“Philippe?” Jean Luc’s face twisted, and he glanced between the two, his chest swelling with rage. “I have apprehended and incapacitated two of the most notorious witches in the kingdom. I have returned your son—”

“What you have done,” Auguste snapped, “is disobey my direct command. Your presence at the conclave was not requested. It was required. In forfeiting your responsibilities, you have forfeited your title. I do hope she was worth it.” His lip curled as he glanced to Célie. “She is very pretty.”

Jean Luc opened and closed his mouth, near apoplectic now. Even amidst the dire circumstances, I felt a twinge of sorrow for him. In the breadth of a single moment, he thought he’d lost everything. When Auguste dropped his hand from my chin, however, flicking the first syringe, fear surpassed all other emotions. I cast a panicked glance at Jean Luc, willing him to pull himself together.

“I met your mother once, Louise,” Auguste said, still tap, tap, tapping the syringe. “Now she—she is exquisite. A diamond of the first water. It’s too bad, really, that she’s a soul-sucking demoness. Just like your mother,” he added to Reid, tilting his head to examine the quill. A bead of hemlock trickled from its tip. My magic reared its head at the sight, white patterns unfurling all around me. They hummed with the need to protect Reid. To protect all of them. I nearly trembled with restraint. Oblivious, Auguste stroked my hair and pulled my limp body to his lap. “You look nothing like her, of course, poor thing. All your father, aren’t you?” He leaned so close that I could smell the mint on his breath. “I loathed that man. Makes this easier, I suppose—a bit too easy. When I announced Helene’s execution, I knew you’d come, but I never expected this sort of weakness.”

He pressed the syringe to my throat.

“Your Majesty.” Though Jean Luc didn’t dare step closer, his voice rose urgently. “I re-injected the prisoners only moments before docking. If you dose them again so quickly, I fear they’ll die before the stake.”

Auguste lifted a golden brow. “You fear their death?”

“A poor choice of words.” Jean Luc ducked his head. “Please forgive me.”

But Auguste’s gaze had already sharpened with suspicion. “There is only one way to kill a witch, huntsman, and it is not poison. You have nothing to fear. Still, however, I am benevolent. I will not dose the prisoners again.”

I breathed a long, slow sigh of relief.

Perhaps Auguste felt the movement. Perhaps he didn’t. Either way, he gestured Jean Luc toward us, pressing the injection into his palm before rising to his feet. He brought me with him, cradling me within his arms. My limbs dangled helplessly. “You will.”

Shit, shit, shit.

Jean Luc blinked, his expression flattening. “Me, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, huntsman. You. A great honor, is it not? To apprehend and incapacitate two of the most notorious witches in the kingdom?”

The implication rang clear in the ensuing silence. Even the wind had fallen silent to listen. As if hoping to prove his suspicions, Auguste pinched the flesh of my thigh and twisted—hard. I clenched my teeth against the pain. He would not break us with a pinch, nor a bruised chin or broken finger. The white patterns still writhed in fury, however. They demanded retribution. I wouldn’t use them. Not yet. If I did, all would know Jean Luc had been lying. They would know he’d betrayed them, and he really would lose everything—his coat, his Balisarda, his life. Célie would be implicated too.

All seven of us.

No, our plan could still work. Jean Luc could fake the injection somehow, and we—

“I am waiting,” Auguste said darkly.

Though Jean Luc fought to keep his face impassive, panic flickered within his eyes’ pale depths—panic and remorse. They met mine for only a second before dropping to the syringe. In that second, I knew. He would fake nothing. He could fake nothing—not with so many eyes on us now. Not under the king’s very nose.

Which left me with two options.

I could attack the king now, and we could likely fight our way out, condemning Jean Luc, Célie, and Madame Labelle in the process. Or I could allow the injection and trust the others to rescue us. Neither option was foolproof. Neither option guaranteed escape. With the latter, at least, we’d be in a centralized location with Madame Labelle. If they rescued one, they could rescue us all. And though Claud claimed he couldn’t intervene, he wouldn’t truly leave us to die, would he?

I had a split second to decide before Jean plunged the quill into my throat.

Sharp pain flared on impact, and the hemlock—as cold and viscous as I remembered it—spread like mire through my veins. I could just feel the warm trickle of blood before numbness crept in, before my vision faded, before Coco slipped unnoticed from the water to the Tremblays’ carriage.

The white patterns resisted the darkness, blazing brighter and hotter as I dimmed.

Auguste held one of my eyes open, even as it rolled back into my head. “Do not fret, fille. This pain shall pass. At sunset, you shall burn with my son and his mother in a lake of black fire.” When he stroked my cheek—almost tenderly—the white patterns finally softened, finally succumbed, finally dissolved into nothing.

We’d gone from the belly of the beast straight into the shitter.

Our Story

Lou

My body awoke in increments. First a twitch of my hand, a tingle in my feet, before lights danced on my eyelids and cotton grew on my tongue. Both felt thick and heavy as my stomach pitched and rolled. My consciousness followed shortly after that—or perhaps not shortly at all—and I felt cold stones beneath my back, hard ridges, dull pain blossoming across my ribs, my temple. Sharper pain at my throat.

Realization trickled in slowly.

Jean Luc had poisoned us. We’d been thrown in prison. We would burn at sunset.

My eyes snapped open at the last.

What time was it?

Staring at the ceiling overhead, I tried to move my fingers, to breathe around the suffocating nausea. I needed to find Reid and Beau. I needed to make sure they were all right—

Only then did I realize two things, like cards flipped over in a game of tarot: warm skin pressed against mine on the right, and wooden bars intersected the ceiling in a cross pattern overhead. Swallowing hard, I turned my head with enormous difficulty. Thank God. Reid lay beside me, his face pale but his chest rising and falling deeply.

Wooden bars.

A muffled cough sounded from nearby, and I slammed my eyes shut, listening intently. Footsteps shuffled closer, and what sounded like a door creaked open. After a few more seconds, it clicked shut once more. I opened my eyes carefully this time, peering out through my lashes. The same wooden bars across the ceiling and floor ran perpendicular as well. Smooth and hand planed, they bisected the room and formed a sort of cage around us.

A cage.

Oh god.

Once more, I forced myself to breathe. Though the room beyond remained dark, lit only by a single torch, it didn’t look like a dungeon. A colossal table dominated the center of the room—circular and covered in what looked like a map, scraps of parchment, and—and—

Realization didn’t trickle now. It rushed in a great flood, and I rolled to my left, away from Reid. We weren’t in the castle dungeon at all, but the council room of Chasseur Tower. I would’ve recognized that table anywhere, except now—instead of charcoal drawings of my mother—portraits of my own face stared back at me. Portraits of Reid. Clearing my throat of bile, I tentatively sat up on my elbows, glancing around the cage. No cots or even chamber pots filled the space. “Beau?” A hoarse whisper, my voice still reverberated too loud in the darkness. “Are you here?”