Page 73 of A Treachery of Swans

From the gut-wrenching, undiluted fear in the Dauphin’s eyes, the answer is clear.

There is a second where Aimé is swarmed from all sides. A mass of hands reaches out for him all at once, some aiming to seize him, others to pull him from harm’s way. He vanishes behind a throng of people.

Then a growl fills the room.

The world goes still.

Another growl. The sound scrapes along my bones, rattles my teeth.

For my nerves,Aimé had said.

But it was never about the nerves.

With a snarl, Aimé shoves back the throng of guards. The blow is impossibly powerful, so powerful that it sends several men flying off their feet and crashing into the white marble. Seeing the carnage, the prince whimpers, turning away. He tugs at his collar agitatedly, pulls the Couronne off his head as though it is constricting him. His chest rises and falls in panting breaths as hestruggles against something, something within himself.

Suddenly his spine stiffens.

The Regent whips around, facing the crowd. “Out,” he roars. “Everyoneout!”

Then Aimétransforms.

It happens in the blink of an eye, but that does not make it any less brutal. His body jerks and spasms, sending him crashing onto all fours. His spine arches, vertebrae expanding until they seem about to pop through his thinning skin. His rib cage balloons, his limbs bending at unnatural angles. An agonized scream pulls his mouth open, exposing a wolf’s set of canines, his gums dripping golden blood. The muscles of his face tremble as his features stretch, yanking his lips into a rictus grin. Last come the boar tusks, slicing their way from between his lips in a gush of saliva and torn flesh.

Aimé-Victor Augier is gone. In his place stands the beast.

And between its feet lies the Couronne du Roi.

Beast-Aimé roars. Any noblesse that weren’t already running turn on their heels and scramble for the door, pushing one another heedlessly. Regnault grabs me and pulls me against himself. He brings us both against the chapel wall, out of the way of the human stampede. In front of us, women trip over the hems of their dresses and men lose their shoes. A few guards attempt to get control over the crowd, to no avail. I think I hear Marie’s cry of alarm over it all, but I can’t see her.

Somewhere to my left, a musket goes off. Golden blood gushes from the beast’s shoulder as the shot meets its flesh. The creature roars and charges, only to be stopped by a row of bristling bayonets from the regrouping guardsmen.

“Aimé!” Marie cries, trying to push her way between two guards to get to the beast. “Don’t hurt him!”

“The Couronne,” Regnault says into my ear, a simple order. I nod curtly. Then I’m moving, dodging my way through the ebbing tide of noblesse. The snarling beast has backed up, momentarily cornered, against the feet of Morgane, though I doubt it will last. The Couronne lies between the monster and the guards. I need to get their attention away from it. But that means taking their attention off the bloodthirsty beast they’re trying to contain.

It’s a risk I have to take.

I skid to a stop in the middle of the aisle, put my fingers to my mouth, and wolf-whistle.

The sound is loud and sudden enough to turn the attention of at least half the guards toward me. They realize their mistake too late—the momentary distraction allows the beast to bat away their muskets, sending the weapons skittering across the floor. Then it plows through the guards, grabbing one of them in its jaws as it goes, tossing him aside like a rag doll. The man’s strangled cry cuts off in a gurgle when he hits the ground. Blood splatters the white marble.

Then the beast is charging directly toward me. I pull out Buttons and stand my ground. Fueled by a moment of ridiculous sentiment, I try to meet its eyes to see if I can trigger even a flicker of recognition. There is nothing. Its pupils are slitted with hatred. The beast snarls, saliva dripping from its torn lips—it reeks of sour magic and fresh viscera.

I wait until the last moment to roll aside. The movement dislodges the mask on my face, sending it clattering to the ground as I come back up on my feet. As I expected, the beast doesn’t seem particularly intent on killing me specifically—once I am out of the way, it simply continues its rampage, reaching the chapel’s double doors. It slams its way through, crushing an elderly nobleman as it goes.

“After it!” the Regent commands, but most of the guards are already in pursuit. I spot Damien among them, his jaw set in determination. Only a handful of guards remains—I recognize Armand, pushing Marie behind himself. They remain by the altar, both panting, both flecked in blood, though none of it appears to be theirs. A disembodied arm lies admist the diamond flowers, dripping gore, as though it is meant to be part of the arrangement. The Regent stares down at it with his lip curled. Familiar footsteps behind me alert me to Regnault’s approach.

But none of that matters to me. Because at my feet, kicked there by the beast’s claws during its rampage, gleams the Couronne du Roi.

I bend to pick it up, half expecting it to vanish before my eyes: a figment of my imagination, a deluded mirage. But no. My touch meets smooth, cool gold. I pause—I’d expected some great burst of breathtaking magic to fill me, but I feel nothing at all. Then, as I run the crown through my hands, as I feel the facets of each jewel placed along its circumference, a gentle thrum passes through my limbs. It feels less like a blaze of power and more like the breaths of a slumbering bird. Flighty. Mesmerizing.

“Odile.” My father’s voice reaches me as if through a haze. “Give it here.”

I turn to look at him, not moving from my position. He looms over me, his arm extended toward the Couronne, his hand open and expectant. He is silhouetted against the window—I can’t make out his features beyond the dark hollows of his eyes. His cloak seems to swallow light.

I don’t know why, but I flinch away from him, bringing the Couronne to my chest protectively.

“Odile.” The tenderness in Marie’s voice reaches for my heart like a lover’s hand. I move my attention away from my father to watch Marie make her careful way down the altar steps, the bloodsmearing over her hem. Her mantle is torn, shedding feathers with every step. “Don’t do it, please.”

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