“Mallory… what did you do?”
“There may have been a sedative in your wine,” she confessed.“I actually got the idea from Bastien himself. Poisoned his wives before killing them, remember?” Realizing how awful that sounded, she hurried to add, “Not that I’m planning to kill you, I just—”
She didn’t manage to finish before Armand collapsed into her arms.
CHAPTER FORTY
“That took long enough,” Mallory grunted, lowering Armand’s body to the ground.
“Sorry,” said Fitcher as he and Constantino emerged from behind a wall of brambles. “He didn’t drink much during the ceremony, otherwise it would have affected him sooner.”
“Let’s be grateful he didn’t try to kill you,” said Constantino. “As soon as this so-called Le Bleu knows what we’re up to, things will get a lot more complicated.”
Fitcher’s expression was irate. “You were supposed to keep at least three paces between you two so Constantino could shoot him if he attacked you.”
“Don’t you see?” said Constantino. “It was impossible for her to resist his magnetic allure. At times I was sure I could see bolts of lightning flash between your very souls! I am most impressed, bellissima.” Constantino nudged Mallory with his elbow. “Youplay the icy part well, but I see now there is a fire burning deep. It just required the right lover to stoke the flame.”
“Please stop talking,” said Mallory, “or I will vomit ceremonial wine all over your fancy boots.”
Constantino took a step back, his grin teasing. “I am not fooled. You have a romantic’s soul, no matter how you try to hide it.”
She shot him a scathing look, before addressing Fitcher. “Where is my sister?”
“Keeping an eye on the staff. They each took a third glass when offered. Hopefully they made it back to the house before falling unconscious.” He gave a sullen nod at Armand. “Shall we?”
Mallory walked ahead, carrying Armand’s feet while Fitcher and Constantino—already tired from clearing fallen tree branches earlier—took turns at his head and shoulders.
By the time they reached the chapel, deep among the gardens, Anaïs had worked herself into a frenzy.
“Oh, thank the gods,” she said, pulling Mallory into an embrace. “Did he try something?”
Mallory hesitated, unsure if confessing one’s innermost emotions counted astrying something. “No. He just wanted to talk. How are the others?”
“We weren’t even out of the forest before they passed out. I was able to find shelter for them under a pine tree.” She nervously chewed her pinkie nail. “I hope they won’t be too upset when they wake up.”
Inside the chapel, Anaïs had pushed the benches against the walls, leaving an open space in front of the altar where Mallory’s drawing portfolio was open to the page where they had writtenthe detailed notes about every type of spirit possession Gabrielle and Fitcher had ever heard of.
Anaïs had also sneaked a chair out of the house while Armand and the “acolytes” hunted monsters. The chair itself had been tucked away in a salon that apparently hadn’t been used in decades, and its damask fabric was frayed and moth-eaten.
As soon as they’d settled Armand’s unconscious form onto the chair, Fitcher set to work strapping down his arms and legs with the belts and ropes they’d scavenged while Gabrielle—still a barn swallow—hopped anxiously back and forth on the altar.
They had barely finished when Armand coughed, head lolling heavily to one side. His eyes opened into a squint, trying to focus as he peered around the chapel, finally landing on Mallory. Confusion drew across his features. With a stunted exhale, his head fell against the back of the seat. “Mal… what—” He frowned then and looked down at his arms, held tight against the chair. “What’s going on?”
“Congratulations!” said Constantino. “We are gathered here today to celebrate your exorcism.”
Two hours later, it was apparent that they had been overconfident. Fitcher claimed to be a scholar of all sorts of magic—dark, petty, god-given, fae, sorcery. Though he had no magic himself, he had been certain that between him, Gabrielle, and the sisters’ connection to Velos, they would quickly find a spell to break Bastien’s hold over Armand.
Fitcher had prepared for three different exorcism rituals, and they had worked diligently to follow his instructions down to the finest detail. They had burned hazel and pine branches. Draped carved runes over Armand’s neck. Anointed him with water that Fitcher insisted came straight from the delta of the Eptanie River, where Freydon was said to have bathed. They had collected blood from Armand’s fingers. Saliva from his mouth. Hair from his scalp. They had chanted and sung and burned candles and held hands and tossed so many different types of herbs at Armand’s feet that Mallory wasn’t sure if they were trying to purify him or prepare him for a stew.
Nothing worked. There was no noticeable change, other than Armand being a little damp and stiflingly aromatic. What Fitcher had assured her would be a simple, everyday exorcism was proving to be more complicated. Either that, or…
“Are yousurehe’s possessed?” Constantino asked, sitting on the altar and letting Gabrielle peck sunflower seeds from his palm.
“Either he’s possessed by a murderous ghost or he’s a murderer,” said Mallory. “For once in my life, I’m trying to be an optimist.”
“I appreciate your confidence in me,” Armand deadpanned.
Constantino gave Mallory a sympathetic look. “I believe in optimism, but, stellina… I do not think there is a ghost here.”
