I snuggled into his sinewy arm and cast him an adoring look. “Thank you for helping us.”
“Ah, Louey, you know how I dislike that word. Help implies I’m doing you a favor.”
I smirked, rolling my eyes. “God forbid you do anything from the goodness of your heart.”
“There is no goodness in my heart.” Winking roguishly, Bas pulled me closer and leaned down to whisper in my ear. His breath was too warm against my neck. “Only gold.”
Right. I elbowed him in a seemingly innocent gesture and shifted away. After the nightmarish parade, we’d spent the greater part of the afternoon plotting our way through Tremblay’s defenses, which we’d confirmed after a quick jaunt past his townhouse. Bas’s cousin lived near Tremblay, so hopefully our presence hadn’t roused suspicion.
It’d been just as Bas described: a gated lawn with guard rotations every five minutes. He assured me additional guards would be posted inside, as well as dogs trained to kill. Though Tremblay’s staff would probably be asleep when we forced entry, they were an additional variable over which we had no control. And then there was the matter of locating the actual vault—a feat that could take days, let alone the few hours before Tremblay returned home.
Swallowing hard, I fidgeted with my wig—blond and piled high with pomade—and readjusted the velvet ribbon at my throat. Sensing my anxiety, Coco touched her hand to my back. “Don’t be nervous, Lou. You’ll be fine. The Brindelle trees will mask the magic.”
I nodded and forced a smile. “Right. I know.”
We lapsed into silence as we turned onto Tremblay’s street, and the ethereal, spindly trees of Brindelle Park glowed softly beside us. Hundreds of years ago, the trees had served as a sacred grove to my ancestors. When the Church had seized control of Belterra, however, officials had attempted to burn them to the ground—and failed spectacularly. The trees had regrown with a vengeance. Within days, they’d towered above the land once more, and settlers had been forced to build around them. Their magic still reverberated through the ground beneath my feet, ancient and unchanged.
After a moment, Coco sighed and touched my back again. Almost reluctantly. “But you do need to be careful.”
Bas whipped his head around to face her, brows furrowing. “Excuse you?”
She ignored him. “There’s something . . . waiting for you at Tremblay’s. It might be the ring, but it might be something else. I can’t see it properly.”
“What?” I lurched to a halt, spinning to face her. “What do you mean?”
She fixed me with a pained expression. “I told you. I can’t see it. It’s all hazy and unsettled, but something is definitely there.” She paused, tilting her head as she considered me—or rather, as she considered something I couldn’t see. Something warm and wet and flowing just beneath my skin. “It could be malevolent, but I don’t think whatever it is will harm you. It’s—it’s definitely powerful, though.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Because I couldn’t see it before.”
“Coco, we’ve been planning this all day—”
“I don’t make the rules, Lou,” she snapped. “All I can see is what your blood shows me.”
Despite Bas’s protests, Coco had insisted on pricking our fingers before we’d left. I hadn’t minded. As a Dame Rouge, Coco didn’t channel her magic through the land like me and the other Dames Blanches. No, her magic came from within.
It came from blood.
Bas raked an agitated hand through his hair. “Perhaps we should have recruited another blood witch to our cause. Babette might have been better suited—”
“Like hell,” Coco snarled.
“We can trust Babette as far as we can throw her,” I added.
He regarded us curiously. “Yet you trusted her with knowledge of this critical mission—”
I snorted. “Only because we paid her.”
“Plus, she owes me.” With a look of disgust, Coco rearranged her cloak against the crisp autumn breeze. “I helped her acclimate to Cesarine when she left the blood coven, but that was over a year ago. I’m not willing to test her loyalty any further.”
Bas nodded to them pleasantly, plastering on a smile and speaking through his teeth. “I suggest we postpone this conversation. I don’t fancy being roasted on a spit tonight.”
“You wouldn’t roast,” I muttered as we resumed our stroll. “You’re not a witch.”