Serpent & Dove

The tension in our room that night was physically painful.

Lou lay in my bed. I heard her shift in the darkness, her breathing loud and then quiet. She shifted again. Rolled slowly to her side. Her back. Her side. Her back. Trying to stay silent. Inconspicuous.

But she was neither, and I heard her. Over and over and over again.

The woman was driving me mad.

Finally, she leaned over the side of the bed, blue-green eyes meeting mine in the darkness. Her hair spilled to the floor.

I sat up on my elbows too quickly, and her eyes dropped to where my nightshirt gaped open across my chest. Heat rushed to my stomach. “What is it?”

“This is stupid.” She scowled, but I was at a loss for why she was irritated. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

I eyed her suspiciously. “Are you sure?”

“Okay, first of all, stop looking at me like that. It’s not a big deal.” She rolled her eyes before scooting to make room for me. “Besides, it’s freezing in here. I need your big-ass body heat to keep warm.” When I still didn’t move, she patted the spot beside her coaxingly. “Oh, c’mon, Chass. I don’t bite . . . much.”

I swallowed hard, violently blocking out the image of her mouth on my skin. With slow, cautious movements—giving her every chance to change her mind—I climbed onto the bed. Several seconds of awkward silence passed.

“Relax,” she finally whispered, though she too lay stiff as a board. “Quit being awkward.”

I almost laughed. Almost. As if I could’ve possibly relaxed with her so . . . so close. The bed, standard issue in the dormitories, hadn’t been built for two. Half of my body jutted out into empty space. The other half pressed into her.

I didn’t complain.

After another moment of torturous silence, she turned toward me, her breasts brushing my arm. My pulse spiked, and I gritted my teeth, reining in my rampant thoughts.

“Tell me about your parents.”

Just like that, all thoughts of intimacy fled. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“There’s always something to tell.”

I stared resolutely at the ceiling. Silence descended once more, but she continued to watch me. I couldn’t resist glancing over at her. At her eager, wide-eyed expression. I shook my head and sighed. “I was abandoned. A maid found me in the garbage when I was a baby.”

She stared at me, horrified.

“The Archbishop took me in. I was a pageboy for a long time. Then I hit a growth spurt.” The side of my mouth quirked up of its own volition. “He began training me for the Chasseurs not long after. I claimed my spot when I was sixteen. It’s all I’ve ever known.”

She rested her head on my shoulder. “Claimed your spot?”

Closing my eyes, I rested my chin on top of her head and inhaled. Deeply. “There are only one hundred Balisardas—one drop of St. Constantin’s relic in each. It limits the positions available. Most serve for life. When a Chasseur retires or dies, a tournament is held. Only the winner may join our ranks.”

“Wait.” She sat up, and my eyes snapped open. She grinned down at me, her hair tickling my chest. “Are you telling me Ansel beat out all the other contenders?”

“Ansel isn’t a Chasseur.”

Her grin faltered. “He’s not?”

“No. He’s training to be, though. He’ll compete in the next tournament, along with the other initiates.”

“Oh.” She frowned now, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “Well, that explains a lot.”

“It does?”

She nestled back into me with a sigh. “Ansel is different than everyone else here. He’s . . . tolerant. Open-minded.”

I bristled at the insinuation. “It’s not a crime to have principles, Lou.”

She ignored me. Her fingers traced the collar of my shirt. “Tell me about your tournament.”

I cleared my throat, struggling to ignore the gentle movement. But her fingers were very warm. And my shirt was very thin. “I was probably Ansel’s age.” I chuckled at the memory—at how my knees had trembled, how I’d vomited down my coat minutes before the first round. The Archbishop had been forced to procure me another. Though it’d only been a few years ago, the memory felt very far away. A different time. A different life. When I’d lived and breathed to secure a future within my patriarch’s world. “Everyone else was bigger than me. Stronger too. I don’t know how I did it.”

“Yes, you do.”

“You’re right.” Another laugh rose to my throat, unbidden. “I do. They weren’t that much bigger, and I practiced every day to grow stronger. The Archbishop trained me himself. Nothing mattered but becoming a Chasseur.” My smile faded as the memories resurfaced, one after another, with painful clarity. The crowd. The shouts. The clang of steel and tang of sweat in the air. And—and Célie. Her cheers. “I battled Jean Luc in the championship.”

“And you beat him.”

“Yes.”

“He resents you for it.”

“I know. It made beating him even sweeter.”

She poked me in the stomach. “You’re an ass.”

“Probably. But he’s worse. Things . . . changed between us that year. He was still an initiate when the Archbishop promoted me to captain. He had to wait until the next tournament to win his spot. I don’t think he ever forgave me.”

She didn’t speak again for several moments. When she finally did, I wished she hadn’t. “And . . . and Célie? Did you continue seeing her after your vows?”

All remnants of humor withered and died on my tongue. I stared at the ceiling once more. Though she said nothing, her fingers resumed tracing my collar. Coaxing. Waiting. I sighed again. “You saw the letters. We . . . maintained our courtship.”

“Why?”

I stiffened, immediately wary. “What do you mean why?”

“Why continue your courtship after you swore yourself to the Chasseurs? I’ve never heard of a Chasseur marrying before you. There are no other wives in the Tower.”

I would’ve given my Balisarda to end this conversation. How much had she heard of my conversation with Célie? Did she—I swallowed hard—did she know Célie had rejected me? “It’s not unheard of. Just a few years ago, Captain Barre married.”

I didn’t mention that he’d left our brotherhood a year later.

She sat up, fixing me with those unnerving eyes. “You were going to marry Célie.”

“Yes.” I tore my gaze away, back toward the ceiling. A snowflake drifted in from the window. “Growing up . . . Célie and I were sweethearts. Her kindness appealed to me. I was an angry child. She tempered me. Begged me not to throw rocks at the constabulary. Forced me to confess when I stole the communion wine.” A grin tugged at my lips at the memory. “I had a chip on my shoulder. The Archbishop had to beat it out.”

Her eyes narrowed at my words, but she wisely said nothing. Lowering herself back against my chest, she brushed her finger against my bare collarbone. Heat erupted across my skin—and everywhere else—in its wake. I shifted my hips away, cursing silently.

“How many witches have you killed?”

I groaned and turned my head into the pillow. The woman could freeze Hell over. “Three.”

“Really?”

The judgment in her voice rankled. I nodded, trying not to seem affronted. “Though it’s difficult to catch a witch, they’re vulnerable without their magic. Still, the witch at the theater was cleverer than most. It didn’t attack me with magic. It used magic to attack me. There’s a difference.”

She trailed her finger down my arm. Idly. I resisted a shudder. “Do you know about magic, then?”

Clearing my throat, I forced myself to focus on the conversation. On her words. Not her touch. “We know what the Archbishop taught us in training.”

“Which is what?”

I looked away, jaw tight. I didn’t understand Lou’s infatuation with the occult. She’d made it clear countless times she didn’t agree with our ideology. But she kept bringing it up, like she wanted to fight. Like she wanted me to lose my temper.

I heaved a sigh. “That witches channel their magic from Hell.”

She snorted. “That’s ridiculous. Of course they don’t channel their magic from Hell. They channel their magic from their ancestors.”

I eyed her incredulously. “How could you possibly know that?”

“My friend told me.”

Of course. The witch from Tremblay’s. The witch we still hadn’t found. I resisted the urge to snap at her. No amount of pestering had convinced her to give us more information. I was surprised the Archbishop hadn’t threatened to tie her to the stake instead.

But I’d never heard anything like this before. “Their ancestors?”

Her finger continued down my arm. Grazed the hair on my knuckles. “Mmm hmm.”

I waited for her to continue, but she seemed lost in thought. “So . . . a witch, it can—”

“She.” Her head snapped up abruptly. “A witch is always a she, Reid. Not an it.”

I sighed, half tempted to end the argument there. But I couldn’t. Witch friend or no, Lou couldn’t spout such blasphemy around the Tower, or she would end up on the stake. And there wouldn’t be anything I could do to stop it.

I had to end this infatuation now. Before it got out of hand. “I know you think that—”

“I know that—”

“—but just because a witch looks and acts like a woman—”

“If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck—”

“—doesn’t mean it’s a duck. I mean, er, a woman.”

“Witches can give birth, Reid.” She flicked my nose. I blinked, lips quirking up in surprise. “That makes them female.”

“But they only give birth to females.” Grinning, I thrust my face toward hers in response. She jerked back and nearly toppled off the bed. I arched a brow in wry amusement. “Sounds like asexual reproduction to me.”

She scowled, and a furious blush stole across her cheeks. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought she was uncomfortable. I grinned wider, wondering what could’ve caused the sudden change. My physical nearness? The word reproduction? Both?

“Don’t be stupid.” She punched her pillow into shape and threw herself back down. Careful not to touch me this time. “Of course witches have sons.”

My smile vanished. “We’ve never encountered a male witch.”

“That’s because there are none. Magic passes only to females. The males are sent away after they’re born.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Because they don’t have magic. My friend said males are only allowed at the Chateau as consorts, and even then they aren’t allowed to stay.”

“She told you all this?”

“Of course.” She lifted her chin and looked down her nose at me, as if daring me to contradict her. “You should really educate yourself, Chass. A common street thief knows more about your enemies than you do. How embarrassing.”

Chagrin washed through me. Lou burrowed deeper in the blankets as the wind picked up outside.

“Are you cold?”

“A little.”

I inched closer, lifting my arm. “Will you accept an olive branch?”

She swallowed hard and nodded.

I pulled her against my chest, locking my hands at the small of her back. She returned to being a piece of wood. Small. Tense. Unyielding. Stripped of her prying questions and insulting banter, it was almost as if she were . . . nervous.

“Relax,” I murmured against her hair. “I don’t bite . . . much.” Quiet laughter rumbled through my chest. If possible, she stiffened even more. She needn’t have worried. Surely she heard the thundering of my heart and realized her advantage.

“Was that a joke, Chass?”

My arms tightened around her. “Maybe.” When she said nothing in return, I pulled back to look at her. Another smile tugged at my lips.

And, suddenly, I recalled our first night together.

“You don’t have to be nervous, Lou.” I stroked her back, forcing myself to remain still as she wriggled against me. “I’m not going to try anything.”

A noise of protest escaped her. “Why not?”

“I seem to remember you threatening to cut me open if I touched you without permission.” I tilted her chin up, cursing and congratulating myself in equal measure when her eyes fluttered shut. When her breath hitched. I leaned closer, my lips nearly brushing hers. “I won’t touch you until you ask.”

Her eyes flew open, and she pushed me away with a snarl. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I am.” I smirked again and settled back against the pillow. “It’s late. We should sleep.”

Her eyes sparked with anger. With understanding.

With grudging admiration.

Triumphant, I watched her sift through her thoughts—watched each emotion play out on her freckled face. She scowled at me. “It appears I underestimated you.”

I raised my brows. “Just say the words. Ask me.”

“You’re an ass.”

I shrugged. “Have it your way.” In one fluid motion, I lifted the hem of my shirt up and over my head. Her eyes flew open incredulously.

“What are you doing?” She grabbed my shirt and threw it back at me.

I caught it. Tossed it to the floor. “I’m hot.”

“You—you— Get out of my bed! Get out!” She shoved me, probably with all her strength, but I didn’t budge. I only grinned.

“This is my bed.”

“No, this is where I sleep. You sleep on the—”

“Bed.” I clasped my hands behind my head. She gaped at me, eyes flicking to my arms—my chest. I grinned wider and resisted the urge to flex. “I’ve had a knot in my back for two weeks. I’m done sleeping on the floor. This is my bed, and I’m sleeping in it from now on. You’re welcome to join me, otherwise the tub is still free.”

She opened her mouth angrily. Closed it again. “I— This is— I am not sleeping in the—” Her eyes darted around the bed, clearly searching for something to impale me with. They landed on a pillow.

Whack.

I caught it before she could hit me again, trapping it against my chest. Clamping my lips together to keep from laughing. “Lou—lie down. Go to sleep. Nothing has changed. Unless you want to ask me something?”

“Don’t hold your breath.” She yanked the pillow from me. “Actually—do.”

I chuckled before turning away. “Good night, Lou.”

She fell asleep long before I did.