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

“Cut down the barricades!” Father Achille pointed to the thorn hedges. A handful of Chasseurs fought to drive the witches back. “Anyone with a blade!”

“We have no blades,” a panicked man said, pushing forward.

Reid thrust his Balisarda at him in answer. “You do now. Go.” When more men clambered forward, hands outstretched, Reid tore another knife from his bandolier. Another and another until none remained.

“What are you doing?” I asked in alarm.

Voice grim, he lifted his hands. “I am a weapon.”

Each man turned and fled toward the vines, hacking at the thorns with all their might.

Without pause, Reid pointed at the neighboring shops. To Jean Luc, he said, “Break down the doors. Get these people inside every building. Lou and I will follow behind to enchant them locked—”

He broke off as Philippe and a score of huntsmen blasted through the witches’ line, slaughtering them with brutal efficiency. Bite wounds bled freely on his leg. Leveling his Balisarda at Reid and me, he snarled, “Kill them.”

I lifted my own knife and stepped in front of Reid. We were weapons, yes—our magic sharper than any blade—but only as last resorts. If he’d taught me anything, it was not to cut myself. He wouldn’t either. Before I could strike at Philippe, however, Jean Luc planted his feet before both of us. To my surprise, his handful of Chasseurs did too. “Don’t be stupid, Philippe. These people are not our enemies.”

Philippe’s eyes bulged. “They’re witches.”

“They’re helping us,” another Chasseur snapped. I didn’t recognize him. I didn’t care. “Open your eyes before you kill us all. Do your duty.”

“Protect the kingdom,” the one beside him added.

“Children.” Achille pushed roughly between them. “We don’t have time for this, nor the forces to stand divided. Those with Balisardas must strike against our attackers.”

“He’s right.” Reid nodded, already scanning the street beyond. Huntsmen fought witch, fought werewolf, while both sides fought each other. Pandemonium reigned. “Chasseurs, if you cannot kill, aim for their hands. Dames Blanches cannot cast accurately without dexterity—cut them off at the wrist, but do not draw blood from a Dame Rouge under any circumstance. Unless dead, their blood will maim you.”

“How do we tell the difference?” the first Chasseur asked.

“Dames Rouges are heavily scarred. Strike quickly, and strike true. Leave the werewolves, and leave the trees.”

“Leave the—?” Philippe’s face flushed puce. He jerked his head back and forth. “We will not. Chasseurs—to me. Do not listen to these heretics. I am your captain, and we will strike fast and true.” To prove his point, he stabbed his Balisarda into the heart of the nearest tree. Claud’s roar reverberated from somewhere beyond the cathedral. Face twisting in delight, Philippe thrust deeper. “Cut them down! All of them! Tree, werewolf, and witch alike!”

“No.” I pushed past Jean Luc as Philippe’s huntsmen obeyed, goring the trees with brutal efficiency. Roots snapped upward like the crack of the whip to ensnare them. “No, stop—”

But agonized shouts soon sounded from the hedges, and I turned to see witches impaling men on the thorns. Shit.

Reid tore after them without hesitation. His hands moved in the air, searching, pulling, as fresh magic burst around us. Three of the witches screamed in response, and fresh burns licked up Reid’s arms. But he couldn’t save the men. Without Balisardas, each person here stood vulnerable—including Reid.

The fourth witch clenched her fist, and Reid stumbled, clutching his chest.

Shit, shit, shit.

My feet moved instinctively. Seizing the Balisarda from a trapped Chasseur, I sprinted toward him. Veins bulged in his neck, his face. His hands moved instinctively to his bandolier for a knife. They came away with only seeds. Tossing them aside, he collapsed on his hands and knees.

I hurled the Balisarda straight through the witch’s forehead.

Zenna took care of the rest. Her jaws snapped viciously as she swooped low, incinerating witch and thorn alike. When the flame abated, I wrenched the Balisarda from the witch’s skull and shoved it at Reid. “I am a weapon.” Panting, I imitated his stupid voice. Breathless laughter rose. I didn’t fight it, despite the gruesome circumstances. Despite the charred witches at our feet. I’d never fight laughter again. Not for their sake. “The world shall tremble and fear me—”

“Shut”—his own voice broke on a gasp of laughter—“up.”

I dragged him to his feet. “My enemies shall rue the day they ever dared to challenge—”

“I’m fine.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Go help the others.”

“I am.” Pressing a hard kiss to his lips, I shoved him back toward the patisserie. “I’m helping them by helping you, you great selfless prick. If you give that Balisarda away again, I’ll make you swallow it. Consider chivalry dead.”

He huffed another laugh as we rejoined the fray.

The next moments passed in a blur of magic and blood. Following Reid’s instruction, free huntsmen hacked at witches’ hands, while those trapped in Claud’s trees hacked at roots. Father Achille led a party of able-bodied men and women to the nearest smithy for weapons. Those unable to fight followed Célie into boucheries and confiseries, any shop that would open its doors. Jean Luc and Reid kicked down the rest. I followed behind, feeding my magic into each lock.