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

Reid unsheathed another knife beside me, and my smile faded.

Everything had changed.

At least Morgane hadn’t deployed forces to Cesarine. Not yet, anyway.

“Keep close,” I murmured, starting toward the staircase. Though my body remained like shadow, I kept to the edges of the room. Smoke had obscured the moonlight outside, yes, but inside, lit candles dripped from their candelabra and cast flickering light. I would take no chances. “Morgane and Josephine are here somewhere. Perhaps Nicholina too.”

“And the treasury?” Reid murmured.

“Follow me.”

I led them through a narrow door beneath the staircase, into the winding passage beyond. Though it would take longer to reach the treasury’s tower this way, few others traveled it, and I . . . I couldn’t explain the creeping dread in my chest. The longer I concealed my friends in shadow, the more agitated I became. Like the magic itself was—was rebelling against me. Against them. It made little sense, yet wasn’t the purpose of La Dame des Sorcières to protect her home?

We were trespassers here, all of us, intent on thieving a sacred treasure.

My magic didn’t trust us, I realized in a burst of clarity.

The air in the passage tasted stale, damp, and the moss on the stones muted our footsteps. A good thing too—for at that exact moment, a door cracked open ahead, and three figures spilled out into the semidarkness. I froze mid-step, my heart pounding in my ears. I heard their voices before I saw their faces.

Morgane, Josephine, and Nicholina.

They strode forward, deep in harried conversation, and I seized Reid before they could see us, pushing him into the nearest alcove. Célie and Jean Luc barreled in behind as Coco and Beau did the same across the hall. The space was too small, however. My cheek smashed against Reid’s chest, and behind me, Jean Luc’s knee stabbed my thigh. Célie trembled visibly. Contorting my arm, I wrapped it around her to hide the movement and comfort her in equal measure. No one dared breathe.

“I do not care what you say,” Morgane hissed at Josephine, visibly agitated. She’d swept her white hair into a tangled braid, and her eyes remained shot through with blood. Fatigue lent a grayish hue to her skin. “The time is now. I tire of these incessant games. The trees have mobilized, and we shall follow, striking hard and true while the conclave deliberates.”

Josephine shook her head curtly. “I do not think this wise. We must proceed with the plan as scheduled. Your daughter, the king’s children, they will—”

Morgane wheeled to face her, nostrils flaring with sudden rage. “For the last time, Josephine, I do not have a daughter, and if I must repeat myself again, I shall rend your tongue from your miserable throat.”

I do not have a daughter.

Ah. My heart twisted unexpectedly. Though I’d suspected she’d forgotten me, suspecting the truth versus knowing it—versus hearing it—were two entirely different things. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, but here, in my childhood home—surrounded by sisters who’d cheered as my blood had spilled—it . . . pinched. Just a bit. I searched Reid’s shadowed face. This close, I could see the shape of his eyes, the set of his mouth. He glared back at me.

I looked away.

Cackling, Nicholina sang, “The dead should not remember. Beware the night the dream. For in their chest is memory—”

Morgane struck her across the face without warning. The angry crack resounded through the passage.

“You do not speak”—a vein pulsed in my mother’s forehead—“you do not breathe unless I will it. How many times must I punish you before you understand?” When she lifted her hand once more, Nicholina flinched. She actually flinched. Instead of striking her, however, Morgane rapped her knuckles across Nicholina’s forehead. “Well? How many? Or are your ears as addled as your brain, you worthless imp?”

Nicholina withdrew visibly at the insult, her expression emptying. She stared past Morgane as a red handprint bloomed on her cheek.

“As I thought.” With a sneer, Morgane proceeded toward us up the corridor, her own mottled cheeks visible even in the candlelight. “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”

Josephine only arched a brow at her ward and followed.

Célie wasn’t the only one trembling now. My own hands shook as Nicholina drifted after them—as vacant and lifeless as the wraiths outside—and even Reid’s heart beat an uneven tattoo against my ear. He stood rigid as she passed, but I felt his hand creep slowly up my back. I felt his knife. Whether he meant to kill me or Nicholina, I never discovered. Because before she disappeared around the corner, Nicholina turned toward our alcove.

Her eyes met mine.

And I knew—as instinctively as I’d known the trees had walked and my magic wanted to protect Chateau le Blanc—I knew that she’d seen me.

Reid’s knife stilled with her footsteps. “Hello, mouse,” she whispered, her fingers wrapping around the bend. Pure, unadulterated fear snaked through me at the words. I could do nothing but stare. Paralyzed. A single shout from her could kill us all.

We waited, breaths bated, as Nicholina tilted her head.

As she slipped around the corner without a sound.

“What are we doing?” Reid’s voice sounded in my ear, low and furious. “We can still catch her. Move.”