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

One bites deeper than the rest. An open wound.

I shy away from it instinctively, though it pulses with whiskey-colored eyes and curling lashes and soft, lyrical laughter. It aches with a lanky arm around my shoulders, a warm hand in my own. It throbs with empathy, with a feigned accent and a stolen bottle of wine, with shy blushes and not-quite birthdays. It burns with the sort of loyalty that no longer exists in this world.

He didn’t make it to seventeen.

Ansel sacrificed everything, cracked me wide open, and I allowed Nicholina to slither into that crack. That’s how I repaid him—by losing myself entirely. Self-loathing churns, black and noxious, in the pit of my consciousness. He deserved better. He deserved more.

I would give it to him. As God or the Goddess or just the dark of my fucking soul as witness, I would give it to him. I would ensure he didn’t die in vain. In response, an unfamiliar voice startles me by murmuring, Oh, bravo.

The inky mist contracts with my fright, but I push against it viciously, searching for the new presence. This isn’t Nicholina. This certainly isn’t me. And that means . . . someone else is here.

Who are you? I ask with feigned bravado. Mother’s tit, how many people—or spirits, or entities, or whatever—can possibly fit within a single body? What do you want?

You needn’t be frightened. Another voice this time. As unfamiliar as the last. We cannot hurt you.

We are you.

Or rather, a third adds, we are her.

That’s not an answer, I snap. Tell me who you are.

A brief pause.

Then a fourth voice finally says, We don’t remember.

A fifth now. Soon you won’t either.

If I had bones, their words would’ve chilled them to the marrow. How . . . how many of you are there? I ask quietly. Can none of you remember your name?

Our name is Legion, the voices reply in unison, not missing a beat. For we are many.

Holy hell. Definitely more than five voices. More like fifty. Shit, shit, shit. Vaguely, I remember the verse they recited from a passage in the Archbishop’s Bible, the one he loaned me in the basement of Chasseur Tower. The man who spoke it had been possessed by demons. But these—these aren’t demons, are they? Is Nicholina possessed by demons?

Alas, we do not know, the first says amicably. We have lived here for unknown years. We could be demons, or we could be mice. We see only what our mistress sees, hear only what our mistress hears.

Mice.

She talks to us sometimes, another adds, and somehow I sense its mischievous intent. I just know, as if its stream of consciousness has merged with mine. We jest, by the way. We aren’t called Legion. Stupid name, if you ask us.

We use it on all the newcomers.

Always gets a rise.

Plucked the verse straight from your memories this time, though. Are you religious?

It is impolite to ask if someone is religious.

She isn’t a someone anymore. She’s one of us. We already know the answer, anyway. We’re being polite.

On the contrary, it is quite rude to look through her memories.

Save the sermon for when the memories have gone. Look here. They’re still fresh.

An uncomfortable prickling sensation descends as the voices bicker, and again, I instinctively know they’re rifling through my consciousness—through me. Images of my past flicker in and out of the mist faster than I can track, but the voices only press closer, hungry for more. Dancing around the maypole with Estelle, drowning in the Doleur with the Archbishop, straining at the altar beneath my mother—

Stop it. My own voice cuts sharply through the memories, and the voices draw back, surprised but chastised. As they should be. It’s like an infestation of fleas in my own subconscious. My name is Louise le Blanc, and I am most definitely still a someone. I’d tell you to stay the hell out of my head, but since I’m not sure this even is my head, I’ll assume separation is impossible at this point. Now, who’s the last newcomer to this place? Can anyone remember?

Silence reigns for one blissful second before all the voices start talking at once, arguing over who’s been here the longest. Too late, I realize the error in my judgment. These voices are no longer individuals but an eerie sort of collective. A hive. Annoyance quickly churns to anger. Longing for hands with which to throttle them, I try to speak, but a new voice interrupts.

I am the newest.

The other voices cease immediately, radiating curiosity. I’m curious myself. This voice sounds different from the rest, deep and low and masculine. He also called himself I, not we.

And you are? I ask.

If a voice could frown, this one does. I . . . I believe I was once called Etienne.

Etienne, the others echo. Their whispers thrum like insect wings. The sound is disconcerting. Worse—I feel the moment they manifest his full name from his memories. From my memories. Etienne Gilly.

You’re Gaby’s brother, I say in dawning horror, remembering as they do. Morgane murdered you.

The voices practically quiver with anticipation as our memories sync, filling in the gaps to paint the entire portrait: how Nicholina possessed him and walked the forest under pretense of a hunt, how she led him to where Morgane lay in wait. How Morgane abducted him, tortured him within the bowels of a dank, dark cave only a handful of miles from the blood camp. And La Voisin—how she’d known all along. How she’d practically delivered Etienne’s and Gabrielle’s heads to Morgane on a silver platter.