He blinked in surprise. “It’s fine, Reid. You were upset—”

“It’s not fine.” I coughed awkwardly, unable to meet his eyes. “Er, what weapons do you have?”

Before he could answer, the music stopped abruptly, and the clearing plunged into silence. Every eye turned to the temple. I watched in horror as Morgane stood, eyes shining with malicious intent.

This was it. We really were out of time.

I followed the witches as they moved closer, moths drawn to the flame. Gripping a knife under my coat, I maneuvered to the front of the crowd. Ansel shadowed my movements, and Beau soon joined him.

Good. They could protect each other. Though if I failed, they were as good as dead anyway.

Morgane was the target.

A blade in the chest would distract her just as well as Coco could. If I was lucky, it would kill her. If I wasn’t, it would at least buy enough time to grab Lou and run. I prayed the others would be able to slip away undetected.

“Many of you have traveled long and far to pay homage on this Modraniht.” Morgane’s voice was soft, but it carried clearly across the silence of the glade. The witches waited with bated breath. “I am honored by your presence. I am humbled by your gifts. Your revelry tonight has restored my spirit.” She searched each face carefully, her eyes seeming to linger on mine before continuing on. I released a slow breath.

“But you know this night is more than revelry,” she continued, voice softer still. “This is a night to honor our matriarchs. It is a night to worship and pay tribute to the Goddess—she who brings light and darkness, she who breathes life and death. She who is the one true Mother of us all.” Another pause, this one longer and more pronounced. “Our Mother is angry.” The anguish on her face had even me nearly convinced. “Suffering has plagued her children at the hand of man. We have been hunted.” Her voice rose steadily. “We have burned. We have lost sister and mother and daughter to their hatred and fear.”

The witches stirred restlessly. I gripped my knife tighter.

“Tonight,” she cried passionately, lifting her arms to the heavens, “the Goddess will answer our prayers!”

Then she brought them slashing down, and Lou—still floating, still insentient—tipped forward. Her feet dangled uselessly above the temple floor. “With my daughter’s sacrifice, the Goddess shall end our oppression!” Her hands clenched, and Lou’s head snapped upright. Nausea rolled in my gut. “In her death, we shall forge new life!”

The witches stomped and shouted.

“But first,” she crooned, barely audible. “A gift for my daughter.”

And with one last flick of her hand, Lou’s eyes finally opened.

I hesitated just long enough to see those blue-green eyes—beautiful, alive—widen in shock. Then I lunged forward.

Ansel grabbed my arms with surprising strength. “Reid.”

I faltered at his tone. In the next second, I understood: the ebony witch had reappeared, and now she dragged a second woman—limp and immobilized—out of the temple. A woman with strawberry blond hair and piercing blue eyes that searched the crowd desperately.

I stopped dead, stricken. Unable to move.

My mother.

“Behold this woman!” Morgane shouted over the sudden din of voices. “Behold the treacherous Helene!” She grabbed Madame Labelle by the hair and threw her down the temple steps. “This woman—once our sister, once my heart—conspires with the human king. She birthed his bastard child.” Shrieks of outrage rent the air. “Tonight, she was found attempting to force entry on the Chateau. She plots to steal our Mother’s precious gift by taking my daughter’s life herself. She would have us all burn under the tyrant king!”

The cries reached a deafening pitch, and Morgane’s eyes shone with triumph as she descended the steps. As she drew a wickedly sharp dagger from her belt. “Louise le Blanc, daughter and heir to La Dame des Sorcières, I shall honor you with her death.”

“No!” Lou’s body spasmed as she fought to move with her entire being. Tears poured down Madame Labelle’s cheeks.

I tore viciously from Ansel’s grasp and lunged forward, diving for the temple steps—desperate to reach them, desperate to save the two women I needed most—just as Morgane plunged the dagger into my mother’s chest.

The Pattern

Reid

“NO!” I fell to my knees before her body, jerking the dagger from her chest, fingers moving to stanch the bleeding. But I already knew it was too late. I was too late. There was too much blood for this wound to be anything but fatal. I stopped my frenzied ministrations and clutched her hands instead. Her eyes never left my face. We each stared at the other hungrily—as if in that brief moment, a thousand other moments might’ve happened.

Her holding a chubby finger. Her tending a scraped knee. Her laughing when I first kissed Célie, telling me I hadn’t done it right.

Then the moment ended. The cold tingle of her magic left my face. Her breath faltered, and her eyes closed.

A blade touched my throat.

“Rise,” Morgane commanded.

I exploded upward, catching her wrist and shattering it with ease—with savage pleasure. She screeched, dropping the dagger, but I didn’t stop. I bore down on her. My free hand wrapped around her throat—squeezing until I could feel her windpipe give, kicking the dagger down the steps toward Ansel—

Her other hand blasted into my stomach—stunning me—and invisible bonds cinched around my body, pinned my arms to my sides. My legs went rigid. She struck me again, and I toppled over, thrashing against the bonds. The harder I struggled, the tighter they became. They bit into my skin, drawing blood—

“Mother, stop!” Lou spasmed again, shuddering with the effort to reach me, but her body remained suspended. “Don’t hurt him!”

Morgane didn’t listen. She appeared to be feeling for something in empty air. Her eyes darted outward as she tracked whatever it was into the crowd. With a vicious tug, two familiar people staggered forward. My heart dropped. Morgane pulled harder, and Ansel and Beau fell at the temple steps, struggling against invisible bonds of their own. Their faces had returned to normal.

“Her coconspirators!” A mad gleam entered Morgane’s eyes, and the witches went wild with bloodlust—stamping their feet and screaming—as they struggled to converge on the temple. Magic shot past my face. Ansel cried out as a spell slashed his cheek. “The king’s sons and huntsmen! They shall bear witness to our triumph! They shall watch as we rid this world of the House of Lyon!”