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Chapter Seven

A Liar, After All

The next hour descends into absolute chaos.

Chasseurs and constabulary alike spill through the streets—searching for the cold man—while another dozen recover Babette’s body from the cemetery and inspect the grounds for signs of foul play. I clutch her cross tightly within the pocket of my skirt. I should turn it over to Jean Luc, yet my fingers—still ice cold and trembling—refuse to relinquish its ostentatious silver edges. They score my palm as I dart after him, determined to join the proceedings. Determined to help . He hardly looks at me, however, instead shouting orders with brutal efficiency, directing Charles to find Babette’s next of kin, Basile to alert the morgue of her arrival, Frederic to collect the dead roses as evidence. “Take them to the infirmary,” he tells the latter in a low voice, “and send word to La Dame des Sorcières via His Majesty—tell her we need her assistance.”

“I can go to Lou!” In stark contrast to his unshakable facade, my voice sounds loud, panicked, even to my own ears. I clear my throat and try again, clenching Babette’s cross to the point of pain. “That is, I can contact her directly—”

“No.” Jean Luc shakes his head curtly. He still doesn’t look at me. “Frederic will go.”

“But I can reach her much faster—”

“I said no , Célie.” His tone brooks no argument. Indeed, his eyes harden as they at last sweep my wet hair, my soiled gown, my sparkling ring, before he turns away to address Father Achille, who arrives with a band of healers. When I don’t move, he pauses, glancing back at me over his shoulder. “Go to Chasseur Tower and wait for me in your room. We need to have a discussion.”

We need to have a discussion.

The words sink in my stomach like bricks.

“Jean—”

Shouts sound as wide-eyed passersby gather at the cemetery gate, craning to see Babette’s body through the tumult. “Go, Célie,” he snarls, flicking his hand toward three passing Chasseurs. To them, he says, “Take care of the pedestrians.” They reroute their paths instantly, and I glare at him. At them . Forcing myself to breathe, I release Babette’s cross and hurry after their broad, blue-coated backs. Because I can speak to a crowd just as easily as they can. I can build lutin traps, alphabetize the council library, and also assist in a murder investigation. Though I left my coat and Balisarda at home, I am still a Chasseur; I am more than Jean Luc’s pretty little fiancée, and if he thinks otherwise—if any of them think otherwise—I’ll prove them wrong here and now.

Mud flecks my hem as I sprint to match their pace, reaching for the slowest’s arm. “Please, allow me—”

He jerks away with an impatient shake of his head. “Go home, Célie.”

“But I—”

The words die on my tongue as the crowd disbands after a few terse words from his companions.

Not only am I unwanted here, but I am also useless.

My chest feels like it’s caving in.

“ Move ,” Frederic mutters irritably, brushing me aside when he turns—arms already full of roses—and nearly treads on my foot. His eyes linger on my gown, and his lip curls in distaste. “You’ve abandoned the pretense, at least. Good riddance.” He stalks to my cart without another word, depositing the roses within it.

“Wait!” I race after him through the cemetery gate. I will not cry here. I will not cry. “Why don’t you collect the roses on the north side? I’ll do the ones on the south—”

His scowl only deepens. “I think you’ve done enough for one day, Mademoiselle Tremblay.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I came here on Father Achille’s orders—”

“Oh?” Frederic bends to retrieve another rose from the ground. I snatch one near his feet before he can stop me. “Did Father Achille also order you to tamper with the crime scene and fraternize with a person of interest?”

“I—” If possible, my stomach sinks further, and I inhale sharply at the accusations. “Wh-What are you talking about? I couldn’t just leave her there. She was— I didn’t tamper with—I didn’t mean to tamper with anything.”

“What does that matter?” He snatches the rose from my hand, and its thorn nicks my thumb. “You still did.”

Clenching my teeth to stop the tremble in my chin, I follow him deeper into the cemetery. Within two steps, however, a familiar hand seizes my own, and Jean Luc spins me to face him with a furious expression. “I don’t have time for this, Célie. I told you to return to Chasseur Tower.”

I tear my hand away from his, gesturing to the chaos around us. Tears sparkle in my eyes, and I hate that I cannot stop them. I hate that Frederic can see them. I hate that Jean can see them—hate that his own gaze begins to soften in response, just as it always does. “ Why? ” I burst out, choking back a sob. I will not cry. “All of the other huntsmen are here! They’re all here, and they’re all helping.” When he says nothing, simply stares at me, I force myself to continue, quieter now. Desperate. “Babette was my friend, Jean. You’re the captain of the Chasseurs. Let me help too. Please. ”

At the last, he sighs heavily, shaking his head and closing his eyes as if pained. The huntsmen nearest us pause their tasks to listen as surreptitiously as possible, but I still see them—I still feel them—and so does Jean Luc. “If you’re truly a Chasseur, you will obey my command. I told you to return to Chasseur Tower,” he repeats, and when his eyes snap open, they’ve hardened once more. His entire body has tensed taut as a bow—one pluck away from snapping—but I clench tighter still. Because when he leans low to meet my gaze, he is no longer Jean Luc, my fiancé and heart. No. He is Captain Toussaint, and I am insubordinate. “That’s an order, Célie.”

The words should be everything I’ve ever wanted.

They aren’t.

Snickers erupt somewhere to my left, but I ignore them, staring at Jean Luc for a single heartrending beat. It matches the tear trickling down my cheek. I said I wouldn’t cry, but I’m a liar too.

“Yes, Captain,” I whisper, wiping the tear away and turning on my heel. I don’t look at him again. I don’t look at Father Achille or Frederic or the dozens of other men who stop to witness my shame. To pity it. The ring on my finger feels heavier than usual as I walk back to Chasseur Tower alone. And for the first time in a long time, I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake.

Idle time is my enemy.

Pacing in my dormitory, I lose track of it waiting for Jean Luc to return. With each step, anger sparks and spreads in that aching, empty part of my chest. It’s a welcome distraction. Anger is good. Anger is solvable.

We need to have a discussion , Jean Luc told me.

I nearly hiss in frustration at the dying embers of my hearth, picturing his stern face. He had the gall to—to send me to my room like I’m not his soldier, not even his fiancée , but an unruly child underfoot. All of my candles burn to stubs while I tread an impatient path on the carpet. Some gutter, and some flicker out completely. Though the rain has broken, clouds remain, casting the room in dull gray light. The shadows lengthen.

Go back to Chasseur Tower and wait for me in your room.

Wait for me in your room.

That’s an order, Célie.

“That’s an order, Célie,” I say through gritted teeth, wresting a useless stub from its candlestick and hurling it into the fire. The flames sizzle and snap gleefully, and the sight fills me with such savage delight that I wrench another stub free and fling it after the first. Then another. And another. And another and another until my chest heaves and my eyes stream and my head aches with the injustice of it all. How dare he order me to do anything after months of insisting on special treatment? After months of treating me like porcelain and handling me with kid gloves? How dare he expect me to obey ?

“You can’t have it both ways, Jean.” Resolve hardening, I storm to my door and fling it open, relishing the crash as it collides with the corridor wall. I wait for one of my brethren to appear, to reprimand me for the noise, but none does. Of course they don’t. They’re far too busy being huntsmen—true and proper ones, not the kind who disobey their captain’s orders. After another second, I sigh and close the door with far gentler hands, muttering, “But they’ve made it clear I’m not a Chasseur. Not really.”

I creep through the empty corridors in search of Jean Luc.

Because he was right. We do need to have a discussion, and I won’t wait another moment for it.

First, I check his room, knocking on the nondescript door across the Tower with confidence that borders on belligerence, but he doesn’t answer. After casting furtive looks down each end of the corridor, I slip the hairpin from my sleeve and pick the lock. An old trick I learned from my sister. The mechanism clicks open with ease, and I peer inside the room for only a moment before realizing he isn’t here—his bed remains pristine, untouched, and shutters cover his window, plunging everything in darkness. I retreat quickly.

When the cathedral bell tolls a moment later, signaling five o’clock in the evening, I quicken my step toward the training yard. Surely whatever kept Jean Luc should not have kept him for three hours .

After searching the yard to no avail—and the stables, and the infirmary, and Father Achille’s study—I move on to the commissary. It is dinnertime, after all. Perhaps Jean Luc hasn’t eaten today. Perhaps he thought to bring us both supper to defuse the tension. Only a handful of Chasseurs occupy the long wooden tables, however, and Jean Luc doesn’t sit among them. “Have you seen Captain Toussaint?” I ask the nearest one. The anxious knot in my stomach rises, lodging in my throat, when the young man refuses to meet my gaze. “Has he returned from the cemetery?”

Has something happened?

He spoons an enormous bite of potato into his mouth, delaying his reply. When he finally speaks, his voice is reluctant. “I don’t know.”

Though I try not to snap at him, Babette’s bloodless corpse rises in my mind’s eye—except now the body isn’t Babette at all, but Jean Luc. Twin wounds puncture his throat, and that beautiful, cold man looms over his grave, pale fingers clasped and bloody. When he grins at me, his teeth are strangely sharp. I force myself to remain calm. “Do you know where he is? Did he apprehend the suspect? Where is Father Achille?”

The Chasseur shrugs with a grimace and turns away pointedly, resuming conversation with his companion.

Right.

Unease mounting, I set out for the cemetery once more. Perhaps he hasn’t returned at all. Perhaps he found a clue—

As I turn the corner into the foyer, however, his voice rises sharply from the stairwell to the dungeon. I pause mid-step, relief crashing through my system. Of course. Jean Luc often frequents the council room in times of stress, poring over his notes, his manuscripts, anything to help clarify his thoughts. I dart down the stairs on silent feet, lifting a torch from the stone wall as I go. Another voice soon joins Jean Luc’s, however—sharper still, raised as if in anger—and I nearly stumble on the last step.

“And I’m telling you , Captain—for the sixth thousandth time—that this is not the work of blood witches.”

Lou. Despite the horrendous circumstances, I can’t help but exhale in relief. If Lou is here, everything must be fine—or at least, it will be soon. She and Jean Luc often work together in matters of defense; they won’t allow Babette’s fate to befall anyone else. With both the witches and the huntsmen searching for the cold man, I have no doubt he’ll be apprehended soon.

As if in response, a muted thud echoes from the council room—perhaps Jean Luc’s fist against the table? “The body was drained of blood , Lou. How else do you explain it? How else do you explain any of these bodies?”

The words puncture my relief.

“Her name is Babette.” Low and strained, a new voice joins the others, and I creep steadily closer, frowning now. Clearly, Lou answered Jean Luc’s summons, but Coco? Did he summon her too? “Babette,” she repeats, more emphatic now. “Babette Trousset. Stop referring to her as the body .”

I press a careful ear against the door, ignoring the tendril of unease that unfurls in my chest. Of course she’s here , I mentally chide myself. Babette was a blood witch, and Coco is La Princesse Rouge. Of course Jean Luc would contact her.

“Trousset?” he asks sharply, and the sound of rustling paper fills the room. “We identified her as Babette Dubuisson , formerly a courtesan at Madame Helene Labelle’s establishment”—more shuffling—“the Bellerose.”

Coco’s response cuts even sharper. “Babette wasn’t the first witch to adopt a pseudonym, and she certainly won’t be the last. Your brotherhood ensured that.”

“Apologies,” Jean Luc mutters, except he doesn’t sound apologetic at all. “But you have to admit how this looks. This is the fifth body we’ve found, and—”

“Again with the bodies ,” Lou snaps.

“They are bodies,” he argues, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Babette might’ve been a witch, but she’s now a key player in a murder investigation.”

“I think it’s time to call this what it is, Jean,” another voice says, quieter and deeper than the others. My chest constricts at the sound of it—not in anticipation this time, but with alarm. Because Reid Diggory should not be in this council room. After the Battle of Cesarine, he made it clear that he had no intention of returning to Chasseur Tower in an official capacity.

Until now.

I press closer to the door as he continues.

“Four of the five victims have been of magical origin—with one human outlier—and all have been found with puncture wounds on their throats and no blood in their bodies. All separate events. All in the last three months.” He pauses, and even beyond the door, the silence in the room thickens with apprehension. Though I don’t possess the criminal knowledge of Jean Luc or Reid, I know what this means. We all know what this means.

“We’re dealing with a serial killer,” Reid confirms.

I might forget how to breathe.

“It isn’t a blood witch,” Coco says stubbornly.

“Do you have any proof of that?” Jean Luc asks, his voice grim. “It looks like blood magic to me.”

“Dame Rouges don’t murder their own.”

“They might to divert suspicion after murdering a human, a Dame Blanche, a loup garou, and a melusine.”

“We can’t prove it’s a serial killer.” Another voice—this one painfully familiar—joins the fray, and the sheer humiliation of it all pierces my chest like a knife. Frederic is here. Frederic has been invited into this room with every person I hold dear, and I have not. Worse still—Jean Luc must have invited him, which means he told Frederic of his secrets and not me. “Serial killers target victims of a similar profile. There’s nothing similar between these victims. They aren’t even the same species.”

Despite the sickening twist of my stomach, I force myself to inhale. To exhale. This is bigger than me, bigger than my own hurt feelings and my friends’ bad faith. People have died . And furthermore, Jean Luc—he’s—he’s just doing what he thinks is best. They all are. “Whoever this is might not kill for the thrill,” Coco says. “They might kill for a different reason.”

“We’re missing something,” Reid agrees.

“Where is Célie?” Lou asks abruptly.

My heart lurches into my throat at the sound of my name, and I recoil slightly, as if Lou might sense me here, lurking in the corridor to eavesdrop. Perhaps she can. She is a witch. When Jean Luc answers her, however—his tone low and reluctant, no, unwilling —I can’t help but press closer once more, listening like my life depends on it. “I told you before,” he mutters. “This doesn’t concern Célie.”

A beat of silence. Then—

Lou snorts in disbelief. “Like hell it doesn’t. Célie is the one who found Babette, isn’t she?”

“Yes, but—”

“She’s still a Chasseur?”

“The most intelligent one, clearly,” Coco adds under her breath.

“ Thank you for that, Cosette.” I can practically hear Jean Luc’s scowl as he drags a chair from the table, its legs scraping the council room floor, and throws himself in it. “And of course Célie is still a Chasseur. I can hardly discharge her.”

I inhale sharply.

“So where is she?” Lou asks.

“Her dormitory.” Though I cannot see Lou’s and Coco’s expressions, Jean Luc can. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. This investigation is highly classified, and even if it weren’t—we can’t fit every Chasseur inside this room.”

“You fit him .” Coco sounds supremely unimpressed, but her words do little to bolster me. My fingers tremble around the torch, and my knees threaten to give way. I can hardly discharge her. Jean Luc has never admitted such a thing aloud before—at least not in front of me. “Célie is twice as sharp as the rest of us,” Coco says. “She should be here.”

“You can’t keep this from her forever, Jean,” Lou says.

“She found the body.” Even Reid’s quiet assurance does nothing to steady me. “She’s involved now, whether you like it or not.”

I think I’m going to be sick.

“You don’t understand.” Frustration harshens Jean Luc’s voice, and that emotion—that knife in my chest—slides deeper still, straight through my ribs and into my heart. “ None of you understand. Célie is—she’s—”

“Delicate,” Frederic finishes, dripping condescension. “Rumor has it she’s been through a lot.”

She’s been through a lot.

I can hardly discharge her.

“She still screams every night. Did you know that?” Jean Luc asks them, and I don’t imagine the defensiveness in his tone. “Nightmares. Horrible, vivid nightmares of being trapped inside that casket with her sister’s corpse. What Morgane did to her—she should’ve died. She keeps candles lit around the clock now because she fears the dark. She flinches when anyone touches her. I can’t”—he hesitates, his voice deepening with resolve—“I won’t allow any more harm to come to her.”

A beat of silence descends between them.

“That might be true,” Lou says softly, “but if I know Célie, you’ll cause more harm by keeping this secret. What if this had been her instead of Babette? What if we were discussing her corpse right now?” Then, softer still, “She deserves to know the truth, Jean. I know you want to protect her—we all do—but she needs to know the danger. It’s time.”

It’s time.

The words pound in rhythm with my heart as my blood continues to pour, spilling freely, from that wound in my chest. It never healed , I realize. It never healed after Pippa, after Morgane, and now my friends—these people I love most in the world, these people I trusted —have torn it wide open again. But anger is good. Anger is solvable.

Without hesitation, I shove the door open and storm inside.