Zenna arched a brow. “Your arrogance astounds.”

“It’s hardly arrogant to expect the help of a friend—”

“He is not your friend. He is a god. If you speak to him, he will listen. He will not, however,” she added firmly, eyes narrowing, “always answer. You do not have a god at your beck and call, any of you. He is of the Old World, and as such, he is bound by the Old Laws. He cannot directly intervene.”

Beau’s frown deepened to a scowl. I spoke before he could argue. “Can you help us, then? Nicholina has possessed Lou. We have to exorcise her.”

“Do not insult my intelligence.” Nostrils flaring once more, Zenna leaned forward to stare into Lou’s eyes. “Yes, I recognize the blight you call Nicholina. Long ago, I knew her by a different name. Nicola.”

Nicholina jerked, snarling, “We do not speak that name. We do not speak it!”

Zenna tilted her head. “But I am only a dragon. I cannot exorcise anyone.”

“The Wistful Waters can,” I said swiftly. “We’re journeying there now. Perhaps you could . . . join us.” I held my breath as I waited, hardly daring to hope. With a dragon on our side, we would reach L’Eau Mélancolique within the day. She could fly us there. She could protect us. Nicholina—even Morgane—wouldn’t dare threaten a dragon.

Zenna didn’t answer right away. Instead she stepped backward, away from us. She straightened her shoulders. Stretched her neck. “Witches are gathering at Chateau le Blanc. We have spied them in the mountains, through the forest. More than we have ever seen. If we are to rescue Toulouse, we must act swiftly. I am sorry.”

“But we can help you! No one knows Chateau le Blanc like Lou does. After we find the pearls for Le Cœur, after we exorcise her—”

“After Toulouse dies, you mean.” Her teeth continued lengthening. Her eyes gleamed gold. “Let me be clear, huntsman—Louise le Blanc may be the center of your universe, but she is not the center of mine. I have made my decision. Every moment I spend arguing with you is a moment Toulouse could lose his life.”

“But—”

“Every moment I spend arguing with you is a moment I might eat you instead.”

“He understands,” Coco said smoothly, stepping in front of Nicholina and me. She raised a hand to motion me backward. Nicholina lunged forward to snap at it. “Go.” Coco jerked her head. “Save Toulouse and the wolves. Raze the Chateau. Just—kill Morgane while you’re at it.” She gestured to the crow carcasses all around us. “Two birds, you know.”

Zenna nodded as Thierry moved to clasp my shoulder, considered Nicholina’s teeth, and thought better of it. We shall see each other soon, mon ami.

I managed a small smile. Zenna was right, of course. Lou was my priority. Toulouse was theirs. “Good luck, frère. Be careful.”

The two of them backed toward the cliff without another word. Seraphine lingered beside us, however, as if searching for words and finding none. At last, she whispered, “I wish we could help more.”

Coco kicked aside a burning crow. “You’ve helped enough.”

“We will kill Morgane if we can,” Seraphine promised.

Zenna didn’t change as the werewolves did. Her bones didn’t crack or break. Instead, she shifted with the grace and showmanship of a performer, lifting an elegant arm in the air. The other clutched her train. With a flourish of satin, she whirled, and at the center of her turn, her entire body exploded upward. Outward. Like a flame sparked into existence.

“Beautiful,” Célie breathed as Zenna extended a jeweled claw to Thierry. He climbed atop it, and she lifted him to the smooth amethyst scales between her wings.

Seraphine smiled. “She is, isn’t she?”

Then the dragon collected her maiden, and they launched into the sky.

Litany

Lou

Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel, Madame Labelle. Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel, Madame Labelle.

I repeat the names like a litany in the darkness. I envision each face. The copper of Reid’s hair, the cut of Coco’s cheekbones, the arch of Beau’s brows, the color of Ansel’s eyes. Even the fabric of Madame Labelle’s gown when I first saw her: emerald silk.

A pretty color, Legion muses, remembering the gold leaf walls and marble floors of the Bellerose, the grand staircase and the naked ladies. A pretty . . . brothel?

Yes. Those are tits.

They press closer, listening to each name in fascination, examining each memory. Except Etienne. His presence lingers apart from the rest, but weaker now. Faded. He’s forgotten his own name again, so I remind him. I will keep reminding him. Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel, Madame Labelle. It’s Etienne. You are Etienne.

I am Etienne, he whispers faintly.

We hoped once too. Legion coils around him, not to bolster but to soothe. They see only one outcome to our situation, but I refuse to accept it. I refuse. Instead, I remember the scent of Pan’s patisserie, the sweet cream of sticky buns. The wind in my hair as I leap rooftop to rooftop. The sensation of flying. The first light of dawn on my cheeks. Hope matters not.

Hope matters most, I say fiercely. Hope isn’t the sickness. It’s the cure.

As they consider my words, the darkness saturates with their confusion, their skepticism. I don’t allow it to taint my own thoughts. Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel, Madame Labelle. Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel, Madame Labelle.

The darkness has thinned in places, however, and within it, I can see glimpses of . . . Nicholina. Her memories. They slip across the surface of the shadows, as slick and bright as oil in water, mingling with my own. Snippets of a lullaby here. Ginger hair and warm hands there, a clandestine smile and an echo of laughter—genuine laughter, not the eerie, artificial kind she uses now. Warmth envelops that particular memory, and I realize it isn’t her laughter at all. It comes from another, someone she once held dear. A sister? A mother? Pale skin, freckled flesh. Ah . . . a lover.

Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel . . .

Panic seizes me at the last. There’s someone else, isn’t there? I’ve forgotten—who have I forgotten?

Legion croons mournfully. Hope matters not.

I am Etienne, he breathes.

The darkness drifts apart in answer, revealing the temple of Chateau le Blanc. But this place . . . I’ve never known it. Blood runs as a river from the temple down the mountainside, soaking the hair and hems of the fallen witches in its path. I recognize none of them. Except one.

Nicholina stands in the center of the clearing, her hands and mouth dripping blood.

Oh my god.

Never before have I seen such carnage. Never before have I seen such death. It pervades everything, coating each blade of grass and permeating each beam of moonlight. It hovers like a disease, thick and foul in my nose. And Nicholina revels in it, her eyes bright and silver as she turns to face La Voisin, who steps down from the red-slicked temple. Behind her, she drags a bound woman. I can’t see her face. I can’t tell if she’s alive or dead.

When I look closer, horrified, the scene returns to darkness, and a familiar voice slithers down my spine.

Do you fear death, little mouse?

I do not recoil, reciting their names. Reid, Coco, Beau, Ansel. Then— Everyone fears death. Even you, Nicholina.