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

I met Coco’s gaze directly. “We don’t have a choice.”

Shaking her head with regret, she closed her eyes and whispered, “The Wistful Waters.”





Part II




La nuit porte conseil.

The night brings advice.

—French proverb





Death at the Waters


Nicholina

The huntsman and the princess mean to punish me with their poisoned ropes, but we relish the friction. We rub until our wrists are raw. Until her wrists are raw. Because it’s the mouse and her huntsman who suffer most—she cannot feel it, no, but he can. He knows she’s trapped. She knows it too. She doesn’t see the gold as we do. Though she summons it, though she pleads, it cannot listen. We will not let it. And if voices not our own murmur a warning, if they hiss—if they know we do not belong—the patterns cannot fix it. They can only obey.

We can only obey.

Even if something is wrong. Even if below the gold magic, a newfound presence lingers. A newfound presence waits. I do not like it. I cannot use it. Unknown to the mouse, it coils like a snake preparing to strike, to protect. It is a gift, and it frightens us.

We cannot be frightened.

They were never meant to know, to suspect. Now they gather their packs to find L’Eau Mélancolique. Nasty waters. Cursed waters. They hide secrets but reveal them too, oh yes. But they cannot reveal this one. Not mine. They cannot spill its truth.

The princeling watches me while the others pack, but he watches his princess more. It matters not. We do not want to escape. They seek L’Eau Mélancolique, but Chateau le Blanc is its sister. Its neighbor. We will not struggle. We will not fight. Though our right hand is numb, they do not know our left has sensation. Has pain. We can move through pain. And the gold cannot respond to the mouse, no, but it must respond to us. Though I fear it—though it does not trust me—we will send a message. It is necessary.

The gold bursts in a delicate spray as the letters carve themselves into our flesh. Into our back. THEY KNOW. And then—DEATH AT THE WATERS.

Our mistress will not be pleased with us.

I am disappointed, Nicholina, she will say. I told you to kill them all.

We glance at our wrists. At the red smear of blood there. Her blood. La Princesse Rouge. Kill them all, she will say. Except the princesses.

Except the princesses.

More potent than pain—more potent than magic—our fury simmers and bubbles, a poison all its own. Noxious. We must not kill her. Though she has forsaken her family, forsaken my mistress, we must obey.

We must make our mistress proud. We must show her. Then she will realize our worth, yes, she will realize our love. She will never speak of her treacherous niece again. But the others . . .

I will drown them in L’Eau Mélancolique.

They think they’ve trapped me with their ropes, with their threats, with their bane, but their threats ring empty. They know nothing of pain. No, no, no, true pain lies outside the sensation of blood and skin. It lies beyond blisters.

It lies deep within.

The mice continue squeaking as the huntsman pulls me forward. Rocks line the path at the edge of the forest. Above us, thick smoke still darkens the afternoon sky. Below, waves crash tumultuously, oh yes. They warn of a storm. Of calamity. Do not fret, little mouse, we tell the princess, inhaling deep. Reveling. The dead should not remember.

I am not dead.

Soon, we promise. Very soon, your mother shall devour your body, and we in turn shall devour the rest. Like a mouse in a trap.

One might say you’re the mouse now, Nicholina.

Oh?

My mice press closer, ever curious, and we smile as the huntsman scowls over his shoulder. “Is something funny?” he snaps. Though we smile all the wider, we will not answer. He cannot stand our silence. It aggrieves him, and he expels a sharp breath through his nose, muttering a promise of violence. We welcome it. Relish it.

The mouse continues without hearing his words. We laugh because he cannot hear hers either.

It’s true, she insists. The others were never meant to know about La Voisin’s betrayal. They were never meant to know about you. But you failed at the lighthouse, and Morgane won’t forget it. I know my mother. You’ve broken her trust. She’ll kill you at the first opportunity—like a mouse in a trap.

We scoff through her nose, smile vanishing. Our mistress will protect us.

Your mistress will sacrifice you for the greater good. Just like my mother will sacrifice me. As if sensing something within us—she senses nothing—she pushes brazenly against our consciousness. We feel each kick, each elbow, though she has no feet or arms. It matters not. She cannot touch us, and soon she will fade into the others. Soon she will be ours. You’ve chosen the wrong side, Nicholina. You’ve lost. Reid and Coco will never allow us near the Chateau now.

My mice hiss and whisper their uncertainty. She knows nothing, I croon to them. Hush now, mouses. “The dead should not remember, beware the night they dream. For in their chest is memory—”

The huntsman jerks us forward viciously, and we stumble. A crow startles from a nearby fir.

It has three eyes.

You know what’s coming, Nicholina. It isn’t too late to stop it. You can still relinquish my body, ally with us before Morgane and Josephine betray you. Because they will betray you. It’s only a matter of time. Me, Reid, Coco, Beau—we could protect—