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

The happiness in my chest punctured slightly. But—no. I wouldn’t let it. Not this time. Unsheathing the Balisarda with one hand, I extended it to Célie. “I think there are others better suited.” When her fingers curled around it, her eyes widening in shock, I said, “Two clever little girls once told me they wished to be huntsmen. Not as they are now, but as they should be: proper knights riding forth to vanquish evil. Defending the land and protecting the innocent. One of them even swore she’d wear a dress.”

“Oh, I can’t”—she shook her head swiftly, attempting to return the Balisarda—“I don’t know how to wield a sword. I couldn’t possibly use this.”

“You don’t need to wield a sword to protect the innocent, Célie,” Jean Luc said, nodding to me in appreciation. In respect. He glowed with pride as he looked at her. “You’ve proven that more than anyone.”

I nodded too, stepping away from the door. Opening it wide. “The Tower is broken. It’s time to rebuild.”

She flashed a tentative smile before Jean Luc swept her through it.

I didn’t follow. Not right away. Instead I stared at the ring in my hand.

“What are you doing out here?” Lou touched my shoulder, and I turned, tucking the ring into my pocket. She looked left and right with a pointed smirk. “Having fun with all your friends?”

At her inquisitive gaze, I couldn’t help it. A broad smile split my own face, and I kissed her full on the mouth. When I pulled back, she flicked my nose before soothing the spot with her thumb, her hand lingering on my cheek. “Come back inside. Pan says the sticky buns are done.”

I brushed my lips across her palm. “That sounds like paradise to me.”





Epilogue


Ansel

Summer bloomed slow and languorous at Chateau le Blanc. Wild sage and lavender rippled across the mountain in dusky purple and blue; white and yellow marguerites grew rampant between rocks, along creek beds, joined by the blushing pink of thrift and clover. I’d never seen such colors in life. I’d never felt such warmth on my cheeks, like the kiss of a mother, the embrace of a friend. If the voices—no, the laughter—of my own friends hadn’t called to me, I could’ve stood within the peace of those wildflowers forever.

Lou wore a spray of each on her wedding day.

Sitting cross-legged atop her childhood bed—the golden thread of her quilt sparkling in the late afternoon sunlight—she waited impatiently for Coco to weave the blooms into a crown. “Stop squirming,” Coco chided, grinning and tugging a strand of Lou’s hair. “You’re shaking the whole bed.”

Lou only wriggled her hips more pointedly. “Oh, it’ll be shaking tonight.”

Célie’s cheeks warmed along with my own. When she swept a simple ivory gown from the armoire to cover her embarrassment, I smiled, settling on the chaise beside Madame Labelle. She couldn’t see me, of course, but from the way her eyes sparkled, from the way they danced, I thought she might feel me instead.

“You, my friend, are delectably depraved.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” With another wide grin, Lou twisted to face Coco. “Who was it who lost her virginity atop a—?”

Coughing delicately, Célie asked, “Might I suggest we postpone this conversation for more appropriate company?” Her eyes flicked to Violette and Gabrielle, who flitted about the room, examining anything and everything. The gold leaf across the ceiling. The moondust on the sill. The gilded harp in the corner and the tin soldiers beneath the chaise. Lou had etched mustaches on them as a child. A trunk at the foot of her bed still held toy swords and broken instruments, half-read books and a white rabbit. Stuffed, of course.

The very real cat at my feet hissed at it.

Melisandre, Lou had named her. The cat. Not the rabbit. With her broken tail and crooked teeth, the gray tabby wasn’t beautiful, but one wouldn’t know it from the way Lou looked at her. She’d found the cat yowling indignantly in a back alley after the battle of Cesarine, and she’d promptly adopted the pitiful creature, much to Reid’s chagrin.

Melisandre didn’t like Reid.

“Please do not worry yourself, Mademoiselle Célie.” With poppy blooms braided into her black hair, Violette giggled and bounced on the balls of her feet as Madame Labelle cackled beside me. “We know all about the birds and the bees. Don’t we, Gaby? It’s terribly romantic.”

“I think the euphemism is silly.” Gabrielle now sat beside me on her knees—wrinkling her olive dress—and attempted to coax Melisandre closer with a piece of string. The cat hissed again before glancing at me with a pained expression. Grinning, I knelt to scratch her ears, and the hiss transformed to a purr. “As if we need the imagery of a bird laying eggs to understand ovulation, or a bee depositing pollen to understand fertiliza—”

“Oh, dear.” Célie’s cheeks washed as pretty a petal pink as her dress, and she draped the ivory gown across the foot of the bed. “That is quite enough talk about that, I think. It’s almost time for the ceremony. Shall we help you don your gown, Lou?”

When Lou nodded and rose to her feet, Melisandre abandoned me instantly, darting to her mother’s side. Lou didn’t hesitate to scoop her up and cuddle her against her chest. “And how is my darling honeybee? So fetching.” She nodded appreciatively to Célie, who’d woven a miniature version of Lou’s flower crown for the cat. Melisandre purred under Lou’s praise, craning her neck, exorbitantly pleased with herself.