The Pattern

Reid

“NO!” I fell to my knees before her body, jerking the dagger from her chest, fingers moving to stanch the bleeding. But I already knew it was too late. I was too late. There was too much blood for this wound to be anything but fatal. I stopped my frenzied ministrations and clutched her hands instead. Her eyes never left my face. We each stared at the other hungrily—as if in that brief moment, a thousand other moments might’ve happened.

Her holding a chubby finger. Her tending a scraped knee. Her laughing when I first kissed Célie, telling me I hadn’t done it right.

Then the moment ended. The cold tingle of her magic left my face. Her breath faltered, and her eyes closed.

A blade touched my throat.

“Rise,” Morgane commanded.

I exploded upward, catching her wrist and shattering it with ease—with savage pleasure. She screeched, dropping the dagger, but I didn’t stop. I bore down on her. My free hand wrapped around her throat—squeezing until I could feel her windpipe give, kicking the dagger down the steps toward Ansel—

Her other hand blasted into my stomach—stunning me—and invisible bonds cinched around my body, pinned my arms to my sides. My legs went rigid. She struck me again, and I toppled over, thrashing against the bonds. The harder I struggled, the tighter they became. They bit into my skin, drawing blood—

“Mother, stop!” Lou spasmed again, shuddering with the effort to reach me, but her body remained suspended. “Don’t hurt him!”

Morgane didn’t listen. She appeared to be feeling for something in empty air. Her eyes darted outward as she tracked whatever it was into the crowd. With a vicious tug, two familiar people staggered forward. My heart dropped. Morgane pulled harder, and Ansel and Beau fell at the temple steps, struggling against invisible bonds of their own. Their faces had returned to normal.

“Her coconspirators!” A mad gleam entered Morgane’s eyes, and the witches went wild with bloodlust—stamping their feet and screaming—as they struggled to converge on the temple. Magic shot past my face. Ansel cried out as a spell slashed his cheek. “The king’s sons and huntsmen! They shall bear witness to our triumph! They shall watch as we rid this world of the House of Lyon!”

She jerked her uninjured hand, and Lou slammed onto the altar. The witches screamed their approval. I threw myself forward. Rolled and clawed and twisted toward Lou with every ounce of the strength I had left. The bonds around me strained.

“Nature demands balance!” Morgane swooped to retrieve the dagger from the steps. When she spoke again, her voice had deepened to an unearthly timbre, multiplied as if thousands of witches were speaking through her. “Louise le Blanc, thy blood is the price.” Enchantment washed over the temple, burning my nose and clouding my mind. I gritted my teeth. Forced myself to see through it—to see through her.

Beau immediately slackened. His eyes glazed as Morgane’s skin began to glow. Ansel alone struggled on, but his resolve quickly faltered.

“Let it fill the cup of Lyon, for whosoever drinketh of it shalt surely die.” Morgane walked to Lou slowly, her hair billowing around her in a nonexistent wind. “And so the prophecy foretold: the lamb shalt devour the lion.”

She forced Lou to her stomach. Ripped her braid back to extend her throat over the altar basin. Lou’s eyes sought mine. “I love you,” she whispered. No tears marred her beautiful face. “I will remember you.”

“Lou—” It was a desperate, strangled sound. A plea and a prayer. I tore violently at my bonds. Sharp pain lanced through my body as one arm snapped free. I flung it outward, mere inches from the altar, but it wasn’t enough. I watched—as if in slow motion—as Morgane raised the dagger high. It still gleamed with my mother’s blood.

Lou closed her eyes.

No.

A terrible shriek sounded, and Coco leapt for Morgane’s throat.

Her knife sank deep into the tender flesh between Morgane’s neck and shoulder. Morgane screamed, attempting to pry her away, but Coco held on, pushing the blade deeper. She fought to bring Morgane’s blood to her lips. Morgane’s eyes widened in realization—and panic.

A full second passed before I realized the bonds holding me had flickered out at Coco’s assault. I bolted to my feet and closed the distance to Lou in a single stride.

“No!” she cried when I made to pick her up. “Help Coco! Help her!”

Whatever happens, you get Lou out.

“Lou—” I said through clenched teeth, but a high-pitched scream silenced my argument. I spun just as Coco collapsed to the floor. She didn’t get back up.

“Coco!” Lou screamed.

Chaos erupted. The witches surged forward, but Ansel rose up to meet them—a lone figure against hundreds. To my dismay, Beau followed him—but he didn’t brandish a weapon. Instead, he shucked off his coat and boots, searching the crowd wildly. When his eyes landed on the plump witch from the hall, he pointed and bellowed, “BIG TITTY LIDDY!”

Her eyes widened as he kicked off his pants and began singing at the top of his lungs, “‘BIG TITTY LIDDY WAS NOT VERY PRETTY, BUT HER BOSOM WAS BIG AS A BARN.’”

The witches nearest him—Elinor and Elaina among them—stopped dead in their tracks. Bewilderment tempered their rage as Beau slipped his shirt over his head and continued singing, “‘HER CREAMERY KNOCKERS DROVE MEN OFF THEIR ROCKERS, BUT SHE WAS BLIND TO THEIR CHARM.’”

Morgane bared her teeth and whirled toward him, blood flowing freely down her shoulder. It was all the distraction I needed. Before she could lift her hands, I was upon her. I pressed my knife to her throat.

“Reid!” It was the voice I least expected, the only voice in the world that could’ve made me hesitate in that moment. But hesitate I did.

It was the voice of the Archbishop.

Morgane made to turn, but I dug the blade in deeper. “Move your hands. I dare you.”

“I should’ve drowned you in the sea,” she snarled, but her hands stilled regardless.

Slowly, carefully, I turned. The ebony witch had returned, and an incapacitated Archbishop floated before her. His eyes were wild—with panic and something else. Something urgent. “Reid.” His chest heaved. “Don’t listen to them. Whatever happens, whatever they say—”

The ebony witch snarled, and his words ended in a scream.

My hand slipped, and Morgane hissed as blood trickled down her throat. The ebony witch stepped closer. “Let her go, or he dies.”

“Manon,” Lou pleaded. “Don’t do this. Please—”

“Be quiet, Lou.” Her eyes glowed manic and crazed—beyond reason. The Archbishop continued screaming. The veins beneath his skin blackened, as did his nails and tongue. I stared at him in horror.

I didn’t see Morgane’s hands move until they grasped my wrists. White-hot heat melted my skin, and my knife clattered to the floor.

Faster than I could react, she scooped it up and dove toward Lou.

“NO!” The shout tore from my throat—feral, desperate—but she had already thrust the knife upward and slashed, tearing Lou’s throat open completely.

I stopped breathing. A horrible roaring filled my ears, and I was falling—a great, yawning chasm opening as Lou gasped and choked, her lifeblood pouring into the basin. She thrashed, finally free of whatever had been holding her—still fighting, even as she struggled to breathe—but her body stilled quickly. Her eyes fluttered once . . . then closed.