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

She swallowed visibly.

When I strode forward, however, she slipped her arm through mine, hurrying to keep up. “Have you never drunk before?” I asked her quietly. Though I couldn’t hear Constantin following, I sensed his presence behind us as we trekked down the path. It sloped gently, evenly, despite the rocks. Silence still coated everything. “In all the times you visited?”

“Just once,” she whispered back, “when I tried to see my—” But she stopped abruptly, squeezing my arm tight. “When Lou and I tried to swim in the waters. Constantin never made us drink of them otherwise. We usually just played along the shore.”

“And that one time?” I asked.

She shuddered. “It was awful.”

“What did you see?”

“What I wanted most in the world.”

“Which was?”

She scoffed but didn’t withdraw her arm. “Like I’d tell you. I already spoke it once. I’m not speaking it again.”

“You aren’t serious.” An ache started to build in my right temple. “How can I know what to expect if you won’t—”

“You can’t,” Constantin interrupted, materializing directly in front of us. We both skidded to a halt. “None know what the water will show them. Desires, fears, strengths, weaknesses, memories—it sees truth and demands truth in turn. All you must do is acknowledge it.”

At his words, the mist behind him began to clear. It moved slowly, deliberately, each tendril creeping apart to reveal a vast, impossibly smooth body of water. It stretched between two mountains, extended as far as the eye could see. To the horizon. Beyond. The moon—silver as a freshly minted coin—shone clear and bright across its glassy surface. No smoke here. No waves either.

Not a single sound.

Constantin flicked his wrist, and from the fog, three chalices formed, solidifying into simple iron. They waited in the sand at the edge of the water. Almost touching it. Not quite. Gently, I lowered Nicholina to the ground. She didn’t stir when I lifted her eyelid, checked her pulse. “What did you do to her? She’s barely conscious.”

“It’s a simple sleeping solution—lavender, chamomile, valerian root, and blood.” Coco shrugged nervously. “It’s possible that I overdid it.”

“She will drink,” Constantin said, his form beginning to fade, “or she will die.”

I couldn’t suppress a snarl of frustration. “You’re a real son of a bitch, you know that?”

When he lifted his hands, they dissolved into mist. Another arrogant smile. “I am a simple guardian. Drink of the waters, and spill their truth. If you succeed, you may enter their healing depths. If you fail, you will leave this place, and you will never return.”

“I’m not going anywhere—” But even as the words left my mouth, I felt the mist constrict around me like iron manacles, knew staying upon failure wouldn’t be an option. The mist—or Le Cœur, or the waters, or the magic itself—wouldn’t allow it. Only when I muttered a terse agreement did the manacles dissipate. I still felt their presence, however, hovering over my skin. Their warning.

“Drink of the waters,” Constantin repeated, near immaterial now, “and spill their truth.” Only his eyes remained. When they found Coco, they softened, and a tendril of fog reached out to caress her face. “Good luck.”

He left us standing alone in the moonlight, staring down at our chalices.





The Waters’ Truth


Reid

I still remembered the exact moment I received my Balisarda. After each tournament, a banquet was held to honor the champions, to welcome them into the ranks of brotherhood. Few attended outside of the Chasseurs and Church, and the celebrations never lasted long—a quick address, a quicker meal. No toasts. No music. No revelry. A modest affair. The next morning, however, the real exhibition would begin. The entire kingdom would come to Cathédral Saint-Cécile d’Cesarine to watch the induction ceremony. Aristocrats and paupers alike would dress in their finest. Initiates would line the aisle. At the altar, the Archbishop would stand with the inductees’ Balisardas. They would adorn the communion table, polished and resplendent in their velvet boxes.

I’d been the only inductee at my ceremony. Mine had been the only Balisarda.

Jean Luc had stood at the end of the aisle, hands clasped behind his back. His face tight. His body rigid. Célie had sat in the third row with her parents and sister. She’d tried to catch my eye as I’d marched down the aisle, but I hadn’t been able to look at her. I hadn’t been able to look at anything but my Balisarda. It’d called to me as a siren’s song, the sapphire glittering in the filtered sunlight.

I’d repeated my vows by rote. Shoulders straight and proud. After, the Archbishop had broken tradition to embrace me, but his public display hadn’t embarrassed me. I’d been pleased with it. Pleased with myself. So, so pleased. And why not? I’d trained religiously for years—I’d bled and sweat and sacrificed—all for this moment.

When I’d reached out to finally accept my Balisarda, however, I’d hesitated. Just for a second.

Part of me had known, even then, this sword—this life—would bring pain. Part of me had known I would suffer.