Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove #1) - Shelby Mahurin Page 0,26

assures me the townhouse was surrounded.”

I swallowed hard. There was that word again. Thief—not witch. Hope fluttered in my stomach. I glanced at the copper-haired Chasseur, but his face revealed nothing.

“My . . . my friend helped me,” I lied.

He raised a brow. “Your friend, the witch.”

Dread snaked down my spine. But Coco was miles away now—safe and hidden within La Forêt des Yeux. The Forest of Eyes. The Chasseurs would never be able to track her there. Even if they did, her coven would protect her.

I maintained careful eye contact, careful not to twitch or fidget or otherwise give myself away. “She is a witch, yes.”

“How?”

“How is she a witch?” Though I knew I shouldn’t bait him, I also couldn’t help it. “I believe when a witch and a man love each other very much—”

He struck me across the face. The slap echoed in the silence of the empty auditorium. Somehow, the audience had been cleared away as quickly as the crew. Clutching my cheek, I glared at him in silent fury. The Chasseur shifted uncomfortably beside me.

“You disgusting child.” The Archbishop’s eyes bulged alarmingly. “How did it help you escape?”

“I will not betray her secrets.”

“You dare to conceal information?”

A knock sounded from stage right, and a constable stepped forward. “Your Holiness, a crowd has formed outside. Several of the attendants and crew—they refuse to leave until they learn the fate of the girl and Captain Diggory. They are beginning to attract . . . attention.”

“We will be along shortly.” The Archbishop straightened and adjusted his choral robes, taking a deep breath. The constable bowed and ducked outside once more.

He returned his attention to me. A long moment of silence passed as we glared at each other. “What am I going to do with you?”

I dared not speak again. My face could only handle so much.

“You are a criminal who consorts with demons. You have publicly framed a Chasseur for assault, among . . . other things.” His lip curled, and he regarded me with palpable disgust. I tried and failed to ignore the shame churning in my stomach. It’d been an accident. I hadn’t framed him intentionally. And yet . . . if the audience’s misapprehension helped me escape the stake . . .

I’d never claimed to be honorable.

“Captain Diggory’s reputation will be ruined,” the Archbishop continued. “I will be forced to relieve him of his duties, lest the Chasseurs’ holiness be questioned. Lest my holiness be questioned.” His eyes burned into mine. I arranged my features into a contrite expression, lest his fist get twitchy again. Appeased by my repentance, he began to pace. “What am I going to do with you? What am I going to do?”

Though I clearly repulsed him, his steely eyes kept drifting back to me. Like a moth drawn to flame. They roved my face as if searching for something, lingering on my eyes, my nose, my mouth. My throat.

To my dismay, I realized the ribbon had slipped during my scuffle with the Chasseur. I hastily tightened it. The Archbishop’s mouth pursed, and he resumed staring at me.

It took all my willpower not to roll my eyes at his absurd inner struggle. I wasn’t going to prison today, and I wasn’t going to the stake, either. For whatever reason, the Archbishop and his pet had decided I wasn’t a witch. I certainly wasn’t going to question their oversight.

But the question remained . . . what did the Archbishop want? Because he definitely wanted something. The hunger in his eyes was unmistakable, and the sooner I figured it out, the sooner I could use it to my advantage. It took several seconds before I realized he’d continued his monologue.

“. . . thanks to your little sleight of hand.” He spun on his heel to face me, a peculiar sort of triumph in his expression. “Perhaps a mutually beneficial arrangement can be made.”

He paused, looking between us expectantly.

“I’m listening,” I muttered. The Chasseur nodded stiffly.

“Excellent. It’s quite simple, really—marriage.”

I stared at him, mouth falling open.

He chuckled, but the sound was without mirth. “As your wife, Reid, this distasteful creature would belong to you. You would’ve had every right to pursue her, to discipline her, especially after her indiscretions last night. It would have been expected. Necessary, even. There would have been no crime committed, no impurity to disparage. You would remain a Chasseur.”

I laughed. It came out a strangled, desperate sound. “I’m not marrying anyone.”

The Archbishop didn’t share my laughter. “You will if you