We use it on all the newcomers.

Always gets a rise.

Plucked the verse straight from your memories this time, though. Are you religious?

It is impolite to ask if someone is religious.

She isn’t a someone anymore. She’s one of us. We already know the answer, anyway. We’re being polite.

On the contrary, it is quite rude to look through her memories.

Save the sermon for when the memories have gone. Look here. They’re still fresh.

An uncomfortable prickling sensation descends as the voices bicker, and again, I instinctively know they’re rifling through my consciousness—through me. Images of my past flicker in and out of the mist faster than I can track, but the voices only press closer, hungry for more. Dancing around the maypole with Estelle, drowning in the Doleur with the Archbishop, straining at the altar beneath my mother—

Stop it. My own voice cuts sharply through the memories, and the voices draw back, surprised but chastised. As they should be. It’s like an infestation of fleas in my own subconscious. My name is Louise le Blanc, and I am most definitely still a someone. I’d tell you to stay the hell out of my head, but since I’m not sure this even is my head, I’ll assume separation is impossible at this point. Now, who’s the last newcomer to this place? Can anyone remember?

Silence reigns for one blissful second before all the voices start talking at once, arguing over who’s been here the longest. Too late, I realize the error in my judgment. These voices are no longer individuals but an eerie sort of collective. A hive. Annoyance quickly churns to anger. Longing for hands with which to throttle them, I try to speak, but a new voice interrupts.

I am the newest.

The other voices cease immediately, radiating curiosity. I’m curious myself. This voice sounds different from the rest, deep and low and masculine. He also called himself I, not we.

And you are? I ask.

If a voice could frown, this one does. I . . . I believe I was once called Etienne.

Etienne, the others echo. Their whispers thrum like insect wings. The sound is disconcerting. Worse—I feel the moment they manifest his full name from his memories. From my memories. Etienne Gilly.

You’re Gaby’s brother, I say in dawning horror, remembering as they do. Morgane murdered you.

The voices practically quiver with anticipation as our memories sync, filling in the gaps to paint the entire portrait: how Nicholina possessed him and walked the forest under pretense of a hunt, how she led him to where Morgane lay in wait. How Morgane abducted him, tortured him within the bowels of a dank, dark cave only a handful of miles from the blood camp. And La Voisin—how she’d known all along. How she’d practically delivered Etienne’s and Gabrielle’s heads to Morgane on a silver platter.

Part of me still can’t believe it, can’t process my shock at their betrayal. My humiliation. Josephine and Nicholina have allied with my mother. Though I didn’t like them, I never suspected them capable of such evil. They sacrificed members of their own coven to . . . what? Return to the Chateau?

Yes, Etienne whispers.

He knows because he saw it all happen through Nicholina’s eyes, even after the real Etienne had perished. He witnessed his own desecrated body propped against my tent. He watched helplessly as Morgane kidnapped Gabrielle for the same fate, as my mother tormented his little sister, as Gaby finally escaped from La Mascarade des Crânes.

Except . . .

I frown. There are noticeable gaps in his memory. A small hole here, a gaping one there. My own involvement in the skull masquerade, for example. The color of Gabrielle’s hair. Each gap fills as I think of it, however, as my memory supplements his own, until the timeline is mostly complete.

Despite being, well, dead, he witnessed it all as if he was there.

How? I ask warily. Etienne, you . . . you died. Why haven’t you passed on?

When Nicholina possessed me, I joined her consciousness, and I—I don’t think I ever left.

Holy shit. My shock spreads wildly into outright horror. Has Nicholina possessed all of you?

I can feel them sift through our memories once more, piecing together our collective knowledge of Nicholina, of La Voisin, of blood magic. The darkness seems to vibrate with agitation as they contemplate such a fantastical and impossible conclusion. And yet . . . how often did Nicholina speak of mice? Gabrielle claimed she and La Voisin ate hearts to remain eternally young. Others whispered of even blacker arts. Their understanding resolves as mine does.

Somehow, Nicholina has trapped their souls in this darkness with her forever.

Yours too, the prim one sniffs. You are one of us now.

No. The darkness seems to press closer as their words ring true, and for a moment, I can’t speak. No, I’m still alive. I’m in a church, and Reid—

Who says we’re all dead? the mischievous voice asks. Perhaps some of us are still alive, somewhere. Perhaps our souls are merely fragmented. Part here, part there. Part everywhere. Yours will shatter soon enough.

When the darkness shifts once more, heavier now—crushing me beneath its weight—the others sense my mounting hysteria. Their voices turn less amicable, less prim, less mischievous. We are sorry, Louise le Blanc. It is too late for you. For all of us.

NO. I lash against the darkness with all my might, repeating the word over and over again like a talisman. I search for a golden pattern. For anything. There is only darkness. No no no no no—

Only Nicholina’s chilling laughter answers.

The Lighthouse

Reid

The first light of dawn haloed Father Achille in the sanctuary doors. He waited as I roused the others. No one had slept well. Bags swelled beneath Célie’s eyes, though she did her best to pinch color into her pale cheeks. Coco yawned while Beau groaned and cracked his neck. My own ached, despite Lou’s fingers kneading the knotted muscle there. I shrugged away from her touch with an apologetic smile, motioning toward the door.

“The villagers won’t rouse for another hour or so,” Achille said, handing each of us an apple as we filed past. “Remember what I said—don’t let them see you. The Chasseurs have an outpost not far from here. You don’t want anyone following you to . . . wherever it is you’re going.”

“Thank you, Father.” I tucked the apple into my pocket. It wasn’t shiny. It wasn’t red. But it was more than he owed us. More than others would’ve given. “For everything.”

He eyed me steadily. “Don’t mention it.” When I nodded, moving to lead the others through the churchyard, he caught my arm. “Be careful. Cauchemars are heralded as harbingers of doom.” I lifted an incredulous brow, and he added, grudging, “They’re only seen before catastrophic events.”

“A mob isn’t a catastrophic event.”

“Never underestimate the power of a mob.” Beau draped his arm casually across Coco’s shoulders as they waited, leaning against a tree. Mist clung to the edges of their hoods. “People are capable of unspeakable evil en masse. I’ve seen it happen.”

Father Achille released my arm and stepped away. “As have I. Take care.”

Without another word, he disappeared into the foyer, closing the door firmly behind him.

A strange sensation twinged my chest as I watched him go. “I wonder if we’ll ever see him again.”