God, no.

Madame Labelle waved a hand toward the eavesdropping men nearest us. “This is a private conversation, dears. I hope you understand.”

Magic—the normal, cloying kind—burst through the air, and their bloodshot eyes glazed over. They turned their attention back to the dancing girls, who now wore equally vacant expressions.

Coco leapt forward, pointing at her in accusation. “You knew about Morgane. You warned Lou. You’re a witch.”

Madame Labelle winked.

I looked between them in confusion, nostrils burning. Mind reeling. Witch? But Madame Labelle wasn’t a—

Realization rushed in, and hot blood rose to my face.

Fuck.

I was so stupid. So blind. My fists clenched as I pushed to my feet. Madame Labelle’s taunting smile faltered, and even Coco shrank back at the fury in my eyes.

Of course Madame Labelle was a witch.

And Mademoiselle Perrot was Coco.

And Coco was a witch. But not just any witch—a Dame Rouge. An entirely new species of witch, who practiced in blood.

And my wife—the fucking love of my life—was the daughter of La Dame des Sorcières. The heiress of Chateau le Blanc. The goddamned princess of the witches.

And everyone had known. Everyone except me. Even fucking Ansel.

It was too much.

Something snapped inside me. Something permanent. In that second, I was no longer the Chasseur—if I’d ever been a Chasseur in the first place.

Unsheathing my Balisarda, I watched with vindictive pleasure as the others eyed me. Wary. Afraid. The harpist in the corner stopped playing. She stared blankly at the floor, her mouth gaping open. The silence grew eerie—waiting.

“Sit,” I said softly, flicking my gaze to Madame Labelle and Coco. When neither of them moved, I took a step closer. Beau’s hand closed around Coco’s wrist. He tugged her down beside him.

But Madame Labelle remained standing. I turned my dagger to her. “Lou is gone.” I moved the blade—slowly, pointedly—from her face to the empty chair. “Morgane le Blanc took her. Why?”

Her eyes narrowed, flicking to the misshapen black symbols on the table. “If Morgane has indeed taken her—”

“Why?”

I inched the blade closer to her nose, and she frowned. “Please, Captain, this is no way to behave. I will tell you anything you wish to know.”

Reluctantly, I lowered the knife as she dropped to a chair. My blood grew hotter with each tic of my jaw.

“Such an unfortunate turn of events.” She glared up at me, smoothing her skirt in agitation. “I assume the witches revealed your wife’s true identity. Louise le Blanc. The only child of La Dame des Sorcières.”

I nodded stiffly.

Ansel cleared his throat before Madame Labelle could continue. “Begging your pardon, madame, but why have we never heard of Louise le Blanc before now?”

She cast him an appraising look. “Dear boy, Louise was Morgane’s most jealously guarded secret. Even some of the witches didn’t know of her existence.”

“Then how did you?” Coco countered.

“I have many spies at the Chateau.”

“You aren’t welcome there yourself?”

“I’m as welcome there as you are, my dear.”

“Why?” I asked.

She ignored me. Her gaze fell instead to Beau. “What do you know of your father, Your Highness?”

He leaned back and arched a dark brow. Thus far, he’d observed the proceedings with cool detachment, but Madame Labelle’s question seemed to catch him by surprise. “The same as everyone else, I suppose.”

“Which is?”

He shrugged. Rolled his eyes. “He’s a notorious whoremonger. Despises his wife. Funds the toe-rag Archbishop’s crusade against these magnificent creatures.” He stroked Coco’s spine appreciatively. “He’s devilishly handsome, shit at politics, and a piss poor father. Should I go on . . . ? I fail to see how any of this is relevant.”

“You would do well not to speak of him so.” Her lips pursed angrily. “He’s your father—and a good man.”

Beau snorted. “You’re certainly the first to think so.”

She sniffed and smoothed her skirts again. Obviously still displeased. “It hardly matters. This is bigger than your father—though it will certainly end with him, if Morgane has her way.”

“Explain,” I growled.

She shot me an irritated look, but continued anyway. “This war is hundreds of years in the making. It’s older than all of you. Older than me. Older than even Morgane. It started with a witch named Angelica and a holy man named Constantin.”

A holy man named Constantin. She couldn’t mean the man who’d forged the Sword of Balisarda. The saint.

“Lou told me this story!” Coco leaned forward, her eyes bright. “Angelica fell in love with him, but he died, and her tears made L’Eau Mélancolique.”

“Half right, I’m afraid. Shall I tell you the true tale?” She paused, glancing up at me. Expectant. “I assure you we have time.”

With a growl of impatience, I sat. “You have two minutes.”

Madame Labelle nodded approvingly. “It’s not a very pretty story. Angelica did indeed fall in love with Constantin—a knight from a neighboring land—but she dared not tell him what she was. Her people lived in harmony with his, and she did not wish to upset the delicate balance between kingdoms. As so often happens, however, she soon longed for him to know her entirely. She told him of her people’s magic, of their connection with the land, and at first, Constantin and his kingdom accepted her. They cherished her and her people—Les Dames Blanches, they called them. The White Ladies. Pure and bright. And as the purest and brightest of all, Angelica became the first Dame des Sorcières.”

Her eyes darkened. “But as time passed, Constantin came to resent his lover’s magic. He grew jealous and fitful with rage that he too did not possess it. He tried to take it from her. When he couldn’t, he took the land instead. His soldiers marched on Belterra and slaughtered her people. But the magic didn’t work for him and his brethren. Try as they might, they could not possess it—not as the witches did. Driven mad with desire, he eventually died by his own hand.”

Her gaze found Coco’s, and she smiled, small and grim. “Angelica wept her sea of tears and followed him into the afterlife. But his brethren lived on. They drove the witches into hiding and claimed the land—and its magic—for their own.

“You know the rest of the story. The blood feud rages to this day. Each side bitter—each side vindicated. Constantin’s descendants continue to control this land, despite renouncing magic for religion years ago. With each new Dame des Sorcières, the witches attempt to marshal their forces, and with each attempt, the witches fail. Aside from being woefully outnumbered, my sisters cannot hope to defeat both the monarchy and the Church in combat—not with your Balisardas. But Morgane is different than those before her. She is more clever. Cunning.”

“Sounds like Lou,” Coco mused.

“Lou is nothing like that woman,” I snarled.

Beau sat forward and glared around the table. “Forgive me, all, but I don’t give a shit about Lou—or Morgane or Angelica or Constantin. Tell me about my father.”