I lifted my own knife and stepped in front of Reid. We were weapons, yes—our magic sharper than any blade—but only as last resorts. If he’d taught me anything, it was not to cut myself. He wouldn’t either. Before I could strike at Philippe, however, Jean Luc planted his feet before both of us. To my surprise, his handful of Chasseurs did too. “Don’t be stupid, Philippe. These people are not our enemies.”

Philippe’s eyes bulged. “They’re witches.”

“They’re helping us,” another Chasseur snapped. I didn’t recognize him. I didn’t care. “Open your eyes before you kill us all. Do your duty.”

“Protect the kingdom,” the one beside him added.

“Children.” Achille pushed roughly between them. “We don’t have time for this, nor the forces to stand divided. Those with Balisardas must strike against our attackers.”

“He’s right.” Reid nodded, already scanning the street beyond. Huntsmen fought witch, fought werewolf, while both sides fought each other. Pandemonium reigned. “Chasseurs, if you cannot kill, aim for their hands. Dames Blanches cannot cast accurately without dexterity—cut them off at the wrist, but do not draw blood from a Dame Rouge under any circumstance. Unless dead, their blood will maim you.”

“How do we tell the difference?” the first Chasseur asked.

“Dames Rouges are heavily scarred. Strike quickly, and strike true. Leave the werewolves, and leave the trees.”

“Leave the—?” Philippe’s face flushed puce. He jerked his head back and forth. “We will not. Chasseurs—to me. Do not listen to these heretics. I am your captain, and we will strike fast and true.” To prove his point, he stabbed his Balisarda into the heart of the nearest tree. Claud’s roar reverberated from somewhere beyond the cathedral. Face twisting in delight, Philippe thrust deeper. “Cut them down! All of them! Tree, werewolf, and witch alike!”

“No.” I pushed past Jean Luc as Philippe’s huntsmen obeyed, goring the trees with brutal efficiency. Roots snapped upward like the crack of the whip to ensnare them. “No, stop—”

But agonized shouts soon sounded from the hedges, and I turned to see witches impaling men on the thorns. Shit.

Reid tore after them without hesitation. His hands moved in the air, searching, pulling, as fresh magic burst around us. Three of the witches screamed in response, and fresh burns licked up Reid’s arms. But he couldn’t save the men. Without Balisardas, each person here stood vulnerable—including Reid.

The fourth witch clenched her fist, and Reid stumbled, clutching his chest.

Shit, shit, shit.

My feet moved instinctively. Seizing the Balisarda from a trapped Chasseur, I sprinted toward him. Veins bulged in his neck, his face. His hands moved instinctively to his bandolier for a knife. They came away with only seeds. Tossing them aside, he collapsed on his hands and knees.

I hurled the Balisarda straight through the witch’s forehead.