Smoothing her skirts, Madame Labelle ignored him completely. “Indeed, I’m rather surprised you’re still in the magical black market at all. You do have another daughter, don’t you?” When he didn’t answer, her smile grew small and cruel. Triumphant. “The witches are vicious. If they learn you possess the ring, their wrath on your remaining family will be . . . unpleasant.”
Face purpling, he took a step toward her. “I do not appreciate your implication.”
“Then appreciate my threat, monsieur. Do not cross me, or it will be the last thing you ever do.”
Smothering a snort, I glanced again at Coco, who now shook with silent laughter. Babette glared at us. Magical rings aside, this conversation might’ve been worth forty couronnes. Even the theater paled in comparison to these melodramatics.
“Now, tell me,” Madame Labelle purred, “do you have another buyer?”
“Putain.” He glared at her for several long seconds before grudgingly shaking his head. “No, I do not have another buyer. I’ve spent months renouncing all ties with my former contacts—purging all inventory—yet this ring . . .” He swallowed hard, and the heat in his expression flickered out. “I fear to speak of it to anyone, lest the demons discover I have it.”
“You were unwise to tout any of their items.”
Tremblay didn’t answer. His eyes remained distant, haunted, as if he were seeing something we couldn’t. My throat constricted inexplicably. Oblivious to his torment, Madame Labelle continued ruthlessly. “If you hadn’t, perhaps dear Filippa would still be with us—”
His head snapped up at his daughter’s name, and his eyes—no longer haunted—glinted with fierce purpose. “I will see the demons burn for what they did to her.”
“How foolish of you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I make it my business to know the business of my enemies, monsieur.” She rose gracefully to her feet, and he stumbled back a half step. “As they are now also your enemies, I must offer a piece of advice: ’tis dangerous to meddle in the affairs of witches. Forget your vengeance. Forget everything you’ve learned about this world of shadows and magic. You are wildly outmatched and woefully inadequate in the face of these women. Death is the kindest of their torments—a gift bestowed only to those who have earned it. One would think you’d have learned that with dear Filippa.”
His mouth twisted, and he straightened to his full height, spluttering angrily. Madame Labelle still loomed over him by several inches. “Y-You cross the line.”
Madame Labelle didn’t shrink away from him. Instead, she ran a hand down the bodice of her gown, utterly unfazed, and withdrew a fan from the folds of her skirt. A knife peeked out from its spine.
“I see the pleasantries are over. Right, then. Let us get down to business.” Spreading the device in a single flourish, she fanned it between them. Tremblay eyed the knife point warily and conceded a step. “If you wish me to relieve you of the ring, I will do so here and now—for five thousand gold couronnes less than your asking price.”
An odd choking noise escaped his throat. “You’re mad—”
“If not,” she continued, voice hardening, “you will leave this place with a noose around your daughter’s neck. Her name is Célie, yes? La Dame des Sorcières will delight in draining her youth, in drinking the glow from her skin, the gleam from her hair. She will be unrecognizable by the time the witches finish with her. Empty. Broken. Just like Filippa.”
“You—you—” Tremblay’s eyes bulged, and a vein appeared on his shiny forehead. “Fille de pute! You cannot do this to me. You cannot—”
“Come now, monsieur, I do not have all day. The prince has returned from Amandine, and I do not want to miss the festivities.”
His chin jutted obstinately. “I—I do not have it with me.”
Damn it. Disappointment crashed through me, bitter and sharp. Coco muttered a curse.
“I do not believe you.” Striding to the window across the room, Madame Labelle peered down. “Ah, Monsieur Tremblay, how could a gentleman such as yourself leave your daughter to wait outside a brothel? Such easy prey.”
Sweating profusely now, Tremblay hastened to turn out his pockets. “I swear I don’t have it! Look, look!” I pressed my face closer as he shoved the contents of his pockets toward her: an embroidered hand cloth, a silver pocket watch, and a fistful of copper couronnes. But no ring. “Please, leave my daughter alone! She is not involved in this!”
He made such a pitiful sight that I might’ve felt sorry for him—if he hadn’t just dashed all my plans. As it were, however, the sight of his trembling limbs and ashen face filled me with vindictive pleasure.
Madame Labelle seemed to share my sentiment. She sighed theatrically, dropping her hand from the window, and—curiously—turned to look directly at the portrait I stood behind. Tumbling backward, I landed squarely on my ass and bit back a curse.
“What is it?” Coco whispered, crouching beside me. Babette released the button with a frown.
“Shhhh!” I waved my hands wildly, motioning toward the parlor. I think—I mouthed the words, not daring to speak—she saw me.
Coco’s eyes flew open in alarm.
We all froze as her voice drifted closer, muted but audible through the thin wall. “Pray tell me, monsieur . . . where is it, then?”
Holy hell. Coco and I locked eyes incredulously. Though I didn’t dare return to the portrait, I pressed closer to the wall, breath hot and uncomfortable against my own face. Answer her, I pleaded silently. Tell us.
Miraculously, Tremblay obliged, his vehement reply more dulcet than the sweetest of music. “It’s locked away in my townhouse, you salope ignorante—”
“That will do, Monsieur Tremblay.” As their parlor door clicked open, I could almost see her smile. It matched my own. “I hope for your daughter’s sake you aren’t lying. I will arrive at your townhouse at dawn with your coin. Do not keep me waiting.”
The Chasseur
Lou
“I’m listening.”
Sitting in the crowded patisserie, Bas lifted a spoonful of chocolat chaud to his lips, careful not to spill a drop on his lace cravat. I resisted the urge to flick a bit of mine at him. For what we had planned, we needed him in a good mood.
No one could swindle an aristocrat like Bas could.
“It’s like this,” I said, pointing my spoon at him, “you can pocket everything else in Tremblay’s vault as payment, but the ring is ours.”
He leaned forward, dark eyes settling on my lips. When I irritably brushed the chocolat from my mustache, he grinned. “Ah, yes. A magic ring. I have to admit I’m surprised you’re interested in such an object. I thought you’d renounced all magic?”
“The ring is different.”
His eyes found my lips once more. “Of course it is.”
“Bas.” I snapped my fingers in front of his face pointedly. “Focus, please. This is important.”
Once, upon arriving in Cesarine, I’d thought Bas quite handsome. Handsome enough to court. Certainly handsome enough to kiss. From across the cramped table, I eyed the dark line of his jaw. There was still a small scar there—just below his ear, hiding in the shadow of his facial hair—where I’d bitten him during one of our more passionate nights.