Gods & Monsters (Serpent & Dove #3) by Shelby Mahurin

My eyes slid to Reid.

Well. I wanted little part of it.

We ate in silence until none of the stew remained. Then a light knock sounded on the door.

“Captain Toussaint?” a thin, unfamiliar voice asked. Jean Luc’s eyes flew wide, and he wheeled to face us, mouthing, The innkeeper. “My humblest apologies, but might I enter for just a moment? My wife scolded me for my appalling lack of manners below, and she’s quite right. I have a bottle of whiskey as recompense—we distill it here with my brother’s own wheat”—his voice rose with pride—“and I’d be delighted to pour you a drink personally.”

“Er—” Jean Luc cleared his throat. “Just—just leave it at the door.”

It sounded like a question.

“Oh.” It was a gift of this innkeeper, surely, to pack so much disappointment into one small word. “Oh, well, yes. Quite right. How rude of me. It is very late, of course, and I’m sure you need your rest. My humblest apologies,” he said again. The bottle plunked against the door. “Good night, then, Captain.”

His footsteps didn’t recede. I could almost picture him hovering in the corridor beyond, perhaps leaning an ear against the wood, hoping the great captain would pity him and change his mind. Reid and I exchanged an anxious glance.

As if on cue, Jean Luc groaned quietly. “Er—Monsieur Laurent?” He shot us an apologetic look before hastily stacking our bowls and chucking them behind the washbasin. My eyes narrowed in disbelief. Surely he couldn’t mean to—? “I’d love a drink. Please, come in.”

Reid, Beau, and I could do nothing but scramble for hiding places, except the room held very little. As the smallest of the three, I dove beneath the bed. As the stupidest, Beau crouched behind the dressing table in plain sight. And Reid, unable to find another spot—not at all small but perhaps stupider than even Beau—rolled under the bed after me, snaking an arm around my waist to prevent me from spilling out the other side. The movement squashed my face against his chest, and I reared back, clutching his collar furiously. What the hell is wrong with you?

He rolled to his back, glaring at me, as Monsieur Laurent strode into the room.

“Oh, you can’t imagine how pleased Madame Laurent will be, Captain, to know you’re tasting our whiskey. She’ll be ever so pleased. Thank you, thank you.”

Reid’s enormous body blocked my view of the room, so slowly, carefully, I leaned over his chest, peering out from across his shoulder. He held very still. He might’ve even stopped breathing.

Monsieur Laurent was a tall, reedy fellow in his nightclothes and slippers, and he fussed with two tumblers at the dressing table. Jean Luc shifted covertly to hide Beau. “I am honored to taste it, monsieur. Thank you again for providing us lodging at such an untimely hour. My companion sleeps in the next room,” he added, accepting the proffered glass of amber liquid. He sipped it quickly.

“I must say”—Monsieur Laurent sampled his own glass, leaning against the table with the air of a man getting comfortable—“I was quite shocked to see you on my doorstep, Captain.” He chuckled. “Well, I don’t have to tell you, do I? Apologies again for the less than warm welcome. One can never be too safe these days. The witches are getting bolder, and they’re thick in these parts. You should hear the ghastly sounds of the forest at night.” Shuddering, he readjusted his nightcap, revealing a high, balding forehead. Despite his casual tone, beads of nervous sweat gleamed there. He feared Jean Luc. No—my eyes narrowed shrewdly—he feared Jean’s blue coat. “Anyway, I assumed most Chasseurs would be in Cesarine with the conclave.” He took another hearty drink of whiskey. “I assume you heard news of the trials?”

Jean Luc—who, to my knowledge, hadn’t heard news of any such thing—nodded and emptied his glass. “I’m forbidden to speak on such matters.”

“Ah, of course, of course. Very good of you, sir.” When Monsieur Laurent moved to refill his glass, Jean Luc shook his head, and the innkeeper’s expression fell. He recovered from his disappointment almost immediately, however, perhaps a touch relieved, and downed the rest of his whiskey in a single swallow. “I shall leave you to it, then. Please accept the bottle as a mark of our thanks—it isn’t every day one houses a hero. We are honored, sir, just honored, to have you here.”

Reid lay so still and so tense he might’ve grown roots beneath this bed. Jaw clenched, he glared at the slats overhead without blinking as Monsieur Laurent showed himself from the room, and Jean Luc closed the door once more. The key clicked in the lock.

Reid didn’t move for a second, clearly grappling with his desire to flee from me and his desire to hide from Jean Luc forever. I studied his rigid profile in the backlight. I supposed it . . . hurt. To hear Monsieur Laurent’s reverence for the person he used to be, the person he could never be again. Jean Luc held that honor now, though truthfully, if he kept hiding witches under his bed, that privilege wouldn’t be his for much longer either. Unable to help it, I brushed a lock of copper hair from Reid’s forehead. “He doesn’t know.”

“Who doesn’t know what?” he snapped.

“The innkeeper. He doesn’t know who he has here.” When he shook his head, disgusted—at me, at himself, at the entire situation—I said firmly, “He doesn’t know what heroism means.”