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

Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel, Madame Labelle. Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel, Madame Labelle.

I repeat the names like a litany in the darkness. I envision each face. The copper of Reid’s hair, the cut of Coco’s cheekbones, the arch of Beau’s brows, the color of Ansel’s eyes. Even the fabric of Madame Labelle’s gown when I first saw her: emerald silk.

A pretty color, Legion muses, remembering the gold leaf walls and marble floors of the Bellerose, the grand staircase and the naked ladies. A pretty . . . brothel?

Yes. Those are tits.

They press closer, listening to each name in fascination, examining each memory. Except Etienne. His presence lingers apart from the rest, but weaker now. Faded. He’s forgotten his own name again, so I remind him. I will keep reminding him. Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel, Madame Labelle. It’s Etienne. You are Etienne.

I am Etienne, he whispers faintly.

We hoped once too. Legion coils around him, not to bolster but to soothe. They see only one outcome to our situation, but I refuse to accept it. I refuse. Instead, I remember the scent of Pan’s patisserie, the sweet cream of sticky buns. The wind in my hair as I leap rooftop to rooftop. The sensation of flying. The first light of dawn on my cheeks. Hope matters not.

Hope matters most, I say fiercely. Hope isn’t the sickness. It’s the cure.

As they consider my words, the darkness saturates with their confusion, their skepticism. I don’t allow it to taint my own thoughts. Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel, Madame Labelle. Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel, Madame Labelle.

The darkness has thinned in places, however, and within it, I can see glimpses of . . . Nicholina. Her memories. They slip across the surface of the shadows, as slick and bright as oil in water, mingling with my own. Snippets of a lullaby here. Ginger hair and warm hands there, a clandestine smile and an echo of laughter—genuine laughter, not the eerie, artificial kind she uses now. Warmth envelops that particular memory, and I realize it isn’t her laughter at all. It comes from another, someone she once held dear. A sister? A mother? Pale skin, freckled flesh. Ah . . . a lover.

Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel . . .

Panic seizes me at the last. There’s someone else, isn’t there? I’ve forgotten—who have I forgotten?

Legion croons mournfully. Hope matters not.

I am Etienne, he breathes.

The darkness drifts apart in answer, revealing the temple of Chateau le Blanc. But this place . . . I’ve never known it. Blood runs as a river from the temple down the mountainside, soaking the hair and hems of the fallen witches in its path. I recognize none of them. Except one.

Nicholina stands in the center of the clearing, her hands and mouth dripping blood.

Oh my god.

Never before have I seen such carnage. Never before have I seen such death. It pervades everything, coating each blade of grass and permeating each beam of moonlight. It hovers like a disease, thick and foul in my nose. And Nicholina revels in it, her eyes bright and silver as she turns to face La Voisin, who steps down from the red-slicked temple. Behind her, she drags a bound woman. I can’t see her face. I can’t tell if she’s alive or dead.

When I look closer, horrified, the scene returns to darkness, and a familiar voice slithers down my spine.

Do you fear death, little mouse?

I do not recoil, reciting their names. Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel. Then— Everyone fears death. Even you, Nicholina.

Her ghostly chuckle reverberates. If you cannot master this one simple fear, you will not survive L’Eau Mélancolique. Oh, no. Our husband plans to baptize us, but he doesn’t realize. He doesn’t understand. Our mistress will stop him. The image of a dragon flashes—there and gone before I can properly see. Even if not, the waters go down, down, down, down, and there they drown, drown, drown, drown.

My own surprise and bewilderment stretch between us now. L’Eau Mélancolique? Though I wrack my memory to place the name, the darkness only seems to condense around it. I know those words. I know them. I just can’t—I can’t seem to remember them. Fresh panic swells at the realization, but—no. I won’t give in. I push against the darkness angrily.

Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel. If Reid plans to baptize me in these waters, he must have a reason. I have to trust him. I can swim.

It has nothing to do with swimming. Another image arises through the inky mist. A woman. She walks with purpose toward an unnaturally smooth sea—a sea so smooth it resembles the face of a mirror. Endless. Gleaming. She doesn’t break stride as she crosses into its depths, and the water . . . it seems to absorb her movements. Not a single ripple breaks its surface. She keeps walking, submerging her knees. Her hips. Her chest. When her head slips beneath the water, she does not reemerge. You aren’t the first to seek the waters’ embrace. Many have come before you, and many will come behind. She cherishes her lovers. She kisses each to sleep, tucking them in bed and healing them with brine.

A thought strikes like lightning. What happens to you if I die?

You’ve seen an Ascension, she says. I feel rather than see her turn her attention to Etienne, who trembles beneath her observation. He’s forgotten his name again. The soul can live for an indefinite amount of time without a body.

Indefinite isn’t forever.

No.

So . . . you could die if I do.

It will not come to that.

Why not?

Another chuckle. My mistress resides at the Chateau. She will have brought my body. If you succumb to the waters’ lure, I will return to it. You will die, and I will live.