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

The thought turned my stomach.

Blaise stepped to his son’s side, clasping a hand on his shoulder. “We would be honored.” He cleared the emotion from his throat. “My children . . . they have spoken of how you comforted them. How you gave them hope. I can never repay either of you for this kindness.”

The twins cast subtle glances at Zenna and Seraphine. The former shrugged. Though link-shaped burns marred her visible skin—she’d somehow donned a sparkling fuchsia gown—the rest of her appeared relatively unscathed. Seraphine too. Blood coated her armor, but it didn’t seem to belong to her. I stared at them both incredulously. “How did they escape?”

“Who?” Lou asked. “What happened?”

“The witches—they felled Zenna with a magic chain.”

“Ah.” A hint of a smile touched her lips. “Tarasque’s chain.”

“Like in Zenna’s story.”

“She did say that wasn’t her real name.”

I frowned as she pulled me away in search of the others.

We ended up in Pan’s patisserie.

Outside the boarded windows, Father Achille and a score of huntsmen attempted to free their brethren. Philippe still bellowed orders within his cage of roots. None listened. When at last they freed him, he swiped wildly at Achille, who dodged with the speed of a much younger man before knocking Philippe to the ground. It took five huntsmen to subdue him. Another to clap irons around his wrists.

“You can’t do this!” Veins throbbed in his forehead as he thrashed. “I am a captain of the Chasseurs! Father Gaspard!” He’d nearly burst blood vessels. “Someone summon him—FATHER GASPARD!”

Father Gaspard hadn’t heeded his summons, instead remaining crouched behind a tree in the sanctuary. The Chasseurs had flushed him out while searching for Queen Oliana, who they’d found trapped beneath the pulpit. Though her leg had been fractured, she would face greater pain soon. I didn’t envy the Chasseur who would tell her about her child. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t envy any Chasseur at all.

Unsure what to do with Philippe, Jean Luc and Célie settled on chaining him to a horse post down the street. Out of hearing distance. Thankfully.

They joined us in the patisserie moments later.

Collapsing in a vacant chair, Jean Luc scrubbed a hand down his face. “We’ll need to coordinate shelter as soon as possible. Petition citizens to open their homes to those without.”

Célie sat beside him with quiet calm. Soot smeared her white cheeks, and her hair hung lank from Coco’s rain. From sweat. A gash still bled from her temple. She gestured next door to the boucherie. “The injured will need treatment. We must summon healers from the nearest metropolises.”

“Oh God.” Jean Luc groaned and shot to his feet. “Were there priests in the infirmary? Has anyone checked for survivors?” At our blank looks, he shook his head and stalked outside to find Father Achille. Instead of joining him, Célie looked between us anxiously. She knitted her hands in her lap.

“Er—Lou? Do you think—I’m terribly sorry, but—might you be able to return my gown now?”

Lou blinked in confusion. With a breathy laugh, Célie gestured to her armor.

“Oh.” Lou chuckled too and waved her hand. The sharp scent of incense erupted. “Yes, of course.”

From her feet, Célie’s armor unraveled into a black mourning gown, and she patted her waist anxiously. At whatever she found, tension left her shoulders, and she relaxed. Just a little. “Right. Thank you so much.” A bright smile at Lou. A quick glance at me. It seemed . . . inexplicably significant. When Jean Luc shouted for her a moment later, however, she grimaced and strode toward the door. “I shall return in just a moment.”

Lou watched her go with a bemused grin, stretching to watch her through the window. “What was that about?”

“She must . . . really like dresses?”

Lou rolled her eyes.

Coco and Beau found us next. Though tears still stained my brother’s face, he rubbed them away with a weak smile, pulling a chair around to sit beside Lou. Then he wrapped her in a headlock and ruffled her hair. “Did Reid tell you I saved his life?”

She didn’t push him away. “He didn’t.”

“Then he is a spectacular ass. I threw a knife with such precision that it would’ve put Mort Rouge to shame—”

“You also caught me on fire,” I said scathingly. “Her too.”

“Nonsense. Also—nuance.” Sighing dramatically, he held Lou there for another moment. They locked eyes, and both of their grins gradually faded. “How are you, sister mine?” he asked seriously.

Her hands came up to grip his forearm. “I’m . . . better now, I think. The shock is starting to wear off. It’s like—like I can finally take a breath.” Her fingers squeezed, and she blinked rapidly. “I’m so sorry, Beau.” When she looked to Coco, he released her from his grip. “To all of you.”

Coco traced a pattern in the tabletop’s grain. “I lost my mother a long time ago.”

“My father too,” Beau added, his voice quiet.

But not Victoire. The guilt resurfaced with a vengeance. I’d survived enough to know it always would. There’d been no sense in that little girl’s death. No explanation to make it right. There’d been none when we’d burned the witches’ children, either. Victoire had deserved better. They all had.