Two Named Wrath and Envy
Reid
The clashes of swords filled the training yard. Late-morning sun bore down on us—chasing away the autumn chill—and sweat poured from my forehead. Unlike the other Chasseurs, I hadn’t discarded my shirt. It clung to my chest, wet fabric chafing my skin. Punishing me.
I’d let another witch escape, too distracted with the freckled thief to realize a demon had been waiting inside. Célie had been devastated. She hadn’t been able to look at me when her father finally steered her inside. Heat washed over me at the memory. Another failure.
Jean Luc had been the first to discard his shirt. We’d been sparring for hours, and his brown skin glistened with sweat. Welts covered his chest and arms—one for every time he’d opened his mouth. “Still thinking about your witches, Captain? Or perhaps Mademoiselle Tremblay?”
I smashed my wooden sword into his arm in response. Blocked his counterstrike and elbowed him in the stomach. Hard. Two more welts joined the others. I hoped they’d bruise.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Doubling over to clutch his stomach, he still managed to smirk up at me. I obviously hadn’t hit him hard enough. “I wouldn’t worry. Everyone will forget the townhouse fiasco soon.”
I clenched my sword until my knuckles turned white. A tic started in my jaw. It wouldn’t do to attack my oldest friend. Even if that friend was a miserable little—
“You did save the royal family, after all.” He straightened, still clutching his side, and grinned wider. “To be fair, you also humiliated yourself with that witch. I can’t say I understand it. Fatherhood isn’t particularly my taste—but the thief last night? Now she was a pretty little thing—”
I lunged forward, but he blocked my advance, laughing and punching my shoulder. “Peace, Reid. You know I jest.”
His jests had grown less funny since my promotion.
Jean Luc had arrived on the church’s doorstep when we were three. Every memory I had included him in some form or another. Ours had been a joint childhood. We’d shared the same bedroom. The same acquaintances. The same anger.
Our respect had also once been mutual. But that was before.
I stepped away, and he made a show of wiping my sweat on his pants. A few of our brethren laughed. They stopped abruptly at my expression. “Every jest holds truth.”
He inclined his head, still grinning. Pale green eyes missing nothing. “Perhaps . . . but does our Lord not command us to lay aside falsehood?” He didn’t pause for me to answer. He never did. “‘Speak truth, each one of you,’ he says, ‘for we are members of one another.’”
“I know the scripture.”
“Then why silence my truth?”
“You talk too much.”
He laughed harder, opening his mouth to dazzle us with his wit once more, but Ansel interrupted, breathing heavily. Sweat matted his unruly hair, and blood flushed his cheeks. “Just because something can be said doesn’t mean it should. Besides,” he said, risking a glance at me. “Reid wasn’t the only one at the parade yesterday. Or the townhouse.”
I stared at the ground resolutely. Ansel should’ve known better than to intervene. Jean Luc surveyed the two of us with unabashed interest, sticking his sword in the ground and leaning against it. Running his fingers through his beard. “Yes, but he seems to be taking it particularly hard, doesn’t he?”
“Someone ought to.” The words left my mouth before I could stop them. I ground my teeth and turned away before I could do or say anything else I’d regret.
“Ah.” Jean Luc’s eyes lit up, and he straightened eagerly, sword and beard forgotten. “There’s the rub, isn’t it? You disappointed the Archbishop. Or was it Célie?”
One.
Two.
Three.
Ansel looked between us nervously. “We all did.”
“Perhaps.” Jean Luc’s smile vanished, and his sharp eyes glinted with an emotion I wouldn’t name. “Yet Reid alone is our captain. Reid alone enjoys the privileges of the title. Perhaps it is fair and just for Reid alone to bear the consequences.”
I threw my sword on the rack.
Four.
Five.
Six.
I forced a deep breath, willing the anger in my chest to dissipate. The muscle in my jaw still twitched.
Seven.
You are in control. The Archbishop’s voice drifted back to me from childhood. This anger cannot govern you, Reid. Breathe deeply. Count to ten. Master yourself.
I complied. Slowly, surely, the tension in my shoulders eased. The heat on my face cooled. My breath came easier. I clasped Jean Luc’s shoulder, and his smile faltered. “You’re right, Jean. It was my fault. I take full responsibility.”
Before he could respond, the Archbishop stepped into the training yard. His steely eyes found mine, and I immediately fisted my hand over my heart and bowed. The others followed.
The Archbishop inclined his head in response. “As you were, Chasseurs.” We rose as one. When he motioned for me to come closer, Jean Luc’s frown deepened. “Word has spread throughout the Tower of your foul mood this morning, Captain Diggory.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
He waved a hand. “Apologize not. Your toil is not in vain. We shall catch the witches, and we shall burn their pestilence from the earth.” He frowned slightly. “Last night was not your fault.” Jean Luc’s eyes flashed, but the Archbishop didn’t notice. “I am required to attend a matinee performance this morning with one of the king’s foreign dignitaries. Though I do not condone theater—for it is a vile practice befitting only vagrants and scoundrels—you will accompany me.”
I wiped the sweat from my forehead. “Sir—”
“It wasn’t a request. Wash up. Be ready to leave within the hour.”
“Yes, sir.”
The unnamed emotion in Jean Luc’s eyes bored into my back as I followed the Archbishop inside. It was only later—sitting in the carriage outside Soleil et Lune—that I allowed myself to name it. Allowed myself to feel the bitter sting of regret.
Our respect had once been mutual. But that was before the envy.
A Mutually Beneficial Arrangement
Lou
By the time I woke the next morning, dusty rays of sunlight shone through the attic window. I blinked slowly, lost in the pleasant moment between sleeping and waking where there is no memory. But my subconscious chased me. Noises reverberated from the theater below as cast and crew called to one another, and excited voices drifted in from the window. I frowned, still clinging to the remnants of sleep.
The theater was rather noisy this morning.
I lurched upright. Soleil et Lune performed a matinee every Saturday. How could I have forgotten?
My face gave a particularly painful throb as I threw myself down on our bed. Oh, right—that’s how. My nose had been smashed to bits, and I’d been forced to flee for my life.
The noise downstairs heightened as the overture began.
I groaned. Now I’d be stuck here until the performance was over, and I desperately needed to pee. Usually, it wasn’t a problem to sneak downstairs to the toilet before the cast and crew arrived, but I’d overslept. Climbing to my feet, wincing at the dull pain in my back, I assessed the damage quickly. My nose was definitely broken, and my fingers had swollen to twice their size overnight. But I wore a fine enough dress to pass by the patrons unnoticed . . . except for the bloodstains. I licked my good fingers and scrubbed at the stains furiously, but the fabric remained irrevocably red.