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

As Claud plummeted into its depths without a word.

As the fissure kept growing, kept spreading, until Brindelle Park—until half of the entire city—fractured from the rest, separated by a yawning chasm. Still it grew. Coco’s voice rose to join mine, and she backpedaled, preparing to take an impossible leap—

Beau caught her shirt at the last second. He ripped her toward him. “Are you crazy?”

“Let me go!” She pounded his chest, stomped on his feet, twisted to elbow him viciously. Only then did he release her with a gasp.

“Please, Coco, don’t—!”

But she didn’t leap this time. Instead she dove to the chasm’s edge, hands latching onto a blood witch’s wrist. Another. Screaming, they dangled hopelessly. Their nails clawed at rock, at Coco’s skin. Realizing her intent, Beau dashed to help, and together, they pulled the witches to safety, collapsing together in a heap.

When the dust settled, Beau, Coco, and I stood on one side of the chasm.

Lou and Célie clutched each on the other.

Behind them loomed Morgane le Blanc.





As We Started


Lou

The horror on Reid’s face, the absolute terror, was an image I’d never forget. Though he charged up and down the chasm’s edge, searching for the narrowest lip, for a pattern, for a miracle—it was better this way. Truly. Whatever happened now, it would be between my mother and me.

Just as we’d started.

In line with my thoughts, Morgane swept her hand in a burst of magic, and Célie soared through the air, crashing into a Brindelle tree. Two blood witches who’d been trapped here dropped to seize her, to—no. Hope burned savage and bright in my heart. To help her. They were helping her. In that split second, I thought of Manon, of Ismay, or Dame Blanche and Dame Rouge alike who’d been harmed by Morgane’s hatred. Who’d felt trapped between Church and coven. Who’d lived in fear as debilitating as mine.

Hope isn’t the sickness. It’s the cure.

Of all people, of course it had been Célie to find Morgane. To stalk her unseen as she slipped through the city. My mother never would’ve suspected it. She never would’ve believed such a pretty porcelain doll could grow teeth. If she thought Célie would shatter, however—if she thought I would—it would be the last mistake of her life.

This time, I wouldn’t hesitate.

“Lou! LOU! Célie!”

Reid, Coco, Beau, Jean Luc—they called our names in a frenzy, voices blending into one. Resolve hardened to a sharpened point in my chest as I looked at them. We’d already lost so much, each of us. Fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers. Our homes. Our hope. Our very hearts.

No more.

I found Reid’s gaze last, holding it longer than the others. When I shook my head slowly, determinedly, he drew to a swift halt, chest heaving. We stared at each other for the span of a single heartbeat.

Then he nodded.

I love you, I told him.

As I love you.

Morgane sneered, lowering the hood of Auguste’s lion-skin cloak as she advanced. She’d stolen it from his corpse at the cathedral. Though charred black in places, she wore it as a trophy now. Its teeth glinted around her throat in a gruesome smile, and its mane spread proudly across her shoulders. “No more running, Louise. No more hiding.” She jabbed a finger across the chasm, where Blaise and the remains of his pack had gathered. Where Elvire and her melusines still attempted to cross, where Claud had fallen to fate unknown. “Your god has fallen, your dragon has perished, and your precious allies cannot reach you here. I must admit . . . you are far cleverer than I ever gave you credit. How cunning it was to hide behind those more powerful than yourself. How cruel. We are more alike than you realize, darling, but the time has come at last. You are alone.”

But I wasn’t alone. Not truly. In life or in death, I’d have someone to meet me. Someone to love me. My stomach curdled at Nicholina’s congealed throat. At Josephine’s empty expression. Though the former might’ve found peace with her son, could the latter say the same? Could Morgane? She stepped over their corpses without acknowledgment. Already, they meant less to her than the mire beneath her boots. “Your generals are dead,” I said quietly. “I think you are the one alone.”

The blood witches stiffened as Morgane paused, turning to kick Josephine’s vacant face. “Good riddance.”

With a crippling sense of sorrow, I stared at her as my white patterns undulated weakly. I couldn’t kill her with them. Not outright. Death was natural, yes, but murder was not. It hardly mattered now either way. When I’d clasped two sides of the very world, trying to save Claud—a god, a friend—from his own magic, I’d nearly rent myself apart. My patterns had distended past the point of reparation. Some had snapped altogether. Those remaining had grown dim with weariness.

Morgane didn’t know that.

I searched each carefully now, seeking a distraction, something to allow me near. Something to debilitate her long enough for me to strike. Gently, I fed the patterns outward. “Have you loved anyone in this world, maman?”

She scoffed and lifted her hands. “Love. I curse the word.”

“Has anyone loved you?”

Her eyes narrowed on mine. Her mouth twisted in question. “It’s true,” I admitted, quieter still. “I did love you once. Part of me still does, despite everything.” I twitched my finger, and the water of the Doleur trickled steadily, silently, through the grass beneath our feet. It melted the snow. It cleansed the blood. If Morgane noticed, she didn’t react. Though her features remained riddled with spite, she studied me as if enthralled. As if she’d never heard me say it, though I’d told her a thousand times. A single tear slid down my cheek in response, and the pattern dissipated. A tear for a river. Both held endless depths.