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

Philippe notched another arrow. “Hemlock.”

This one nearly clipped my shoulder. So close it split the sleeve of my shirt. Lou’s eyes blazed at the torn fabric. Her skin pulsed with unnatural light. When she stepped in front of me, her voice rang with deadly calm. Ethereal calm. Not a single voice, but many. They reverberated together in a chilling timbre. “You will not touch him.”

Immune to the enchantment, Philippe motioned for the others to raise their bows. All twenty of them.

Lou bared her teeth.

At his sharp command, arrows hurtled from two sides. More than twenty. More than forty. They cut through the air with lethal precision, but each turned to dust in a three-foot radius around us. They simply—disintegrated. I sensed the barrier in the air rather than saw it. A thin film, like the soap of a bubble. A shield. Lou’s fists shook with the effort to maintain it as more arrows flew. “How do I help? Tell me, Lou!”

“A pattern,” she said through gritted teeth. “You can strengthen—my magic.”

“How?”

“Focus.” The air rained thick with arrows now, each Chasseur notching and firing at different times. A constant onslaught. Lou winced at the strike—as if she could feel each poisoned tip—and the shield rippled in turn. “You are a witch. Accept it. Focus on the outcome, and—the patterns will appear.”

But they didn’t—they weren’t—no matter how hard I focused. No gold sparked. I focused harder. On her. On her shield. On the arrow tips tearing it apart. A strange thrumming started in my ears. Voices. Whispers. Not mine or Lou’s but others’. Still no gold surfaced, however, and I let out a roar of frustration, of rage.

“You can do it, Reid,” Lou said urgently. “You’ve done it before. You can do it again. You just have to—”

She didn’t finish her words. Unnoticed, two Chasseurs had succeeded where their fallen brother had not. Hands snaking between the bars—using her shield to their advantage—they seized Lou’s shirt and wrenched her backward against the wood.

Her shield vanished instantly.

Shouting her name, I dove forward, prying one’s arm from her neck, but sharp pain pierced my thigh. I didn’t look. I couldn’t—not as they plunged a syringe, two syringes, three, into Lou’s throat simultaneously. Not as her back bowed, her body thrashed, her hands reached for me. “Reid! Reid!” Her voice sounded as if from a tunnel. At last, she tore free, catching me as my knees gave out. The Tower shook around us. Her body jolted from impact as she shielded me from arrow after arrow. More than one protruded from her back now. Her arms. Her legs. Still she dragged me toward the cage’s door, which Philippe had flung wide.

Hands pulled at our clothing, our hair, flinging us to the council room floor. My vision faded as they descended on Lou like ants. As she collapsed, unmoving, under their syringes. They would kill her before she reached the stake. Lou. Clenching my teeth, delirious with pain—with fear—I focused on her dimming skin harder than I’d focused on anything in my life. Hard knees pressed into my back.

She’ll die she’ll die she’ll die

Gold exploded in my vision—and I to my feet—but it was too late.

A quill stabbed into my neck, and the world went dark once more.

I woke to shouts.

To smoke. The scratch of hay at my feet and hard wood at my back. Tight binds on my wrists. Stomach lurching, I pried my eyes open. It took a moment for them to focus. My vision swam.

Torches.

They flickered in the darkness, casting an orange haze over the scene. Over the faces. So many faces. The entire city pressed together in the street below. With a start, I realized I stood above them. No. I closed my eyes, pitching forward with a heave. The ropes kept me upright. They held me in place. I didn’t stand at all. My eyes snapped open again at the realization.

The stake.

They’d tied me to the stake.

Details rushed in quickly after that, disorienting my senses—the steps of the cathedral, the wooden platform, the warm presence at my back. “Lou.” The word slurred on my tongue from the hemlock. My head pounded. I struggled to crane my neck. “Lou.” Her hair spilled over my shoulder, and her head lolled. She didn’t respond. Unconscious. I strained in earnest now, trying to see her, but my body refused to obey. Someone had removed the blue-tipped arrows, at least. They’d clothed her in a clean chemise. Anger fanned as quickly as the drug at that fresh injustice. A Chasseur had undressed her. Why?

I glanced down at my own simple shirt and woolen trousers. They’d removed my boots.

Leather doesn’t burn.

Blue coats lined the streets, forming a barricade. They kept the crowd at bay. My eyes narrowed, and I blinked slowly, waiting for the scene to sharpen. Philippe stood among them. Jean Luc too. I recognized his black hair. His broad neck and bronze skin. He didn’t look at me, his attention focused on Célie, who stood at the front of the crowd with her parents. No Coco. No Beau. No Claud or Blaise or Zenna.

No one.

“Lou.” Careful not to move my lips—to keep my voice quiet—I tried to nudge her with my elbow. My arms wouldn’t move. “Can you . . . hear me?”

She might’ve stirred. Just a little.

More shouts sounded as a child broke free of the line. A little girl. She chased a . . . ball. She chased a ball. It rolled to a stop at the base of the platform. “You aren’t as tall as I thought you’d be,” she mused, peering up at me beneath auburn fringe. Familiar. My eyes fluttered. There were two of her now. No—another child had joined her. A pale boy with shadows in his eyes. He held her hand with a solemn expression. Though I’d never seen it before, I almost recognized his face.