“Wait!” I flung a hand out blindly to stop him, but no patterns emerged. Not even a flicker. Anger erupted at my own ineptitude, and the light emanating from my skin vanished abruptly. “Stop!”

“Help us!” Lyle dove from the wagon. “It’s Reid Diggory! He’s a witch! HELP!”

New voices sounded outside as Chasseurs converged. Blood roaring in my ears—the voices in my mind damnably silent—I wrenched away from Phillipe, flinging the blanket in his face. A quiet entrance into the city was no longer possible. I had to flee. To run. Disentangling himself from the blanket, he slipped on the food satchel and flailed backward. I dove for the frying pan.

Before he could regain his footing—before I could reconsider—I swung it at his head.

The crack reverberated through my bones, and he toppled to the wagon floor, unconscious. I dropped to make sure his chest moved. Up and down. Up and down. The other Chasseurs tore aside the wagon’s flap just as I leapt through the front, vaulting over the box to the horse’s back. It reared, braying indignantly, and the wagon’s front wheels lifted from the ground, tipping the structure precariously. Inside, the Chasseurs shouted in alarm. Their bodies thudded into the canvas.

I fumbled with the horse’s harness, cursing as more Chasseurs sprinted toward me. Slick with sweat, my fingers slipped over the buckles. I cursed and tried again.

“It’s Reid Diggory!” someone shouted. More voices took up the call. Blood roared in my ears.

“Murderer!”

“Witch!”

“Arrest him!”

“ARREST HIM!”

Losing any semblance of control, I tore at the last buckle with frantic fingers. A Chasseur I didn’t recognize reached me first. I kicked him in the face—finally, finally loosening the clasp—and urged the horse forward with a violent squeeze of my legs. It bolted, and I held on for dear life.

“Out of the way!” I roared. People dove sideways, dragging children with them, as the horse careened toward the city. One man was too slow, and a hoof caught his leg, breaking it. The Chasseurs on horseback pounded after me. They gained ground quickly. Theirs were stallions, bred for speed and strength, and mine was an emaciated mare on her last leg. I urged her on anyway.

If I could clear the city limits, perhaps I could lose them in the streets—

The crowd thickened as the road narrowed, transitioning from dirt to cobblestone. The first buildings rose up to swallow me. Above, a shadow leapt lithely from rooftop to rooftop, following the shouts that chased me. It pointed frantically to the dormer looming ahead.

I nearly wept with relief.

Lou.

Then I realized what she wanted me to do.

No. No, I couldn’t—

“Got you!” A Chasseur’s hand snaked out and caught the back of my coat. The others closed in behind him. Legs cinching the mare like a vise, I twisted to break his grip, but the mare had had enough.

Braying wildly, she reared once more, and I saw my opportunity.

Climbing up her neck—praying to whoever might be listening—I caught the metal sign overhead with the tips of my fingers. It splintered under my weight, but I kicked hard, leveraging myself against the mare’s back and leaping onto the dormer. The mare and Chasseurs’ stallions cantered past below.

“STOP HIM!”

Gasping for air, I scrabbled for purchase against the rooftop. My vision pitched and rolled.

“Just keep climbing!” Lou’s voice rang out above me, and my head snapped up. She leaned over the roof’s edge, fingers splayed and straining to reach me. But her hand was so small. So far away. “Don’t look down! Just look at me, Reid! Keep looking at me!”

Below, the Chasseurs roared orders, urging the crowd to part as they turned their horses around.

“AT ME, REID!”

Right. Swallowing hard, I set to finding pockmarks in the stone wall. I inched higher. My head spun.

Higher.

My breath caught.

Higher.

My muscles seized.

Higher.

The Chasseurs had maneuvered back to me. I heard them dismounting. Heard them starting to climb.

Lou’s hand caught my wrist and heaved. I focused on her face, on her freckles. Through sheer willpower alone, I clambered over the eave and collapsed. But we didn’t have time to relax. She pulled me to my feet, already sprinting for the next rooftop. “What happened?”

I followed her. Concentrated on my breathing. It was easier now, with her here. “Your plan was shit.”

She had the gall to laugh, but quickly stopped when an arrow whizzed past her face. “C’mon. I’ll lose these jackasses within three blocks.”

I didn’t reply. It was best I kept my mouth closed.

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

The Drowning

Lou

Always aiming to please, I lost them in two.

Their voices faded as we ran, dipping into shadowy alcoves and dropping behind ramshackle dormers. The key was breaking their line of sight. Once that happened, it was too easy to slip into the boundlessness of the city.

No one could disappear like I could.

No one had the practice.

I dropped to a forgotten backstreet in East End. Reid landed a second later, collapsing against me. Though I tried to hold him steady, we both tumbled to the dirty cobblestones. He kept his arms locked around my waist, however, and buried his face in my lap. His heart pulsed a frantic rhythm against my thigh. “I can’t do that again.”

Throat suddenly thick, I stroked his hair. “That’s fine. They’re gone.” His breathing gradually slowed, and finally, he sat up. I let him go reluctantly. “Before your fiasco, I sent Charles to find Madame Labelle. She booked us rooms at an inn called Léviathan.”

“Charles?”

“The rat.”

He expelled a harsh breath. “Oh.”

Shame—now familiar—washed through me all over again. Though sharp words rose to my tongue in response, I bit down on them hard, drawing blood, and offered him a hand. “I already sent Absalon and Brigitte to fetch Coco, Ansel, and Beau. Charles went to the werewolves and blood witches. We’ll all need to strategize before the funeral this afternoon.”

We climbed to our feet together, and he kissed the back of my hand before releasing it. “It’ll be difficult to gain an audience with the king. Thierry said all Chasseurs who aren’t at the blockade are inside the castle. Maybe Beau can—”

“Wait.” Though I forced a chuckle, there was nothing funny about that obstinate gleam in his eyes. “You can’t seriously mean to still speak with Auguste? Jean Luc tipped him off. He knows you’re coming. He—he knows Madame Labelle’s a witch, and if those Chasseurs’ shouts were any indication, he’ll soon know you’re one too.” Reid’s face blanched at the last. Ah. It seemed he hadn’t yet drawn that conclusion. I hurried to press my advantage. “He knows you’re a witch,” I repeated. “He won’t help you. He certainly won’t help me. We don’t need him, Reid. The Dames Rouges and loup garou are powerful allies.”

His lips pursed as he considered this—his jaw clenched—and I waited for him to see the sense in my plan. But he shook his head and muttered, “No. I’ll still speak with him. We need a united front against Morgane.”