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

“Do not lose hope, monsieur,” he whispered.

Another shout. A Chasseur strode forward to shoo them away.

My mouth couldn’t properly form the words. “Do I . . . know you?”

“Le visage de beaucoup,” he said with an unnerving smile. It pitched and rolled with my vision. Garish in the firelight. “Le visage d’aucun.” His voice faded as he trailed away.

The face always seen, the face never remembered.

Meaningless words. Nonsensical ones. “Lou,” I pleaded, louder now. Desperate. “Wake up. You have to wake up.”

She didn’t wake.

Imperious laughter beside me. Golden patterns. No—hair. Auguste stepped into my line of vision, a torch in one hand. The flames burned not orange, but black as pitch. Hellfire. Eternal fire. “You’re awake. Good.”

Behind him, Gaspard Fosse and Achille Altier climbed the platform, the former with an eager smile and the latter with a sickened expression. Achille glanced at me for only a second before murmuring something to Auguste, who scowled and muttered, “It matters not.” To me, Auguste added, “Your Balisarda’s fruit may not have curbed this wretched fire—not yet—but its wood certainly carried this momentous day.” He lifted his hand to catch a strand of Lou’s hair. “We had the cage crafted just for the two of you. A bittersweet end, is it not? To be killed by your own blade?”

When I said nothing—only stared at him—he shrugged and examined the torch. “Though I suppose it will not be the Balisarda to deliver the final blow. Perhaps I should be grateful the priests have failed. Now you shall burn eternal.”

“As will your . . . city,” I managed.

The words cost me. Achille flinched and looked away as I choked on bile, coughed on smoke. He didn’t intervene this time. He didn’t say a word. How could he? The pyre had been built. He would burn next.

With one last sneer, Auguste turned to address his kingdom. “My loving people!” He spread his arms wide. His smile wider. The crowd quieted instantly, rapt with attention. “Tonight, at last we eradicate a great evil plaguing our kingdom. Behold—Louise le Blanc, the new and nefarious La Dame des Sorcières, and its husband, the man you once knew as Captain Reid Diggory.”

Boos and hisses reverberated from the street.

Though I tried to summon my patterns, they shimmered in and out of focus in a golden blur. The hemlock had served its purpose. My stomach rolled. My hands refused to move, to even twitch. They’d coated the ropes. Concentrate.

“Yes, behold,” Auguste continued, quieter now. He lifted the torch to our faces. “A witch and a witch hunter, fallen in love.” Another chuckle. Some in the crowd echoed it. Others did not. “I ask you this, dear subjects—” The torch moved to Achille now, illuminating his dark eyes. They simmered with revulsion as he stared at his king. With rebellion. “Did it save the kingdom? Their sweeping romance? Did it unite us, at last?” Now he gestured to the smoke overhead, the charred stone of the church, the blackened and broken buildings that littered the street. Chasseurs stood at every ruin, containing the flames. “No,” Auguste whispered, his gaze lingering on their blue coats. “I think not.”

When he spoke again, his voice lifted to a shout. “Do not think I haven’t heard your whispers! Do not think I haven’t seen your doubt! Do not fear that the Peters and Judases among you, the forsakers and betrayers, will continue to roam free! They will not. Ours is a nation divided—we stand at the very precipice—but allow me to elucidate the truth, here and now: we shall not fall.”

He seized Lou’s chin. “This witch, this she-devil, may resemble a woman—your mother, perhaps. Your sister or daughter. It is not them, dear ones. It is not human at all, and it is certainly not capable of love. No, this demoness has cursed our kingdom with death and destruction. It has stolen your children and livelihoods, corrupted our once great and noble protector.” Dropping her chin, he turned to me, lip curling. I fought for sensation in my hands. Any sensation. The golden patterns flickered.

“Reid Diggory.” He shook his head. “Traitor. Murderer. Witch. You are this kingdom’s greatest disappointment.”

Behind him, Achille rolled his eyes.

I frowned at the incongruent gesture. The first needle of awareness pierced my palm as Lou’s head lifted.

“Lou,” I whispered desperately.

It fell once more.

“Hear me and hear me well!” Auguste raised his arms, the torch, with wild passion in his gaze. The people watched with bated breath, following the torch’s trajectory hungrily. “I shall not be deceived again, loving people! I have captured this great foe, and with their deaths, we shall alight on a path of victory and salvation. I shall lead you through it. The Lyon legacy shall endure!”

Great cries rose from the crowd at the last, evoked by Father Gaspard. They stomped their feet, clapped their hands, even as Philippe and his Chasseurs exchanged cautious glances. Moonbeam hair flashed. Thrusting the torch toward Achille, Auguste said, “Do it, Father. Kill them—kill these creatures you so pity—or you shall join them in Hell.”

Though Achille hesitated, he had no choice. His fingers curled slowly around the torch. My frown deepened. They looked . . . straighter than I remembered. The skin younger. Tawny and smooth. When my gaze snapped to his face, his cheeks seemed to broaden, to move, the bones inching higher. His eyes lengthened. His nose too. His grizzled beard fell out in pieces, his hair deepened, and his skin—the wrinkles faded as he winked at me.