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

Voice raw with unshed emotion, Coco whispered, “If Josephine dies, you will too.”

Her words sank like bricks in my stomach.

Abruptly, Angelica turned, her knife a blur as she slashed the nightshade from coiling around Coco’s neck. I gasped, Reid startled, and Coco leapt to her feet with a small shriek. None of us had noticed its creeping tendrils, the fruits of Angelica’s grief and anger. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “We must all play our parts.”

Coco stared at her.

I crossed the circle to squeeze Coco’s hand. “Does this mean Isla won’t join us?”

Angelica’s hand closed around her ring. “Isla is many things.” Brushing past us, she glided toward the waters. Her chairs of vine withered as Reid joined us, and her aconite flowers blackened to wisps of ash. “But she is not a liar. You returned my ring, and you bested Morgane. You have proven yourself a worthy ally, Louise. Though she cannot directly intervene in the events to come, she allows her melusines to choose for themselves whether to walk by your side in Cesarine. She allows me to choose.”

“Will they?” I asked.

“Will you?” Coco asked at the same time.

She inclined her head. “I will lead the willing to Cesarine myself in three days’ time.”

“What’s in three days?” Reid said, his voice strained.

Angelica merely continued toward the waters, which remained calm and still. At their edge, she drew to a graceful halt, clasping her hands at her waist. “The Oracle offers a final gift.” When three iron chalices materialized before us, dread bloomed in my belly. Reid’s brows dipped low, and he knelt swiftly to examine one. “Drink of the waters,” Angelica said, “and you shall see.”





Holy Men


Reid

The iron chalice felt familiar in my hand as I lifted it to my lips. Too familiar. Like I’d descended a flight of stairs but missed the bottom step. The second the ice water touched my tongue, an invisible force sucked me forward, and I tipped straight over the horizon.

The next second, I resurfaced in the cathedral’s formal courtroom. The hard benches and wood-paneled walls I recognized immediately. The honeyed notes in the air. Beeswax candles. They cast the room in flickering light, as curtains had been drawn over its pointed stained-glass windows. I’d guarded those vaulted doors—behind the podium, behind the Archbishop—at least a dozen times while the guilty had awaited verdict. We hadn’t committed many inside these halls. King Auguste and his guard had dealt with common criminals, while witches themselves hadn’t been afforded trial at all. No, those who testified here had been charged with the crimes in between: conspiracy, aiding and abetting the occult, even attempted witchcraft. In my years with the Chasseurs, only a rare few had openly sympathized with witches. Some had been tempted by power. Others beguiled by beauty. Still others had sought magic for themselves.

To the last man and woman, all had burned.

I swallowed hard as Lou and Coco landed beside me.

Stumbling slightly, Coco knocked into the silver-haired man beside us. He didn’t acknowledge her. Indeed, when her shoulder passed through his arm, incorporeal, I frowned. They couldn’t see us, then. “Pardon her, sir,” I murmured, testing another theory. He didn’t respond.

“They can’t hear us either.” Contrary to her words, Lou spoke in a whisper. Her eyes fixed on something in the center of the chamber. I turned. Blanched. Scowling and fierce, Philippe—once a comrade in arms—dragged my mother to the podium. She’d been gagged and bound. Blood, both crusted black and fresh scarlet, stained the entirety of her gown, and her body hung limp. Drugged. Her eyes fluttered between sleep and wakefulness.

“Oh my god.” Coco lifted a hand to her mouth in horror. “Oh my god.”

Philippe didn’t bother to unbind her hands. He simply nailed her ear to the podium. Shrieking, she lurched awake, but the movement only exacerbated her position, tearing the cartilage. Her screams soon morphed to sobs at Philippe’s laughter. Under the drug’s influence, she couldn’t support herself, and when she sank to the floor, her ear tore free completely.

Red washed over my vision. I started forward before I could stop myself, halting only when another man rose across the chamber. As with the iron chalice, I recognized his face—grizzled beard, gaunt cheeks, stormy eyes—though it took me several seconds to place him.

“Was that necessary, huntsman?” His hard voice cut sharp through the din of the room. At once, every other voice fell silent. Every eye turned to him. His attention didn’t waver from Philippe, however. “If I’m not mistaken, this woman has been incapacitated with hemlock, per healers’ guidance. She poses no threat in her current condition. Surely such additional measures are cruel and unusual?” Though he posed the last as a question, no one mistook it as such. The censure in his tone rang clear.

And that was when I placed him—standing between pews, holding a pot of stew in his gnarled hands. Most in the Church wouldn’t welcome their own mother if she was a sinner.

Achille Altier.

Gone was the stooped, cantankerous old man from the graveyard parish, however. He’d combed and oiled his beard. Trimmed it neatly. His robes, too, shone resplendent even in the semidarkness. More so, he held himself differently—straighter, taller—and commanded the room with an ease I envied.