Serpent & Dove

I stared into the corridor for a full moment before his words sank in.

I love you, Lou.

Warmth spread from the tips of my fingers to my toes, chasing away the numbing fear that plagued me. He loved me. He loved me.

This changed everything. If he loved me, it wouldn’t matter that I was a witch. He would love me anyway. He would understand. He really would protect me.

If he loved me.

I’d almost forgotten the Archbishop until he spoke. “You have deceived him.”

I turned toward him in a daze. “You can leave.” The words came without the bite I’d intended. A few tears still leaked down my face, but I brushed them away impatiently. I wanted nothing more than to bask in the heady warmth overwhelming me. “You really don’t have to stay. The performance should be starting soon.”

He didn’t move, continuing as if he hadn’t heard me. “You are a very good actress. Of course, I should have expected it—but I shan’t shame myself by being fooled twice.”

My bubble of happiness punctured slightly. “What are you talking about?”

He ignored me once more. “It’s almost as if you truly care for him.” Striding toward the door, he pushed it shut with an ominous snap. I hastened to my feet, eyeing the desk drawer where I’d stored Andre’s knife. His lip curled. “But we both know that isn’t possible.”

I inched closer to the desk. Though Reid trusted his patriarch implicitly, I knew better. That furtive gleam still shone in his eyes, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be trapped on a bed.

As if reading my mind, he halted—shifted so he was directly in front of the desk drawer. My mouth went dry. “I do care for him. He’s my husband.”

“‘And the great dragon was thrown down, the serpent of old who is called the devil and Satan, who deceives the whole world.’” His eyes flashed. “You are that serpent, Louise. A viper. And I will not allow you to destroy Reid for another moment. I can no longer stand idly by—”

A knock sounded on the door. Brows knitting together angrily, he whirled in a storm of crimson and yellow. “Come in!”

A page boy poked his head inside. “Begging your pardon, Your Eminence, but everyone is waiting for you outside.”

“I am aware,” the Archbishop snapped, “and I will be along to witness the hedonism momentarily. I have business to attend to here first.”

Oblivious to the reprimand, the boy bounced on the balls of his feet in barely contained anticipation. His eyes gleamed with excitement. “But the performance is about to start, sir. They—they told me to come fetch you. The crowd is getting restless.”

An agitated muscle worked in the Archbishop’s jaw. When his steely eyes finally settled on me, I motioned pointedly toward the door, sending up a silent prayer of thanks. “You don’t want to keep them waiting.”

He bared his teeth in a smile. “You shall accompany me, of course.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary—”

“Nonsense.” He actually reached out and grabbed my arm, tucking it firmly beneath his. I flinched away from the contact instinctively, but it was no use. Within seconds, he’d dragged me out into the corridor. “I promised Reid I would stay with you, and stay with you I shall.”

The crowd milled around the wagons eating treats and clutching brown paper packages, noses red from a day of shopping in the cold. The Archbishop waved when he saw them—then stopped short when he noticed the eclectic band of performers on the cathedral steps.

He wasn’t the only one. Those not feasting on macarons and hazelnuts whispered behind their hands in disapproval. One word rose above the rest, a soft hiss repeated over and over in the wind.

Women.

The actors in this troupe were all women.

And not just any women: though they ranged in age from crones to maidens, all held themselves with the telltale grace of artists. Proud and erect, but also fluid. They watched the crowd murmur with impish smiles. Already performing before the show began. The youngest couldn’t have been older than thirteen, and she winked at a man twice her age. He nearly choked on his popcorn.

I don’t know what these idiots had expected. The troupe’s name was Ye Olde Sisters.

“Abominable.” The Archbishop halted at the top of the steps, lip curling. “A woman should never debase herself with such a disreputable profession.”

I smirked and withdrew my arm from his. He didn’t stop me. “I’ve heard they’re very talented.”

At my words, the youngest caught sight of us. Her eyes met mine, and she flashed a mischievous grin. With an imperious toss of her wheat-colored hair, she lifted her hands to the crowd. “Joyeux Noël à tous! Our guest of honor has arrived! Quiet, now, so we might begin our special performance!”

The crowd instantly quieted, and eyes everywhere turned to her in anticipation. She paused, arms still spread wide, to bask in their attention. For someone so young, she held an uncommon amount of confidence. Even the Archbishop stood transfixed. At her nod, the other actors darted into one of the wagons.

“We all know the story of Saint Nicolas, bringer of gifts and protector of children.” She spun in a slow circle, arms still wide. “We know the evil butcher, Père Fouettard, lured the foolish brothers into his meat shop and cut them into little pieces.” She sliced her hand through the air to mimic a knife. Those near her drew back with disapproving looks. “We know Saint Nicolas arrived and defeated Père Fouettard. We know he resurrected the children and returned them safe and whole to their parents.” She inclined her head. “We know this story. We cherish it. It is why we gather every year to celebrate Saint Nicolas.

“But today—today we bring you a different story.” She paused, another naughty smile touching her lips. “Lesser known and darker in nature, but still the tale of a holy man. We shall call him an archbishop.”

The Archbishop stiffened beside me as a woman strode out of the wagon wearing choral robes uncannily similar to his own. Even the shades of crimson and gold matched. She trained her face into a severe expression. Brows furrowed, mouth tight.

“Once upon a time in a faraway place,” the young narrator began, her voice turning musical, “or not so far, as is truly the case, lived an orphan boy, bitter and ignored, who found his call in the work of the Lord.”

With each word, the woman portraying the Archbishop stepped closer, lifting her chin to glare down her nose at us. The real Archbishop remained still as stone. I risked a glance at him. His gaze was locked on the young narrator, his face noticeably paler than a few moments ago. I frowned.

The pretend Archbishop lit a match and held it before his eyes, watching it smoke and burn with unsettling fervency. The narrator dropped her voice to a dramatic whisper. “With faith and fire in his heart, he hunted the wicked and set them apart to burn at the stake for evil committed . . . for the Lord’s word no magic permitted.”

My sense of foreboding returned tenfold. Something was wrong here.

A commotion down the street distracted the audience, and the Chasseurs appeared. Reid rode in front, with Jean Luc following closely behind. Their identical expressions of alarm became clear as they drew closer, but the troupe’s wagons—and the audience—blocked the street. They hurried to dismount. I started toward them, but the Archbishop caught my arm. “Stay.”

“Excuse me?”

He shook his head, eyes still fixed on the narrator’s face. “Stay close to me.” The urgency in his voice stilled my feet, and my unease deepened. He didn’t release my arm, his skin clammy and cold on mine. “Whatever happens, do not leave my side. Do you understand?”

Something was very wrong here.

The pretend Archbishop raised a fist. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!”

The narrator leaned forward with a wicked gleam in her eyes and brought a hand to her mouth, as if revealing a secret. “But he failed to remember God’s plea to forgive. So Fate, a cruel, cunning mistress, did plan another end for this bloodthirsty man.”

A tall, elegant woman with deep brown skin swept from the wagon next. Her black robes billowed as she circled the pretend Archbishop, but he didn’t see her. The real Archbishop’s grip on me tightened.

“A beautiful witch, cloaked in guise of damsel, soon lured the man down the path to Hell.” A third woman fell from the wagon, clothed in dazzling white robes. She cried out, and the pretend Archbishop raced forward.

“What is going on?” I hissed, but he ignored me.

The pretend Archbishop and the woman in white moved in a sensual circle around one another. She trailed her hand down his cheek, and he drew her into his arms. Fate looked on with a sinister smile. The crowd muttered, gazes shifting between the actors and the Archbishop. Reid stopped trying to push through the crowd. He stood rooted to the spot, watching the performance through narrowed eyes. A ringing started in my ears.

“To bed did he take her, forsaking his oath, revering her body—the curve of her throat.” At this, the narrator glanced up at the Archbishop and winked. The blood left my face, and my vision narrowed to her ivory skin, to the youthful radiance emanating from her. To her eerily familiar green eyes. Like emeralds.

The ringing grew louder, and my mind emptied of coherent thought. My knees buckled.

The pretend Archbishop and the woman in white embraced, and the crowd gasped, scandalized. The narrator cackled. “She waited until the height of his sin to reveal herself and the magic within. Then she leapt from his bed and into the night. How he cursed her moonbeam hair and skin white!”

The woman in white cackled and twisted out of the pretend Archbishop’s hold. He fell to his knees, fists raised, as she fled back to the wagon.

Moonbeam hair. Skin white.

I turned slowly, my heart beating a violent rhythm in my ears, to stare at the Archbishop. His grip on my hand turned painful. “Listen to me, Louise—”

I jerked away with a snarl. “Don’t touch me.”

The narrator’s voice rose. “From that night forward, he strove to forget, but alas! Fate had not tired of him yet.”

The woman in white reappeared, her stomach swollen with child. She pirouetted gracefully, her gown fanning out around her, and from the folds of her skirt, she pulled forth a baby. No more than a year old, the child cooed and giggled, her blue eyes crinkling with delight. Already, a constellation of freckles sprinkled her nose. The pretend Archbishop fell to his knees when he saw her, tearing at his face and robes. His body heaved with silent shrieks. The crowd waited with bated breath.

The narrator bent beside him and stroked his back, crooning softly in his ear. “A visit soon came from the witch he reviled with the worst news of all”—she paused and looked up at the crowd, grinning salaciously—“she’d borne his child.”

Reid broke through the crowd as their muttering grew louder, as they turned to stare at the Archbishop, the disbelief in their eyes shifting into suspicion. The Chasseurs followed, hands tight on their Balisardas. Someone shouted something, but the words were lost in the tumult.

The narrator rose slowly—young face serene amidst the descending chaos—and turned toward us. Toward me.

The face of my nightmares.

The face of death.

“And with not just any a child did he share.” She smiled and extended her hands to me, face aging, hair lightening to brilliant silver. Screams erupted behind her. Reid was sprinting now, shouting something indiscernible. “But with the Witch, the Queen . . . La Dame des Sorcières.”