When Jean Luc said nothing, Célie scooted closer, threading her fingers through his. “It’s the right thing to do, Jean. Chasseurs are meant to protect the innocent. Madame Labelle has done nothing but love her son. If not for her sacrifice, the king would’ve tortured Reid instead.”

“Also,” Beau said, pursing his lips, “not to be that person, but your captaincy won’t matter after Morgane kills everyone.”

“He has a point,” Coco said.

Jean Luc closed his eyes, his face tight and strained. Overhead, gulls cried in the filtered sunlight, and to starboard, waves crashed upon the distant shore. Though I didn’t know Jean Luc, he still wore his emotions like he wore his coat—a coat he’d worked hard to receive. Harder than most. And all that hard work—all that pain, all that envy, all that spite—it’d be for nothing if he helped us now. In doing the right thing, he’d lose everything.

No, I didn’t know Jean Luc, but I understood him better than most.

After another moment, he dipped his chin in assent. In sorrow. “Of course. Just tell me what to do.”

“Thank you, Jean,” Célie said, pressing a kiss upon his cheek.

The last of the parchment vanished with Coco’s blood, and the message was sent.

Instead of relief, however, fresh dread crept through me. Fresh dread and stale anger. The latter simmered just beneath my skin as I stared at the cabin door. Jean Luc would help us, yes, and Claud and Blaise would too. We had a dragon on our side, as well as an original witch. Melusines and loup garou. A goddess had gifted me the magic of La Dame des Sorcières, so I could change shape—could alter the very fabric of nature—with the wave of my hand. Morgane didn’t know I existed, and Auguste didn’t know of our plan. Never before had we enjoyed such elements of surprise—indeed, never before had we been quite so prepared for what was to come. Our plan was an excellent one. The best we’d ever concocted.

Except for one very tall, very obnoxious problem.

My eyes could’ve bored holes in the door now.

Following my gaze, Coco nudged my shoulder. “Go talk to him.”

“He’ll never agree.”

“You won’t know until you try.”

I scoffed. “You’re right. He’ll probably love this plan. It’ll give him a chance to act out his martyr fantasies. Hell, he’ll probably want to be lashed to the stake out of self-loathing or shame or—or some sense of misplaced duty.”

She cast me a sideways grin. “That isn’t what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”