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

Philippe bristled, squaring his shoulders. Glancing around at the conclave’s hard, impassive faces. “It’s a witch, Father. Surely no precaution is too great.”

“Are you saying you know better than the priests in our infirmary?”

Philippe’s face paled. “I—”

“Now, now.” The man beside us rose to his feet as well, standing nearly as tall and broad as me. Despite his silver hair—thick and shining as a younger man’s—he radiated youth and vitality. Golden skin. Classic features. Some might’ve even considered him handsome. In his pale blue eyes, however, malice glittered. God had created him as Achille’s opposite in every way. “Let us not rush to condemn Chasseur Brisbois for protecting us against the Devil’s mistress, whose very power lay within her deceit.” He arched a thick brow. “Though I must rebuke the blood he spilled upon our podium.”

Philippe hastily bent his head. “My apologies, Father Gaspard.”

Father Gaspard. My mind quickly filled the gap. Father Gaspard Fosse. I recognized the name from my time spent north in Amandine. There, he’d cultivated the largest parish in the kingdom outside of Cesarine, creating a name for himself in the process. The Archbishop hadn’t cared for his ambition, his guile. His clever tongue. I’d adopted the Archbishop’s opinion at the time. I’d disliked Father Gaspard on principle. But now—having met the man myself—I realized the Archbishop had spoken truth. At least in this instance.

Father Gaspard wasn’t a holy man.

I frowned at my own abrupt conclusion. What had I seen to form such an assumption? He’d defended a Chasseur from open criticism. He’d grown his parish. Both should’ve been admirable behaviors, biblical ones, but they weren’t. They weren’t, and I didn’t understand—not him, not the Church, not this growing heat in my chest or this pricking sensation along my skin. Like it’d grown several sizes too small.

“You are forgiven, child,” he said, despite Philippe’s gray-streaked beard. “All is forgiven in pursuit of our noble cause. The Father knows your heart. In violence against these creatures, he compels your hand.”

Gaspard ambled down the steps toward Philippe. Slowly. Almost leisurely. Sleek and proud and superior. Father Achille might’ve rolled his eyes. Regardless, he hobbled down his own stairs, following Gaspard’s lead across the chamber. The two met on either side of the podium. Of my mother.

Achille stepped in front of her. His robes shielded her comatose body. “He never compels our hands to violence.”

“Stand down, old man.” Though murmured, Gaspard’s voice still reverberated through the quiet room. One could’ve heard a pin drop. “We are here to burn the witch, not coddle it.”

My cheeks flushed with anger, with inexplicable hurt. But I shouldn’t have been agitated, I shouldn’t have been hurt, and I definitely shouldn’t have felt concern for the witch below. As with Célie and Gaspard, however, I couldn’t explain my own decisions.

I didn’t love her anymore.

I didn’t like Father Gaspard.

And I didn’t want my mother—a witch—to suffer. I didn’t want her to burn.

Sick shame washed through me at the last, and I sank onto the nearest bench. Desperate to regain my composure. When Lou followed, touching a hand to my back, I forced myself to count to three, to five, to ten. Anything to focus my turbulent thoughts. I knew what I should do. I pictured it clearly—unsheathing my knife to lop off her hand. To plunge it into her heart.

Equally clear, I pulled her close and buried my nose in her neck. I tasted her scar. I spread her legs across my lap, and I touched her gently, touched her not gently, touched her any way she wanted. When her lips parted, I stole my name from them, and I kept it forever—not a scream of pain, but a cry of longing.

This is how you touch a woman. This is how you touch me.

Pain cleaved my skull in two at the stark imagery, and I pitched forward, seizing my head. Expelling the hateful words. The hateful voice. As they scattered and drifted, the pain receded, but my shame fanned hotter than before. Intolerable. I moved to fling her hand away from me. I stopped at the last moment.

When she leaned over my shoulder, her hair tickled my cheek. “Reid?”

“No decision has been made,” Achille growled.

Gaspard smiled. A cat with a juicy secret. “Of course it has. I cannot blame you for this ignorance, of course, as your idealism has hardened many against you. They dare not speak freely in your presence for fear of censure.” When Achille didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply—not a frown, not even a blink—he continued, “By all means, however, let us wait for His Majesty to tally the vote. He arrives at any moment.” He leaned forward to whisper something in Achille’s ear then. A real whisper, this time. Not a feigned one. Stiffening, Achille muttered something back. As if given permission, the conclave broke into low conversation of their own, all waiting for my father to arrive.

Lou sat beside me. “They won’t really burn her. Don’t worry.”

Her thigh pressed into my own. I forced myself to scoot away. “They will.”

Coco grimaced and slid beside Lou, bouncing her own leg in agitation. “Unfortunately, I think he’s right. Auguste will probably burn her with the Hellfire out of spite.”