Serpent & Dove
: Part 2 – Chapter 18

A crowd lined the street outside Soleil et Lune. Aristocrats chatted outside the box office while their wives greeted each other with saccharine smiles. Fashionable carriages came and went. Ushers tried to shepherd the attendees to their seats, but this was the real entertainment of the evening. This was why the rich and affluent came to the theater . . . to preen and politicize in a complex social dance.

I’d always likened it to a peacock’s mating ritual.

My husband and I certainly looked the part. Gone were my bloodstained dress and trousers. When he’d returned to our room earlier with a new evening gown—nearly bursting with pride and anticipation—I hadn’t been able to refuse him. Burnished gold, it had a fitted bodice and tapered sleeves that had been embroidered with tiny, metallic blooms. They glimmered in the dying sunlight, transitioning smoothly into a train of champagne silk. I’d even magicked away a few of my bruises in the infirmary. Powder had covered the rest.

My husband wore his best coat. Though still Chasseur blue, gold filigree decorated the collar and cuffs. I resisted the urge to smile, envisioning the picture we made striding up the theater steps. He’d matched our outfits. I should’ve been appalled, but with his hand wrapped firmly around mine, I couldn’t bring myself to feel anything but excitement.

I had insisted on wearing the hood of my cloak up, however. And a pretty lace ribbon to hide my scar. If my husband had noticed, he’d known better than to comment on either.

Perhaps he wasn’t so bad.

The crowd drew away as we entered the foyer. I doubted anyone remembered us, but people tended to be uneasy—though others would call it reverent—around Chasseurs. No one wrecked a good party like a Chasseur. Especially if that Chasseur was as priggish as my husband.

He guided me to my seat. For once, I didn’t resent his hand on my back. It actually felt . . . nice. Warm. Strong. Until he attempted to remove my cloak. When I tugged it out of his grasp, refusing to part with it, he frowned, clearing his throat in the ensuing awkwardness. “I never asked . . . did you enjoy the book?”

The gentleman in the seat beside me caught my hand before I could answer.

“Enchanté, mademoiselle,” he crooned, kissing my fingers.

I couldn’t help the giggle that escaped my lips. He was handsome in an oily way, with dark, slick hair and a thin mustache.

My husband flushed scarlet. “I’ll thank you to take your hand from my wife, monsieur.”

The man’s eyes boggled, and he looked to my empty ring finger. I laughed harder. I’d taken to wearing Angelica’s Ring on my right hand, just to annoy my husband. “Your wife?” He dropped my hand as if it were a poisonous spider. “I didn’t think Chasseurs were in the practice of marriage.”

“This one is.” He rose and jerked his head toward me. “Switch seats with me.”

“I meant no offense, monsieur, of course.” The oily man shot me a regretful glance as I sidled away from him. “Though you are a lucky man indeed.”

My husband glowered, effectively silencing the man for the rest of the evening.

The lights dimmed, and I finally pushed back my hood. “You’re a bit territorial, aren’t you?” I whispered, grinning again. He was such a brute. A somewhat adorable, pompous-assed brute.

He wouldn’t look at me. “Performance is starting.”

The symphony began playing, and men and women flitted onto the stage. I recognized Hook-Nose immediately, chuckling at the memory of how she’d humiliated the Archbishop in front of his doting admirers. Ingenious. And to cast such an enchantment right under the noses of my husband and the Archbishop . . .

Hook-Nose was a fearless Dame Blanche.

Though she played only a minor role in the chorus, I eagerly watched her dance along with the actors playing Emilie and Alexandre.

My enthusiasm quickly dimmed, however, as the song progressed. There was something familiar about the way she held herself—something I hadn’t noticed upon first meeting her. Unease gradually settled in my stomach as she twirled and danced, disappearing behind the curtain.

When the second song started, my husband leaned closer. His breath tickled the skin of my neck. “Jean Luc said you were looking for me this morning.”

“It’s rude to talk during a performance.”

He narrowed his eyes, undeterred. “What did you want?”

I turned my attention back toward the stage. Hook-Nose had just swept back into view, her corn-silk hair rippling across her shoulders. The movement stirred a memory, but when I tried to grasp it fully, it slipped away again, like water between my fingers.

“Lou?” He tentatively touched my hand. His was warm, large, and calloused, and I couldn’t bring myself to pull away.

“A knife,” I admitted, eyes never leaving the stage.

He sucked in a breath. “What?”

“I wanted a knife.”

“You can’t be serious.”

I glanced at him. “I’m deadly serious. You saw Madame Labelle yesterday. I need protection.”

He gripped my hand tighter. “She won’t touch you.” The oily man beside us coughed pointedly, but we ignored him. “She won’t be allowed inside Chasseur Tower again. The Archbishop gave his word.”

I scowled. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

His expression hardened, and his jaw clenched tight. “It should. The Archbishop is a powerful man, and he’s vowed to protect you.”

“His word means nothing to me.”

“What of my word, then? I vowed to protect you as well.”

It was laughable, really, his dedication to protecting a witch. He would’ve had kittens if he knew the truth.

I arched a wry brow. “Just as I promised to obey you?”

He skewered me with a black look, but the oily man wasn’t the only one openly glaring now. I settled back in my seat with a smug toss of my hair. He was far too prim to argue in front of an audience.

“This conversation isn’t over,” he muttered, but he too sat back, staring moodily at the performers. To my surprise—and grudging delight—he kept my hand fixed beneath his. After several long moments, he casually brushed his thumb along my fingers. I wriggled in my seat. He ignored me, gazing steadily at the stage as the performance wore on. But his thumb continued moving, drawing small patterns on the back of my hand, circling my knuckles, tracing the tips of my nails.

I struggled to concentrate on the performance. Delicious tingles spread across my skin with each sweep of his thumb . . . until slowly, gradually, his touch trailed upward, and his fingers grazed the veins of my wrist, the inside my elbow. He stroked my scar there, and I shivered, pressing back in my seat and trying to focus on the performance. My cloak slipped down my shoulders.

The first act ended too soon, and intermission began. We both remained seated, silently touching—hardly breathing—as the audience milled around us. When the candles dimmed again, I turned to look at him, heat rising from my belly to my cheeks.

“Reid,” I breathed.

He stared back at me, his own flushed, panicked expression mirroring my own. I leaned closer, gaze falling to his parted lips. His tongue flicked out to moisten them, and my belly contracted.

“Yes?”

“I—”

In my periphery, Hook-Nose spun in a pirouette, her hair flying wild. Something clicked in my memory at the movement. A solstice celebration. Corn-silk hair braided with flowers. The maypole.

Shit.

Estelle. Her name was Estelle, and I’d known her once—in my childhood at Chateau le Blanc. She obviously hadn’t recognized me before with my freshly smashed face, but if she saw me again, if she somehow remembered . . .

The heat in my belly froze to ice.

I had to get out of here.

“Lou?” Reid’s voice echoed from afar, as if he called from the end of a tunnel and not from the seat next to me. “Are you all right?”

I inhaled deeply, willing my heart to calm. Surely he could hear it. It thundered through my entire body, condemning me with each treacherous beat. His hand stilled on my wrist. Shit. I pulled it away, twisting my fingers in my lap. “I’m fine.”

He sat back in his seat, confusion and hurt flashing across his face. I cursed silently again.

The moment the final song ended, I leapt to my feet, pulling my cloak back on. Ensuring the hood covered my hair and shadowed my face. “Ready?”

Reid glanced around in bewilderment. The rest of the audience remained seated—some breathless, some weeping at Emilie and Alexandre’s tragic deaths—as the curtain fell. The applause hadn’t yet started. “Is something wrong?”

“No!” The word burst out too quick to be convincing. I cleared my throat, forcing a smile, and tried again. “Just tired is all.”

I didn’t wait for his answer. Tugging his hand, I led him past the aisles, past the patrons finally rising and applauding, and into the foyer—and skidded to a halt. The actors and actresses had already formed a line by the doors. Before I could change directions, Estelle’s gaze found Reid. She scowled before glancing at my cloaked form beside him, eyes narrowing as she peered beneath my hood. Recognition lit. I tugged on Reid’s hand, desperate to flee, but he didn’t move as Estelle strode purposefully toward us.

“How are you?” Her eyes were kind, genuine, as she pushed back my hood to assess my various injuries. Rooted to the spot, I was helpless to stop her. She smiled. “It looks like you’re healing nicely.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I’m fine, thanks. Perfect.”

“Really?” She arched a brow in disbelief, and her kind eyes hardened as she looked to Reid, who seemed even less pleased to see her than she did him. Her lip curled. “And how are you? Still hiding behind that blue coat?”

She was very brave, taunting a Chasseur in public. Patrons tittered disapprovingly around us. Reid scowled and tightened his hold on my trembling fingers. “Let’s go, Lou.”

I flinched at the word, heart sinking miserably, but the damage was done.

“Lou?” Estelle’s entire body tensed, and she tilted her head, eyes widening slowly as she reexamined my face. “As in . . . Louise?”

“Nice to see you again!” Before she could respond, I dragged Reid toward the exit. He followed without struggle, though I could feel his unspoken questions on my neck.

We fought our way through the crowd outside the theater. When I couldn’t clear a path, he stepped in front of me. Whether it was his towering height or his royal blue coat, something about him made people step aside, tipping their hats. Our carriage waited several blocks down the queue—blocked by mingling patrons—so I pulled him in the opposite direction, rushing as far and as fast from the theater as my gown allowed.

When we finally cleared the crowd, he guided me down an empty side street.

“What was that about?”

I chuckled nervously, bouncing on the balls of my feet. We needed to keep moving. “It’s nothing really. I just—” Something shifted behind him, and my stomach plummeted as Estelle melted from the shadows.

“I can’t believe it’s you.” Her voice came out a breathless whisper, and she stared at me in awe. “I didn’t recognize you before with the bruises. You look so . . . different.”

It was true. Beyond my previous injuries, my hair was longer and lighter than when she’d known me, my skin darker and freckled from too many days in the sun.

“Do you two know each other?” Reid asked, frowning.

“Of course not,” I said hastily. “Just—just from the theater. Let’s go, Reid.” I turned toward him, and he wrapped a reassuring arm around my waist, angling himself ever so slightly in front of me.

Estelle’s eyes widened. “You can’t leave! Not now that—”

“She can,” Reid said firmly. While it was clear he had no idea what was going on, his desire to protect me seemed to override his confusion—and his intense dislike of Estelle. His hand was gentle on the small of my back as he led me away. “Good evening, mademoiselle.”

Estelle didn’t even blink. She merely flicked her wrist as if swatting an irksome fly, and the shop sign above us ripped from its hinges and smashed into the back of his skull. The sharp tang of magic swept through the alley as he crashed to his knees. He reached feebly for his Balisarda.

“No!” I gripped his coat, attempting to pull him to his feet—to shield him with my body somehow—but Estelle wrung her fingers before either of us could counter.

When the sign bludgeoned him a second time, he flew backward. His head hit the alley wall with a sickening crack, and he crumpled to the ground and fell still.

A snarl tore from my throat, and I positioned myself between the two of them, lifting my hands.

“Don’t make this difficult, Louise.” She drifted closer, a fanatical gleam in her eyes, and panic constricted my thoughts. Though gold danced in my periphery, I couldn’t focus on a pattern—couldn’t focus on anything. It was as if the world had gone silent, waiting.

Except—

Reid stirred behind me.

“I won’t go with you.” I inched backward, lifting my hands higher to draw her eyes. “Please, stop this.”

“Don’t you understand? This is an honor—”

A blue streak launched past me.

Estelle couldn’t react quickly enough, and Reid barreled into her outstretched arms. For a moment, it looked like a sick embrace. Then Reid wrenched her around so her back was to his chest—crushing her arms and hands between them—and flung an arm around her throat. I watched in horror as she struggled against him. Her face slowly purpled.

“Help—me—” She thrashed in terror, her wild eyes seeking mine. “Please—”

I didn’t move.

It was over in less than a minute. With a final shudder, Estelle’s body slumped in Reid’s arms, and his grip slackened.

“Is she . . . dead?” I whispered.

“No.” His face was white, his hands shaking, as he let Estelle fall to the ground. When he finally looked at me, I stumbled under the ferocity of his stare. “What did it want with you?”

Unable to stand that look, I tore my gaze away—away from him, away from Estelle, away from the entire nightmarish scene—and looked instead to the stars. They were dim tonight, refusing to shine for me. Accusing.

After a long moment, I forced myself to answer him. Tears glistened on my cheeks. “She wanted me dead.”

He watched me for another long moment before hauling Estelle’s limp body over his shoulder.

“What are you going to do with her?” I asked fearfully.

“It’s a witch.” He started up the street without a backward glance, ignoring the alarmed looks of passersby. “It’ll burn on earth, and then in Hell.”