“No.” I pushed past Jean Luc as Philippe’s huntsmen obeyed, goring the trees with brutal efficiency. Roots snapped upward like the crack of the whip to ensnare them. “No, stop—”

But agonized shouts soon sounded from the hedges, and I turned to see witches impaling men on the thorns. Shit.

Reid tore after them without hesitation. His hands moved in the air, searching, pulling, as fresh magic burst around us. Three of the witches screamed in response, and fresh burns licked up Reid’s arms. But he couldn’t save the men. Without Balisardas, each person here stood vulnerable—including Reid.

The fourth witch clenched her fist, and Reid stumbled, clutching his chest.

Shit, shit, shit.

My feet moved instinctively. Seizing the Balisarda from a trapped Chasseur, I sprinted toward him. Veins bulged in his neck, his face. His hands moved instinctively to his bandolier for a knife. They came away with only seeds. Tossing them aside, he collapsed on his hands and knees.

I hurled the Balisarda straight through the witch’s forehead.

Zenna took care of the rest. Her jaws snapped viciously as she swooped low, incinerating witch and thorn alike. When the flame abated, I wrenched the Balisarda from the witch’s skull and shoved it at Reid. “I am a weapon.” Panting, I imitated his stupid voice. Breathless laughter rose. I didn’t fight it, despite the gruesome circumstances. Despite the charred witches at our feet. I’d never fight laughter again. Not for their sake. “The world shall tremble and fear me—”

“Shut”—his own voice broke on a gasp of laughter—“up.”

I dragged him to his feet. “My enemies shall rue the day they ever dared to challenge—”

“I’m fine.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Go help the others.”

“I am.” Pressing a hard kiss to his lips, I shoved him back toward the patisserie. “I’m helping them by helping you, you great selfless prick. If you give that Balisarda away again, I’ll make you swallow it. Consider chivalry dead.”

He huffed another laugh as we rejoined the fray.

The next moments passed in a blur of magic and blood. Following Reid’s instruction, free huntsmen hacked at witches’ hands, while those trapped in Claud’s trees hacked at roots. Father Achille led a party of able-bodied men and women to the nearest smithy for weapons. Those unable to fight followed Célie into boucheries and confiseries, any shop that would open its doors. Jean Luc and Reid kicked down the rest. I followed behind, feeding my magic into each lock.

The witches were undaunted. I felt them attack each door, each window, their patterns hissing and striking like snakes against my magic. They taunted those within—taunted me—whispering the ways they would kill them. Reid and Jean Luc hacked their way through them, leaving a trail of bodies behind.

Halfway down the street, Reid noticed my pale face, and his brows furrowed. I only shrugged and continued. It didn’t matter. Fewer allies littered the ground than foes. Though Zenna couldn’t breathe fire freely—not without roasting us in the process—she snatched witch after witch from the street. When they backed Coco and Toulouse into a corner, she plucked the two free. When they pursued Beau and Thierry—the former shouting for Coco at the top of his lungs—Seraphine cut them down from above. We’d prepared for this. Blaise and his pack, Troupe de Fortune, even Jean Luc and his Chasseurs—all around, they exacted their vengeance. Liana and Terrance gnawed hands from wrists while Toulouse and Thierry injected a trio of witches with hemlock.

Still, overwhelming unease crept down my spine. It near paralyzed me.

Morgane had vanished without a trace.

As the battle spread down the streets, I searched for her. For Claud. Any sign of horn or moonbeam hair. He could’ve disposed of her already, but for some strange reason, I didn’t think so. The air in the city remained foul with the stench of magic and rot. Where Balisardas had pierced the trees, dark sap wept like blood. Fungi crept up the front of homes. Of the castle itself. The entire atmosphere felt charged—angry—and continued to build.

More than once, I swore I heard Morgane’s laughter. My unease deepened to dread.

For his part, Reid had procured three more Balisardas—from where, I didn’t know—for Gaby, Violette, and Victoire, who cropped up every few minutes, hissing and spitting and bloody in their pursuit of those who pursued them. He and Beau had exploded, near apoplectic with rage, on the third time.

“They are trying to kill you!” Beau had torn open the door of Soleil et Lune and thrust them inside. “I swear to God, I will tie you to those seats—”

“They’re trying to kill you too,” Victoire had snarled as Reid slammed the door behind. She’d pounded on the door. “Let us out! Let us fight!”

Another bout of laughter drifted on the wind, and I whirled, searching. The hair rose on my neck. I hadn’t imagined it that time. She’d sounded close enough to touch. In proof of my point, Reid frowned at the theater door. “What was that?”

“Lock them in.”

“What?” His gaze snapped to mine. Sensing my intent, he stepped forward, but Victoire flung the door open once more. He hesitated. “Lou, what are you—where are you going?”

I didn’t answer, already racing down the street, ignoring his shouts. It didn’t matter how many times Beau interceded, how many people Reid led to safety. No one was safe here, not truly—not with Morgane still pulling the strings. Every move she’d ever made had been calculated. Tonight was no different. She’d known Claud and Zenna would join us—she’d known about the loup garou too—and she would’ve taken offensive action. The witches would keep coming. They wouldn’t stop until they’d finished this, destroying the Crown, the Church, their persecutors at last. But witches alone couldn’t down a dragon. They couldn’t kill a god.

No, these witches were the defense, not the offense.

And this was undoubtedly a trap.

“Where are you?” I slid down a side street, following a flash of moonbeam hair ahead. Reid’s voice faded behind. “I thought you didn’t want to play anymore? Come out. Come out and face me, maman. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Just the two of us?”

Another street. Another. I gripped my dagger in one hand, white patterns coiling and twisting through cobblestones, trash bins, wooden doors and broken windows and herb gardens. She laughed again. When I darted after the sound—bursting into Brindelle Park—a hand snaked out to catch mine.