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

“Yes, yes, bonjour.” Auguste waved an agitated hand. He offered no smiles today. No empty platitudes. I surveyed him with mounting hatred. His hair remained immaculate, of course, but shadows deepened his eyes. His fingers trembled inexplicably. He hid them in his cape. “I cannot stay long. Though this damned fire has abated slightly”—several around the room stared at the expletive, but Auguste didn’t apologize—“the healers at last believe they’ve discovered the solution: a rare plant in La Fôret des Yeux.” Sweeping forward, he motioned for Achille to move away from my mother. “Let us be done with this.”

Coco snorted and muttered, “There is no solution, fruit or otherwise.”

I frowned. “How do you know?”

“Because the fire stemmed from my grief.” Expression solemn, she met my eyes directly. “And there is no solution for grief. Only time. The fire might abate, yes, but it will never truly die.”

Lou nodded in agreement, staring at my mother, and my mother—I swore she stared back. Crouching beside her, Lou laid a hand on her arm as Auguste continued his tirade.

“We all know the crimes of the creature.” Pointing, he sneered at her soiled form. “From its own lips, it admitted its guilt. It is a witch. A powerful one. It promised to douse this lake of black fire in exchange for its life, but God has found our cure. The healers have already begun testing. By the end of the week, they promise an extinguishant to the Hellfire, and at such time, this witch shall burn for her sins.”

This witch. The words shouldn’t have chafed. She was a witch. But she was also my mother and his former lover. He’d laid with her. He’d even loved her once, if she were to be believed. She’d certainly loved him. Now her stomach bled from rat bites, and she lifted a ruined hand to Lou’s cheek. Lou tried and failed to hold it, her own hand passing through without purchase.

Only then did I grasp the rest of his words: by the end of the week. My heart sank like a stone. She would burn by the end of the week. Too soon for us to reach her. Much too soon.

Several in the audience applauded the king’s outburst—including the balding man—but only Achille made a noise of protest. “Your Majesty, there are protocols in place. Without an Archbishop elect, the conclave must cast an official vote—”

“Ah.” Auguste’s nose crinkled as he turned. “You again, Father . . . ?”

“Achille, Your Majesty. Achille Altier.”

“Achille Altier, you do realize the support of the Crown is necessary to obtain bishopric?”

“Preferable. Not necessary.”

Auguste arched a brow, scrutinizing him with new eyes. “Is that so?”

“Please, Achille,” Gaspard interrupted smoothly. “His Majesty’s word is divine. If he proclaims the witch shall burn, the witch shall burn.”

“If his word is divine,” Achille grumbled, “he should have no qualms putting the matter to vote. The outcome will comply.”

“Something ought to.” Auguste glared at him before lifting his arms to address the room at large, his voice curt and impatient. Out of bounds. “You heard the man. Your Father Achille would like a vote, and a vote he shall have. All those in favor of burning the witch, raise your hand.”

“Wait!” Achille lifted his own arms, eyes widening in panic. “The witch could still prove valuable! The healers have not yet perfected their extinguishant—if it fails, if we burn this woman, what hope have we of dousing the fire?” He spoke to Auguste alone now. “Her knowledge has proved valuable to the healers. I can bring in another to testify.”

August spoke through his teeth. “That will not be necessary. This conclave has heard enough of your ludicrous ramblings.”

“With all due respect, Your Majesty, the pursuit of knowledge isn’t ludicrous. Not when a woman’s life is in jeopardy—”

“Careful, Father, lest I deem it heretical instead.”

Achille’s mouth snapped shut in response, disappearing into his beard, and Auguste addressed the congregation once more. “Let us try this again, shall we? All those in favor of burning the witch?”

Every hand in the courtroom rose. Every hand but one. Though Achille watched his peers decide my mother’s fate with an inscrutable expression, he kept both hands fixed at his sides. Firm. Implacable. Even under the king’s baleful gaze. “It seems you have been outvoted,” Auguste sneered. “My word is divine.”

“We’ll rescue you,” Lou whispered furiously to Madame Labelle. “I don’t know how, but we will. I promise.”

Madame Labelle might’ve shaken her head.

“Why wait until week’s end?” Achille’s voice shook with restraint. “You’ve made our decision. Why not burn the witch now?”

Auguste chuckled and clapped a threatening hand on Achille’s shoulder. “Because she is only the bait, you foolish man. We have much bigger fish to catch.” To Philippe, he said, “Spread word far and wide throughout the kingdom, Captain. Madame Helene Labelle will burn”—he cast a pointed look at Achille now—“and any who object will meet the same fate.”

Achille bowed stiffly. “You must follow your conscience, Your Majesty. I must follow mine.”

“See that your conscience leads you outside the cathedral in three days’ time. At sunset, you shall light her pyre.” With that, he strode through the vaulted doors once more, and the courtroom vanished into smoke.