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Aubert’s gaze narrowed on Isobella. No. She had not betrayed them. Not one word out of Isobella’s mouth had been a lie, and if Aubert had used his nose, he would have to know that.

“We need to see what we are up against.” Instinct told him it was important, and Edmond always trusted his instincts.

They waited, hidden in the shadows. They did not have to wait long before two score of armored chevaliers, with the crest of blue with a white lion, rode up to the cottage. It was indeed House Allard. Not that he had cause to doubt Remi, but the implications were too grave to make a mistake.

At the front, his black robes billowing in the breeze and his back ramrod straight, was Eveque Faucher. The eveque dismounted, grimacing at the humble cottage. He strode forward, and without preamble, without so much as a knock on the door, he pushed his way in. Edmond gritted his teeth.

Barely a moment had passed before Faucher stormed out, his baby-faced countenance twisted. His horse flinched as he snatched up the reins. “Destroy it. Burn it.”

Spittle flecked Faucher’s mouth, and his eyes blazed with an unholy rage that chilled Edmond to the bone.

“I want every filthy thing in this wretched hut reduced to ash!”

A chevalier jumped to do Faucher’s bidding, yelling out orders. Men dismounted and entered the cottage. Edmond closed his eyes as mugs and plates were smashed, the table crashed, its worn timbers cracking as it hit the floor, the clang of a pot reverberating as it hit the wall… Constance would not have been coming back here. Not once D’Artagnon claimed her as his mate. But it was still her home, her possessions.

Faucher jerked his horse away from the cottage toward a small cairn of rocks, a place where the earth had sunk. A grave. A bunch of dead daisies lay scattered across the cairn. Whoever was buried there had meant something to Constance.

Faucher called another chevalier over. “Dig this up and burn the remains.”

A growl rumbled in Aubert’s chest, and he reached for his sword. Edmond gripped his brother’s arm, staying him. He did not like it any more than Aubert, but as difficult as it was to stand by and do nothing as Faucher desecrated a grave, they must. But if Gaharet or Lothair ever gave the word, Edmond would cut Faucher down without hesitation.

Renaud had been a scheming, conniving weasel, but Faucher… There was something wrong with him. Something malevolent. A dark hatred so deep even his baby face and ecclesiastical robes could not disguise it.

A plume of smoke rose from the hole in the cottage roof. Within moments, flames licked at the shutters, and once it caught in the straw roof, there was nothing stopping it. Faucher watched it burn, watched the men dig up the grave, a satisfied smile on his face.

Did Gaharet realize how mad this new eveque was? Did Lothair? Perhaps it was time to let them know.

Faucher’s smile vanished and his attention swiveled in their direction, his gaze sweeping over the forest. Edmond stilled. Aubert, too. Perhaps sensing his unease, Isobella’s hands tightened around his body.

Faucher raked his gaze past them again, pausing to look directly at them. There was no possibility of a human spotting them at this distance. Not in the shadows. Not with the sun in their eyes. Could it be Faucher was…a sensitive?

“Merde.”

An explosive whisper from Aubert’s lips. His brother had come to the same conclusion. Edmond had to agree with his brother’s sentiments. A sensitive. It was rare. Something their grand-père had once spoken of. A human capable of sensing them, beyond any instinctual response to the threat they posed. A knowing. An ability to feel the shift in the air, the thrum of power, the difference between them and humans. Witches too, anything that had abilities beyond that of ordinary humans. People like Constance and Isobella. It would explain why Faucher had had such success in his pursuit of witches, and it made him all the more dangerous.

It did not explain why he would use his talent in such a way. Why he would target those who were like himself. It was something to consider, for it might prove therein lay his weakness.

“Capitaine”—Faucher gave the trees another sweep of his gaze before mounting up—“we will find their trail again.” He pointed in their direction. “Start looking there.”

Several chevaliers turned their horses toward them. Oh, yes. Faucher was most definitely a sensitive.

Edmond would like nothing better than to relieve House Allard of a few of its chevaliers, perhaps rid them of Faucher, too, but two score of chevaliers could prove challenging. “Time to leave.”

They had Isobella and Remi to think of. Best to disappear. Fast. The forest was their territory. A few chevaliers would not pose a problem. Faucher, with his ability to sense them, might be a little harder to shake.