I finally opened my eyes.

Reid’s throat worked with palpable distress as he weighed the situation: two witches against an unarmed huntsman with his blasphemous prince and childhood love caught in the crossfire. The Chasseur inside him—the part ruled by duty, by honor, by courage—refused to leave. The man inside him knew he must. Coco hadn’t been bluffing; she would hurt him if necessary. He didn’t know I wouldn’t let her. He didn’t know he could wield magic.

He didn’t remember me.

Leveling his knives at our faces, he spoke softly, viciously. “I will be back.”

I watched him disappear up the path with an overwhelming sense of emptiness.

Coco pressed my head upon her shoulder. “He’ll be back.”

Sticks and Stones

Reid

My footsteps pounded in rhythm with my heart. Faster and faster. Faster still. My skin flushed with heat, with sweat, as I sprinted uphill, vaulting stone and fern. I’d only traveled this far north once. Right after taking my vows. My captain at the time, a weak-spirited man by the name of Blanchart, had been trying to prove his spine to the Archbishop. He’d heard rumors of melusines in the area, and he’d ordered my contingent to investigate. We hadn’t even found the beach, instead wandering for days in this godforsaken mist.

If the freckled witch spoke truth, Blanchart had been right. There were melusines in the area. After I dispatched the demon in question, I’d return and—

Scoffing, I launched from the path.

She was a witch.

Of course she didn’t speak truth.

Instead of plunging into the forest, I followed the tree line south. There’d been a hamlet nearby. My brethren and I had rented rooms there each night. Unbidden, I glanced down at my chest. My bandolier. The empty sheath above my heart. Pieces of memory swarmed and stung like insects. Leering faces. Bloodstained snow. Searing pain and painted wagons and bitter honey—

A tree had eaten my Balisarda.

I nearly stumbled at the realization. At the onslaught of images. They formed a picture riddled with holes, a puzzle with missing pieces. There’d been lavender hair. Starry cloaks. Troupe de Fortune. The words gored my mind with surprising pain, and this time, I did miss a step. I’d traveled with them, briefly. I’d thrown knives in their company.

Why?

Clenching my eyes against such riotous thoughts, I focused on the one knife that mattered. The one knife I would reclaim. I’d burn the whole forest if necessary. I’d hack the demonic tree down to the ground, and I’d dig until its roots became kindling.

Bas and his bandits attacked on the road, and Lou threw your Balisarda to protect me. Don’t you remember?

Oh, I remembered. I remembered the scarred witch, who’d slithered into our mists as a healer. I remembered the disgraced Bastien St. Pierre, and I remembered my own gruesome injury. I did not, however, remember their coconspirator—the freckled witch. The one who’d looked at me as if someone had died.

I’m your wife, she’d said, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. In the biblical sense.

Remember, Reid. She’d known my name. Called me by name.

If he doesn’t love me—if he doesn’t even remember me—what was the point in all this, Coco?

Blistering rage further quickened my step. The wind rushed past me now, burning my cheeks and numbing my ears. As if I’d ever debase myself with a witch. As if I’d ever marry anyone, let alone a bride of Satan. “Lou.” I sneered the name aloud, my breath catching around it. A hideous name for a hideous being, and Célie—

My God.

I’d left Célie alone with them.

No. I shook my head. Not alone. The crown prince, my brother—he’d been there too. He’d even shared some sort of absurd camaraderie with the creatures, as if they three were family instead of him and me. Perhaps he could protect Célie. Then again, perhaps he couldn’t. Regardless of how he felt toward them, witches held no family. I couldn’t risk it. Not with her.

I hurtled around the bend, and sure enough, a familiar hamlet rose to meet me. If one could even call it that. Comprising a single street, it boasted a parish and an inn, complete with pub underneath. The entire settlement had risen only to accommodate sailors in need of work, passing from one port city to the next. A handful of them stared as I hurtled past. It mattered not.

Without breaking stride, I headed toward the parish at the end of the road. My fist nearly leveled the door. Once. Twice. Three times. At last, a tall, spotted boy peeked his head out. His eyes widened at my ruddy cheeks, my towering frame. My palpable fury. He let out a squeak before trying to slam the door in my face. Incredulous, I caught it and wrenched it back open. “I am Captain Reid Diggory, and—”

“You can’t be here!” His feeble arms trembled with the effort to shut the door. I held fast. “You—you—”

“—require your services,” I finished roughly, losing patience and flinging the door wide. It banged against the weathered stone wall. Men outside the pub turned to stare. “There are witches in the area. Summon your priest. If no Chasseurs are near, I’ll need a contingent of able-bodied men to—”

The boy planted himself in the threshold when I moved to step inside. “Father Angelart ain’t here. He’s—he’s in Cesarine, sittin’ in on the conclave, isn’t he?”

I frowned. “What conclave?” But the boy merely shook his head, swallowing hard. My frown deepened. Though I attempted to pass once more, he flung his arms wide, barring entrance. Impatience roused the anger in my gut. “Step aside, boy. This is urgent. These witches hold both the crown prince and a lady of the aristocracy hostage. Do you want the lives of innocents on your conscience?”

“Do you?” His voice cracked on the challenge, but still he didn’t move. “Go on. Get!” He jerked his head down the street, waving his hands to shoo me away like I was a mangy dog. “Father Angelart ain’t here, but I—I got me a knife too, right? I’ll gut you, I will, before the huntsmen arrive. This is a sacred place. We don’t—we won’t tolerate your sort here!”

I clenched my fists, resisting the urge to knock his hands aside. To force my way through. “What sort is that?”

The boy’s entire body trembled now. With anger or fear, I couldn’t tell. “Murderers.” He looked as if he wanted to spit at me. Anger, then. “Witches.”

“What are you talking—” My own angry words broke as the memories rose. A temple. The Archbishop. And—and me. I’d stabbed him to death. Sickening cold swept through me at the realization. It extinguished my rage. My mind continued to skitter over the images, however, leaping from one to the next before scattering. I stumbled back a step. Lifted my hands. I could still feel his blood there, could still feel its slick warmth on my palm.

But it—it made no sense. I’d felt nothing but love for my patriarch. Nothing but respect. Except . . . I focused harder on the memory, the parish in front of me falling away.

I’d felt vengeful too. Bitter. The emotions came to me slowly, reluctantly. Like shameful secrets. The Archbishop had lied. Though I couldn’t recall it—though the memory rippled somehow as if distorted—I knew he’d betrayed me. Betrayed the Church. He’d consorted with a witch, and I—I must’ve killed him for it.