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

Jean Luc seized her shoulders then, his eyes bloodshot and pleading. “I love you, Célie, but please—shut up.”

“Hear, hear,” Beau said, lifting his shoe.

Though she narrowed her eyes at each of them, it was Coco who interrupted, her voice rising to a shout. “What’s that?” She grinned wider at our collective wince. Each word was a spike through my eyes. “You can’t hear us? Célie, darling, we must speak up for them.”

Célie grinned now too. “Of course, Cosette. How abominably rude of us! Shall I repeat everything I’ve just said?”

“I think that would be the courteous thing to do.”

“You’re right. It would be. What I said was—”

“Please—” Beau turned helplessly to Lou, who sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, folding her soiled clothes and replacing them in her pack. My stomach twisted anew at the sight of her. Fresh bile rose in my throat. She hadn’t acknowledged anyone this morning. Including me. I could’ve been sick from shame alone—from the memory of her skin, soft and sweet. Its scent haunted me still.

I’d dared her to kiss me.

Stalking to the washbowl to splash my face, I swallowed acid.

When she didn’t answer, Beau tapped her shoulder, and she looked up with a vacant expression. Her face wan. Her freckles stark. “Can you force them to shut up somehow?” he asked her. “Perhaps solder their vocal cords?”

Lou lifted a hand to her ears, pulling a small piece of fabric from each of them. “What’s that?”

We all stared at her.

Earplugs. She’d made earplugs from a piece of the innkeeper’s quilt. Beau snatched them from her with an air of reverence, stuffing them into his own ears. “You’re an evil genius.”

But Lou didn’t laugh. She only blinked. Her eyes focused on the room slowly, as if she’d been lost in thought. She still held an undergarment in one hand when she asked, “Should we send word to Claud somehow? About Morgane?” The hateful woman’s words echoed between us: The time is now. The trees have mobilized, and we shall follow, striking hard and true while the conclave deliberates. “We should really warn Blaise too, and both should know about Isla. We can coordinate some sort of defense—”

I couldn’t prevent a scoff. “You think mermaids and werewolves can coordinate anything?”

Her gaze sharpened abruptly. “I think every plan we’ve ever coordinated has been complete and utter shit and ended in total disaster.”

“We need them,” Coco agreed firmly, cinching her bag and standing. “I’ll send word to them from the beach.” She paused. “After Isla agrees to help us.”

As one, we all looked to the ring on Lou’s finger. She twisted it nervously. “Do you think we can trust her?” Her eyes met Coco’s across the room. “Can we trust your mother?”

“We held up our end of the agreement.” Coco shrugged. “And the waters prevent falsehood.”

“Right.” Lou continued twisting the ring. Twisting and twisting and twisting. “And—what’s the conclave? What are they deliberating?”

It was Jean Luc who answered. “Religious leaders from throughout the kingdom have gathered in Cesarine to elect a new Archbishop. They’re also”—he cleared his throat, abruptly busy with his satchel—“they’re eliciting information from Madame Labelle.”

The word fell heavy with meaning.

“Eliciting,” Lou repeated.

Jean Luc still wouldn’t look at her. “Hellfire continues to ravage the city.”

“What does eliciting mean?” Coco asked him, undeterred.

“You know what it means.”

They all stared at me in the ensuing silence. Heat prickled my neck. My face. “I don’t care.”

Lou pushed to her feet. “She’s your mother.”

“I said I don’t care.” With a snarl, I pivoted to return to the horses—regretting my decision to rejoin the group, to rejoin her—but Célie pointed to my bag with a frown.

“Erm . . . Reid? Your satchel is moving.”

My satchel is . . . Her words pierced my thoughts a second too late. I glanced down.

Then I threw my bag across the room.

Something within it shrieked as it hit the wall. Seeds and clothing and weapons spilled forth, along with what looked like a pastry and a—and a rat. Célie screamed and leapt atop the bed. Beau joined her. Lou, however, swooped to seize the pastry as the rat bolted through a crack in the wall. She held it up between two fingers. “Is this what I think it is?”

“How should I know?” Furious, I swept the seeds back into their pouch. Jean Luc handed me my shirt. My pants. I stuffed them away without ceremony. Then I snatched the pastry from her. “Whatever it is, it’s mine.”

“This is a sticky bun.” She didn’t let go. “Have you had this with you the entire time?”

The bun tore between our fingers. “I don’t remember.”

“Do you remember buying it?”

“No.”

“Clearly you bought it for me, then. It’s mine.”

“It isn’t yours—”

Célie cleared her throat as we continued to grapple over the admittedly stale pastry. “A rat was just eating that, correct?”