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

“And maybe Liana and Terrance turn into house cats on the full moon.” She didn’t bother lifting her head, her voice dangerously apathetic once more. “Forget it, Reid. Lou is right. This has to end. Her way is as good as any—better, even. At least we’re moving forward.”

“What was the point of gathering allies, then?” I fought to keep the frustration from my voice. “We can’t kill Morgane on our own.”

“We clearly can’t kill her with allies either.”

“So we find new ones! We return to Cesarine, and we strategize with Deveraux—”

“What exactly are you expecting him to do? Who are these mysterious allies you hope to find? Shall Claud just . . . grow them on trees?” Her eyes hardened. “He couldn’t save Ansel in La Mascarade des Crânes. He couldn’t even save his own family, which means he can’t help us either. He can’t kill Morgane. Face it, Reid. This is our path forward. We can’t search Cesarine for ghosts.”

I unclenched my jaw. Heat worked up my throat. I didn’t know what to do. “My mother isn’t a ghost.”

“Your mother can take care of herself.”

“Her life—”

“—depends entirely on how adeptly she can lie.” Beau strolled toward us casually from the church’s kitchen, pointing a lazy finger at the smoke-filled sky. “Our father will be desperate to end this fire, even if he must enlist a witch to do it. As long as the clouds quite literally hang above our heads, your mother is safe. Apologies for eavesdropping, by the way,” he added. “I wanted to know if either of you had noticed my new beard.” He paused. “Also, Lou hasn’t blinked in half an hour.”

I frowned. “What?”

“She hasn’t blinked,” he repeated, dropping to the ground beside Coco and lifting a hand to her nape. His fingers kneaded gently. “Not once. She’s spent the last thirty minutes staring at the stained glass in silence. It’s unsavory. She even managed to frighten the priest away.”

Unease pricked my stomach. “You timed her blinks?”

“You haven’t?” Beau arched a brow in disbelief. “She’s your wife—or lady friend, paramour, whatever label you’ve settled on. Something is clearly wrong with her, brother.”

The wind built around us. At the edge of the church, the white dog reappeared. Pale and spectral. Silent. Watching. I forced myself to ignore it, to focus on my brother and his asinine observations. “And you don’t have a beard,” I said irritably, gesturing to his bare chin, “if we’re voicing the obvious.” I glanced at Coco, who still hid her face on her knees. “Everyone grieves differently.”

“I’m telling you this goes beyond different.”

“Do you have a point?” I glared at him. “We all know she’s undergone recent . . . changes. But she’s still Lou.” Unbidden, I glanced back to the dog. He stared at me with preternatural stillness. Even the wind didn’t ripple his fur. Standing, I lifted my hand and whistled low. “Here, boy.” I stepped closer. Closer still. He didn’t move. To Beau and Coco, I muttered, “Has she named him yet?”

“No,” Beau said pointedly. “Or acknowledged him at all, for that matter.”

“You’re fixating.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“You still don’t have a beard.”

His hand shot to his whisker-less chin. “And you still don’t have—”

But he stopped short when several things happened at once. The wind picked up suddenly as the dog turned and disappeared into the trees. An alarmed “Look out!” rent the air—the voice familiar, too familiar, and sickeningly out of place amidst the smoke and shadows—followed by the earsplitting screech of metal tearing. As one, we looked up in horror. Too late.

The statue of Saint Magdaleine splintered at the waist, bust careening in the wind toward Beau and Coco. She seized him with a shriek, attempting to drag him out of the way, but their legs—

I launched forward, tackling the fallen statue midair, landing hard as Coco and Beau snatched their feet away. Time stood still for a brief second. Beau checked Coco for injury, and she closed her eyes, shuddered on a sob. Wincing at the pain in my side, I struggled to catch my breath, to sit up—to—

No.

Pain forgotten, I whirled, scrambling to my feet to face the newcomer.

“Hello, Reid,” Célie whispered.

White-faced and trembling, she clutched a leather bag to her chest. Shallow cuts and scrapes marred her porcelain skin, and the hem of her gown hung in tatters around her feet. Black silk. I recognized it from Filippa’s funeral.

“Célie.” I stared at her for a beat, unable to believe my eyes. She couldn’t be here. She couldn’t have traversed the wilderness alone in only silk and slippers. But how else could I explain her presence? She hadn’t just happened upon this exact spot at this exact moment. She’d . . . she must’ve followed us. Célie. The reality of the situation crashed over my head, and I gripped her shoulders, resisting the urge to shake her, hug her, scold her. My pulse pounded in my ears. “What the hell are you doing here?” When she drew back, nose wrinkling, I dropped my hands and staggered backward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”