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

“How did you exorcise Nicholina?” I asked dreamily. “What did the waters show you?”

She smiled at me over her shoulder, lit from within. “I don’t remember you being so chatty, husband.”

Husband. The rightness of the word felt warm. Heady. I grinned and draped my free arm across her shoulders, tucking her firmly against my side. Craving her warmth. Her smile. “And I don’t remember you—”

—spilling her truth, my mind chastised. You haven’t either. This isn’t real.

My smile slipped. Of course it was real. I could feel her against me. Slowing to a stop, I gripped her tighter, spun her around. When she looked up, arching a familiar brow, my breath caught in my throat. Truly, she seemed to be glowing with happiness. I felt like I could fly. “Tell me,” I said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Tell me what you saw.”

“Let me show you instead.”

I frowned now. Was her skin—was it actually glowing? She waved her hands, and the mist around us thinned, revealing a stone altar behind her. On it, a young woman lay prone, bound, and gagged. She struggled to support her head, which protruded past the altar. Her hair—white as the snow and the moon, white as her gown—had been braided. The plait fell from her nape to the stone bowl beneath her throat. I stepped closer in alarm. The girl looked . . . no, felt . . . familiar. With her turquoise eyes, she could’ve been a sixteen-year-old Lou, but that wasn’t right. She was too tall. Too strong. Her skin pale and unfreckled.

“Look at her, darling,” Lou crooned with a dagger in her hand. I stared at it, unable to understand where it’d come from. Unable to grasp why she had it. “Isn’t she lovely?”

“What are you doing?”

She tossed the dagger into the air, watching it rotate up, down, catching it by the handle. “I have to kill her.”

“What? No.” I tried to stand between them, but my feet wouldn’t move. The mist had crept forward while I’d studied the girl, solidifying around us. My breathing quickened. “Why? Why would you do that?”

She cast me a pitiful look. “It’s for the greater good, of course.”

“No. That—no, Lou.” I shook my head vehemently. “Killing that child won’t solve anything—”

“Not just any child.” She sauntered toward the altar, still tossing her knife and catching it. The girl watched with wide eyes, struggling harder, as the scene around us continued to evolve. The waters disappeared, and true mountains formed. A temple in a meadow. Scores of women all around, dancing wildly in the moonlight. Black-haired triplets and a witch with a holly crown. But the girl on the altar couldn’t escape. The mist held her trapped in place like a pig for slaughter while Lou pointed the knife at her throat. “This child. I alone am willing to do what must be done, darling. I alone am willing to sacrifice. Why can’t you see that? I will save everyone.”

Bile rose in my throat. “You can’t do this. Not—not her. Please.”

She stared at me sadly, knife still poised above the girl. “I am my mother’s daughter, Reid. I will do anything to protect those I love. Would you not kill”—she kissed the girl’s throat with the blade—“for me?”

Incredulous, angry, I nearly broke my legs trying to wrench free. “I wouldn’t ki—”

The lie blackened and cracked before I could finish it. Like ashes on my tongue. My ashes.

I had killed for Lou. The Archbishop hadn’t been innocent, no, but the others—the ones before him? I’d killed them for less than love. I’d killed them out of obligation, out of loyalty. I’d killed them for glory. But . . . that wasn’t quite right either. Drink of the waters, and spill their truth.

I could see the cracks in their magic now. Their Lou had been so convincing. So perfect. Like the Lou I’d preserved in my memory. But reality wasn’t perfection, and neither was she—not then and not now. She’d once told me it hurt to remember the dead as they were, rather than who we wanted them to be. Memory was a dangerous thing.

Time changes us all, does it not?

I was no longer the boy who’d pined after his Balisarda, who’d first held it with reverence, with pride, yet part of me remembered him. Part of me still felt his longing. Now, perhaps for the first time, I saw the truth clearly. I’d killed the Archbishop because I loved Lou. I’d killed innocents because I loved the Archbishop. Because I’d loved my brethren, my family. Every time I’d found a home, I’d fought tooth and nail to keep it.

Just like Morgane.

A thin line of scarlet wet Lou’s blade. It colored the girl’s neck like a ribbon. “You once said I’m like my mother.” Lou stared at the blood on her knife, transfixed. “You were right.” Quicker than I could react, she slashed the girl’s neck, turning to face me as the latter choked and gurgled. Her movements slowed within seconds. Scarlet stained the white stone irrevocably. “You were right.”

Drink of the waters, and spill their truth.

“Yes.” The mist around my feet vanished with the word, and I strode forward purposefully, swallowing bile. I didn’t look at the girl. Didn’t memorize her face. My chest cleaved in two with the effort. This wasn’t real. Not yet. Not ever—not if I could help it. “Yes, Lou, you are like your mother.” I took her chin in my hand, forcing her to look at me. “But so am I.”