The sailor’s eyes boggled. “All by yourself?”

“I disabled Morgane le Blanc by myself, did I not?” Jean raised an arrogant brow at the man’s spluttering. “I think you’ll find anything is possible with the proper motivation.” He jerked his chin toward Célie, who cowered in proper fashion near the helm, and added, “They had something that belonged to me.”

Others had gathered around us now, wide-eyed and curious. Fear hadn’t yet taken root. These men lived predominantly on the seas, where witches were little more than fairy stories compared to the very real danger of Isla and her melusines. “Who is that, then?” another asked, staring at Célie.

“Mademoiselle Célie Tremblay, daughter of the viscount. Her father is personal advisor to His Majesty.” Jean Luc’s jaw hardened. “You might’ve heard of him in connection to his eldest daughter, Filippa, who was murdered by witches last year. Célie fancied herself a vigilante and went after these two herself.” At the sailors’ derisive snorts, Célie straightened her shoulders defensively—just for a second—before remembering her role. Casting her eyes downward, she heeded Jean Luc’s command when he called her over, tucking her under his arm. His hand on her shoulder clenched tighter than necessary, the only visible sign of his strain. Still, his voice oozed conceit as he added, “She’s a foolish girl, but what can we expect from one so pretty?” When the men laughed—like brainless sheep—he snapped his fingers at one on the edge of the group. “Send word to her father. He shall collect and discipline her as he sees fit.”

The messenger glanced at Beau with a frown. “Hers ain’t the only father who’ll be administerin’ discipline.” Then he leapt from the boat and disappeared, replaced almost instantly by the harbormaster. A short, portly man with a spectacular handlebar mustache, he held himself with the ferociousness of a badger as he seized my face to examine it. He wasn’t gentle. Reid’s muscles tensed beneath me.

“I didn’t believe it,” the harbormaster growled, jerking my chin this way and that, hard enough to bruise. “But it’s her, after all. The bitch witch’s daughter in the flesh.” He grinned and straightened once more, turning to address Jean Luc. “We’ll alert your brethren straightaway, of course, if they’re not already on their way. Word like this travels quickly.” With the jerk of his hand, another sailor departed. “I’ll expect some sort of commendation for allowing you to port. A dual capture, if you will.”

Jean Luc glared at him. “You dare to extort a captain of the Chasseurs?”

“Not a captain, no.” Undaunted by Jean Luc’s ire, the man crossed his arms, still grinning. “Auguste is an old friend of mine, did you know? Rumor has it you’ve been missed, Captain.”

Jean Luc’s eyes narrowed as my own stomach plunged. “What are you saying?”

The man simply shrugged and glanced behind at the commotion up the street. “I expect you’ll find out soon enough.”

A virtual battalion of Chasseurs thundered toward us on horseback, eliciting shrieks from pedestrians in their path. More and more people—sailors, fishermen, peddlers—collected around our boat now. All craned their necks from the dock to see what the fuss was about, some clapping hands over their mouths when they spotted us, others hissing through their teeth. One woman even threw a fish with unerring aim. It struck Reid’s cheek before falling, dead, to the floor. Beau pretended to struggle in his binds. “That’s enough,” he snarled.

The harbormaster clicked his tongue. “Well, well, well, Your Highness.” He squatted before him, examining Beau’s face from every angle. “The last time I saw you, you were in nappies—” Before he could finish the rest of his humiliating diatribe, however, the first of the huntsmen reached us. I recognized him from La Mascarade des Crânes.

“Philippe.” Jean Luc scowled as the man in question—a rather large, frightening man, though not nearly so large and frightening as Reid—shouldered past him with a pointed lack of respect. Indeed, he knocked into Jean Luc like he was a piece of furniture, sending him back two steps. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Secure the area.” Philippe snapped and pointed as his brethren fell into place around the boat, around us. He ignored Jean Luc completely. To the harbormaster, he said, “His Majesty arrives posthaste.”

“He’s coming here?” Jean Luc lifted his voice above the tumult, determined to be heard. Boots jostled as the King’s Guard arrived—the constabulary too—heedless of my fingers. When Philippe stepped on Reid’s intentionally, I heard the cruel crack of bone. Reid didn’t so much as flinch. “Why?”

“To secure the prisoners, of course,” the harbormaster said.

“No.” Jean Luc shook his head wildly. “No, he shouldn’t travel out in the open like this. Morgane is here. She’s in the city—”

Philippe’s smile chilled my very bones. “It isn’t up to you, Jean. Not anymore.”

The king arrived the next moment—at precisely the same time as Monsieur and Madame Tremblay. Absolute pandemonium ensued. The Tremblays’ carriage screeched to a halt beyond the dock, and Madame Tremblay barreled straight into the barricade of soldiers, shouting for her daughter without decorum. “Célie! Célie!” She hardly noticed the guards chasing after her. Jean Luc stepped in front of them, blocking their advance, as she enveloped her daughter in her arms. “Oh, thank God—”

“Control yourself, woman!” Monsieur Tremblay snarled as he too bolted on deck, skirting around Reid, me, and the barricade of Chasseurs encircling us. “Have you no shame? You will apologize this instant—” I would’ve laughed at the spectacle they’d created if the king hadn’t followed. If his eyes hadn’t locked on Reid’s. If he hadn’t reached into his velvet pocket to extract two metal syringes.

Oh, shit.

“Rebonjour, fils.” His eyes moved from Reid to me, and something predatory sparked in them. Something poisonous. A broad, brilliant smile transformed his face from attractive to breathtaking. Quite literally, my breath caught in my throat. That smile belonged to Reid. To Beau. I knew it like the back of my own hand. “Fille.”