Zenna took care of the rest. Her jaws snapped viciously as she swooped low, incinerating witch and thorn alike. When the flame abated, I wrenched the Balisarda from the witch’s skull and shoved it at Reid. “I am a weapon.” Panting, I imitated his stupid voice. Breathless laughter rose. I didn’t fight it, despite the gruesome circumstances. Despite the charred witches at our feet. I’d never fight laughter again. Not for their sake. “The world shall tremble and fear me—”

“Shut”—his own voice broke on a gasp of laughter—“up.”

I dragged him to his feet. “My enemies shall rue the day they ever dared to challenge—”

“I’m fine.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Go help the others.”

“I am.” Pressing a hard kiss to his lips, I shoved him back toward the patisserie. “I’m helping them by helping you, you great selfless prick. If you give that Balisarda away again, I’ll make you swallow it. Consider chivalry dead.”

He huffed another laugh as we rejoined the fray.

The next moments passed in a blur of magic and blood. Following Reid’s instruction, free huntsmen hacked at witches’ hands, while those trapped in Claud’s trees hacked at roots. Father Achille led a party of able-bodied men and women to the nearest smithy for weapons. Those unable to fight followed Célie into boucheries and confiseries, any shop that would open its doors. Jean Luc and Reid kicked down the rest. I followed behind, feeding my magic into each lock.

The witches were undaunted. I felt them attack each door, each window, their patterns hissing and striking like snakes against my magic. They taunted those within—taunted me—whispering the ways they would kill them. Reid and Jean Luc hacked their way through them, leaving a trail of bodies behind.

Halfway down the street, Reid noticed my pale face, and his brows furrowed. I only shrugged and continued. It didn’t matter. Fewer allies littered the ground than foes. Though Zenna couldn’t breathe fire freely—not without roasting us in the process—she snatched witch after witch from the street. When they backed Coco and Toulouse into a corner, she plucked the two free. When they pursued Beau and Thierry—the former shouting for Coco at the top of his lungs—Seraphine cut them down from above. We’d prepared for this. Blaise and his pack, Troupe de Fortune, even Jean Luc and his Chasseurs—all around, they exacted their vengeance. Liana and Terrance gnawed hands from wrists while Toulouse and Thierry injected a trio of witches with hemlock.

Still, overwhelming unease crept down my spine. It near paralyzed me.

Morgane had vanished without a trace.