I love you, Lou.

You are not my wife.

I turned into the foyer, chest heaving. Past the shattered rose window. Past the witches’ corpses. Past the milling Chasseurs.

God—if he was there, if he was watching—took pity on me when none moved to block my path. The Archbishop was nowhere in sight.

You are not my wife.

You are not my wife.

You are not my wife.

Fleeing through the open doors, I lurched blindly into the street. The sunset shone too bright on my stinging eyes. I stumbled down the church steps, peering around blearily, before starting down the street for Soleil et Lune.

I could make it. I could seek shelter there one last time.

A pale hand snaked out from behind me and wrapped around my neck. I tried to turn, but a third quill stabbed my throat. I struggled weakly—pathetically—against my captor, but the familiar cold was already creeping down my spine. Darkness fell swiftly. My eyelids fluttered as I collapsed forward, but pale, slender arms held me upright.

“Hello, darling,” a familiar voice crooned in my ear. White, moonbeam hair fell across my shoulder. Gold shimmered in my vision, and the scar at my throat puckered in a burst of pain. The beginning of the end. The life pattern reversing.

Never again never again never again.

“It’s time to come home.”

This time, I welcomed oblivion.

Beating a Dead Witch

Reid

“What have you done?”

Ansel’s voice echoed too loudly in the silence of the room—or what was left of it. Holes riddled the walls, and the stench of magic lingered on my furniture. My sheets. My skin. A pool of blood spread from the witch’s throat. I stared at the corpse, hating it. Longing for a match to set it aflame. To burn it—and this room, and this moment—from my memory forever.

I turned away, unwilling to look in its dull eyes. Its lifeless eyes. It looked nothing like the graceful actresses we would burn in the furnace tonight. Nothing like the beautiful, white-haired Morgane le Blanc.

Nothing like her daughter.

I stopped the thought before it took a dangerous direction.

Lou was a witch. A viper. And I was a fool.

“What have you done?” Ansel repeated, voice louder.

“I let her leave.” Legs wooden, uncooperative, I shoved my Balisarda in my bandolier and knelt beside the corpse. Though my body still ached from Lou’s attack, the witch needed to be burned, lest it reanimate. I paused at the edge of blood. Reluctant to touch it. Reluctant to draw near to this thing that had tried to kill Lou.

For as much as I hated to admit it—as much as I cursed her name—a world without Lou was wrong, somehow. Empty.

When I lifted the corpse, its head lolled back grotesquely, throat gaping where Lou had slit it. Blood soaked through the blue wool of my coat.

I’d never hated the color more.

“Why?” Ansel demanded. I ignored him, focusing on the dead weight in my arms. Again, my traitorous mind wandered to Lou. To last night when I’d held her briefly under the stars. She’d been so light. And vulnerable. And funny and beautiful and warm—

Stop.

“She was drugged and obviously injured,” he insisted. I hoisted the corpse higher, ignoring him, and kicked open the splintered door. Exhaustion crashed through me in waves. But he refused to give up. “Why did you let her go?”

Because I couldn’t kill her.

I glared at him. He’d defended her even after she’d revealed her true nature. Even after she’d proved herself a liar and a snake—a Judas. And that meant Ansel had no place among the Chasseurs.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. Lou’s mother is Morgane le Blanc. Didn’t you hear what the witch said about reclaiming their homeland?”

With your sacrifice, we’ll reclaim our homeland. We’ll rule Belterra again.

I can’t allow you to slaughter innocent people.

Yes. I’d heard it.

“Lou can take care of herself.”

Ansel pushed past me and planted his feet in the middle of the corridor. “Morgane is out in the city tonight, and so is Lou. This—this is bigger than us. She needs our help—” I shouldered past him, but he stepped in front of me again and shoved my chest. “Listen to me! Even if you don’t care for Lou anymore—even if you hate her—the witches are planning something, and it involves Lou. I think— Reid, I think they’re going to kill her.”

I pushed his hands away, refusing to hear his words. Refusing to acknowledge the way they made my mind spin, my chest tighten. “No, you listen, Ansel. I’ll only say this once.” I lowered my face slowly, deliberately, until our eyes were level. “Witches. Lie. We can’t believe anything we heard tonight. We can’t trust this witch spoke truth.”

He scowled. “I know what my gut tells me, and it says Lou is in trouble. We have to find her.”

My own gut twisted, but I ignored it. My emotions had betrayed me once. Not this time. Not ever again. I needed to focus on the present—on what I knew—and that was disposing of the witch. The furnace in the dungeon. My brethren downstairs.

I forced one foot in front of the other. “Lou is no longer our responsibility.”

“I thought Chasseurs were bound to protect the innocent and helpless?”

My fingers tightened on the corpse. “Lou is hardly innocent or helpless.”

“She’s not herself right now!” He chased me down the stairwell, nearly tripping and sending us both crashing to the floor. “She’s drugged, and she’s weak!”

I scoffed. Even drugged, even wounded, Lou had impaled the witch like Jael had Sisera.

“You saw her, Reid.” His voice fell to a rough whisper. “She won’t stand a chance if Morgane shows up.”

I cursed Ansel and his bleeding heart.

Because I had seen her. That was the problem. I was doing my best to un-see her, but the memory had been seared into my eyelids. Blood had covered her beautiful face. It’d stained her throat. Her hands. Her dress. Bruises had already formed from the witch’s assault . . . but that wasn’t what haunted me. That wasn’t what cut through the haze of my fury.

No—it had been her eyes.

The light in them had gone out.

The drug, I reassured myself. The drug dimmed them.

But deep down, I knew better. Lou had broken in that moment. My wild-hearted, foul-mouthed, steel-willed heathen had broken. I had broken her.

You are not my wife.

I hated myself for what I’d done to her. I hated myself more for what I still felt for her. She was a witch. A bride of Lucifer. So what did that make me?

“You’re a coward,” Ansel spat.

I lurched to a halt, and he stumbled into me. His anger flickered out at my expression—at the rage coursing through my blood, heating my face.

“By all means, go,” I snarled. “Go after her. Protect her from Morgane le Blanc. Perhaps the witches will let you live with them at the Chateau. You can burn with them too.”

He reared back, stunned. Hurt.

Good. I turned savagely and continued into the foyer. Ansel walked a dangerous line. If the others found out he empathized with a witch . . .

Jean Luc strode through the open doors, carrying a witch over his shoulder. Blood dribbled down the demon’s neck from an injection. Behind him, a dove lay amongst the dead on the cathedral steps. Feathers bloodstained and rumpled. Eyes empty. Unseeing.