My hands withered and cracked as the shadows around them dissipated, and my spine bowed beneath years of fatigue. My vision clouded. My flesh sagged. Triumphant—exorbitantly pleased with myself—I lifted a gnarled finger to Manon’s startled face. I’d done it.

I’d transformed.

“Out for a moonlit stroll, dearie?” My voice warbled, unfamiliar and deep and unpleasant. I cackled at the sound, and Manon retreated a step. “Not much moonlight tonight, I’m afraid.” My tongue flicked past the gap in my eyeteeth as I leered at her. “Shall I join you?”

She sank into a hasty curtsy. “My lady. I am sorry. I—I didn’t recognize you.”

“Some nights I must pass unseen, Manon.”

“Of course.” She ducked her head. Too late, I realized she’d been crying. The kohl around her eyes had tracked down her cheeks, and her nose still ran. She sniffed as quietly as possible. “I understand.”

“Is something wrong, child?”

“No.” She spoke the word too quickly, still backing away. “No, my lady. I am sorry to have bothered you.”

I didn’t need the Crone’s Vision to see her lie. Truthfully, I needn’t have asked at all. She still grieved her dead lover, Gilles, the man she’d killed with her own hands. All because he’d been a son of the king. “A cup of chamomile tea, my dear.” When she blinked, confused, I clarified, “In the kitchens. Brew and steep a cup. It will settle your nerves and send you to sleep.”

With another curtsy and word of thanks, she departed, and I sagged against the nearest wall.

“Holy shit,” Beau breathed.

“That was incredible,” Coco added.

“Release me.” Reid broke Jean Luc’s hold swiftly, efficiently, his throat corded with strain. He whirled on him in a storm of fury. “She was isolated. The situation controlled. We should’ve struck—”

“And then what?” Flinging my hands in the air, I hobbled toward him. “Really, what’s the next step in this master plan of yours, Chass? We hide her body for someone to stumble across? We stuff her in the closet? We can’t risk anyone knowing we’re here!”

“You’re jeopardizing the mission, Reid,” Jean Luc agreed darkly, “and you’re endangering everyone here. Follow her orders, or I’ll incapacitate you.”

Reid stepped toe to toe with him. “I’d like to see that, Jean.”

“Oh, shut it, or I’ll stuff your body in the goddamn closet.” Losing patience completely, I whirled—though in reality, it looked more like a shuffle—and doddered up the passage once more. “We’ve wasted enough time here.”

Reid followed in mutinous silence.

Deadly and Beautiful Things

Reid

Chateau le Blanc was a labyrinth. I hadn’t ventured beyond the Great Hall on Modraniht, so I could do nothing but follow Lou. Lou. She hadn’t told me who she was. Of course she hadn’t. She hadn’t told me she’d inherited her mother’s power—that she had become La Dame des Sorcières.

She struggled to climb a set of rickety stairs now. Coco and Beau supported her on either side. Their shapes remained dark. Unnatural. Like shadows. “You could always change back,” the latter muttered, catching her stout frame as she stumbled.

“This is better. If we meet anyone else, they won’t look too close.”

The stairs wound up a narrow tower. Here, however, the ceiling had collapsed in places. As in the Great Hall, the elements had overcome most rooms. Snow fell gently in the solar, where an ornately carved fireplace crackled. Its light danced on tapestries of magical beasts and beautiful women—each of their eyes seemed to follow us as we passed. I swore one even craned her elegant neck.

“This room is for Morgane’s personal use.” Lou pointed to the wooden desk in the corner. A peacock-feather quill scratched at parchment of its own volition. The falling snow didn’t mar the paper, nor the carpets or tapestries. It didn’t stain the decorative woodwork. It simply melted into nothing in the warm, balmy air. In the corner, a harp plucked itself gently.

The entire scene was eerie.

“Her bedchamber is also in this tower.” She gestured to a room beyond the harp. “And her oratory. She forbade me from entering this part of the castle, but I snuck in anyway.”

“And the treasury?” Jean Luc asked.

“Directly above us.” Shuffling to the bookcase beside the desk, she studied the tomes there. Her silver brows furrowed in concentration. “The door is somewhere . . .” Her fingers stilled on an ancient book bound in black cloth. On its spine, letters had been stamped in gold: L’argent n’a pas d’odeur. She tapped it with a wicked grin. “Here.”

When she pulled the book toward her, the entire wall groaned. Gears clanked. And the bookcase—it swung open. Beyond it, a steep, narrow staircase disappeared into the dark. She bowed slightly, still grinning, and snapped her fingers. The scent of magic burst around us—fresher than before—and a torch on the wall in the stairwell sprang to life. “After you.”

Beau removed the torch warily. A shadow bearing light. The unnatural sight of it lifted the hair on my arms. My neck. “You didn’t tell us the treasury was in her personal chambers.”

“I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Oh, yes.” Tentative, Beau stepped onto the first plank. It creaked under his weight. “The shadows, wraiths, and murderous witches would’ve paled in comparison to Morgane’s bed.” He hesitated and glanced back. “Unless—do you think she’ll be returning soon?”

Coco followed before the coward could reconsider. “I think she’s busy plotting the end of the world.”

“This place . . .” Célie stared longingly over her shoulder as she too ascended. Her eyes lingered on the peacock quill before settling on the harp. Its golden strings. Her body swayed slightly to the haunting melody. “It’s so beautiful.”

I rolled my eyes. “You almost died outside, Célie.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” she snapped, suddenly defensive. I bristled at her tone. “Believe me, I remember what magic is. It’s just—” Tearing her gaze from the room, she turned instead to Jean Luc, to me. Her hand rose to catch a snowflake between us, and we all watched it melt on her fingertip, transfixed. No. Not transfixed—revolted. “You never told me it could be beautiful too,” she finished, softer now.

“It’s dangerous, Célie,” Jean Luc said.

She lifted her chin. “Why can’t it be both?”

We both heard what she really meant. Why can’t I be both?

Jean Luc stared at her for several seconds, tilting his head in contemplation. When at last he nodded, affirming her unspoken question, she kissed his cheek and ascended the stairs with the others. He followed behind like a devoted, lovesick puppy, and my stomach plunged as if I’d missed a step. His response shouldn’t have surprised me. Nor hers. Célie had clearly suffered from the witches’ influence, and Jean Luc would never utter a word against her.

Still, I felt . . . off, somehow—disjointed—as I jerked my chin toward Lou. She alone remained. The others had left in more than the literal sense. “Go.”