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The Missing Prince

Lou

The trees watched us, waiting, listening to our footsteps in the snow. They even seemed to breathe, inhaling and exhaling with each faint touch of wind in our hair. As sentient and curious as the shadows that crept ever closer.

“Can you feel them?” I whispered, cringing when my voice reverberated in the eerie quiet. The pines grew thicker in this part of the forest. Older. We could barely walk through their boughs, and with each step, they touched us, dusting our hair, our clothing, with glittering crystals of snow.

“Yes.” Coco blew air into her hands, rubbing them together against the chill. “Don’t worry. The trees here are loyal to my aunt.”

I shivered in response. It had nothing to do with the cold. “Why?”

“Pretty lies or ugly truth?”

“The uglier, the better.”

She didn’t smile. “She feeds them her blood.”

We smelled the camp before we saw it—hints of smoke and sage on the breeze hiding a sharper, acrid scent within them. At close range, however, one couldn’t mistake the bite of blood magic. It overpowered my senses, burning my nose and throat, stinging my eyes. The tears froze in my lashes. Gritting my teeth against the bitter wind, I trudged onward, following Nicholina through snow drifts as high as my knees. “How much farther?” I called to her, but she ignored me. A blessing and a curse. She hadn’t spoken a word since we’d left Troupe de Fortune in Saint-Loire. It seemed even she feared the forest after dark.

Coco inhaled the blood scent deeply, closing her eyes. She too had grown quieter over the past couple of hours—tenser, moodier—but when I’d questioned her, she’d insisted she was fine.

She was fine.

I was fine.

Reid was fine.

We were all fine.

A moment later, Nicholina halted outside a thick copse of pines and glanced back at us. Her eyes—so pale a blue they shone almost silver—lingered on my face before flicking to Coco. “Welcome home.”

Coco rolled her eyes and moved to shove past her, but Nicholina had vanished. Literally.

“A real treat,” I repeated, grinning despite myself at Coco’s irritation. “Are all your sisters this charming?”

“She isn’t my sister.” Without looking back, Coco swept aside a branch and plunged into the trees, effectively ending the conversation. My grin slipped as I stared after her.

Ansel patted my arm as he passed, offering me a small smile. “Don’t worry. She’s just nervous.”

It took every bit of my restraint not to snap at him. Since when did Ansel know more about Coco’s feelings than I did? As if sensing my uncharitable thoughts, he sighed and hooked my elbow, dragging me after her. “Come on. You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten.”

My stomach growled in response.

The trees thinned abruptly, and we found ourselves on the edge of a rocky clearing. Campfires illuminated threadbare tents stitched together from bits of animal skin. Despite the inordinately early hour—and the cold and the darkness—a handful of witches huddled around the flames, clutching thick, matted furs for warmth. At the sound of our footsteps, they turned to watch us suspiciously. Though they ranged in age and ethnicity, all wore identical haunted expressions. Cheeks gaunt. Eyes hungry. One woman even gripped her auburn hair in her fists, weeping softly.

Ansel stumbled to a halt. “I didn’t expect there to be so many males here.” He stared at a young man roughly his age with undisguised yearning. “Are they . . . like Reid?”

His name cut through me like a knife, painful and sharp. I missed him. Without his steady presence, I felt . . . out of sorts. As if part of me was missing. In a way, I supposed that was true.

“Maybe. But if they are, I doubt they realize it. We’ve grown up believing only women possess magic. Our dear Chasseur . . . changes things.”

Nodding, he tore his gaze away, cheeks pink. Coco didn’t look at us as we approached, though she did murmur, “I should probably speak with my aunt alone.”

I fought the urge to poke her in the cheek and make her look at me. When she’d spoken of her aunt’s protection, of an alliance with her powerful kin, this was not what I’d envisioned. These witches looked as if they’d keel under a strong wind, or perhaps even a sneeze. “Of course,” I said instead. “We’ll wait for you here.”

“That won’t be necessary.” We all jumped as Nicholina materialized beside us once more. Her voice had lost its girlish pitch, and those silver eyes were flat, expressionless. Whatever show she’d performed for Reid’s benefit, she didn’t care to continue for us. “Josephine awaits the three of you in her tent.”

“Can you stop doing that?” I demanded.

She twitched, every muscle in her face spasming, as if in physical protest to my question. Or perhaps to my mere voice. “Never address us, little mouse. Never, never, ever.” Sudden life flared in her gaze, and she lunged, snapping her teeth viciously. Ansel reeled backward—pulling me with him—and nearly toppled us both. Though Coco stopped her with a quick, forceful hand, she’d still drawn near enough for me to feel the phantom brush of her teeth, to see the sharpened tips of her incisors. Waving skeletal fingers in my direction, she crooned as to a baby. “Or we will gobble you up whole. Yes, yes, we will—”

“Enough,” Coco said impatiently, shoving her away. “Show us to our tents. It’s late. We’ll speak with my aunt after we’ve slept. That’s an order, Nicholina.”

“Tent.”

“Pardon?”

“Tent,” Nicholina repeated. She bobbed her head, resuming her maniacal performance. “Tent, tent, tent. A single tent is what I meant. One tent to share without dissent—”

“Share?” Ansel’s eyes widened in alarm, darting to Coco. He released me to run a nervous hand through his hair, to tug at the hem of his coat. “We’re sharing a tent? To—to sleep?”

“No, to fu—” I started cheerfully, but Coco interrupted.

“Why one tent?”

Shrugging, Nicholina wafted backward, away from us. We had no choice but to follow. The blood witches’ gazes fell hard upon me as we passed, but all bared their throats to Coco in a gesture identical to Nicholina’s earlier one. I’d seen this submission only once before tonight—when La Voisin had caught Coco and me playing together on the shore of L’Eau Mélancolique. She’d been furious, nearly dislocating Coco’s shoulder in her haste to drag her away from me. Coco had showed her throat quicker than an omega showed its belly.

It’d unsettled me then, and it unsettled me now.

Echoing my thoughts, Ansel whispered, “Why do they do that?”

“It’s a sign of respect and submission.” We trailed several paces behind Coco and Nicholina. “Sort of like how you bow to royalty. When they bare their throats, they’re offering Coco their blood.”

“But . . . submission?”

After Coco had passed, the witches resumed glaring at our backs. I couldn’t say I blamed them. I was a Dame Blanche, and Ansel had trained to be a Chasseur. Though La Voisin had allowed us to enter her camp, we were no more welcome than Reid had been.