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

He reached up to touch a strand of my hair. “You’re glowing.”

I shrugged, grinning impishly now. “Goddess Divine, you know.”

“Such arrogance.”

“Such beauty and grace.”

He scoffed, sitting up and rubbing his neck. It might’ve been my imagination, but I thought a rueful grin played on his lips. “Why don’t I feel sick?”

I grinned wider. “I healed you.”

Groaning, he shook his head, and I didn’t imagine it now—he definitely smiled. “You really don’t know the meaning of humility, do you?”

“And you really don’t know the meaning of gratitude—”

Footsteps again, quicker this time. We flung ourselves down, feigning unconsciousness, just as the door burst open. “What is it?” a voice asked, unfamiliar and deep.

“I thought I heard someone.”

Discomfort seeped into the first’s voice. “Should we dose them again?”

The other cleared their throat. “They still look incapacitated.”

“Philippe will skin us if they die on our watch.”

“The hemlock is merely a precaution. The bars will keep them in here.” A pause. “Philippe said the wood is . . . special. They harvested it from La Fôret des Yeux.”

After another few seconds of anxious silence, they closed the door once more. “Keep your voice down next time,” I hissed, poking Reid in the ribs.

His face snapped toward mine in outrage. “I wasn’t—”

“I’m joking, Chass.”

“Oh.” He frowned when I snorted. “Is this really the time to joke?”

“It’s never the time to joke with us. If we waited until we were out of life-or-death situations, we could only laugh in our graves.” Hoisting myself to my feet, I inspected the bars closer. Though clearly wooden, they still felt . . . unnatural. Both made and unmade. The torchlight caught veins of silver in the wood. The hemlock is merely a precaution. The bars will keep them in here. I leaned in to sniff them as Reid rose behind.

“What are they?” he asked.

“I don’t know. The tree smells like alder, but the timber is . . . metallic? I can’t recall any metallic trees in La Fôret des Yeux. Can you?”

“A metallic tree,” he echoed slowly.

Our eyes snapped together in dawning horror. “It couldn’t be—?”

“It’s not—?”

“Oh my god,” I breathed, recoiling. The bars felt abruptly cold beneath my touch. Oppressive. “They cut it down. Your Balisarda.”

Beside me, Reid closed his eyes in acknowledgment, in defeat, pressing his forehead against the wood. Voice strained, he asked, “How did they even find it?”

“It was along the road. Bas and his cronies called for the Chasseurs when they found us.” On a hunch, I pressed a finger to one of the bars. The white patterns dimmed almost instantly in response. No. No, no, no. “They would’ve seen it straightaway—a great tree with silver bark and black fruit and lethal thorns.”

“Can you magic us out?”

I released the bar again, returning to the middle of the cage, equal distance from all sides. Though the white patterns flared once more, they floated untethered when they reached the bars, unable to touch them or move past them. Not a promising sign. Closing my eyes, focusing my energy, I sought the lock on the bars—simpler than the one on the treasury door of Chateau le Blanc, made of iron, yet strategically placed outside the magic wood. The harder I tried to reach it, the more the pattern frayed until it disintegrated completely. “Fuck.”

To his credit, Reid didn’t even flinch. Instead he gripped the bars in earnest, testing their weight. “I can break them.”

“You have a broken finger.”

That didn’t stop him from trying to snap the wood for the next ten minutes. Knuckles bloody, arms shaking, he finally punched the bar with all his might, succeeding in only breaking another finger. When he cocked his fist to strike again, furious, I rolled my eyes and dragged him back to the center of the cage. “Yes, thank you. That was helpful.”

“What are we going to do?” He tore a frustrated hand through his hair. I caught it before he could damage it further. His broken fingers had swelled to twice their normal size, and blood welled dark and purple beneath the skin. He turned away. “This brilliant plan of yours has a few holes.”

I repressed a scowl, wrapping another pattern around his hand. “I can’t control every variable, Reid. At least this one didn’t involve mustaches and crutches. Now shut it, or I’ll give you a real hole to complain about.” An empty threat. The Chasseurs had disarmed both of us before throwing us in here.

“Is that supposed to be innuendo? I can never tell with you.”

I jerked at the pattern, and it snapped his fingers back into place, shattering my irritation in the process. He winced and wrenched his hand—now completely healed—out of mine. “Thank you,” he muttered after another moment. “And . . . sorry.” The word sounded pained.

I almost chuckled. Almost. Unfortunately, without irritation to distract me, panic crept back in. I couldn’t magic us out of here, and Reid couldn’t break the bars physically. Perhaps I could shield us within the cage somehow, like I’d done on the bridge. If they couldn’t see us, they couldn’t march us to the stake. Even as the thought formed, I knew it was no real solution. We couldn’t hide here indefinitely, invisible. Perhaps if they opened the cage to investigate, however . . . “The others will come for us.” Whether I spoke to him or myself, I didn’t know.