Slowly, carefully, I turned. The ebony witch had returned, and an incapacitated Archbishop floated before her. His eyes were wild—with panic and something else. Something urgent. “Reid.” His chest heaved. “Don’t listen to them. Whatever happens, whatever they say—”
The ebony witch snarled, and his words ended in a scream.
My hand slipped, and Morgane hissed as blood trickled down her throat. The ebony witch stepped closer. “Let her go, or he dies.”
“Manon,” Lou pleaded. “Don’t do this. Please—”
“Be quiet, Lou.” Her eyes glowed manic and crazed—beyond reason. The Archbishop continued screaming. The veins beneath his skin blackened, as did his nails and tongue. I stared at him in horror.
I didn’t see Morgane’s hands move until they grasped my wrists. White-hot heat melted my skin, and my knife clattered to the floor.
Faster than I could react, she scooped it up and dove toward Lou.
“NO!” The shout tore from my throat—feral, desperate—but she had already thrust the knife upward and slashed, tearing Lou’s throat open completely.
I stopped breathing. A horrible roaring filled my ears, and I was falling—a great, yawning chasm opening as Lou gasped and choked, her lifeblood pouring into the basin. She thrashed, finally free of whatever had been holding her—still fighting, even as she struggled to breathe—but her body stilled quickly. Her eyes fluttered once . . . then closed.
The ground gave way beneath me. Shouts and footsteps thundered in the distance, but I couldn’t truly hear them. Couldn’t even see. There was only darkness—the bitter void in the world where Lou should’ve been and now was not. I stared into it, willing it to consume me.
It did. I spiraled down, down, down into that darkness with her, and yet—she wasn’t there at all. She was gone. Only a broken shell and sea of blood remained.
And I . . . I was alone.
Out of the darkness, a single golden cord shimmered into existence. It drifted out of Lou’s chest and toward the Archbishop—pulsed as if in echo of a heart. With each beat, its light grew dimmer. I stared at it for the span of a single second. Knew what it was in the same way I knew the sound of my own voice, my reflection in the mirror. Familiar, yet foreign. Expected, yet startling. Something that had always been part of me, but I had never quite known.
In that darkness, something awoke inside me.
I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t think. Moving quickly, I swept a second knife from my bandolier and charged past Morgane. She lifted her hands—fire lashing from her fingertips—but I didn’t feel the flames. The gold light wrapped around my skin, protecting me. But my thoughts scattered. Whatever strength my body had claimed, my mind now forfeited. I stumbled, but the gold cord marked my path. I vaulted over the altar after it.
The Archbishop’s eyes flew open as he realized my intent. A small, pleading noise escaped him, but he could do little else before I fell upon him.
Before I drove my knife home in his heart.
A life for a life. A love for a love.
The Archbishop’s eyes were still wide—confused—as he slumped forward in my arms.
The gold light dispersed, and the world came rushing back into focus. The shouts grew louder now. I stared down at the Archbishop’s lifeless body, numb, but Morgane’s scream of rage made me turn. Made me hope. Tears of relief welled in my eyes at what I saw.
Though Lou was still pale, still unmoving, the gash at her throat was closing. Her chest rose and fell.
She was alive.
With a brutal cry, Morgane jerked her knife up to reopen the wound, but an arrow sliced through the air and lodged in her chest. She screamed anew, whirling furiously, but I recognized the blue-tipped shaft immediately.
Chasseurs.
Led by Jean Luc, scores of them surged into the clearing. The witches shrieked in panic—scattering in every direction—but more of my brethren waited in the trees. They showed no mercy, cutting through woman and child alike without hesitation. Bodies everywhere fell into the mist and disappeared. An unearthly wail rose up from the very ground in response, and soon Chasseurs began disappearing as well.
Fury contorted Jean Luc’s features as he notched another arrow and raced toward the temple. His eyes were no longer fixed on Morgane, however—they were fixed on me. Too late, I realized my hand still clenched the knife protruding from the Archbishop’s chest. I dropped it hastily—the Archbishop’s body falling with it—but the damage had been done.
Jean Luc took aim and fired.