Because I couldn’t kill her.
I glared at him. He’d defended her even after she’d revealed her true nature. Even after she’d proved herself a liar and a snake—a Judas. And that meant Ansel had no place among the Chasseurs.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. Lou’s mother is Morgane le Blanc. Didn’t you hear what the witch said about reclaiming their homeland?”
With your sacrifice, we’ll reclaim our homeland. We’ll rule Belterra again.
I can’t allow you to slaughter innocent people.
Yes. I’d heard it.
“Lou can take care of herself.”
Ansel pushed past me and planted his feet in the middle of the corridor. “Morgane is out in the city tonight, and so is Lou. This—this is bigger than us. She needs our help—” I shouldered past him, but he stepped in front of me again and shoved my chest. “Listen to me! Even if you don’t care for Lou anymore—even if you hate her—the witches are planning something, and it involves Lou. I think— Reid, I think they’re going to kill her.”
I pushed his hands away, refusing to hear his words. Refusing to acknowledge the way they made my mind spin, my chest tighten. “No, you listen, Ansel. I’ll only say this once.” I lowered my face slowly, deliberately, until our eyes were level. “Witches. Lie. We can’t believe anything we heard tonight. We can’t trust this witch spoke truth.”
He scowled. “I know what my gut tells me, and it says Lou is in trouble. We have to find her.”
My own gut twisted, but I ignored it. My emotions had betrayed me once. Not this time. Not ever again. I needed to focus on the present—on what I knew—and that was disposing of the witch. The furnace in the dungeon. My brethren downstairs.
I forced one foot in front of the other. “Lou is no longer our responsibility.”
“I thought Chasseurs were bound to protect the innocent and helpless?”
My fingers tightened on the corpse. “Lou is hardly innocent or helpless.”
“She’s not herself right now!” He chased me down the stairwell, nearly tripping and sending us both crashing to the floor. “She’s drugged, and she’s weak!”
I scoffed. Even drugged, even wounded, Lou had impaled the witch like Jael had Sisera.
“You saw her, Reid.” His voice fell to a rough whisper. “She won’t stand a chance if Morgane shows up.”
I cursed Ansel and his bleeding heart.
Because I had seen her. That was the problem. I was doing my best to un-see her, but the memory had been seared into my eyelids. Blood had covered her beautiful face. It’d stained her throat. Her hands. Her dress. Bruises had already formed from the witch’s assault . . . but that wasn’t what haunted me. That wasn’t what cut through the haze of my fury.
No—it had been her eyes.
The light in them had gone out.
The drug, I reassured myself. The drug dimmed them.
But deep down, I knew better. Lou had broken in that moment. My wild-hearted, foul-mouthed, steel-willed heathen had broken. I had broken her.
You are not my wife.
I hated myself for what I’d done to her. I hated myself more for what I still felt for her. She was a witch. A bride of Lucifer. So what did that make me?
“You’re a coward,” Ansel spat.
I lurched to a halt, and he stumbled into me. His anger flickered out at my expression—at the rage coursing through my blood, heating my face.
“By all means, go,” I snarled. “Go after her. Protect her from Morgane le Blanc. Perhaps the witches will let you live with them at the Chateau. You can burn with them too.”
He reared back, stunned. Hurt.
Good. I turned savagely and continued into the foyer. Ansel walked a dangerous line. If the others found out he empathized with a witch . . .
Jean Luc strode through the open doors, carrying a witch over his shoulder. Blood dribbled down the demon’s neck from an injection. Behind him, a dove lay amongst the dead on the cathedral steps. Feathers bloodstained and rumpled. Eyes empty. Unseeing.
I looked away, ignoring the stinging pressure behind my own eyes.
My brethren moved purposefully around us. Some carried in corpses from the street. Though most of the witches had escaped, a handful joined the pile of bodies in the foyer—separate from the others. Untouchable. Theirs wouldn’t be a public execution. Not after Ye Olde Sisters. Not after that performance. Even if the Archbishop controlled the damage, word would spread. Even if he denied the accusation—even if some believed him—the seed had been planted.