both blood witches and werewolves shielded her as I approached, and I could see little more than her eye above Ansel’s arm. He too had positioned himself between us. My breath caught at the hostility in their gazes. At the fear. “Coco, I’m so sorry—”

She struggled to rise. “I’ll be fine, Lou,” she said weakly.

“It was an accident. You have to believe me.” My voice broke on the last, but my heart—it broke at the tears welling in her eyes as she looked at me. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stem her sobs. “Coco, please. You know I never would’ve—would’ve never intentionally—”

Behind her, Nicholina grinned. Her inflection deepened, changed, as she said, “The Lord doth say, ‘Come, heed him, all. Pride goeth before the fall.’”

The finality of what I’d done cleaved through me, and I heard his voice. Felt his soft touch on my hair.

You haven’t been yourself.

You see what you want to see.

Do you think I want to see you as—

As what? As evil?

Burying my face in my hands, I sank to my knees and wept.

HarperCollins Publishers

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Proper Knights

Reid

A face.

I woke to a face. Though mere inches from my own, I struggled to bring its features into focus. They remained shapeless, dark, as if I stood in heavy fog. But I wasn’t standing. I couldn’t move my limbs. They felt heavier than normal—impossibly heavy and cold. Except my wrists. My wrists burned with black fire.

Eyes closing, opening—lethargic, each blink enormous effort—I tried to lift my head. It slumped uselessly against my shoulder. I thought the shape of lips might’ve moved. Thought a voice might’ve rumbled. I closed my eyes again. Someone pried my jaw apart, forced something bitter down my throat. I vomited instantly.

I vomited until my head pounded. My throat ached.

When something hard struck my face, I spat blood. The taste of copper, of salt, jarred my senses. Blinking faster now, I shook my head to clear it. The room swam. At last, the face before me took shape. Golden hair and gray eyes—like a wolf—with straight nose and chiseled jaw.

“You’re awake,” Auguste said. “Good.”

Beside me, Madame Labelle sat with her wrists bound behind her chair. It forced her shoulders out of socket. Though blood trickled from a puncture at the side of her throat, her eyes remained clear. It was then I noticed the metal syringes in Auguste’s hand. The bloody quills.