In answer, the mist slowly darkened, drawing in on itself as a spider might spin its web. Growing limbs. A head. A pair of chilling coal-black eyes. Despite the ominous voice, those eyes softened on Coco as their owner stepped forth. Powerfully built—taller even than me—the man heaved a booming laugh and opened his arms to her. She hesitated for only a second before rushing forward. Voice hitching with laughter—perhaps tears—she buried her face in his chest and she said, “I’ve missed you, Constantin.”

Beau stared at them, dumbstruck, as they embraced. I might’ve found his expression comical if I too hadn’t felt this revelation like a blow to the head.

Constantin. Constantin. I knew the name, of course. How could I ever forget? Madame Labelle had held me captive with it in the Bellerose all those months ago, weaving magic with her tale of star-crossed lovers. Of magic rings and seas of tears and witches and holy men. Of Angelica and Constantin. The saint who’d gifted the Church his blessed sword, the original Balisarda. I’d carried a part of him with me for years, unaware his sword hadn’t been blessed at all, but enchanted by his lover. She’d wanted to protect him. He’d wanted her magic. When he hadn’t been able to take it from her, he’d eventually taken his life instead.

This couldn’t be the same man. Of course it couldn’t. The story said he’d died, and even if he hadn’t, he would be thousands of years old now. Long dead. And Coco—she hadn’t spoken a word about knowing Constantin during Madame Labelle’s tale. She would have told us. Surely. Lou’s life had been tangentially tied with him and Angelica, whose ill-fated love had first sparked the war between the Church and Dames Blanches. She would’ve told us. She would’ve.

“Constantin.” Beau said the name slowly, tasting it. Remembering. “I know that name. Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

Coco stiffened at his brash words, but Constantin merely chuckled. Ruffling her hair, he gently disentangled himself from her arms. “My reputation precedes me.”

“You’re Le Cœur Brisé?” I asked in disbelief. “The Broken Heart?”

His dark eyes glinted. “The irony is not lost on me, I assure you.”

“But you aren’t . . . you aren’t the Constantin. You’re not him.” When he simply stared at me, I exhaled a harsh breath and looked at Coco, unable to articulate the sudden, painful flare of emotion in my chest. She hadn’t told us. She’d . . . withheld information. She hadn’t lied—not exactly—but she hadn’t told the truth either. It felt like a betrayal.

“Right.” Shaking my head, I tried to refocus. “How?”

“Who cares?” Beau muttered, near indiscernible.

Constantin extended his arms. “I am cursed eternal, huntsman, because I yearned for more.”