Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(9)

A familiar mustachioed face appeared over the roof’s edge. Blue-green eyes. Freckled nose. The girl from the patisserie.

“Shit,” she said. Then she ducked out of sight.

I concentrated on the spot where she’d disappeared. My body moved with renewed purpose. Within seconds, I hauled myself over the ledge, but she was already leaping to the next rooftop. She clutched her hat with one hand and raised her middle finger with the other. I scowled. The little heathen wasn’t my concern, despite her blatant disrespect.

I turned to peer below, clutching the ledge for support when the world tilted and spun.

People poured into the shops lining the streets. Too many. Far too many. The shopkeepers struggled to maintain order as those nearest the doors were trampled. The patisserie owner had succeeded in barricading his own door. Those left outside shrieked and pounded on the windows as the witches moved closer.

I scanned the crowd for anything we’d missed. More than twenty bodies circled the air around the witches now—some unconscious, heads lolling, and others painfully awake. One man hung spread-eagled, as if shackled to an imaginary cross. Smoke billowed from his mouth, which opened and closed in silent screams. Another woman’s clothes and hair floated around her as if she were underwater, and she clawed helplessly at the air. Face turning blue. Drowning.

With each new horror, more Chasseurs rushed forward.

I could see the fierce urge to protect on their faces even from a distance. But in their haste to aid the helpless, they’d forgotten our true mission: the royal family. Only four men now surrounded the carriage. Two Chasseurs. Two royal guards. Jean Luc held the queen’s hand as the king bellowed orders—to us, to his guard, to anyone who would listen—but the tumultuous noise swallowed every word.

At their back, insignificant in every way, crept the hag.

The reality of the situation punched through me, stealing my breath. The witches, the curses—they were all a performance. A distraction.

Not pausing to think, to acknowledge the terrifying distance to the ground, I grabbed the drainpipe and vaulted over the roof’s edge. The tin screeched and buckled under my weight. Halfway down, it separated from the sandstone completely. I leapt—heart lodged firmly in my throat—and braced for impact. Jarring pain radiated up my legs as I hit the ground, but I didn’t stop.

“Jean Luc! Behind you!”

He spun to look at me, eyes landing on the hag the same second mine did. Understanding dawned. “Get down!” He tackled the king to the carriage floor. The remaining Chasseurs dashed around the carriage at his shout.

The hag glanced over her hunched shoulder at me, the same peculiar grin spreading across her face. She flicked her wrist, and the cloying smell around us intensified. A blast of air shot from her fingertips, but the magic couldn’t touch us. Not with our Balisardas. Each had been forged with a molten drop of Saint Constantin’s original holy relic, rendering us immune to the witches’ magic. I felt the sickly-sweet air rush past, but it did nothing to deter me. Nothing to deter my brethren.

The guards and citizens nearest us weren’t so lucky. They flew backward, smashing into the carriage and the shops lining the street. The hag’s eyes flared with triumph when one of my brethren abandoned his post to help them. She moved swiftly—far too swiftly to be natural—toward the carriage door. Prince Beauregard’s incredulous face appeared above it at the commotion. She snarled at him, mouth twisting. I tackled her to the ground before she could lift her hands.

She fought with the strength of a woman half her age—of a man half her age—kicking and biting and hitting every inch of me she could reach. But I was too heavy. I smothered her with my body, wrenched her hands above her head far enough to dislocate her shoulders. Pressed my knife to her throat.

She stilled as I lowered my mouth to her ear. The blade bit deeper. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

She laughed then—a great, cackling laugh that shook her entire body. I frowned, leaning back—and froze. The woman beneath me was no longer a hag. I watched in horror as her ancient face melted into smooth, porcelain skin. As her brittle hair flowed thick and raven down her shoulders.

She stared up at me through hooded eyes, lips parting as she lifted her face to my own. I couldn’t think—couldn’t move, didn’t know if I even wanted to—but somehow managed to jerk away before her lips brushed mine.

And that’s when I felt it.

The firm, rounded shape of her belly pressed into my stomach.

Oh, God.

Every thought emptied from my head. I leapt backward—away from her, away from the thing—and scrambled to my feet. The screams in the distance faltered. The bodies on the ground stirred. The woman slowly stood.

Now clothed in deep bloodred, she placed a hand on her swollen womb and smiled.

Her emerald eyes flicked to the royal family, who crouched low in their carriage, pale and wide-eyed. Watching. “We will reclaim our homeland, Majesties,” she crooned. “Time and time again, we have warned you. You did not heed our words. Soon, we will dance atop your ashes as you have our ancestors’.”

Her eyes met mine. Porcelain skin sagged once more, and raven hair withered back to thin wisps of silver. No longer the beautiful, pregnant woman. Again the hag. She winked at me. The gesture was chilling on her haggard face. “We must do this again soon, handsome.”

I couldn’t speak. Never before had I seen such black magic—such desecration of the human body. But witches weren’t human. They were vipers. Demons incarnate. And I had almost—