“Why are you upset, Célie? Did you think you’d lost it?” My fingers closed around the glass. The hemlock injection didn’t warm, however. Devil’s Flower, the priests had called it. It’d grown on the hillside of Jesus’s crucifixion. When his blood had touched the petals, they’d turned poisonous. “It shouldn’t matter if you had. You weren’t going to use it.”

“Reid.” Her hand on my arm crept downward. Even now, she ached to have it in her possession. “It was just a precaution. I never planned to use it on you or—or anyone else. You must believe me.”

“I do believe you.” And I did. I believed she’d never planned to use it. If our reunion had gone wrong, however, she wouldn’t have hesitated. The fact that she’d brought it here, that she’d hidden it, meant she’d been prepared to hurt us. I tucked the syringe in my pocket. “You know this is poison, right? Standard issue. Witch or no, it’d incapacitate you much faster than it would me. It’d take down Jean Luc. King Auguste. All of them.” She blinked in confusion, confirming my suspicions. She’d thought it a weapon unique against witches. I shook my head. “Fuck, Célie. Are you really that afraid of us? Of me?”

She flinched at the profanity, color rising high on her cheeks. But not in embarrassment. In anger. When she lifted her chin, her voice didn’t waver. “Is that even a question? Of course I fear you. A witch murdered Filippa. A witch locked me in a coffin with her remains. When I close my eyes, I can still feel her flesh on my skin, Reid. I can still smell her. My sister. Now I’m terrified of the dark, of sleep, of dreams, and even awake, I can hardly breathe. I’m trapped in a nightmare without end.”

My own anger withered to something small. Something shameful.

“So, yes,” she continued fiercely, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks, “I packed a weapon against witches. I hid it from you. How could I do otherwise? Whether or not I like it, you’re a witch now. You’re one of them. I’m trying—truly, I am—but you cannot ask me not to protect myself.” She took a deep, steadying breath then, and met my gaze. “Truthfully, you cannot ask me anything. I won’t live in another grave, Reid. You’ve moved on. It is time for me to do the same.”

Though a hundred words of comfort rose to my lips, I didn’t utter one. They weren’t enough for what she’d suffered. No words would ever be enough. I handed her the syringe instead. She seized it instantly, lifting it to her eyes with a truly terrifying expression. Not like Lou. Not like Coco. Not like Gabrielle or Violette or Victoire. Like Célie.