Beau didn’t hesitate. “What kind?” When I shot a glare over my shoulder, he shrugged. “He could’ve woken the town the moment he recognized us—”

“He still could,” I reminded him, voice hard.

“—and my stomach is about to eat itself,” he finished. “Yours too, by the sound of it. We need food.” He sniffed and asked Father Achille, “Are there potatoes in your stew? I’m not partial to them. It’s a textural thing.”

The priest’s eyes narrowed, and he jabbed the spoon toward the scullery. “Get out of my sight, boy, before I change my mind.”

Beau inclined his head in defeat before scooting past us. Lou, Coco, and I didn’t move, however. We exchanged wary looks. After a long moment, Father Achille heaved a sigh. “You can sleep here too. Just for the day,” he added irritably, “so long as you don’t bother me.”

“It’s Sunday morning.” At last, Coco lowered her hood. Her lips were cracked, her face wan. “Shouldn’t villagers be attending service soon?”

He scoffed. “I haven’t held a service in years.”

A reclusive priest. Of course. The disrepair of the chapel made sense now. Once, I would’ve scorned this man for his failure as a religious leader. For his failure as a man. I would’ve reprimanded him for turning his back on his vocation. On God.

How times had changed.

Beau reappeared with an earthen bowl and leaned casually against the doorway. Steam from the stew curled around his face. When my stomach rumbled again, he smirked. I spoke through gritted teeth. “Why would you help us, Father?”

Reluctantly, the priest’s gaze trailed over my pale face, Lou’s grisly scar, Coco’s numb expression. The deep hollows beneath our eyes and the gaunt cut of our cheeks. Then he looked away, staring hard at the empty air above my shoulder. “What does it matter? You need food. I have food. You need a place to sleep. I have empty pews.”

“Most in the Church wouldn’t welcome us.”

“Most in the Church wouldn’t welcome their own mother if she was a sinner.”

“No. But they’d burn her if she was a witch.”

He arched a sardonic brow. “Is that what you’re after, boy? The stake? You want me to mete out your divine punishment?”

“I believe,” Beau drawled from the doorway, “he’s simply pointing out that you are among the Church—unless you’re actually the sinner of this story? Are you unwelcome amongst your peers, Father Achille?” He glanced pointedly at our dilapidated surroundings. “Though I abhor jumping to conclusions, our beloved patriarchs surely would’ve sent someone to repair this hovel otherwise.”

Achille’s eyes darkened. “Watch your tone.”

I interrupted before Beau could provoke him further, spreading my arms wide. In disbelief. In frustration. In . . . everything. Pressure built in my throat at this man’s unexpected kindness. It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be real. As horrible a picture as Lou painted, a cannibal spider luring us into its web seemed likelier than a priest offering us sanctuary. “You know who we are. You know what we’ve done. You know what will happen if you’re caught sheltering us.”

He studied me for a long moment, expression inscrutable. “Let’s not get caught, then.” With a mighty harrumph, he stomped toward the scullery door. At the threshold, however, he paused, eyeing Beau’s bowl. He seized it in the next second, ignoring Beau’s protests and thrusting it at me. “You’re just kids,” he muttered, not meeting my eyes. When my fingers wrapped around the bowl—my stomach contracting painfully—he let go. Straightened his robes. Rubbed his neck. Nodded to the stew. “Won’t be worth eating cold.”

Then he turned and stormed from the room.

Darkness Mine

Lou

Darkness.

It shrouds everything. It envelops me, constricts me, pressing against my chest, my throat, my tongue until it is me. Trapped within its eye, drowning in its depths, I fold in on myself until I no longer exist at all. I am the darkness. This darkness, mine.

It hurts.

I should not feel pain. I should not feel anything. I am unformed and unmade, a speck in all of Creation. Without shape. Without life or lung or limb to control. I cannot see, cannot breathe, yet the darkness—it blinds. The pressure chokes, smothers, building with each passing second until it rends me apart. But I cannot scream. I cannot think. I can only listen—no, sense—a voice unfurling within the shadows. A beautiful, terrible voice. It snakes around me, through me, and whispers sweetly, promising oblivion. Promising respite.

Surrender, it croons, and forget. Feel no pain.

For a moment or a thousand moments, I hesitate, considering. To surrender and forget appeals more than to resist and remember. I am weak, and I do not like pain. The voice is so beautiful, so tempting, so strong, that I nearly let it consume me. And yet . . . I cannot. If I let go, I will lose something important. Someone important. I cannot remember who it is.

I cannot remember who I am.

You are the darkness. The shadows press closer, and I fold myself tighter. A grain of sand below infinite black waves. This darkness is yours.

Still I hold on.

Coco’s Flame

Reid

Coco leaned against the headstone beside me. A weatherworn statue of Saint Magdaleine towered over us, her bronze face shadowed in the gray twilight. Though she had long closed her eyes, Coco didn’t sleep. She didn’t speak either. She merely rubbed a scar on her palm with her opposite thumb, over and over until the skin chafed. I doubted she noticed it. I doubted she noticed anything.

She’d followed me into the cemetery after Lou had ransacked the scullery for red meat, unsatisfied with the fish Father Achille had prepared for supper. There’d been nothing inherently wrong with the way Lou had attacked the beef, even if the cut hadn’t been fully cooked. We’d been famished for days. Our breakfast of stew and lunch of hard bread and cheese hadn’t assuaged our hunger. And yet . . .

My stomach contracted without explanation.

“Is she pregnant?” Coco asked after a long moment. Her eyes flicked open, and she rolled her head to face me. Voice flat. “Tell me you’ve been careful. Tell me we don’t have another problem.”

“She bled two weeks ago, and since then, we haven’t—” I cleared my throat.

Coco nodded and tipped her chin skyward once more, closing her eyes on a heavy exhale. “Good.”

I stared at her. Though she hadn’t cried since La Mascarade des Crânes, her lids remained swollen. Traces of kohl still flecked her cheeks. Tear tracks. “Are you . . .” The words caught in my throat. Coughing to clear it, I tried again. “I saw a tub inside if you need to bathe.”

Her fingers clamped around her thumb in response, as if she could still feel Ansel’s blood on her hands. She’d scrubbed them raw in the Doleur that night. Burned her garments in Léviathan, the inn where so much had gone wrong. “I’m too tired,” she finally murmured.

The familiar ache of grief burned up my throat. Too familiar. “If you need to talk about it . . .”

She didn’t open her eyes. “We aren’t friends.”