Serpent & Dove

Tremblay’s townhouse reeked of magic. It coated the lawn, clung to the prone guards Tremblay attempted to revive. A tall, middle-aged woman knelt beside him. Redheaded. Striking. Though I didn’t recognize her, my brethren’s whispers confirmed my suspicions.

Madame Labelle. Notorious courtesan, and mistress of the Bellerose.

Surely she had no business here.

“Captain Diggory.”

I turned toward the strained voice behind me. A reedy blonde stood with her hands tightly clasped, an expensive wedding band glinting on her ring finger. Frown lines marred the corners of her eyes—eyes that currently burned holes in the back of Madame Labelle’s head.

Tremblay’s wife.

“Hello, Captain Diggory.” Célie’s soft voice preceded her as she stepped around her mother. I swallowed hard. She was still clothed in mourning black, her green eyes stark in the torchlight. Swollen. Red. Tears sparkled on her cheeks. I longed to close the distance between us and wipe them away. To wipe this whole nightmarish scene—so like the night we’d found Filippa—away.

“Mademoiselle Tremblay.” I inclined my head instead, keenly aware of my brethren’s eyes. Of Jean Luc’s. “You look . . . well.”

A lie. She looked miserable. Afraid. She’d lost weight since I last saw her. Her face was drawn, pinched, as if she hadn’t slept in months. I hadn’t either.

“Thank you.” A small smile at the lie. “You do too.”

“I apologize for these circumstances, mademoiselle, but I assure you, if a witch is responsible, it will burn.”

I glanced back at Tremblay. He and Madame Labelle were bent close together, and they appeared to be in harried conversation with the guards. Frowning, I stepped closer. Madame Tremblay cleared her throat and turned her indignant eyes on me.

“I assure you, sir, you and your esteemed order are not necessary here. My husband and I are God-fearing citizens, and we do not abide witchcraft—”

Beside me, Jean Luc bowed his head. “Of course not, Madame Tremblay. We are here only as a precaution.”

“Though your guards were unconscious, madame,” I pointed out. “And your home reeks of magic.”

Jean Luc sighed and shot me an irritated look.

“It always smells like this here.” Madame Tremblay’s eyes narrowed, and her lips pressed into a thin line. Displeased. “It’s that beastly park. It poisons the entire street. If it weren’t for the view of the Doleur, we would move tomorrow.”

“My apologies, madame. All the same—”

“We understand.” Jean Luc stepped in front of me with a placating smile. “And we apologize for the alarm. Usually, robberies fall under the constabulary’s jurisdiction, but . . .” He hesitated, smile faltering. “We received an anonymous tip that a witch would be here tonight. We’ll just do a quick sweep of the premises, and you and your family may safely return to your home—”

“Captain Diggory, Chasseur Toussaint.” The voice that interrupted was warm. Smooth. Intimate. We turned as one to see Madame Labelle striding toward us. Tremblay hurried to follow, leaving the disoriented guards behind. “We’ve just spoken with the guards.” She smiled, revealing bright white teeth. They nearly glowed against her scarlet lips. “The poor dears don’t remember anything, unfortunately.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, Helene,” Madame Tremblay said through clenched teeth, “what business do you have here?”

Madame Labelle turned to her with polite disinterest. “I was passing and saw a disturbance, of course.”

“Passing? Whatever were you doing in this part of town, dear? One would expect you might have, ah, business to attend to on your own street at this hour of night.”

Madame Labelle arched a brow. “You’re quite right.” Her smile widened, and she glanced at Tremblay before returning his wife’s icy stare. “I do have business to attend to.”

Célie stiffened, bowing her head, and Tremblay hastened to intervene before his wife could respond. “You are, of course, welcome to question my staff yourselves, good sirs.”

“Don’t worry, Monsieur Tremblay. We will.” Glaring at him for Célie’s sake, I raised my voice to the constabulary and Chasseurs. “Spread out and form a perimeter. Block all exits. Constables, partner yourselves with a Chasseur. If this is a witch, do not allow it to catch you defenseless.”

“It isn’t a witch,” Madame Tremblay insisted, glancing around anxiously. Lights in neighboring townhouses began to flicker on. Already a handful of people had appeared by the broken gate. Some wore nightclothes. Others wore finery similar to the Tremblays’. All wore familiar, wary expressions. “It’s just a thief. That’s all—”

She stopped abruptly, her eyes flicking toward the townhouse. I followed her gaze to an upstairs window. A curtain moved, and two faces peered out.

One of them was familiar, despite the wig. Blue-green eyes—vivid even at a distance—widened in panic. The curtain snapped shut.

Satisfaction spread through my chest, and I allowed a grin. Let justice roll on like a river, and righteousness like a never-failing stream.

“What is it?” Jean Luc looked toward the window too.

Justice.

“They’re still here—a man and a woman.”

He drew his Balisarda with a flourish. “I’ll dispatch the woman quickly.”

I frowned, remembering the woman’s mustache. Her baggy trousers and rolled shirtsleeves and freckles. The way she’d smelled when she’d crashed into me at the parade—like vanilla and cinnamon. Not magic. I shook my head abruptly. But witches didn’t always smell evil. Only when they’d been practicing. The Archbishop had been clear in our training—every woman was a potential threat. Even so . . . “I don’t think she’s a witch.”

Jean Luc lifted a black brow, nostrils flaring. “No? Surely it isn’t coincidence we received a tip on this particular night—before these particular thieves robbed this particular home.”

Scowling, I looked back at the window. “I met her this morning. She—” I cleared my throat, heat creeping up my cheeks. “She didn’t seem like a witch.”

The excuse fell flat, even to my own ears. Célie’s eyes burned on my neck.

“Ah. She can’t be a witch because she didn’t seem like one. My mistake, of course.”

“She was wearing a mustache,” I muttered. When Jean Luc scoffed, I resisted the urge to flatten him. He knew Célie was watching. “We can’t discount Brindelle Park next door. It’s possible the man and woman are simply thieves, despite the circumstances. They could deserve prison. Not the stake.”

“Very well.” Jean Luc rolled his eyes and marched toward the door without my order. “Let’s hurry this up, then, shall we? We’ll interrogate the two of them and decide—prison or the stake.”

Gritting my teeth at his insolence, I nodded to the constabulary, and they hurried after him. I didn’t follow. Instead, I kept my gaze trained on the window—and the rooftop. When she didn’t reappear, I crept around the side of the house, waiting. Though Célie’s presence was an open flame on my back, I did my best to ignore it. She’d wanted me to focus on the Chasseurs. That was what I needed to do.

Another moment passed. And another.

A small cellar door obscured by hydrangeas flew open to my right. Jean Luc and a man with amber skin barreled out of it, knives flashing in the moonlight. They rolled once before Jean Luc landed on top, knife pressed to the man’s throat. Three constables burst from the cellar door after them with handcuffs and rope. Within seconds, they had his wrists and ankles bound. He snarled and twisted, shouting a tirade of curses. And one other word.

“Lou!” He pulled uselessly at his bonds, face purpling with rage. One of the constables moved to gag him. “LOU!”

Lou. A man’s name. It figured.

I continued on, still searching the windows and roofline. Sure enough, I soon spotted a slight shadow moving up the wall. Slowly. I looked closer. This time, she wore a cloak. It parted as she climbed, revealing a dress as fine as Madame Tremblay’s. Probably stolen. But it wasn’t the dress that seemed to cause her problems.

It was her hand.

Each time it touched the wall, she drew it back sharply, as if in pain. I squinted, trying to locate the source of the problem, but she was too high. Much too high. As if in response to my fear, her foot slipped, and she plummeted several feet before catching herself on a window ledge. My stomach dropped with her.

“Oi!” I rushed forward. Footsteps sounded as the Chasseurs and constabulary closed in behind me. Jean Luc shoved the bound man to the ground at my feet. “You’re surrounded! We already have your boyfriend! Come down now before you kill yourself!”

She slipped and caught herself again. This time, her wig tumbled to the ground, revealing long brown hair. Inexplicably furious, I lurched forward. “Come down RIGHT NOW—”

The man managed to work the gag from his mouth. “LOU, HELP ME—”

A constable wrestled to gag him once more. The woman paused at his voice, perching in a window, and glanced down at us. Her face lit with recognition when she saw me, and she lifted her good hand to her forehead in mock salute.

I stared at her, dumbfounded.

She’d actually saluted.

My hands curled into fists. “Go up and get her.”

Jean Luc scowled at the command, but he still nodded. “Chasseurs—with me.” My brethren surged forward, drawing their Balisardas. “Constables—on the ground. Don’t let her escape.”

If the other Chasseurs questioned why I remained on the ground, they said nothing. Wisely. But that didn’t stop the constabulary’s curious stares.

“What?” I snapped, glaring at them. They hastily resumed staring at the roof. “Was anyone else inside?”

After several long seconds, one of them stepped forward. I vaguely recognized him. Dennis. No—Davide. “Yes, Captain. Geoffrey and I found someone in the kitchen.”

“And?”

Another constable—presumably Geoffrey—cleared his throat. The two shared an anxious look, and Geoffrey swallowed hard. “She escaped.”

I expelled a harsh breath.

“We think she’s your witch, though,” Davide added hopefully. “She smelled like magic, sort of, and—and she poisoned the dogs. They had blood on their maws, and they smelled . . . strange.”

“If it helps, she was, well—scarred,” Geoffrey said. Davide nodded earnestly.

I turned toward the roof without another word, forcing myself to unclench my fists. To breathe.

It wasn’t Davide or Geoffrey’s fault. They weren’t trained to handle witches. And yet—perhaps they could explain their incompetence to the Archbishop. Perhaps they could accept the punishment. The shame. Another witch free. Another witch left to plague the innocent people of Belterra. To plague Célie.

Through a haze of red, I trained my eyes on the thief.

Lou.

She would tell me where the witch went. I would force the information from her, no matter what it took. I would fix this.

Even with her injured hand, she still managed to outclimb the Chasseurs. She reached the roofline before the others had even cleared the first story. “Spread out!” I roared to the constabulary. They scattered at my command. “She has to come down somewhere! That tree—cover it! And the drainpipes! Find anything she could use to make an escape!”

I waited, pacing and seething, as my brethren scaled steadily higher. Their voices drifted down to me. Threatening her. Good. She consorted with witches. She deserved to fear us.

“Any sign?” I called to the constabulary.

“Not here, Captain!”

“Not here either!”

“None, sir!”

I bit back an impatient growl. Finally—after what seemed an eternity—Jean Luc hoisted himself over the rooftop after her. Three of my brethren followed. I waited. And waited.

And waited.

Davide shouted behind me, and I whirled to see the bound thief halfway to the road. He’d somehow worked the ropes from his feet. Though the constables sprinted toward him, they’d spread themselves too far across the yard on my orders. Biting back a curse, I leapt after him, but Jean Luc’s shout made me falter.

“She’s not here!” He appeared back at the roofline, chest heaving. Even from a distance, I could see the anger in his eyes. It matched my own. “She’s gone!”

With a snarl of frustration, I scanned the street for the man.

But he too had disappeared.