I was no longer a Chasseur at all.

“Is there a problem here?” A brawny sailor with a beard pressed his hand on my shoulder, jerking me from my thoughts. Two companions flanked him on either side. “Is this man bothering you, Calot?”

Instead of relief, fresh panic widened the boy’s features. He looked from the sailor’s hand on my shoulder to my face, where my jaw had clenched and my mouth had flattened. “Remove your hand, sir,” I said through my teeth. “Before I remove it for you.”

The man chuckled but complied. “All right.” Slowly, I turned my head to look at him. “You’re built like a tree, and I don’t want any trouble. Why don’t you and I head on up for a pint and leave poor Calot here alone?”

Calot pointed to something beside us before I could answer. A piece of paper. It fluttered in the evening breeze, tacked to the message post beside the door. I looked closer. A picture of my own face glared back at me.

REID DIGGORY

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE

UNDER SUSPICION OF MURDER, CONSPIRACY, AND WITCHCRAFT.

REWARD.

The sick feeling in my stomach increased tenfold.

It couldn’t be true. Though my memory felt—off, surely I would know if I—if—

I swallowed bile. There were too many gaps. I couldn’t be sure of anything, and these men—their amicable nature vanished instantly. “Holy shit,” one breathed. His companion hastened to yank the sword from his scabbard. I lifted my hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“I don’t want any trouble either. I came to gather men. There are witches three miles up the road. Two of them. They—”

“We know who they are,” the bearded man growled, jabbing a finger at the other posters. More men from the pub headed toward us now. They drew weapons as they came. Calot shrank into the shadows of the foyer. “You travel with them. They even say one is your wife. Mort Rouge and Sommeil Éternel, they call you.” He too drew a set of knives from his belt. They gleamed sharp and polished in the setting sun. Well used. “You killed the Archbishop. You set the capital aflame.”

My eyes narrowed. A tendril of old anger unfurled. Of disgust. “I would never marry a witch.”

“Is this some sort of hoax?” his friend asked uncertainly.

The bearded man jerked his chin. “Ride to Hacqueville. See if that Chasseur is still there. We’ll hold him.”

“That Chasseur?” My voice sharpened. “Who?”

Instead of answering, the man charged, and the anger simmering in my gut exploded. We collided with bone-shattering impact, and Calot squeaked again before slamming the parish door shut. I threw the bearded man against it. “This is ridiculous. We’re on the same—”

His unharmed friend leapt atop my back, wrapping an arm around my neck. Fisting his hair, I wrenched him over my shoulders and drew a knife from my bandolier. Each dove out of reach as I slashed it in front of me. “Fine. You want to challenge me? You’ll lose. I’m the youngest captain of the Chasseurs in history—”

“Were.” The bearded man stepped around me in a circle. His friend stepped behind. “You were a captain of the Chasseurs. Now you’re a witch.”

“Call them.” With a snarl, I unsheathed another knife, pointing one at each of them. Backing into the parish wall. “Call them all. There are witches near, and they’ve taken someone I—”

They dove at me simultaneously. Though I dodged the bearded man, his friend’s sword clipped my side. Gritting my teeth, I blocked his counterstrike, but others joined now—too many. Far too many. Blades glinted in every direction, and where one failed, a fist connected. A boot. An elbow. A scabbard smashed into my skull, and stars blurred my vision. When I doubled over, someone drove a knee into my face. Another my groin, my ribs. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Wrapping my arms around my head, I attempted to bowl through the mob, but I crashed to my knees instead, spitting blood. The blows kept coming. Violent, frenzied shouts echoed from everywhere at once. My head swam with them.

A strange, whispering energy thrummed in my chest, building and building until—

“That’s enough!” A familiar voice cut through the din, and the foot on my back vanished. “Stop it! Let him go!” I felt rather than saw him approach. My eyes had swollen shut. Still, two hands gripped under my arms and heaved until I stood vertical, and his arm wrapped around my bloody waist.

“Jean Luc,” I croaked, prying my right eye open. Never before had I been so pleased by his presence.

“Shut up,” he said harshly.

Perhaps not.

He swung his Balisarda wide, and those nearest us lurched back with sounds of protest. “This creature belongs to the Church now, and we shall deal with it accordingly—on a stake in Cesarine. Did you think your fists could kill it? Did you think a sword to the heart would do?” He sneered derisively like only he could. “Witches must burn. Here now, watch me subdue the creature!” When he lifted a syringe, I pushed away from him, lunging for my fallen knives. He laughed coldly and kicked my knees. I sprawled into the snow. Bearing down on me, bending low, he pretended to stick the needle in my throat and whispered, “Play along.”

My muscles sagged in relief.

He rolled me to my back with the tip of his boot. “You there”—pointing to the bearded man, he jerked his chin toward his horse—“help me move the body. It shall burn within the fortnight.” Hastily, the man complied, and together, the two heaved my body upward. “Onto the saddle,” Jean Luc commanded.

The man hesitated in confusion. “Sir?”

Jean Luc’s eyes narrowed as he realized his mistake. “I meant tie him to the saddle. I’ll drag him behind to Cesarine.”

“Him?”

“It,” Jean Luc snapped. “I’ll drag it to Cesarine, you impertinent clot. Perhaps you’d like to join?”

They dumped me behind the horse without another word. No one spoke as Jean Luc tied a length of rope around my wrists, as he hoisted himself into the saddle. I watched him in disbelief. “You all can clear off now.” He kicked his horse into a trot, and my body rioted with pain as I staggered to my feet. At the last second, Jean Luc called, “Thank you for your service in apprehending this criminal. I shall inform the king of your”—he craned around to look at them—“what is the name of this foul place?”

“Montfort,” the bearded man called back angrily.

“What about our reward money?” someone else shouted.

Jean Luc ignored them both, dragging me into the forest.

“You enjoyed that too much,” I said darkly.

Rougher than necessary, Jean Luc untied the rope from my wrists outside the village. “Entirely too much.” He didn’t smile, instead shoving my chest with a murderous expression. “What the hell is wrong with you? Where’s Célie?”

I rubbed my wrists, instantly alert. My head still pounded. “She’s with the witches.”

“What?” Jean Luc’s roar shook the birds from the nearest trees, and he advanced on me again. “What witches? Who?”

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have retreated. As it was, however, I’d sustained two broken ribs, a concussion, and a shattered nose. My pride was bruised enough already. It needn’t suffer another defeat at the hands of Jean Luc. “I don’t know. Two of them.” I started north, careful to navigate around Montfort. “Coco and—and Lou. The crown prince was there too. I tried to bring her with me, but she refused. She likes them.”