Lost in thought—certain I’d missed something—I nearly didn’t notice the dais in the next room, where hundreds of candles illuminated a gilded coffin. Winged angels and horned demons flickered in shadow on the lid, locked in an eternal embrace, while roses and skulls wove together in macabre beauty on each side. It was a masterpiece. A work of art.

Unbidden, I stepped closer, trailing my fingers along the cruel face of an angel. The petals of a rose. The letters of his name.

HIS EMINENCE, FLORIN CARDINAL CLÉMENT, ARCHBISHOP OF BELTERRA

Verily I say unto thee, today shalt thou be with me in Paradise

Florin Clément. I’d laughed at the name once, not knowing it belonged to me. In a different world, I might’ve been Louise Clément, daughter of Florin and Morgane. Perhaps they would’ve loved each other, adored each other, filling our home in East End with sticky buns and potted eucalyptus—and children. Lots and lots of children. An entire house of them, little brothers and sisters with freckles and blue-green eyes. Just like me. I could’ve taught them how to climb trees and braid hair, how to sing off pitch outside our parents’ room at dawn. We could’ve been happy. We could’ve been a family.

Now that—that—would’ve been Paradise.

With a wistful sigh, I lowered my hand and turned away.

It did little good to imagine such a life for myself. My wine had been drawn long ago, and it was not a bouquet of hearth and home, nor friends and family. No, mine smelled of death. Of secrets. Of rot. “Are you in there with him, Célie?” I asked bitterly, mostly to distract myself from such wallowing thoughts. “Seems like the sort of thing Morgane would—” Gasping, I whirled around, eyes wide. “Mirrored grave,” I whispered. An entire house of them, little brothers and sisters with freckles and blue-green eyes. Just like me.

Holy hell.

I knew where she was.

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

A Necessary Evil

Reid

The others’ disappearances became a presence of its own. It hung over us like a rope, tightening with each small noise. When Beau kicked a pebble, Jean Luc tensed. When Coco inhaled too sharply, Blaise growled. He’d half shifted, eyes glowing luminous in the semidarkness, to better scent Lou—and to better fight whatever roamed these tunnels.

“This doesn’t end with Célie and Lou,” Coco had said fiercely when he’d tried to leave, to search for his missing children. Curiously, he hadn’t been able to smell where they’d gone. Where any of them had gone. They’d just . . . vanished. “It ends with Morgane. This has her clawed hands all over it. Wherever she is, Liana and Terrance will be too. Trust me.”

No one voiced what that meant. Everyone knew.

Even a moment spent under Morgane’s mercy was too long. Too late.

“Are her hands clawed?” Beau had muttered a few moments later.

Coco had raised her brows at him. “You were at Modraniht. You saw them.”

“They weren’t clawed.”

“They should’ve been. She should have a wart and a hunchback too, the hackneyed bitch.”

Even Jean Luc cracked a grin. His Balisarda weighed heavy against my chest. At last—when I could stand it no more—I unsheathed it, handing it to him. “Here. Take it.”

His smile slipped, and he missed a step. “Why—why would you give this back to me?”

I curled his fingers around the hilt. “It’s yours. Mine is gone.” When I shrugged, the movement didn’t feel forced. It felt . . . right. Light. A weight lifted from my shoulders. “Perhaps it’s for the best. I’m not a huntsman anymore.”

He stared at me. Then the dam broke. “You’re a witch. You killed the Archbishop with . . . magic.” His voice dripped with accusation. With betrayal. But there, in his eye, was a sliver of hope. He wanted me to deny it. He wanted to blame someone else—anyone else—for what had happened to our forefather. In that sliver, I recognized my old friend. He was still in there. Despite everything, he still wanted to trust me. The thought should’ve warmed me, but it didn’t.

That sliver was a lie.

“Yes.” I watched as his hope shriveled, as he physically recoiled from me. Blaise’s gaze touched my cheek, curious—studying—but I ignored him. “I won’t deny it, and I won’t explain myself. I am a witch, and I killed our forefather. The Archbishop didn’t deserve it, but he also wasn’t the man we thought he was.”

Visibly deflating, he scrubbed a hand down his face.

“Mother of God.” When he looked up again, he met my gaze with not camaraderie, exactly, but a sense of resignation. “Have you known all this time?”

“No.”

“Did you enchant him to receive your position?”

“Of course not.”

“And does it . . . feel different?” At this, he swallowed visibly, but he did not look away. In that small act of defiance, I remembered the boy who’d befriended me, cared for me, the one who’d always pulled me up when I fell. The one who’d punched Julien for calling me trash boy. Before the greed had hardened us to each other. Before the envy.

“I’m not the same person I was, Jean.” The words, so different than before—so true—fell heavy from my lips. Final. “But neither are you. We’ll never be what we were. But here, now, I’m not asking for your friendship. Morgane is near, and together—regardless of our past—we have a real chance to finish her.”

“You thought she’d attack at the funeral. You were wrong.”

Unbidden, more truth spilled forth. I felt lighter with each word. “I thought whatever I needed to think to attend the Archbishop’s funeral.” I hadn’t realized it at the time. Perhaps couldn’t have realized it. And though I’d thought wrong, I didn’t regret it. I couldn’t. He started to argue, but I pushed forward before the next words died in my throat. Forced myself to meet his gaze directly. “Jean. I . . . I never knew about Célie.”

He stiffened.

“If I’d known how you felt, I would’ve . . .” What? Not accepted her love? Not accepted the Archbishop’s? Would I not have fought him in the tournament or taken my oath? Would I have given up my dreams because he wanted them too? “I’m sorry,” I said simply.

And I was. I was sorry life had dealt us the same cards. I was sorry for his pain, for the suffering I’d inadvertently caused him. I couldn’t take it away, but I could acknowledge it. I could open the door for us. I couldn’t, however, force him to step through it.

A tense moment passed before he dipped his chin, but I recognized that nod for what it was—a single step.

Without another word, we continued our search. It took another half hour for Blaise to catch Lou’s scent. “She is close.” He frowned, creeping toward the tunnel ahead. “But there are others. I can hear their heartbeats, their breaths—” He skidded backward abruptly, eyes wide as he turned. “Run.”

Chasseurs rounded the corner.

Balisardas lifted, they recognized me immediately and charged. Phillipe led them. When Jean Luc leapt in front of us, however—shoving me backward, out of their line of fire—they staggered to a halt. “What is this?” Phillipe snarled. He didn’t lower his blade. His eyes fell to Jean Luc’s own Balisarda. “Where did you . . . ?”