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

Lou glanced at me in alarm, eyes wide. “What do we do?”

“Nothing.” When she arched a brow, unimpressed, I scowled and added, “There’s nothing we can do. Even if I wanted to help her—which I don’t—there isn’t time. My mother is a witch, and she’ll burn for her sins.”

“You are a witch,” Lou snapped. “And even if you weren’t, you’ve conspired with us plenty.” She ticked off my crimes on her fingers, each a knife coated in poison. “You’ve married a witch”—I didn’t remember—“slept with a witch”—I wished I did—“hidden and protected a witch, multiple times”—I closed my eyes, innards clenching—“and best yet: you’ve murdered for a witch. Four of us, to be precise.” My eyes snapped open as she rotated a finger between the three of us. Then jabbed it toward the chamber floor. “And the most important of those is bleeding out on the carpet right now. Because of you, might I add. She sacrificed herself for you. Her son. Whom she loves.”

Most in the Church wouldn’t welcome their own mother if she was a sinner.

But I wasn’t a holy man either.

I clenched my fists and looked away. “I can’t do magic.”

“You can.” Voice conversational, Coco examined a scar on her wrist. “And many times, you practiced when Lou wasn’t directly involved, which means you’re choosing to forget.” When I opened my mouth to answer, to snarl, she merely flicked a finger at me. “Shut up. I’m not interested in excuses. Isla gifted us this vision, so we need to pay attention. We’re here for a reason.”

I glared at her as she glared at me. Crossing her arms, Lou exhaled hard through her nose. Still angry. We had that in common too, apparently. After a moment, she asked, “What does Madame Labelle have to do with electing a new Archbishop?”

“They’re using her indictment as their own sort of tribunal.” I shouldn’t have explained anything to her. I couldn’t stop. Jerking my chin toward Achille and Gaspard, I added, “Those two are positioning themselves for the title.”

Coco grimaced and scanned the chamber. Presumably for whatever Isla had wanted us to find. “Achille had better win.”

Lou glanced between us. “Do you know him?”

“He was the priest in Fée Tombe. He recognized us from the wanted posters, yet he still sheltered us for the night, even fed us his breakfast. He didn’t like Beau much,” Coco added, as if this were another mark in the man’s favor. “He’ll make the first decent Archbishop that Belterra has ever seen.”

“He won’t.” To prove my point, I gestured to the men clustered directly below us. They’d pressed their heads together to whisper. Necks tense. Voices strained. Lou and Coco exchanged a glance before leaning toward them to listen.

“. . . not doing himself any favors,” the balding one hissed. “Not with his history.”

“What history?” his younger, equally bald companion asked.

The third—also bald, but with a long beard—shook his head. “I suppose you wouldn’t know, would you, Emile? It happened before you were born.”

“This isn’t his first campaign.” The balding one sneered down at Achille with unaccountable hostility. “Achille lobbied alongside Florin for support during the last conclave, but he rescinded his candidacy at the last moment.”

“Never gave an explanation,” the bearded one added. “Just relegated himself to that dismal little parish up north.”

“Old Florin took the title, and no one heard from Achille for nearly thirty years—until now.”

A knock sounded on the vaulted doors, and the men paused, watching as Philippe slipped into the hall, closing them behind. The balding man snorted and resumed his malicious gossip. “I heard his brother fell in with a witch. I can’t remember his name.”

“Audric,” the bearded one supplied, his expression thoughtful. Unlike his peer, he seemed less inclined to loathe Achille. He peered down at the man in question almost curiously. “My father said Achille helped the whole family slip past the border.”

The younger’s lip curled. “I didn’t know he sympathized with witches.”

“How could you not?” The balding man pointed to where Achille still shielded my mother. “He stands no chance of procuring the vote. Not with the way he carries on—all this talk of peace and civility with the creatures of this kingdom. The conclave will never appoint him. Clearly, his seclusion has altered his senses.”

Lou scoffed with unexpected vehemence. “Do you think he’d feel it if I cut out his tongue?”

Unable to remain still, I stalked down the steps toward my mother. “You will not touch them.”

“Why?” She hurried to trail after me. “He’s clearly a bastard—”

The vaulted doors burst open before she could finish.

Clad in a cape made of lion’s fur—the mane draped across his shoulders—my father strode inside the courtroom. Philippe and three huntsmen I didn’t recognize accompanied him. As one, the entire congregation rose and bowed at his arrival. Every man. Even Achille. My stomach turned as I lurched to a halt by the podium.

He’d threatened torture the last time I saw him. Threatened rats. Immediately, my gaze dropped to my mother, who lay very still. Though her dress had once been emerald green, I couldn’t now place its color—an unpleasant shade of brown, perhaps. I knelt to examine her stomach. When her eyes fluttered at the movement, I froze.