Poison Priestess by Lana Popovic (some good books to read TXT) 📗

“Well, I will not lie and say that we are not badly broken, ma belle,” she whispers, tears spilling over her cheeks even as my own drip onto her hand. “But perhaps, with a great deal of luck and time, we might yet be mended. Perhaps even be made whole again.”

That is enough, more than enough, for me.

I push back from the table, half stumbling as I reach for her with blind yearning, elation flooding me to the bones when she allows me to wind my arms around her neck. The sweetness of her answering kiss, of the fragrance of her skin and her arms sliding around my waist, is worth all that I have left behind, and much more besides.

Her love is the greatest gift I have ever known, and a freedom freely given.

One that I need not chase down with bloody tooth and claw.

When we pull back from each other, she traces her fingers down my cheek.

“And can you truly give it all up?” she asks, searching my eyes. “I know you have become accustomed to the finery, all the luxurious trappings that come with being the sorceress La Voisin. Will some modest new life with me, in whatever hamlet or backwoods we find ourselves, ever be enough? How can I trust that you will not change your mind? That you will not throw me over for the king himself?”

“So if it should work, what we spoke of … would you go, too?” I ask her, nearly trembling with trepidation. “Would you truly come with me?”

“Bien sûr,” she says simply, tipping her forehead against mine. “Where else would I wish to be?”

“Then even I can learn from my mistakes, my love,” I murmur, drawing her close. “If you can be so generous as to love a murderess, then the least I can do is make myself worthy of your heart.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Phial and the Bite

I feel as if I cannot catch my breath the entire week before the final Messe.

Nightmares plague me, of all sinister variations. Sometimes I dream that no matter what I do, the marquise dies in the end; all the dream deaths she suffers are the most awful sort, dreadful combinations of the ones I have inflicted with my poisons. Other times I die in her place, and the last thing I see before I burst awake, my heart pounding like a battering ram, are the clods of soil being tossed into my open grave. Black earth raining onto my cold, dead face.

This is made all the worse by the necessity of keeping Adam in the dark. Fortunately, he is already baffled enough by my abrupt coolness, my utter lack of desire to allow him back into my bed, that personal communication between us has all but petered away. I could not begin to trust him with my plan, not when I know how fervently he wishes all this to pass without a hitch. Our final step to winning the favor of the king.

He would never understand how I could turn my back on all that we have been building and chasing together so assiduously.

And though I like to believe that he cares for me enough to not turn on me, I am well versed in Adam’s pragmatic nature, his steadfast devotion to his own interests above all else. No matter that he has guarded my back thus far, I cannot be wholly certain that he would not strive to curry favor by turning me in to the king. I do wish that I could give him a proper goodbye, for all the pleasure and understanding that we have shared between us. But there is no way to do so without arousing his suspicions.

Our partnership will have to end just as it begun, with trickery, deception, and mistrust. We were never meant for more than that, Adam and I.

So I say nothing to him, stewing instead in my own churning mess of fears, while Adam fairly scintillates with nervous energy. He insists on reviewing our steps again and again, though the entire Messe will follow the pattern of every other we have ever held—save for the very end, when I will place the coral snake instead of Alecto on the marquise’s chest as part of the sacrament. Once it bites her, Adam and I are both to kick up a dreadful ruckus, blaming the calamity on the marquise having fallen out of the devil’s favor. We have used my snakes in ritual many times, and none have ever bitten a participant. So its strike will indeed seem guided by some otherworldly power.

Adam is so singularly focused, so dedicated to the success of our endeavor, that I almost feel badly for him that all will not be going according to our plan.

The night of the Messe, I make my final preparations. I apply my cosmetics with an even more liberal hand than normal; once the time comes, they will disguise the healthy color of my lips and face. Then I tuck the poison I have prepared for myself into the neckline of my corset, nestling the phial that holds my hopes next to my heart.

Only then am I ready to begin the performance of my life.

When Adam and I enter the banquet hall, hand in hand, I am momentarily shocked by how many of the court have come to join our devil’s dance. More throng about the hall than we have ever hosted before, in vivacious little knots and clumps, chattering with each other in hushed tones. I see the Vicomte de Couserans, Madame Leferon, and the maréchale all clustered together near the Marquis de Cessac, who stands alone but meets my eyes with a knowing, complicit gaze.

We have invited everyone who has ever attended one of our Messes—the more witnesses to the marquise’s demise, the better. After all, if so many peers witness her death at something so