Serpent & Dove

By the time I woke the next morning, dusty rays of sunlight shone through the attic window. I blinked slowly, lost in the pleasant moment between sleeping and waking where there is no memory. But my subconscious chased me. Noises reverberated from the theater below as cast and crew called to one another, and excited voices drifted in from the window. I frowned, still clinging to the remnants of sleep.

The theater was rather noisy this morning.

I lurched upright. Soleil et Lune performed a matinee every Saturday. How could I have forgotten?

My face gave a particularly painful throb as I threw myself down on our bed. Oh, right—that’s how. My nose had been smashed to bits, and I’d been forced to flee for my life.

The noise downstairs heightened as the overture began.

I groaned. Now I’d be stuck here until the performance was over, and I desperately needed to pee. Usually, it wasn’t a problem to sneak downstairs to the toilet before the cast and crew arrived, but I’d overslept. Climbing to my feet, wincing at the dull pain in my back, I assessed the damage quickly. My nose was definitely broken, and my fingers had swollen to twice their size overnight. But I wore a fine enough dress to pass by the patrons unnoticed . . . except for the bloodstains. I licked my good fingers and scrubbed at the stains furiously, but the fabric remained irrevocably red.

With an impatient sigh, I glanced between the racks of dusty costumes and the trunk beside the bed I shared with Coco. Wool pants, scarves, mittens, and shawls spilled out of it, along with a couple of moldy blankets we’d found in the garbage last week. I touched Coco’s side of the bed gingerly.

I hoped she’d made it to her aunt safely.

Shaking my head, I turned back to the rack of costumes and picked out an outfit at random. Coco could take care of herself. Me, on the other hand . . .

I gave up trying to undress after three excruciating attempts. My broken fingers refused to work properly, and my body simply couldn’t contort itself to reach the buttons between my shoulders. I plucked a bergère hat and wire spectacles from a nearby bin and put them on instead. Last night’s velvet ribbon still hid my scar, and my cloak covered up the worst of the bloodstains. They would have to do.

My bladder insisted on immediate relief, and I refused to pee in the corner like a dog.

Besides, I could always pop Angelica’s Ring in my mouth if I needed to make a quick escape. I suspected the lobby would be too crowded to maneuver while invisible, or I would’ve forgone the disguise completely. Nothing roused suspicion like a specter stepping on one’s toes.

Tilting my hat over my face, I crept down the staircase that led backstage. Most of the actors ignored me, except—

“You aren’t supposed to be back here,” a haughty, hook-nosed girl said. She had a round face and hair the color and texture of corn silk. When I turned toward her, she gasped. “Good lord, what happened to your face?”

“Nothing.” I ducked my head hastily, but the damage was done.

Her haughtiness transformed into concern as she crept closer. “Has someone hurt you? Should I call the constabulary?”

“No, no.” I flashed her an embarrassed smile. “Just lost my way to the toilet, that’s all!”

“It’s in the lobby.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Is that blood on your dress? Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Perfect.” I nodded like a maniac. “Thanks!”

I walked away a little too quickly to appear innocent. Though I kept my head down, I could feel other eyes on me as I passed. My face must’ve looked truly ghastly. Perhaps Angelica’s Ring would’ve been wiser, after all.

The lobby was infinitely worse than backstage. Wealthy nobles and merchants who had yet to find their seats crowded around it. I kept to the outskirts of the room, angling toward the walls to avoid unwanted attention. Thankfully, the theatergoers were far too interested in each other to notice my skulking. Soleil et Lune was, after all, far more popular for its gossip than its plays.

I overheard one couple whispering that the Archbishop himself would be attending this matinee—another excellent reason to return to the attic as soon as possible.

As father of the Chasseurs, the Archbishop guided their spiritual warfare against Belterra’s evil, proclaiming he’d been given a mandate from God to eradicate the occult. He’d burned dozens of witches—more than any other—yet still he didn’t rest. I’d seen him only once, from afar, but I’d recognized the cruel light in his eye for what it was: obsession.

I ducked into the toilet before anyone else could notice me. After relieving myself, I tore the ridiculous hat from my head and stood in front of the mirror. It revealed at once why the crew had stared. My face was in shambles. Deep purple bruises had seeped beneath my eyes, and dried blood spattered my cheeks. I scrubbed at it with the cold water from the tap, rubbing my skin until it was pink and raw. It did little to improve the overall effect.

A polite knock sounded on the door.

“Sorry!” I called sheepishly. “Stomach trouble!”

The knocking ceased immediately. The woman’s shocked, disapproving mutters drifted through the door as she shuffled away. Good. I needed to wait out the crowd, and a locked toilet was as good a place as any. Frowning at my reflection, I set to working the blood from my dress.

The voices outside gradually subsided as the music grew louder, signaling the start of the performance. Inching the door open, I peered into the lobby. Only three ushers remained. They nodded to me as I passed, oblivious to my bruised face in the dark.

My breathing came easier as I neared the door to backstage. I was only a few steps away when an auditorium door opened behind me.

“May I be of assistance, sir?” an usher asked.

Whoever it was murmured an answer, and the hair on my neck stood up. I should’ve proceeded to the attic. I should’ve run—every instinct screamed at me to flee, flee, flee—but I didn’t. Instead, I peeked back at the man standing in the doorway. The very tall, copper-haired man in a blue coat.

“You,” he said.

Before I could move, he pounced. His hands gripped my arms—vise-like—and he flung me around, positioning himself in front of the exit. I knew immediately that no amount of struggling would free me. He was simply too strong. Too big. There was only one way forward.

I smashed my knee straight into his groin.

He doubled over with a groan, grip loosening.

Tearing free—and throwing my hat at his face for good measure—I darted into the depths of the theater. There was another exit backstage. Crew members gaped as I sprinted past, knocking down crates and other props behind me as I went. When he caught the edge of my cloak, I ripped the fastening at my throat free, never faltering a step. It didn’t matter. The Chasseur still pounded after me, his strides nearly thrice my own—

He latched on to my wrist as I spotted the hook-nosed girl from before. Though I thrashed away from him—my spectacles clattering to the floor as I struggled toward her—he only tightened his hold. Tears streamed down my ruined face. “Please, help me!”

The hook-nosed girl’s eyes widened. “Let her go!”

The voices onstage faltered at her shout, and we all froze.

Shit. No, no, no.

Taking advantage of his hesitation, I twisted to break free, but his hand inadvertently met my breast. He loosened his grip, clearly appalled, but lunged as I pulled away, his fingers catching my neckline. Horrified, I watched in slow motion as the delicate fabric tore, as his feet tangled in my skirt. As we clutched one another, trying and failing to regain our balance.

As we tumbled through the curtain and onto the stage.

The audience gave a collective gasp—then fell silent. No one dared breathe. Not even me.

The Chasseur, who still held me atop him from our fall, stared up at me with wide eyes. I watched—numb—as dozens of emotions flitted across his face. Shock. Panic. Humiliation. Rage.

The hook-nosed girl skidded out after us, and the spell was broken. “You disgusting pig!”

The Chasseur flung me away like I’d bitten him, and I landed on my backside. Hard. Angry cries from the audience erupted as my dress gaped open. They took in my bruised face, my torn bodice, and made their own assumptions. But I didn’t care. Staring out at the audience, horror seeped through me as I imagined who could be staring back. The blood left my face.

The hook-nosed girl wrapped her arms around me, gently helping me to my feet and leading me backstage. Two burly crew members appeared and seized the Chasseur as well. The crowd shouted their approval as they frog-marched him behind us. I glanced back, surprised he wasn’t putting up a fight, but his face was as white as my own.

The girl grabbed a sheet from one of the crates and draped it around me. “Are you all right?”

I ignored her ridiculous question. Of course I wasn’t all right. What had just happened?

“Hopefully they throw him in prison.” She glared at the Chasseur, who stood amidst the crew in a daze. The audience still shouted their outrage.

“They won’t,” I said grimly. “He’s a Chasseur.”

“We’ll all give our statements.” She stuck her chin out and gestured to the crew. They hovered awkwardly, unsure of what to do. “We saw the whole thing. You’re so lucky you were here.” She glanced at my torn dress, eyes flashing. “Who knows what could have happened?”

I didn’t correct her. I needed to leave. This whole fiasco had been a shoddy attempt at escape, and this was my last chance. The Chasseur couldn’t stop me now, but the constabulary would arrive soon. They wouldn’t care what the audience thought they’d seen. They’d cart me off to prison, regardless of my torn dress and bruises, and it would be all too easy for the Chasseurs to procure me once this mess had been sorted out.

I knew where that would lead. A stake and a match.

I’d just decided to throw caution to the winds and run for it—perhaps slip Angelica’s Ring between my teeth once I reached the stairwell—when the door to stage right creaked open.

My heart stopped as the Archbishop stepped through.

He was shorter than I thought, though still taller than me, with salt-and-pepper hair and steely blue eyes. They flared briefly as he took me in—the bruised face, the ratted hair, the sheet draped around my shoulders—then narrowed at the devastation around me. His lip curled.

He jerked his head toward the exit. “Leave us.”

The crew didn’t need to be told twice—and neither did I. I nearly tripped over my feet in an effort to vacate the premises as quickly as possible. The Chasseur’s hand snaked out and caught my arm.

“Not you,” the Archbishop commanded.

The hook-nosed girl hesitated, her eyes darting between the three of us. One look from the Archbishop, however, had her scurrying out the door.

The Chasseur released me the second she disappeared and bowed to the Archbishop, covering his heart with his fist. “This is the woman from Tremblay’s townhouse, Your Eminence.”

The Archbishop nodded curtly, his eyes returning to mine. Again they searched my face, and again they hardened—as if my worth had been tallied and found lacking. He clasped stiff hands behind his back. “So you are our escaped thief.”

I nodded, not daring to breathe. He’d said thief. Not witch.

“You have put us all in quite the predicament, my dear.”

“I—”

“Silence.”

My mouth snapped shut. I wasn’t stupid enough to argue with the Archbishop. If anyone dwelled above the law, it was him.

He walked toward me slowly, hands still clasped behind his back. “You’re a clever thief, aren’t you? Quite talented in eluding capture. How did you escape the rooftop last night? Captain Diggory assures me the townhouse was surrounded.”

I swallowed hard. There was that word again. Thief—not witch. Hope fluttered in my stomach. I glanced at the copper-haired Chasseur, but his face revealed nothing.

“My . . . my friend helped me,” I lied.

He raised a brow. “Your friend, the witch.”

Dread snaked down my spine. But Coco was miles away now—safe and hidden within La Forêt des Yeux. The Forest of Eyes. The Chasseurs would never be able to track her there. Even if they did, her coven would protect her.

I maintained careful eye contact, careful not to twitch or fidget or otherwise give myself away. “She is a witch, yes.”

“How?”

“How is she a witch?” Though I knew I shouldn’t bait him, I also couldn’t help it. “I believe when a witch and a man love each other very much—”

He struck me across the face. The slap echoed in the silence of the empty auditorium. Somehow, the audience had been cleared away as quickly as the crew. Clutching my cheek, I glared at him in silent fury. The Chasseur shifted uncomfortably beside me.

“You disgusting child.” The Archbishop’s eyes bulged alarmingly. “How did it help you escape?”

“I will not betray her secrets.”

“You dare to conceal information?”

A knock sounded from stage right, and a constable stepped forward. “Your Holiness, a crowd has formed outside. Several of the attendants and crew—they refuse to leave until they learn the fate of the girl and Captain Diggory. They are beginning to attract . . . attention.”

“We will be along shortly.” The Archbishop straightened and adjusted his choral robes, taking a deep breath. The constable bowed and ducked outside once more.

He returned his attention to me. A long moment of silence passed as we glared at each other. “What am I going to do with you?”

I dared not speak again. My face could only handle so much.

“You are a criminal who consorts with demons. You have publicly framed a Chasseur for assault, among . . . other things.” His lip curled, and he regarded me with palpable disgust. I tried and failed to ignore the shame churning in my stomach. It’d been an accident. I hadn’t framed him intentionally. And yet . . . if the audience’s misapprehension helped me escape the stake . . .

I’d never claimed to be honorable.

“Captain Diggory’s reputation will be ruined,” the Archbishop continued. “I will be forced to relieve him of his duties, lest the Chasseurs’ holiness be questioned. Lest my holiness be questioned.” His eyes burned into mine. I arranged my features into a contrite expression, lest his fist get twitchy again. Appeased by my repentance, he began to pace. “What am I going to do with you? What am I going to do?”

Though I clearly repulsed him, his steely eyes kept drifting back to me. Like a moth drawn to flame. They roved my face as if searching for something, lingering on my eyes, my nose, my mouth. My throat.

To my dismay, I realized the ribbon had slipped during my scuffle with the Chasseur. I hastily tightened it. The Archbishop’s mouth pursed, and he resumed staring at me.

It took all my willpower not to roll my eyes at his absurd inner struggle. I wasn’t going to prison today, and I wasn’t going to the stake, either. For whatever reason, the Archbishop and his pet had decided I wasn’t a witch. I certainly wasn’t going to question their oversight.

But the question remained . . . what did the Archbishop want? Because he definitely wanted something. The hunger in his eyes was unmistakable, and the sooner I figured it out, the sooner I could use it to my advantage. It took several seconds before I realized he’d continued his monologue.

“. . . thanks to your little sleight of hand.” He spun on his heel to face me, a peculiar sort of triumph in his expression. “Perhaps a mutually beneficial arrangement can be made.”

He paused, looking between us expectantly.

“I’m listening,” I muttered. The Chasseur nodded stiffly.

“Excellent. It’s quite simple, really—marriage.”

I stared at him, mouth falling open.

He chuckled, but the sound was without mirth. “As your wife, Reid, this distasteful creature would belong to you. You would’ve had every right to pursue her, to discipline her, especially after her indiscretions last night. It would have been expected. Necessary, even. There would have been no crime committed, no impurity to disparage. You would remain a Chasseur.”

I laughed. It came out a strangled, desperate sound. “I’m not marrying anyone.”

The Archbishop didn’t share my laughter. “You will if you wish to avoid a public lashing and imprisonment. Though I’m not chief of the constabulary, he is a dear friend.”

I gaped at him. “You can’t blackmail me—”

He waved a hand as if swatting an irksome fly. “It is the sentence that awaits a thief. I would advise you to think very carefully about this, child.”

I appealed to the Chasseur, determined to keep a level head despite the panic clawing up my throat. “You can’t want this. Please, tell him to find another way.”

“There is no other way,” the Archbishop interjected.

The Chasseur stood very still indeed. He seemed to have stopped breathing.

“You are like a son to me, Reid.” The Archbishop reached up to clasp the Chasseur’s shoulder—a mouse comforting an elephant. Some disconnected part of my mind wanted to laugh. “Do not throw away your life—your promising career, your oath to God—for the sake of this heathen. Once she is your wife, you can lock her in the closet and never think of her again. You would have the legal right to do whatever you please with her.” He shot him a meaningful look. “This arrangement would also solve . . . other matters.”

Blood finally returned to the Chasseur’s face—no, flooded his face. It raced up his throat and into his cheeks, burning hotter than even his eyes. His jaw clenched. “Sir, I—”

But I didn’t hear him. Saliva coated my mouth, and my vision narrowed. Marriage. To a Chasseur. There had to be another way, any other way—

Bile rose in my throat, and before I could stop it, I heaved a spectacular arc of vomit onto the Archbishop’s feet. He leapt away from me with a disgusted cry.

“How dare you—!” He raised a fist to strike me once more, but the Chasseur moved with lightning swiftness. His hand caught the Archbishop’s wrist.

“If this woman is to be my wife,” he said, swallowing hard, “you will not touch her again.”

The Archbishop bared his teeth. “You agree, then?”

The Chasseur released his wrist and looked at me, a deeper blush creeping up his throat. “Only if she does.”

His words reminded me of Coco.

Take care of yourself.

Only if you do.

Coco had said I needed to find protection. I stared up at the copper-haired Chasseur, at the Archbishop still rubbing his wrist. Perhaps protection had found me.

Andre, Grue, the constabulary, her . . . none of them could harm me if I had a Chasseur as a husband. Even the Chasseurs themselves would cease to be a threat—if I could keep up the act. If I could avoid doing magic near them. They’d never know I was a witch. I’d be hidden in plain sight.

But . . . I’d also have a husband.

I didn’t want a husband. Didn’t want to be shackled to anyone in marriage, especially someone as stiff and self-righteous as this Chasseur. But if marriage was my only alternative to spending life in prison, perhaps it was the most agreeable option. It certainly was the only option that would get me out of this theater unchained.

After all, I still had Angelica’s Ring. I could always escape after the marriage certificate was signed.

Right. I straightened my shoulders and raised my chin. “I’ll do it.”