Reid’s throat worked with palpable distress as he weighed the situation: two witches against an unarmed huntsman with his blasphemous prince and childhood love caught in the crossfire. The Chasseur inside him—the part ruled by duty, by honor, by courage—refused to leave. The man inside him knew he must. Coco hadn’t been bluffing; she would hurt him if necessary. He didn’t know I wouldn’t let her. He didn’t know he could wield magic.

He didn’t remember me.

Leveling his knives at our faces, he spoke softly, viciously. “I will be back.”

I watched him disappear up the path with an overwhelming sense of emptiness.

Coco pressed my head upon her shoulder. “He’ll be back.”

Sticks and Stones

Reid

My footsteps pounded in rhythm with my heart. Faster and faster. Faster still. My skin flushed with heat, with sweat, as I sprinted uphill, vaulting stone and fern. I’d only traveled this far north once. Right after taking my vows. My captain at the time, a weak-spirited man by the name of Blanchart, had been trying to prove his spine to the Archbishop. He’d heard rumors of melusines in the area, and he’d ordered my contingent to investigate. We hadn’t even found the beach, instead wandering for days in this godforsaken mist.

If the freckled witch spoke truth, Blanchart had been right. There were melusines in the area. After I dispatched the demon in question, I’d return and—

Scoffing, I launched from the path.

She was a witch.

Of course she didn’t speak truth.

Instead of plunging into the forest, I followed the tree line south. There’d been a hamlet nearby. My brethren and I had rented rooms there each night. Unbidden, I glanced down at my chest. My bandolier. The empty sheath above my heart. Pieces of memory swarmed and stung like insects. Leering faces. Bloodstained snow. Searing pain and painted wagons and bitter honey—

A tree had eaten my Balisarda.

I nearly stumbled at the realization. At the onslaught of images. They formed a picture riddled with holes, a puzzle with missing pieces. There’d been lavender hair. Starry cloaks. Troupe de Fortune. The words gored my mind with surprising pain, and this time, I did miss a step. I’d traveled with them, briefly. I’d thrown knives in their company.

Why?

Clenching my eyes against such riotous thoughts, I focused on the one knife that mattered. The one knife I would reclaim. I’d burn the whole forest if necessary. I’d hack the demonic tree down to the ground, and I’d dig until its roots became kindling.

Bas and his bandits attacked on the road, and Lou threw your Balisarda to protect me. Don’t you remember?