We turned as one to look at the man who plunked into the empty seat at our table. Brown eyes twinkled above an unruly mustache and beard. The troupe’s fiddler. He extended a weathered hand to me. Lifted his other in a cheery wave. “Salutations. Claud Deveraux, at your service.”

Roy and his companions turned away in disgust, muttering about charlatans.

I stared at his hand while Lou readjusted her hood. Ansel’s eyes darted to Madame Labelle, Coco, and Beau. Though they watched us surreptitiously, they continued chatting with the couple beside them. Madame Labelle dipped her chin in a subtle nod.

“Right, then.” Claud Deveraux dropped his hand but not his smile. “You don’t mind the company, do you? I must confess, I need a respite from all the revelry. Ah, you have libations.” He waved a hand to his troupe before helping himself to the rest of Ansel’s drink. “I am indebted to you, good sir. Truly, my deepest gratitude.” Winking at me, he dabbed at his mouth with a plaid pocket square. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Claud Deveraux. That’s me. I am, of course, musician and manager of Troupe de Fortune. Did you perchance attend our performance this evening?”

I kept my foot pressed on Lou’s, beseeching her to keep quiet. Unlike Roy, this man had sought us out. I didn’t like it. With a grudging sigh, she sat back and crossed her arms. “No,” I said brusquely, rudely. “We didn’t.”

“It was a splendid affair.” He continued his one-sided conversation with relish, beaming at each of us in turn. I inspected him closer. Pinstriped pants. Paisley coat. Checkered bow tie. He’d thrown his top hat—tattered and maroon—on the table in front of him. Even to me, his outfit seemed . . . bizarre. “I do love these quaint little villages along the road. One meets the most interesting people.”

Clearly.

“It is unfortunate indeed we leave this very night, spurred southward by the siren call of crowds and couronnes at our Holy Father’s committal.” He waved an absent hand. Black polish gleamed on his fingernails. “Such a tragic affair. Such an ungodly sum.”

My lip curled. I liked Claud Deveraux less and less.

“And what of you? Might I inquire as to your names?” Oblivious to the tense, awkward silence, he tapped his fingers against the table in a jaunty rhythm. “Though I do love a good intrigue. Perhaps I could instead hazard a guess?”

“That won’t be necessary.” My words fell leaden between us. Roy had given us all the information we needed. It was time to go. Standing, I caught Beau’s eye across the room and nodded toward the exit. He nudged my mother and Coco. “My name is Raoul, and these are my friends Lucida and Antoine. We’re leaving.”

“Friends! Oh, how delightful!” He drummed his fingers louder in delight, completely ignoring my dismissal. “And such marvelous names they possess! Alas, I’m not quite as fond of the name Raoul, but do let me explain. I knew a man once, a big burly bear of a man—though perhaps he was a small surly man of a bear—and the poor dear caught a splinter in his foot—”

“Monsieur Deveraux,” Lou said, sounding equal parts irritated and intrigued. Probably irritated because she was intrigued. His smile slipped when she spoke, and he blinked slowly. Just once. Then his smile returned—wider now, genuine—and he leaned forward to clutch her hand.

“Please, Lucida, you must call me Claud.”

At the sudden warmth in his voice, at the way his eyes shone brighter than before, the muted panic in my chest roared back to life, hardened into suspicion. But he couldn’t have recognized her. Her face remained hidden. This familiarity—perhaps it was another quirk of his personality. An inappropriate one.

Lou stiffened beneath his touch. “Monsieur Deveraux. While I usually welcome a complete stranger drinking my whiskey and fondling my hand, it’s been a rough few days. If you could kindly piss off, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

Roy—who’d never quite stopped eavesdropping—lifted his head and frowned. I winced.

Lou had dropped her accent.

Releasing her hand, Deveraux tipped his head back and laughed. Loudly. “Oh, Lucida, what a delight you are. I can’t begin to convey how I’ve missed such black humor—the kind that bites your hand if you move too close—which, incidentally, I am appropriately and grievously contrite about—”

“Cut the shit.” Lou shoved to her feet, unaccountably flustered. Her voice rang out sharp and loud. Too loud. “What do you want?”

But her hood slipped at the sudden movement, and whatever words Claud Deveraux had planned fell away with it. He gazed at her raptly. All pretense gone. “I simply wanted to meet you, dear girl, and to offer help should you ever have need.” His eyes dropped to her throat. The new ribbon—slicker, larger than usual, harder to tie in a bow—had loosened from its knot, sliding down to reveal her grisly scar.

Fuck.

“What’s happened ta you, then?” Roy asked loudly.

Beside him, Gilles narrowed his eyes to slits. He turned toward the wanted posters on the door. “That’s a nasty scar you’ve got there.”

Deveraux tugged her hood back in place, but it was too late.

The damage was done.

Roy heaved himself to his feet. He waved his glass tankard at Lou, swaying and trying to keep his balance. Mead spilled down his trousers. “You don’t have no wart, Lucida. No accent neither. But you do look an awful lot like that girl everyone’s lookin’ for. That witch.”

A hush fell over the tavern.

“I’m not—” Lou spluttered, looking around wildly. “That’s ridiculous—”

Unsheathing my Balisarda, I rose with deadly purpose. Ansel followed with his own knife. The two of us towered behind her as the rest of Roy’s companions lurched to their feet.

“Oh, it’s ’er, all right.” Gilles stumbled into the table, pointing at the poster. He grinned in triumph. “She cut ’er hair, dyed it, but she can’t hide that scar. Saw it clear as day. That girl there is Louise le Blanc.”

And in a clumsy, terrifying movement, Roy lifted his glass tankard and shattered it into a jagged blade.

..................................................................

Marionette

Reid

Despite the nightmare our lives had become, I still hadn’t fought alongside Lou in physical combat. At Modraniht, she’d been unconscious. At Ye Olde Sisters’ performance, she’d been hiding her magic. And at the smithy, she’d killed the criminals before I could intervene. I hadn’t been able to fathom how someone so small could kill two fully grown men with such efficiency. Such brutality.

Now I understood.

The woman was a menace.

She moved with unexpected speed, feinting and striking with both hands. When her knife missed its mark, her fingers flexed and her opponent toppled. Or stiffened. Or smashed into the bar, shattering tumblers and dousing the room with whiskey. Glass rained down on our heads, but she didn’t slow. Again and again she struck.

Even so, Roy and his friends sobered quickly, and they outnumbered four to her one. Five when the barkeep joined the fray. Coco ran to meet him, but I caught her, pushing her toward the door. “Take the others and go. They don’t know your faces yet, but they will if you stay and fight.”