She snorted, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “There’s no need to look so wounded. No, she didn’t tell me. She didn’t tell Ansel here either, yet he knew too.”
Ansel’s eyes flicked between the two of us rapidly. He swallowed hard. “I—I didn’t know anything—”
“Oh, please.” She scowled at him. “You’re insulting everyone by lying.”
His shoulders slumped, and he stared at the floor. Refusing to look at me. “Yes. I knew.”
All the air left me in a whoosh. Three words. Three perfect punches.
Bitter anger returned with my breath. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
If Ansel had told me—if Ansel had been a real Chasseur—none of this would’ve happened. I wouldn’t have been blindsided. I could have dealt with this before—before I—
“I told you.” Ansel still stared at his boots, nudging a piece of fallen mortar with his toe. “Lou is my friend.”
“When?” I deadpanned. “When did you know?”
“During the witch burning. When—when Lou had her fit. She was crying, and the witch was screaming—then they switched. Everyone thought Lou was seizing, but I saw her. I smelled the magic.” He looked up, throat bobbing. Eyes shining. “She was burning, Reid. I don’t know how, but she took away that witch’s pain. She gave it to herself.” He exhaled heavily. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. Because even though I knew Lou was a witch, I knew she wasn’t evil. She burned at the stake once. She doesn’t deserve to do it twice.”
Silence met his pronouncement. I stared between the two of them, eyes stinging. “I never would’ve hurt her.”
As the words left my mouth, I realized their truth. Even if Ansel had told me, it wouldn’t have changed anything. I wouldn’t have been able to tie her to a stake. I dropped my face in my hands. Defeated.
“Enough,” Mademoiselle Perrot said sharply. “How long has she been gone?”
“About an hour.”
Ansel shifted in obvious discomfort before murmuring, “The witch mentioned Morgane.”
My hands fell as genuine fear twisted Mademoiselle Perrot’s face. Her eyes—once hateful, once accusing—met mine with sudden, unsettling urgency. “We need to leave.” Throwing the door open, she rushed into the corridor. “We can’t talk about this here.”
Trepidation knotted my stomach. “Where can we go?”
“To the Bellerose.” She didn’t bother looking back. Seeing no other choice, Ansel and I hurried after her. “I told Beau I’d meet him—and there’s someone there who might know where Lou is.”
The inside of the Bellerose was dimly lit. I’d never been inside a brothel, but I assumed the marble floors and the gold leaf on the walls marked this a more glamorous whorehouse than others. A harpist sat in one corner. She strummed her instrument and crooned a mournful ballad. Women clad in sheer white clothes danced slowly. A handful of drunken men watched them with hungry eyes. A fountain bubbled in the center of the room.
It was the most ostentatious thing I’d ever seen. It suited Madame Labelle perfectly.
“We’re wasting time. We should be out there searching for Lou—” I started angrily, but Mademoiselle Perrot shot me a withering glare over her shoulder before striding toward a partially concealed table in the back.
Beauregard Lyon rose as we approached, eyes narrowing. “What the hell are they doing here?”
She threw herself into a chair with a heavy sigh, waving a hand between the three of us. “Look, Beau, I have more pressing matters to handle this evening than you and your pissing contest.”
He dropped into another chair, crossing his arms and sulking. “What could possibly be more pressing than me?”
She jerked her head toward me. “This idiot lost Lou, and I need to perform a locator spell to find her.”
Locator spell?
I watched in confusion as she drew a small vial from her cloak. Uncorking it, she spilled the dark powder on the table. Beau looked on as if bored, tipping back in his chair. I glanced at Ansel—seeking confirmation the woman before us had gone mad—but he wouldn’t look at me. When she pulled out a knife and lifted her opposite hand, my stomach dropped with realization.
Tremblay’s townhouse. Three poisoned dogs. Blood running from their maws. The stench of magic piercing the air—black and biting, more acrid than the magic in the infirmary. Different.