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

She broke off inexplicably, her mouth falling open in a comical O.

Except it wasn’t funny. It wasn’t funny at all.

Stumbling backward, she thrust Célie away with a noise of surprise and—and glanced down. I followed her gaze.

A quill lodged deep in her thigh, its syringe quivering from impact.

An injection.

I stared at it in shock. In relief. In horror. Each emotion flickered through me with wild abandon. A hundred others. Each passed too quickly to name. To feel. I could only stare, numb, as she slid to her knees in a smooth, fluid motion. As her hair rippled down her shoulders, less silver now than bloody scarlet. Eyes still rapt on the syringe, she slipped sideways. She didn’t move.

Cold metal touched my palm, and Célie’s voice drifted from afar. “Do you need me to do it?”

I felt myself shake my head. My fingers curled around the hilt of her dagger. Swallowing hard, I approached my mother’s limp body. When I brushed her hair from her face, her eyes rolled back to look at me. Pleading. I couldn’t help it. I pulled her across my lap. Her throat worked for several seconds before sound came out. “Daugh . . . ter . . .”

I memorized those emerald eyes. “Yes.”

Then I drew Célie’s blade across my mother’s throat.





It Ends in Hope


Lou

The first time I’d slept beside Reid, I’d dreamed of him.

More specifically, I’d dreamed of his book. La Vie Éphémère. He’d gifted it to me that day. His first secret. Later that night, after Madame Labelle had issued her warning—after I’d woken in a fit of tangled sheets and icy panic—I’d crawled next to him on the hard floor. His breathing had lulled me to sleep.

She is coming.

Fear of my mother had literally driven me into his arms.

The dream had crept over me slowly, like the wash of gray before dawn. As in the story, Emilie and Alexandre had lain side by side in her family’s tomb. Their cold fingers had touched forevermore. On the final page, their parents had wept for them, mourning the loss of life so young. They’d promised to set aside their blood feud, their prejudice, in the name of their children. It was of this scene I’d dreamed, except it hadn’t been Emilie’s and Alexandre’s bodies, but mine and Reid’s.

When I’d woken the next morning, unease had plagued me. I’d blamed it on the nightmare. On the memory of my mother.

Now, as I held her in my arms, I couldn’t help but remember that peaceful image of Emilie and Alexandre.

There was nothing peaceful about this.

Nothing easy.

Yet still Reid’s voice drifted back to me as he’d clutched La Vie Éphémère in hand . . .

It doesn’t end in death. It ends in hope.





Pan’s Patisserie


Reid

Lou held her mother for a long time. I waited at the chasm’s edge, even after Coco and a handful of blood witches built a bridge of vines. Even after Célie and her newfound friends—two witches named Corinne and Barnabé—crossed on shaky legs. Jean Luc had enveloped Célie in a desperate hug, while Coco had tentatively greeted the witches. She’d remembered them from childhood. They’d remembered her.

They’d even bared their throats before leaving to find their kin. A sign of submission.

Coco had watched them go, visibly shaken.

Not all had been so courteous. One witch—a sobbing Dame Blanche—had attacked my back as I’d waited. Jean Luc had been forced to inject her. To bind her wrists. He hadn’t killed her, however, not even when Célie had stepped aside to speak with Elvire. Aurélien had fallen. Others too. As the Oracle’s Hand, Elvire had begun to collect their dead, preparing to depart for Le Présage once more.

“We cannot leave our lady waiting,” she’d murmured, bowing low. “Please say you will visit us sometime.”

Beau and Coco hurried to find Zenna and Seraphine.

Though I started to follow, Coco shook her head. Her gaze drifted to Lou, who hadn’t moved from beneath her mother. “She needs you more,” Coco murmured. Nodding, I swallowed hard, and after another moment, I took a hesitant step on the bridge.

Someone shouted behind me.

Unsheathing my stolen Balisarda, I whirled, prepared for another witch. Instead, I met two: Babette supporting Madame Labelle as they hobbled into the street. An enormous smile stretched across my mother’s face. “Reid!” She waved with her entire body, presumably healed by Babette’s blood. The lesions and bruises from the trial had vanished, replaced by vibrant skin, if a touch pale. I exhaled a sharp breath. My knees weakened in a dizzying wave of relief.

She was here.

She was alive.

Crossing the street in three great strides, I met her halfway, crushing her in my arms. She choked on a laugh. Patted my arm. “Easy, son. It takes a bit more time for the insides to heal, you know.” Though she still beamed, clapping my cheeks, her eyes tightened at the corners. Babette looked unusually grave behind.

I met her gaze over my mother’s head. “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me.” She waved an errant hand. “Your mother supplied my first job in this city. I owed her one.”

“And still owe me many more,” Madame Labelle added, turning to eye the courtesan waspishly. “Do not think I’ve forgotten, Babette, the time you dyed my hair blue.”