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

Lou appeared at her shoulder in an instant. With the diamonds reflected in them, her eyes gleamed almost silver.

Célie had the sense to yield a step. “I—I told you. I stole it from my father’s vault.” She glanced at me for reassurance, but I could give her none. I’d never before seen this intensity—this possession—in either Coco’s or Lou’s gaze. Their reactions were . . . unsettling. Whatever relic Célie had inadvertently brought us, it must’ve been important. “It was my favorite piece as a child, but it—it doesn’t open. Father couldn’t sell it.”

Coco shuddered as if insulted before withdrawing a blade from her cloak. I stepped hastily in front of Célie. “Oh, please,” Coco snarled, pricking the tip of her finger instead. A single droplet of blood dripped onto the diamond and beaded into a perfect circle. Then—incredibly—it sank beneath the stone’s surface, swirling bright crimson. When the color dissipated, the locket clicked open.

We all leaned closer, entranced, to see a crystal-clear surface within.

Lou recoiled.

“La Petite Larme,” Coco said, her voice softening. Her anger momentarily forgotten.

“The Little Tear,” Beau echoed.

“A mirror made from a drop of L’Eau Mélancolique.” She gazed at her reflection with an inscrutable expression before refocusing on Célie. Her lip curled in distaste once more. “It wouldn’t open because it doesn’t belong to you. It belonged to my mother.”

A pin could’ve dropped in the sanctuary, and we would’ve heard its every echo. Even Father Achille—who’d stormed through the scullery doors in an apron, clutching a soapy dish and growling about noise—seemed to realize he’d interrupted a tense moment. His eyes narrowed on Célie and the gold at her feet. “Célie Tremblay,” he acknowledged gruffly. “You’re a long way from home.”

Though she offered him a polite smile, it was brittle. Fraught. “I beg your pardon, monsieur, but I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“Achille,” he said, lips pursing. “Father Achille Altier.”

Coco snapped the locket shut. Without a word, she replaced her hood.

“Nice apron.” Beau grinned at the hand-painted roses on Father Achille’s apron. Brushstrokes large and uneven, they looked as though they’d been painted by a child. In blue and red and green.

“My nieces made it for me,” Father Achille muttered.

“It really brings out your eyes.”

Father Achille chucked the dish at him. Though Beau managed to catch the slippery plate against his chest, water still splattered his face on impact. Father Achille nodded in righteous satisfaction. “That’s the last dish of yours I’ll be washing, boy. You can scrub the rest of them yourself—and the scullery, thanks to her.” He jerked his thumb toward Lou in irritation. “There’s a bucket and a mop waiting for you.”

Beau opened his mouth to protest indignantly, but Célie interrupted. “Father Achille.” She swept into another curtsy, though not as low this time. Not as grand. She eyed his flowered apron and disheveled robes—the disrepair of the sanctuary—in thinly veiled disapproval. “I am pleased to meet you.”

Father Achille shifted awkwardly before her, as if unaccustomed to such pristine manners. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve said he looked uncomfortable under her scrutiny. Embarrassed, even. “I knew your mother,” he finally said by way of explanation. “When I lived in Cesarine.”

“Of course. I will pass along your regards.”

He snorted again. “Better not. I said I knew her, not that I particularly liked her.” At Célie’s scandalized expression, he muttered, “The feeling was mutual, I assure you. Now”—he straightened with as much dignity as he could muster—“it isn’t my business to ask what you’re doing in Fée Tombe, Mademoiselle Tremblay. It isn’t my place to tell you how stupid you are for taking up with this lot. So I won’t. Because I don’t care. Just make sure you don’t cause any trouble before you leave.”

I stepped forward as he turned on his heel. “She needs an escort back to Cesarine.”

“Reid.” Célie actually stamped her foot now. “Stop being so—so—”

“Pigheaded?” Beau suggested.

Father Achille scowled at us over his shoulder. “I am not a babysitter.”

“See?” Triumphant, she beamed, pointing a finger in the air. “He will not take me, and the journey is far too hazardous to travel alone. I must remain here. With you.”

My jaw clenched. “You had no problem hazarding it before.”

“Yes, but—” Something akin to nervousness flitted through her eyes, and her smile vanished. “I—I might’ve . . . fibbed before. A small, inconsequential thing,” she added hastily at my expression. “I told you I’d left my coach at the stable, but really, er, in actuality, I might’ve made a wrong turn—”

“A wrong turn where?” I demanded.

“To the lighthouse.”

Father Achille slowly turned.

“I lost sight of you all just before dawn.” Célie twisted her hands together at her waist. “When I came to the fork in the road, I—I chose the path leading away from the village. I never dreamed you’d seek shelter in a church. Really, I am extraordinarily lucky to have found you at all—”