“Lie down,” Rachelle whispered, and eased her down to lie with her head in Rachelle’s lap.

“She was braver than some, when she was marked,” said Erec. “I think she’ll do well as one of us. Make sure she kills somebody right away tomorrow—there’s no telling what our lord’s return will do to the mark—and if she’s reluctant, help her along as I did for you.”

“I’m going to kill you,” said Rachelle, her voice low and rough.

“When darkness has fallen and our lord rules all the world, you will thank me for preserving your friend, my lady.” She felt him press a kiss to the back of her head. “Until tomorrow,” he said, and then he was gone.

“Don’t go,” Amélie whispered. “It hurts.”

“I know,” said Rachelle. “I’m sorry. I know.”

Amélie clung to Rachelle’s fingers, and she squeezed back. If she hadn’t let Amélie befriend her—if she hadn’t let her come to the Château—none of this would ever have happened.

“I’m sorry,” Rachelle said again, when the delirium got worse and Amélie started whimpering. “I’m sorry.”

All she could think, all night through, was: Erec will die for this.

28

A little after dawn, Amélie finally fell all the way asleep. Rachelle gently eased her off her lap and onto the ground, then smoothed her hair out of her face. The mark squatted atop Amélie’s cheek like a big black spider.

Rachelle had been angry when she found out what they did to Armand. But she’d always known him as part of her world. When she thought he was a liar and when she knew he was a martyr, he’d always been somebody who belonged in this tangle of death and shadows and terrible prices.

Amélie was a simple human girl who’d been kind and brave enough to befriend a bloodbound. And for that she was going to become one of them. She’d talked so happily of how her art made her feel that she was pleasing God, and now she would have to become a murderer or die. Rachelle’s throat closed up in fury.

Her eyes felt gritty and swollen. There was a pitcher in a corner of the room; she splashed water on her eyes, then realized that her face was still smeared with the cosmetics she had worn to dine with Erec and the King. Her stomach twisted, and she scrubbed furiously until her face felt clean.

She buckled on her sword. She checked all her knives.

And then she went to kill Erec.

She didn’t know where he was, but that didn’t matter. She simply followed the red string, and it led her through the passages of the Château, down to the practice room for the guards. She heard laughter, and the clash of steel on steel. She walked through the door, and there was Erec. He had just finished sparring against two guardsmen at once, and now he was laughing and looking smug as he clapped them on the shoulders.

“Erec d’Anjou.” Her voice ripped out of her, loud and clear.

His eyes met hers and he bowed slightly. “My lady. Did you like your present?”

He knew she was angry. He found it amusing. For the first time, she didn’t care. Her feet carried her across the wide space of the practice room; she heard her boots thud against the floor, but she felt like she was floating.

“Erec d’Anjou,” she said as she got closer. Her fingers found the ruby’s golden chain and she ripped it off her neck. “I officially resign as your mistress.” The ruby tinkled as it bounced off the floor. “And I challenge you to a duel. You destroyed my dearest friend, and I demand satisfaction.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that how it is?”

She drew her sword. “You can defend yourself. Or you can stand still as I run you through. Three. Two.”

His sword whispered as he whipped it from the sheath. “One.” He saluted. “You break my heart, lady.”

She lunged.

Erec countered her with the same unholy speed and grace he always had. But she was no longer stumbling with fear or anticipated humiliation. Her sword met his, swirled it aside, plunged toward him. He had to give ground. Then he attacked again, and nearly touched her; she dropped to the ground, rolled, and came up with a knife that she flung at his back.

He whirled, and his sword lashed out in time to fling it aside. “That’s cheating, my lady.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t care. She pulled out one of her longer knives and attacked again, two-handed. Their swords whirled and clattered against each other, and then her knife snaked forward and sliced open his cheek.

“One point,” she said.

The grin was gone from Erec’s face. He pulled out his own dagger now, and for a few moments they circled each other. Then he attacked again.

She matched him. It was like breathing. Like dancing, and now that she had found the rhythm, she didn’t know how she hadn’t done it before. Her heart pounded. Her body sang. It felt like the Forest was unfolding inside her, trees sprouting and reaching upward into the night, and the hunt was running through her, the wolf chasing the deer and the hound breaking the rabbit in its jaws.

Her sword stabbed into his shoulder. “Two points,” she said, a wild grin tugging at her mouth, and she understood. This was why he’d always been better. He’d always been the more ruthless. Feed the Forest inside you with blood, and it would feed you in return.

Now she was ready to shed all the blood in the world.

The only sound was their ragged breathing, the thump of their feet, the clash of their swords. Erec managed to get a slice across her cheek, but then she was in close and she rammed her knife into his side.

“Three points,” she said, and wrenched the knife free.

Erec grunted, stumbling back a step. “And yet,” he snarled, “I’m not dead yet. You’ll have to try harder, lady.”

Rachelle twirled her knife. “Come at me, then.”

She could see phantom trees around her. Her body was made of light, her blood was made of fire. The air was wine in her throat. And that was when she realized: she was turning into a forestborn. Right here, right now.

It felt glorious.

Erec attacked. But the duel had changed. He was angry now, and desperate. He was starting to feel afraid. And she knew that she was going to win.

She sliced his face again. And his hand. And his shoulder. He was going to die. She was going to cut him to pieces right here, she was going to lick the blood off her knife, and yes, then she would turn into a forestborn. She remembered swearing she would rather be dead and damned, but she didn’t care anymore. Amélie was going to die and the only thing that mattered was making Erec pay.