Jean Luc straightened, instantly alert. “What do they have planned?”

“Revolution.” The Archbishop’s eyes remained fixed on mine. “Death.”

Silence settled over the hall at his ominous pronouncement. Feet shifted. Eyes darted. No one dared ask what he meant—not even Jean Luc. Just as no one dared ask the one other question that mattered. The one other question on which our entire creed hinged.

I glanced at my brothers, watching as they stared between the Archbishop and the tortured, mutilated witch. As the conviction returned to their faces. As their suspicion shifted to excuses, bridging the way back to the comfortable world we’d once known. The comfortable lies.

It was all a diversion.

Yes—a diversion.

The witches are cunning.

Of course they would frame him.

Except Jean Luc. His sharp eyes were not so easily fooled. Worse—a garish grin stretched across his face. Warped by his swelling jaw.

“We must find Louise before the witches do,” the Archbishop urged. Pleaded. “She is the key, Reid. With her death, the king and his posterity will die. We all will die. You must put aside your quarrel with her and protect this kingdom. Honor your vows.”

My vows. True fury coursed through me at the words. Surely, this man who had lain with La Dame des Sorcières—this man who had deceived and betrayed and broken his vows at every turn—couldn’t be speaking to me about honor. I exhaled slowly through my nose. My hands still shook with anger and adrenaline. “Let’s go, Ansel.”

The Archbishop bared his teeth at my dismissal—and turned unexpectedly to Jean Luc. “Chasseur Toussaint, assemble a team of men. I want you on the street within the hour. Alert the constabulary. She will be found by morning. Do you understand?”

Jean Luc bowed, flashing me a triumphant smile. I glared back at him, searching his face for any flicker of hesitation, of regret, but there was none. His time had finally come. “Yes, Your Eminence. I will not disappoint you.”

Ansel followed hurriedly as I departed. We ascended the stairs three at a time. “What are we going to do?”

“We are going to do nothing. I don’t want you caught up in this.”

“Lou is my friend!”

His friend.

At those two small words, my patience—already stretched too thin—snapped completely. Swiftly, before the boy could so much as gasp, I grabbed his arm and shoved him into the wall. “She’s a witch, Ansel. You must understand this. She is not your friend. She is not my wife.”

His cheeks flushed with anger, and he shoved me in the chest. “Keep telling yourself that. Your pride is going to get her killed. She’s in trouble—” He shoved me again for emphasis, but I caught his arm and twisted it behind his back, slamming his chest into the wall. He didn’t even flinch. “Who cares if the Archbishop lied? You’re better than him, better than this.”

I snarled, quickly approaching my breaking point.

Lou, Ansel, Morgane le Blanc, the Archbishop . . . it was all too much. Too sudden. My mind couldn’t rationalize the emotions flooding through me—each too quick to name, each more painful than the last—but the time to choose rapidly approached.

I was a huntsman.

I was a man.

But I couldn’t be both. Not anymore.

I let go of Ansel and backed away, breathing ragged. “No, I’m not.”

“I don’t believe that.”

I balled my hands into fists, resisting the urge to smash them through the wall—or Ansel’s face. “All she’s ever done is lie to me, Ansel! She looked me in the eyes and told me she loved me! How do I know that wasn’t a lie too?”

“It wasn’t a lie. You know it wasn’t.” He paused, lifting his chin in a gesture so like Lou I nearly wept. “You . . . you called her she. Not it.”

Now I did strike the wall. Pain exploded from my knuckles. I welcomed it—welcomed anything to distract me from the agony ripping my chest in two, the tears burning my eyes. I leaned my forehead against the wall and gasped for breath. No, Lou wasn’t an it. But she’d still lied to me. Betrayed me.

“What should she have done instead?” Ansel asked. “Told you she was a witch and tied herself to the stake?”

My voice broke. “She should’ve trusted me.”

He touched my back, voice softening. “She’ll die, Reid. You heard the Archbishop. If you do nothing, she’ll die.”

And just like that, the rage left me. My hands fell to my sides. Limp. My shoulders slumped . . . defeated.

There had never been a choice. Not for me. From the first moment I’d seen her at the parade—dressed in that ridiculous suit and mustache—my fate had been sealed.

I loved her. Despite everything. Despite the lies, the betrayal, the hurt. Despite the Archbishop and Morgane le Blanc. Despite my own brothers. I didn’t know if she returned that love, and I didn’t care.

If she was destined to burn in Hell, I would burn with her.

“No.” Deadly purpose pounded through my veins as I pushed from the wall. “Lou isn’t going to die, Ansel. We’re going to find her.”

Hell Hath No Fury

Reid

A few initiates lingered outside my destroyed room when Ansel and I returned. They ducked their heads and scattered upon seeing me. Glowering at them, I stepped inside to think. To plan.

Lou had spent the last two years as a thief, so she was better than most at disappearing. She could’ve been anywhere. I wasn’t foolish enough to think I knew all her haunts, but I did have a better chance of finding her than Jean Luc. Still, the Chasseurs swarming the city complicated things.

Closing my eyes, I forced myself to breathe deeply and think. Where would she go? Where could she hide? But the magic in the air scorched my throat, distracting me. It lingered on the bedsheets, the splintered desk. The bloody pages of my Bible. On my skin, my hair. My eyes snapped open, and I resisted the urge to roar in frustration. I didn’t have time for this. I needed to find her. Quickly. Each passing moment could be her last.

She’ll die, Reid. If you do nothing, she’ll die.

No. That couldn’t happen. Think.

The theater seemed her most likely hiding place. But would she return there after she’d shared it with me? Probably not. Perhaps we could stake out Pan’s instead. It would be only a matter of time before she visited the patisserie—unless she’d left Cesarine altogether. My heart sank.