The reality of the situation punched through me, stealing my breath. The witches, the curses—they were all a performance. A distraction.

Not pausing to think, to acknowledge the terrifying distance to the ground, I grabbed the drainpipe and vaulted over the roof’s edge. The tin screeched and buckled under my weight. Halfway down, it separated from the sandstone completely. I leapt—heart lodged firmly in my throat—and braced for impact. Jarring pain radiated up my legs as I hit the ground, but I didn’t stop.

“Jean Luc! Behind you!”

He spun to look at me, eyes landing on the hag the same second mine did. Understanding dawned. “Get down!” He tackled the king to the carriage floor. The remaining Chasseurs dashed around the carriage at his shout.

The hag glanced over her hunched shoulder at me, the same peculiar grin spreading across her face. She flicked her wrist, and the cloying smell around us intensified. A blast of air shot from her fingertips, but the magic couldn’t touch us. Not with our Balisardas. Each had been forged with a molten drop of Saint Constantin’s original holy relic, rendering us immune to the witches’ magic. I felt the sickly-sweet air rush past, but it did nothing to deter me. Nothing to deter my brethren.

The guards and citizens nearest us weren’t so lucky. They flew backward, smashing into the carriage and the shops lining the street. The hag’s eyes flared with triumph when one of my brethren abandoned his post to help them. She moved swiftly—far too swiftly to be natural—toward the carriage door. Prince Beauregard’s incredulous face appeared above it at the commotion. She snarled at him, mouth twisting. I tackled her to the ground before she could lift her hands.

She fought with the strength of a woman half her age—of a man half her age—kicking and biting and hitting every inch of me she could reach. But I was too heavy. I smothered her with my body, wrenched her hands above her head far enough to dislocate her shoulders. Pressed my knife to her throat.

She stilled as I lowered my mouth to her ear. The blade bit deeper. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

She laughed then—a great, cackling laugh that shook her entire body. I frowned, leaning back—and froze. The woman beneath me was no longer a hag. I watched in horror as her ancient face melted into smooth, porcelain skin. As her brittle hair flowed thick and raven down her shoulders.

She stared up at me through hooded eyes, lips parting as she lifted her face to my own. I couldn’t think—couldn’t move, didn’t know if I even wanted to—but somehow managed to jerk away before her lips brushed mine.

And that’s when I felt it.

The firm, rounded shape of her belly pressed into my stomach.

Oh, God.

Every thought emptied from my head. I leapt backward—away from her, away from the thing—and scrambled to my feet. The screams in the distance faltered. The bodies on the ground stirred. The woman slowly stood.

Now clothed in deep bloodred, she placed a hand on her swollen womb and smiled.

Her emerald eyes flicked to the royal family, who crouched low in their carriage, pale and wide-eyed. Watching. “We will reclaim our homeland, Majesties,” she crooned. “Time and time again, we have warned you. You did not heed our words. Soon, we will dance atop your ashes as you have our ancestors’.”

Her eyes met mine. Porcelain skin sagged once more, and raven hair withered back to thin wisps of silver. No longer the beautiful, pregnant woman. Again the hag. She winked at me. The gesture was chilling on her haggard face. “We must do this again soon, handsome.”

I couldn’t speak. Never before had I seen such black magic—such desecration of the human body. But witches weren’t human. They were vipers. Demons incarnate. And I had almost—

Her toothless grin widened as if she could read my mind. Before I could move—before I could unsheathe my blade and send her back to Hell where she belonged—she turned on her heel and disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

But not before blowing me a kiss.

Thick green carpet muffled my footsteps in the Archbishop’s study hours later. Ornate wood paneling covered the windowless walls of the room. A fireplace cast flickering light on the papers strewn across his desk. Already seated behind it, the Archbishop gestured for me to sit in one of the wooden chairs opposite him.

I sat. Forced myself to meet his gaze. Ignored the burning humiliation in my gut.

Though the king and his family had escaped the parade unscathed, many others had not. Two had died—one girl at her brother’s hand and the other at her own. Dozens more bore no visible injury but were currently strapped to beds two floors above. Screaming. Speaking in tongues. Staring at the ceiling without blinking. Vacant. The priests did what they could for them, but most would be transported to the asylum within a fortnight. There was only so much human medicine could do for those inflicted with witchcraft.

The Archbishop surveyed me over steepled fingers. Steely eyes. Harsh mouth. Silver streaks at his temples. “You did well today, Reid.”

I frowned, shifting in my seat. “Sir?”

He smiled grimly and leaned forward. “If not for you, the casualties would have been much greater. King Auguste is indebted to you. He sings your praises.” He gestured to a crisp envelope on his desk. “Indeed, he plans to hold a ball in your honor.”

My shame burned hotter. Through sheer willpower, I managed to unclench my fists. I deserved no one’s praise—not the king’s, and especially not my patriarch’s. I had failed them today. Broken the first rule of my brethren: Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

I had suffered four.

Worse—I’d actually—I’d wanted to—

I shuddered in my chair, unable to finish the thought. “I cannot accept, sir.”

“And why not?” He arched a dark brow, leaning back once more. I shrank under his scrutiny. “You alone remembered your mission. You alone recognized the hag for what it was.”

“Jean Luc—”

He waved an impatient hand. “Your humbleness is noted, Reid, but you mustn’t assume false modesty. You saved lives today.”

“I— Sir, I—” Choking on the words, I stared resolutely at my hands. They fisted in my lap once more.

As always, the Archbishop understood without explanation. “Ah . . . yes.” His voice grew soft. I looked up to find him watching me with an inscrutable expression. “Jean Luc told me about your unfortunate encounter.”

Though the words were mild, I heard the disappointment behind them. Shame reared and crashed within me once more. I ducked my head. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what came over me.”

He heaved a great sigh. “Fret not, son. Wicked are the ways of women—and especially a witch. Their guile knows no bounds.”

“Forgive me, sir, but I’ve never seen such magic before. The witch—it was a hag, but it . . . changed.” I stared down at my fists again. Determined to get the words out. “It changed into a beautiful woman.” I took a deep breath and looked up, jaw clenched. “A beautiful woman with child.”

His lip curled. “The Mother.”

“Sir?”

He rose to his feet, clasping his hands behind him, and began to pace. “Have you forgotten the sacrilegious teachings of the witches, Reid?”

I shook my head curtly, ears burning, and remembered the stern deacons of my childhood. The sparse classroom by the sanctuary. The faded Bible in my hands.

Witches do not worship our Lord and Savior, nor do they acknowledge the holy trinity of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. They glorify another trinity—an idolatrous trinity. The Triple Goddess.

Even if I hadn’t grown up in the Church, every Chasseur learned the witches’ evil ideology before taking his vows.

“Maiden, Mother, and Crone,” I murmured.

He nodded approvingly, and warm satisfaction spread through me. “An embodiment of femininity in the cycle of birth, life, and death . . . among other things. ’Tis blasphemous, of course.” He scoffed and shook his head. “As if God could be a woman.”

I frowned, avoiding his eyes. “Of course, sir.”

“The witches believe their queen, La Dame des Sorcières, has been blessed by the goddess. They believe she—it—can shift into the forms of the trinity at will.” He paused, mouth tightening as he looked at me. “Today, I believe you encountered La Dame des Sorcières herself.”

I gaped at him. “Morgane le Blanc?”

He nodded curtly. “The very same.”

“But, sir—”

“It explains the temptation. Your inability to control your basest nature. La Dame des Sorcières is incredibly powerful, Reid, particularly in that form. The witches claim the Mother represents fertility, fulfillment, and . . . sexuality.” His face twisted in disgust, as if the word left a bitter taste in his mouth. “A lesser man than you would have succumbed.”

But I wanted to. My face burned hot enough to cause physical pain as silence descended between us. Footsteps sounded, and the Archbishop’s hand came down on my shoulder. “Cast this from your mind, lest the creature poison your thoughts and corrupt your spirit.”