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

More images flashed. Broken pieces, fragmented horror. A swollen jaw. Irrepressible hunger. Empty syringes, the burning pain of infection. A chilling laugh and stale bread. And through it all, an acute, unbearable panic.

Where is he where is he where is he where is he

Wolves howling.

Eucalyptus.

Moonbeam hair.

Moonbeam hair.

I blinked rapidly, my vision clearing with Lou’s. With a shrill battle cry, she rushed forward, knife raised. I caught her around the waist, spinning her away from the cauchemar. It still waved its hands frenetically, as if—as if trying to tell me something. My stomach churned violently. “Hold. I think—I think it’s—”

In a clumsy, disjointed movement, the cauchemar pulled back its hood.

I stared at it.

Contrary to Célie’s description, the cauchemar didn’t have shadow-cloaked skin or sharp teeth. Its hair was matted, yes, but its swollen eyes inspired more fear than its namesake. Its broken jaw evoked more rage. My vision tunneled to its lacerated thigh, to the angry red streaks of disease on its russet skin. To the blood crusting its tattered pants. This cauchemar had been beaten. Badly.

It also wasn’t a cauchemar at all.

It was Thierry St. Martin.

Lou twisted from my grasp and sprinted toward him once more. Incredulous, I caught her wrist. “Lou, stop. Stop. This is—”

“Let me go,” she seethed, still struggling viciously. Frantic. Distraught. “Let me kill it—”

Anger flared hot and sudden. Tightening my grip, I dragged her back to my side and kept her there. “Stand down. I won’t ask again. This is Thierry. Remember? Thierry St. Martin.”

At his name, Thierry sagged with relief against the stone basin. I felt his presence in my mind—saw a picture of my own face—before he slurred a single word.

Reeeiddd.

I resisted the urge to go to him, to sling an arm around his shoulders for support. He looked likely to collapse. Lowering my voice, trying to soothe, I murmured, “I’m here. Everything will be all right. Lou recognizes you now. Isn’t that right, Lou?”

She finally, finally stopped struggling, and I relinquished my hold on her. “Yes.” Voice soft, she looked between Thierry and me for a long moment. I stood perfectly still, wary of the odd gleam in her eyes—savage and bright, like that of a cornered animal. “Yes, I recognize him.”

Then she turned and fled.

Barreling into the others, knocking them aside, Lou didn’t slow as she reached the door. Célie pinwheeled backward on impact, but Coco caught her elbow before she free-fell down the stairs. Swearing viciously in response, Beau hurled insults after Lou, but she didn’t stop. The shadows closed around her as she raced out of sight.

Thierry lifted a weak hand. Two of his fingers appeared broken. Voice hitched with urgency, slow with concentration, he said, Caaatch . . . her.

I didn’t stop to think. To hesitate. To consider the resolve hardening in my chest. This sensation—this fiery sense of justice, of righteousness—it felt familiar. Unsettlingly so.

She darted down the stairs below me with unnatural swiftness, already near the ground floor. In seconds, she’d be out the door. “Lou!” My shout reverberated with unexpected fury. I didn’t understand why my hands shook or my teeth clenched. I didn’t understand why I needed to catch her. But I did. I needed to catch her like I needed to breathe. Beau had been right—something was wrong here. Terribly, terribly wrong. It went beyond her magic. It went beyond Ansel’s death. Beyond mourning.

Like fruit left in the sun to rot, Lou had split open, and something foul had grown inside.

Perhaps it’d happened during La Mascarade des Crânes. Perhaps before, perhaps after. It didn’t matter. It had happened, and though my instincts had tried to warn me, I’d ignored them. Now they propelled my feet forward faster. Faster still. They told me if Lou reached the door—if she disappeared into the cliffs beyond—I’d never see her again. That could not happen. If I could just catch her, talk to her, I could make things right. I could make her right. It didn’t make any sense, but there it was. This chase had suddenly become the most important of my life. And I wouldn’t ignore my instincts any longer.

When she cleared the last stair, I took a deep breath.

Then I gripped the spiral railing and vaulted over it.

Dank air roared in my ears as I plunged to the ground. Eyes widening over her shoulder, Lou bolted for the door. “Fu—” Her expletive ended in a shriek as I landed on top of her. Twisting onto her back, she clawed at my face, my eyes, but I seized her wrists and pinned them to the floor. When she continued to buck and thrash, I straddled her waist, broken glass tearing into my knees as we grappled. My weight kept her restrained, however. Immobilized. She smashed her head into my jaw instead. Grinding my teeth, I pushed my forehead against hers. Hard. “Stop it,” I snarled, flattening myself against her. The others descended the stairs in a cacophony of shouts. “What is wrong with you? Why are you running?”

“The cauchemar.” She struggled harder, panting feverishly. “It—it transformed into—into Thierry—” But the lie crumbled in her mouth as Thierry limped forward. In the shards of mirrors, his very real hatred refracted from every angle. His very real injuries. Coco followed, dropping to the floor beside us. She thrust her bloody forearm to the air above Lou’s mouth, the unspoken threat clear. “Don’t make me do it, Lou.”