“What’s in three days?” Reid said, his voice strained.

Angelica merely continued toward the waters, which remained calm and still. At their edge, she drew to a graceful halt, clasping her hands at her waist. “The Oracle offers a final gift.” When three iron chalices materialized before us, dread bloomed in my belly. Reid’s brows dipped low, and he knelt swiftly to examine one. “Drink of the waters,” Angelica said, “and you shall see.”

Holy Men

Reid

The iron chalice felt familiar in my hand as I lifted it to my lips. Too familiar. Like I’d descended a flight of stairs but missed the bottom step. The second the ice water touched my tongue, an invisible force sucked me forward, and I tipped straight over the horizon.

The next second, I resurfaced in the cathedral’s formal courtroom. The hard benches and wood-paneled walls I recognized immediately. The honeyed notes in the air. Beeswax candles. They cast the room in flickering light, as curtains had been drawn over its pointed stained-glass windows. I’d guarded those vaulted doors—behind the podium, behind the Archbishop—at least a dozen times while the guilty had awaited verdict. We hadn’t committed many inside these halls. King Auguste and his guard had dealt with common criminals, while witches themselves hadn’t been afforded trial at all. No, those who testified here had been charged with the crimes in between: conspiracy, aiding and abetting the occult, even attempted witchcraft. In my years with the Chasseurs, only a rare few had openly sympathized with witches. Some had been tempted by power. Others beguiled by beauty. Still others had sought magic for themselves.

To the last man and woman, all had burned.

I swallowed hard as Lou and Coco landed beside me.

Stumbling slightly, Coco knocked into the silver-haired man beside us. He didn’t acknowledge her. Indeed, when her shoulder passed through his arm, incorporeal, I frowned. They couldn’t see us, then. “Pardon her, sir,” I murmured, testing another theory. He didn’t respond.

“They can’t hear us either.” Contrary to her words, Lou spoke in a whisper. Her eyes fixed on something in the center of the chamber. I turned. Blanched. Scowling and fierce, Philippe—once a comrade in arms—dragged my mother to the podium. She’d been gagged and bound. Blood, both crusted black and fresh scarlet, stained the entirety of her gown, and her body hung limp. Drugged. Her eyes fluttered between sleep and wakefulness.

“Oh my god.” Coco lifted a hand to her mouth in horror. “Oh my god.”

Philippe didn’t bother to unbind her hands. He simply nailed her ear to the podium. Shrieking, she lurched awake, but the movement only exacerbated her position, tearing the cartilage. Her screams soon morphed to sobs at Philippe’s laughter. Under the drug’s influence, she couldn’t support herself, and when she sank to the floor, her ear tore free completely.