He stumbled back and raised his hand, clenching it around the thread. She felt the answering burn around her finger, but it was barely painful.

“That’s not enough anymore,” she said. “You’ll have to fight me if you want to win.”

She could see it in his face when he decided to stake everything on a final lunge. She ran him through. Then she pulled her sword out again. He was wavering on his feet; she kicked him to the ground, knelt over him, and pressed her sword to his throat.

He was a forestborn, and he would heal from all the wounds she had given him. But he wouldn’t heal once she had cut off his head.

“Any final words, d’Anjou?”

He spat out blood and said, “You might . . . want to look around.”

She looked up. A few paces away stood two forestborn, one of them the pasty-faced male she had seen last night. But now she could see past the human disguises, to the inhuman faces burning with terrifying power.

And between them they held Armand.

“Let him go,” said the forestborn who had been with them last night. “Or this one dies.”

Last night, that would have been enough to control her.

She grinned. “Go ahead. He already chose to be a martyr.”

“Rachelle.” Armand’s voice was quiet, but it carried across the room and clenched at her heart. “Please stop.”

“He marked Amélie as a bloodbound. You know what that means. And now you want me to spare him?”

“There must be fifty forestborn in the Château right now. You kill him, they kill you, and then there’s nobody left to stop them.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “If Amélie isn’t part of this world, I don’t see the point in saving it.”

“You don’t mean that,” said Armand. “You know that you have always wanted to save everyone. And killing him won’t save anyone. It’s just murderous revenge.”

“I’ve been a murderer for three years,” she snarled. “And now I’m a monster. Can’t you see I’m turning into a forestborn right now?”

Shadowy trees were sprouting up from the floor around her, spreading out branches and gnarling up roots. She could feel her hair drifting in the phantom wind.

“Yes,” said Armand.

“You know what that means. When people become forestborn, they lose their hearts. They lose their souls.”

Her head was starting to pound. Her blood was burning. She wouldn’t be strong for much longer; soon the change would overtake her.

“It doesn’t matter what I do now,” she said. “I’ll forget how to love in an hour. I will never save anyone again, do you understand?”

“I don’t believe that,” said Armand. “I don’t believe you don’t have a choice.”

“There are never any choices in the Forest.”

“Rachelle.” He met her eyes. “I lit a candle for you in the Lady Chapel, before the statue of the Lady of Snows. So you can’t possibly lose yourself.”

She nearly snarled, Do you think one prayer is all it would take to save me? But then she realized that he was still looking at her with terrifying intensity.

Armand knew that hearing about his prayers wouldn’t change her mind. And there was no reason to be so specific about where he had lit a candle—

Unless he was trying to tell her where he had hidden Joyeuse.

He was the worst fool in all creation. He knew she was turning into a forestborn. He knew that if the forestborn could get hold of Joyeuse, they would destroy it, and then there would be no more hope of stopping the Devourer, not ever. And he was wagering everything on the chance that she would do what no forestborn had ever done and keep her soul.

It wasn’t just a wager. It was a bribe, threat, and prayer all at once. If she wanted revenge, if she wanted to save anyone, if she wanted to save her own soul, then she couldn’t refuse a chance at Joyeuse. He was the most ruthlessly clever fool in all creation, and she had never loved him so much.

“Maybe you’ll forget,” Armand went on. “Tonight I’ll become the Devourer, most likely, and God alone knows how much of my soul will be left. But you don’t have to lose yourself now. Do you think Amélie would thank you for it?”

Amélie wouldn’t thank her for becoming a forestborn either. But as soon as she thought of Amélie, she remembered her painting Rachelle’s face into an artwork and saying, The question is, are you brave enough?

And she realized that she wasn’t going to kill Erec. Not while Armand was watching her and wagering everything on her. And not while the memory of Amélie was still in her heart.

She threw aside her sword. She stood up, because a thousand leaves were rustling against her skin, and she knew that she didn’t have much longer. She wanted to say good-bye to Armand. She wanted to tell him that she loved him while it still had a chance of being true.

But she’d used up all her strength laying down the sword. The leaves on her skin caught fire, and then her legs gave out.

“Rachelle!” Armand shouted, and she thought, I love you. I love you. I will try.

The last thing she saw was Erec leaning over her. “Sweet dreams, my lady. Your human heart has beat its last.”

29

Rachelle was in the dead forest, walking toward the cottage thatched with bones.

Her eyes burned and stung with tears. Her throat ached like she had been screaming. She knew there was a reason she had fought to avoid this house, but her heart was a lump of meat in her chest and her agony had all been spent.

This is all, she thought as she stepped forward. This is all.

She raised her hand; she saw memories peeling away from it in translucent, gauze-like little scraps that fluttered away in the breeze. She could feel them sloughing off her hands, off her face; they were fluttering in her hair and tearing free.

Her foot landed on the wooden doorstep. The wood shifted with a creak, and she knew that the sound should send a bolt of terror through her, but there were no feelings left in her.

The door handle was cold beneath her hand.

The door swung open.

Inside was a bare wooden room spattered with blood. Rachelle saw herself lying dead at the center, bleeding from wound after wound.

And she saw herself kneeling over the body with a knife.

The other Rachelle raised her head, and now at last her heart was able to thud with terror again, but it was too late, too late, too late—

“You came home at last,” said her other self. She rose and gripped Rachelle’s wrists, and there was nothing but her dark eyes and cold and dark and cold.