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

“You can’t be here!” His feeble arms trembled with the effort to shut the door. I held fast. “You—you—”

“—require your services,” I finished roughly, losing patience and flinging the door wide. It banged against the weathered stone wall. Men outside the pub turned to stare. “There are witches in the area. Summon your priest. If no Chasseurs are near, I’ll need a contingent of able-bodied men to—”

The boy planted himself in the threshold when I moved to step inside. “Father Angelart ain’t here. He’s—he’s in Cesarine, sittin’ in on the conclave, isn’t he?”

I frowned. “What conclave?” But the boy merely shook his head, swallowing hard. My frown deepened. Though I attempted to pass once more, he flung his arms wide, barring entrance. Impatience roused the anger in my gut. “Step aside, boy. This is urgent. These witches hold both the crown prince and a lady of the aristocracy hostage. Do you want the lives of innocents on your conscience?”

“Do you?” His voice cracked on the challenge, but still he didn’t move. “Go on. Get!” He jerked his head down the street, waving his hands to shoo me away like I was a mangy dog. “Father Angelart ain’t here, but I—I got me a knife too, right? I’ll gut you, I will, before the huntsmen arrive. This is a sacred place. We don’t—we won’t tolerate your sort here!”

I clenched my fists, resisting the urge to knock his hands aside. To force my way through. “What sort is that?”

The boy’s entire body trembled now. With anger or fear, I couldn’t tell. “Murderers.” He looked as if he wanted to spit at me. Anger, then. “Witches.”

“What are you talking—” My own angry words broke as the memories rose. A temple. The Archbishop. And—and me. I’d stabbed him to death. Sickening cold swept through me at the realization. It extinguished my rage. My mind continued to skitter over the images, however, leaping from one to the next before scattering. I stumbled back a step. Lifted my hands. I could still feel his blood there, could still feel its slick warmth on my palm.

But it—it made no sense. I’d felt nothing but love for my patriarch. Nothing but respect. Except . . . I focused harder on the memory, the parish in front of me falling away.

I’d felt vengeful too. Bitter. The emotions came to me slowly, reluctantly. Like shameful secrets. The Archbishop had lied. Though I couldn’t recall it—though the memory rippled somehow as if distorted—I knew he’d betrayed me. Betrayed the Church. He’d consorted with a witch, and I—I must’ve killed him for it.

I was no longer a Chasseur at all.

“Is there a problem here?” A brawny sailor with a beard pressed his hand on my shoulder, jerking me from my thoughts. Two companions flanked him on either side. “Is this man bothering you, Calot?”

Instead of relief, fresh panic widened the boy’s features. He looked from the sailor’s hand on my shoulder to my face, where my jaw had clenched and my mouth had flattened. “Remove your hand, sir,” I said through my teeth. “Before I remove it for you.”

The man chuckled but complied. “All right.” Slowly, I turned my head to look at him. “You’re built like a tree, and I don’t want any trouble. Why don’t you and I head on up for a pint and leave poor Calot here alone?”

Calot pointed to something beside us before I could answer. A piece of paper. It fluttered in the evening breeze, tacked to the message post beside the door. I looked closer. A picture of my own face glared back at me.

REID DIGGORY

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE

UNDER SUSPICION OF MURDER, CONSPIRACY, AND WITCHCRAFT.

REWARD.

The sick feeling in my stomach increased tenfold.

It couldn’t be true. Though my memory felt—off, surely I would know if I—if—

I swallowed bile. There were too many gaps. I couldn’t be sure of anything, and these men—their amicable nature vanished instantly. “Holy shit,” one breathed. His companion hastened to yank the sword from his scabbard. I lifted my hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“I don’t want any trouble either. I came to gather men. There are witches three miles up the road. Two of them. They—”

“We know who they are,” the bearded man growled, jabbing a finger at the other posters. More men from the pub headed toward us now. They drew weapons as they came. Calot shrank into the shadows of the foyer. “You travel with them. They even say one is your wife. Mort Rouge and Sommeil Éternel, they call you.” He too drew a set of knives from his belt. They gleamed sharp and polished in the setting sun. Well used. “You killed the Archbishop. You set the capital aflame.”

My eyes narrowed. A tendril of old anger unfurled. Of disgust. “I would never marry a witch.”

“Is this some sort of hoax?” his friend asked uncertainly.

The bearded man jerked his chin. “Ride to Hacqueville. See if that Chasseur is still there. We’ll hold him.”

“That Chasseur?” My voice sharpened. “Who?”

Instead of answering, the man charged, and the anger simmering in my gut exploded. We collided with bone-shattering impact, and Calot squeaked again before slamming the parish door shut. I threw the bearded man against it. “This is ridiculous. We’re on the same—”