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

“Fine. Here.” I tossed the satchel to her, but it slipped from her fingers. Coins and jewelry alike spilled across the snow. Cursing, I knelt to block the gamblers’ view with my shoulders. “But you promised to help us. We need your couronnes to buy the pearls.”

“Oh, I am well aware you need my help.” Angry tears sparkled in her eyes as she too knelt, returning fistfuls of treasure to her bag. “Perhaps you are the one in need of a reminder.” I glared pointedly at interested passersby. My hands swiftly joined hers, and though she tried to swat me away—

I straightened abruptly, my fingers curling around familiar glass. Cylindrical glass. Cold glass. Her nails cut into my knuckles as I moved to withdraw it. “Wait!” she cried.

Too late.

I stared at the syringe in my palm. “What is this?”

But I knew what it was. We both did. She stood perfectly still now, her hands knotted together at her waist. She didn’t blink, didn’t breathe. I didn’t blame her. If she moved, her tearful facade might shatter, and the truth might spill forth. “Where did you get it?” I asked, voice hard.

“Jean gave it to me,” she whispered, hesitating briefly, “when I told him I was leaving.”

“When you told him you were coming to find us.”

She didn’t contradict me. “Yes.”

My gaze snapped to her face. “Were you going to use it?”

“What?” Her voice cracked on the word, and she clutched my forearm, oblivious to Coco’s and Beau’s heads bobbing through the crowd. They hadn’t yet spotted us. “Reid, I would never—”

“You’re still crying.”

She wiped her face hastily. “You know I cry when I’m upset—”

“Why are you upset, Célie? Did you think you’d lost it?” My fingers closed around the glass. The hemlock injection didn’t warm, however. Devil’s Flower, the priests had called it. It’d grown on the hillside of Jesus’s crucifixion. When his blood had touched the petals, they’d turned poisonous. “It shouldn’t matter if you had. You weren’t going to use it.”

“Reid.” Her hand on my arm crept downward. Even now, she ached to have it in her possession. “It was just a precaution. I never planned to use it on you or—or anyone else. You must believe me.”

“I do believe you.” And I did. I believed she’d never planned to use it. If our reunion had gone wrong, however, she wouldn’t have hesitated. The fact that she’d brought it here, that she’d hidden it, meant she’d been prepared to hurt us. I tucked the syringe in my pocket. “You know this is poison, right? Standard issue. Witch or no, it’d incapacitate you much faster than it would me. It’d take down Jean Luc. King Auguste. All of them.” She blinked in confusion, confirming my suspicions. She’d thought it a weapon unique against witches. I shook my head. “Fuck, Célie. Are you really that afraid of us? Of me?”

She flinched at the profanity, color rising high on her cheeks. But not in embarrassment. In anger. When she lifted her chin, her voice didn’t waver. “Is that even a question? Of course I fear you. A witch murdered Filippa. A witch locked me in a coffin with her remains. When I close my eyes, I can still feel her flesh on my skin, Reid. I can still smell her. My sister. Now I’m terrified of the dark, of sleep, of dreams, and even awake, I can hardly breathe. I’m trapped in a nightmare without end.”

My own anger withered to something small. Something shameful.

“So, yes,” she continued fiercely, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks, “I packed a weapon against witches. I hid it from you. How could I do otherwise? Whether or not I like it, you’re a witch now. You’re one of them. I’m trying—truly, I am—but you cannot ask me not to protect myself.” She took a deep, steadying breath then, and met my gaze. “Truthfully, you cannot ask me anything. I won’t live in another grave, Reid. You’ve moved on. It is time for me to do the same.”

Though a hundred words of comfort rose to my lips, I didn’t utter one. They weren’t enough for what she’d suffered. No words would ever be enough. I handed her the syringe instead. She seized it instantly, lifting it to her eyes with a truly terrifying expression. Not like Lou. Not like Coco. Not like Gabrielle or Violette or Victoire. Like Célie.

“When I next see Morgane, I will stab this needle in her heart,” she promised.

And I believed her.





A Simple Favor


Reid

Beau, Coco, and Nicholina found us shortly after. I drew them into the shadow of an abandoned stall, away from the whispers of the villagers. “Well?” Coco looked between the two of us expectantly. “Anything?”

Nicholina snickered while Célie stuffed the injection into her pocket. “We, ah—my apologies, but Reid and I got . . . well, distracted.”

Coco frowned. “Distracted?”

“We haven’t found them yet,” I said shortly, hoisting her satchel back over my shoulder. “We need to keep looking.”

“The waters go down, down, down,” Nicholina sang, her face hidden within the hood of her cloak. “And there you’ll drown, drown, drown.”

Coco lifted a hand to rub her temple. “This is such a shit show. No one at the dock knew anything, either. One of them threw a hook at us when we asked about black pearls. He must’ve heard rumors about L’Eau Mélancolique.” She sighed. “Fishermen. They’re superstitious on the best of days, but they fear melusines most of all. I wouldn’t be surprised if he calls the Chasseurs. They’ll be swarming these streets by morning.”