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

Part IV




Qui sème le vent, récolte la tempête.

He who sows the wind shall reap the tempest.

—French proverb





What Happiness Looks Like


Lou

Though Angelica and her iron chalices had gone when we resurfaced, Beau, Célie, and Jean Luc floated atop the inlet in a fishing boat. A fishing boat. Célie grinned with palpable excitement from the flybridge, gripping the helm with both hands. Her smile quickly fell at our grim expressions, however, and she called out, “What’s wrong?”

I waited until we’d climbed aboard to answer. “Isla’s gift was shit.”

We wouldn’t be able to reach Cesarine before Madame Labelle burned to ash. When Coco said as much—explaining the conclave’s decision, Father Achille’s involvement, and Auguste’s last words—Beau patted the stern. “This is her gift. Or at least, this is Angelica’s. It’ll get us there in time.” He shrugged and added, “I wouldn’t worry about my father. He has a flair for dramatics, but he knows what he’s doing even less than we do.”

“You didn’t see him.” I wrung out my hair, cursing at the cold. The strands had already started to freeze, and gooseflesh steepled my entire body. “He wasn’t acting. He knows we’ll come to rescue Madame Labelle. He plans to trap us, like he did before.” I glanced around the ramshackle boat. “And this won’t get us to Cesarine anytime soon.”

“It will.” Nudging Célie aside, Beau nodded as Jean Luc dropped the sail, and we slipped through the waters with speed. “I learned to sail when I was three.” He arched a smug brow at Coco, adding, “The admiral of the Royal Navy taught me himself.”

Beside me, Coco rubbed her arms, and Reid clenched every muscle, refusing to shiver despite his lips turning blue. Célie hurried to fetch us blankets in the cabin belowdecks. But blankets wouldn’t help. Not really. Reluctantly, I reached for the white patterns, bracing as they shimmered into existence. I frowned at the sensation—the breadth of possibility still startled, but after a second or two of adjustment, it felt . . . good. Like stretching after sitting too long in one position. More curious still, instead of pulling me toward Chateau le Blanc, the magic seemed to be pulling me toward—

What matters now is whether you—La Dame des Sorcières—still consider this place your home. If not, it stands to reason your magic won’t protect it anymore. It’ll shift to your new home. Wherever that is.

It was too easy to pluck a cord now. A burst of hot air enveloped Reid and Coco—then me—and I watched, bemused, as the snow along the path melted. Warmth for warmth. The white pattern dissipated with it.

“How did you do that?” Coco asked suspiciously.

“I melted the snow.”

“I thought nature demanded sacrifice?” Her eyes narrowed, skimming my face and body for signs of damage. “How is melting snow a sacrifice?”

I shrugged helplessly, struggling to articulate this strange new power even to myself. Morgane had seemed limitless as La Dame des Sorcières, and—at least in this natural way—perhaps she had been. “I am the snow.”

She blinked at me in response. They all did. Even Célie, as she returned with slightly moldy blankets. I wrapped mine around my shoulders, burrowing into its warmth. The pattern had dried us, yes, but the bitter wind still remained. I tried and probably failed to clarify. “It’s like . . . before, my magic felt like a connection to my ancestors. I gained my patterns through them. Now, as La Dame des Sorcières, I am them. I’m their ashes, their land, their magic. I’m the snow and the leaves and the wind. I’m . . . boundless.” It was my turn to blink, to stare. I probably sounded like a raving lunatic, but I didn’t know how else to describe it. Perhaps words couldn’t describe it.

“But”—Coco cleared her throat, visibly uncomfortable—“you heard what happened to my aunt without checks and balances. She and her followers pushed too far. They slaughtered their coven as a result, and the Goddess punished them. She—she punished your mother too.”

“The Goddess gave my mother a chance to redeem herself at La Mascarade des Crânes. She gave her a warning. When Morgane didn’t heed it, Aurore revoked her blessing. See? There are checks and balances. And I can’t”—I turned my sight inward, examining the patterns there—“I can’t do anything unnatural with it. At least, I don’t think I can. I can’t kill anyone, or—”

“Death is natural.” Reid stared determinedly over the gunwale. As we hadn’t yet cleared L’Eau Mélancolique, the waters below didn’t ripple. He clutched his blanket tighter and swallowed hard. “Everyone dies eventually.”

“Yes,” I said slowly, recalling Ansel’s previous words. His had somehow felt comforting, like a benediction. Reid’s, however, did not. They felt more like a threat—no, like a promise. I frowned again, eyes narrowing on his heavy brow, his downcast expression. For the first time since he’d lost his memories—aside from our drunken encounter—he didn’t project malevolence. He didn’t keep one hand on his bandolier. “Death is natural, but murder is not.”