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Chapter Four

Our Girl

When I nod and lift my dagger, he flicks his wrist out casually and knocks my blade to the ground. “First lesson: you cannot use a dagger against a longsword. Even you should know that. You certainly spend enough time poring over our old manuscripts—or do you only read fairy stories?”

I snatch my dagger from the mud, firing up instantly. “I cannot lift the longsword, you insufferable cretin.”

“And how is that my problem?” He circles me now, like a cat with a mouse, while the others settle in for the show. Charles watches us warily. His companion has disappeared. “Have you sought to improve your physical strength? How will you apprehend a rogue loup garou if you cannot even lift a sword? Will you even want to apprehend them, I wonder, or will you call them your friends?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap. “Of course I will if the situation calls—”

“It calls for it.”

“You’re living in the past, Frederic.” My knuckles whiten around the hilt of my dagger, and I want nothing more than to bash him over the head with it. “The Chasseurs have changed. We no longer need to debilitate or apprehend those who are different—”

“You’re naive if you think your friends saved the world, Célie. Evil still lives here. Perhaps not in the hearts of all , but in the hearts of some. Though the Battle of Cesarine changed many things, it did not change that. The world still needs our brotherhood.” He plunges his longsword into the chest of the straw man nearest us, where it quivers like a lightning rod. “And so our brotherhood continues. Come. Pretend I’m a werewolf. I’ve just gorged on a farmer’s cattle and feasted on his chickens.” Spreading his arms wide with the air of a showman, he says, “Subdue me.”

The rain begins to fall in earnest as I stare at him. As I roll up my sleeves to stall for time.

Because I don’t know the first thing about subduing a werewolf.

Eyes, ears, nose, and groin. Lou’s laughter cuts through the spiraling panic of my thoughts. She visited me in the training yard on the day after my initiation—on the day Jean Luc decided neither of us should ever visit the training yard again. It doesn’t matter who you’re up against, Célie—everyone has a groin somewhere. Find it, kick as hard as you can, and get the hell out of there. I square my shoulders as Basile starts to jeer, widening my stance and lifting my dagger once more.

More Chasseurs have trickled into the yard now. They watch us with unabashed curiosity.

I can do this.

When I lunge for his eyes, however, Frederic catches my wrist easily, twirling me in a sick pirouette and forcing my face into the straw man. Lights pop behind my eyes. He holds me there longer than necessary—with more force than necessary—rubbing my cheeks in the thatch until I nearly scream at the injustice of it all. Thrashing wildly, I elbow him in the stomach, and he relents with a mocking smile. “Those doe eyes give you away, mademoiselle. They’re too expressive.”

“You’re a pig ,” I snarl.

“Hmm. Emotional too.” He sidesteps when I swing wildly for his ear, missing completely and sliding a little in the mud. “Just admit you shouldn’t be here, and I will gladly forfeit. You may return to your dresses and your books and your fireplace while I return to our cause. That’s our girl,” he croons as I push soaked hair away from my brow, struggling to see. “Admit you aren’t equipped to help us, and we’ll send you on your merry way.”

“Though I sympathize with your plight, Frederic—truly—I am not your girl , and I pity any woman who is.”

He knocks me to the ground when I take a flying leap at his nose. I land hard, coughing, trying not to flinch or retch. Those shards in my throat stab deeper, as if they’re trying to draw blood. Silly little Célie , Morgane still croons. Such a lovely little doll.

“Come now.” Rolling up his sleeves, Frederic crouches and gestures to my uniform. To my surprise, the black ink of a tattoo marks the skin of his inner forearm. Though I can just see the first two letters— FR —the rain renders his shirt nearly translucent, revealing the shape of a name. “Does it not feel like you’re playing dress-up?” he asks.

Come here, so I may shatter you.

“As opposed to what ?” I shove at him, gritting my teeth, but he remains immovable. “Tattooing my name on my arm, so no one forgets who I am?”

Voices erupt from the armory door before he can answer, and we turn in unison—Frederic poised above me, my body supine below—as Jean Luc strides into the training yard, accompanied by three women in powder-blue coats. Initiates. Though the rain has thickened to a downpour, Jean’s eyes find mine immediately, widening for a fraction of a second. Then his expression darkens. His mouth twists as another bolt of lightning strikes the cathedral, as Charles’s companion appears at his shoulder. “What the hell is going on here?” he asks, already stalking toward us.

Frederic doesn’t move except for a pleasant smile. “Nothing to report, I’m afraid. Just a little friendly sparring.”

Jean Luc unsheathes his Balisarda with thinly veiled menace. “Good. Let’s spar, then.”

“Of course, Captain.” Frederic nods amicably. “As soon as we’ve finished.”

“You are finished.”

“No, we’re not.” I pant the words, jerking my head side to side, splattering mud in all directions. Though water fills my ears, a terrible ringing sound remains. My vision narrows on Frederic’s smug expression, and my hands curl into fists. “Let me finish this, Jean.”

“ Let me finish this, Jean ,” Frederic mimics, too soft for anyone else to catch. Chuckling, he brushes a strand of hair from my eyes. The gesture is too personal, too private , and my skin crawls with awareness as Jean Luc shouts something I cannot hear. The ringing sound in my ears intensifies. “Admit that you embarrass him, and I’ll let you go.”

It doesn’t matter who you’re up against, Célie—everyone has a groin somewhere.

I react instinctively, viciously , kicking the soft flesh between his legs with a satisfying crunch .

His eyes fly wide, and perhaps I’ve miscalculated because he doesn’t topple backward—he topples forward , and I can’t scramble away before he lands on top of me, howling and cursing and wrenching the dagger from my hand. He presses it to my throat in blind fury. “You little bitch —”

Jean Luc seizes him by the collar and launches him across the training yard, his eyes as black as the sky overhead. Lightning flashes all around us. “How dare you assault one of our own? And Célie Tremblay at that?” He doesn’t allow Frederic to slink away, instead charging after him, slamming him into the nearest archery target. Despite Frederic’s scowl, despite his size , Jean Luc shakes him roughly. “Do you have any idea what she’s done for this kingdom? Do you have any idea what she’s sacrificed ?” Dropping Frederic like a sack of potatoes, he appeals to the rest of the training yard now, pointing his Balisarda in my direction. I climb hastily to my feet. “This woman brought down Morgane le Blanc —or do you no longer remember our Dame des Sorcières of old? Have you already forgotten her reign of terror in this kingdom? The way she cut down man, woman, and child in her mad quest for vengeance?” He speaks again to Frederic, whose lip curls as he bitterly wipes the mud from his coat. “Well? Have you?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he snarls.

The Chasseurs stand frozen throughout the yard. They dare not move. They dare not breathe .

The initiates still huddle together near the armory, wide-eyed and soaked through. Their faces are unfamiliar. New. I stand taller for them—and also for me . Though humiliation still burns in my chest, a tendril of pride unfurls as well. Because Lou and I did bring down Morgane le Blanc last year, and we did it together. We did it for good.

“Excellent.” Jean Luc sheathes his Balisarda roughly as I creep to his side. He does not look at me. “If I ever see anything like this again,” he promises us, his voice lower now, barely discernible, “I’ll personally appeal to Father Achille for the perpetrator’s immediate dismissal from the Chasseurs. We are better than this.”

Frederic spits in disgust as Jean Luc takes my hand, as he leads me past the initiates and into the armory. He doesn’t stop there, however. He continues until we reach a broom closet near the kitchen, growing more and more agitated with each step. When he pushes me inside without a word, my stomach sinks.

He leaves the door cracked for propriety’s sake.

Then he drops my hand.

“Jean—”

“We agreed,” he says tersely, closing his eyes and scrubbing his face. “We agreed you wouldn’t train with the others. We agreed not to put ourselves in that position again.”

“Put ourselves in what position?” That tendril of pride in my chest withers into something ashen and dead, and I wring the water from my hair in a brutal, punishing twist. I cannot keep the tremor from my voice, however. “ My position? Chasseurs are expected to train, are they not? Preferably together?”

Frowning, he plucks a towel from the shelf and hands it to me. “If you want to train, I will train you. I’ve told you this, Célie—”

“You can’t keep giving me special treatment! You don’t have time to train me, Jean, and besides—Frederic has a point. It isn’t fair to expect everything from them and nothing from me—”

“I don’t expect nothing from you—” He stops speaking abruptly, his frown deepening as I wipe the muck from my neck, my collarbone, my throat. His jaw clenches. “You’re bleeding.”

“What?”

He steps closer, cupping my jaw and tilting my head to examine my throat. “Frederic. That bastard broke your skin. I swear to God, I’ll make him muck stables for a year —”

“Captain?” An initiate pokes his head into the closet. “Father Achille needs to speak to you. He says there’s been a critical development with the—” But he stops short when he sees me, startling at the sight of us alone together. At the sight of us touching . Jean Luc sighs and moves away.

“A critical development with what ?” I snap.

The initiate—several years younger than me, perhaps fourteen—straightens like I’ve slapped him, his brows furrowing in confusion. He lowers his voice earnestly. “The bodies, mademoiselle.”

My eyes narrow in disbelief as I glance between him and Jean. “What bodies ?”

“That’s enough.” Jean Luc speaks sharply before the initiate can answer, herding him out the door and shooting a wary glance over his shoulder at me. He doesn’t allow me to demand an explanation. He doesn’t allow me to fling the towel or seize his coat or scream my frustrations to the heavens. No. He shakes his head curtly, already turning away. “Don’t ask, Célie. It doesn’t concern you.” He hesitates at the door, however, his voice apologetic and his eyes full of regret. “Please don’t worry.”