Warrior Witch (The Malediction Trilogy #3)(78)

“Likely,” I agreed. “But also, all setting Roland loose on one of the cities would accomplish is drawing me out to confront my brother, which would put his puppet king at risk. I think he’s keeping to his original plan.”

“Building an army,” Cécile said. “Stacking his cards, so that when it comes time for him to make his move, he can be assured of victory.”

“Which we are going to let him do,” I said, watching as Cécile’s eyes widened. “As it buys us time.” My attention drifted to the twins, neither of whom seemed to be listening. Vincent was staring off into the distance, and Victoria was watching her brother with a jaw so tight her teeth were likely in danger of cracking.

“What’s wrong?” I demanded. “Victoria?”

Her shoulders twitched. “Noth–” The lie stuck in her throat.

Cécile came around me, arm outstretched. “Vincent?”

“Leave him be!” Victoria knocked her hand away, and Cécile gasped, more in surprise than in pain. “But he’s better,” she whispered. “I used Tristan’s magic. The wound healed.”

“Vincent?” I felt Victoria’s magic burning with the heat of her distress, and I pushed Cécile behind me. “Vincent, answer me.”

He didn’t respond, didn’t even seem to hear. Brushing aside Victoria’s hand, I stepped in front of the friend who’d been like a brother to me. Who’d guarded my back, supported my plans, and made me laugh even in the moments when all seemed lost. “Look at me,” I said, and when he did not, I forced his chin down until his eyes met mine.

There was nothing in them.

Vincent was gone.





Chapter Forty-Four





Cécile





Never in my life had I felt like a greater failure.

I sat in the sled with the bound form of my enemy, wishing I could tear open the wound I’d so casually healed and watch him slowly bleed to death. To make him pay for what he’d done.

To make him pay for what I’d failed to fix.

Tristan ran on silent feet behind me, and the twins before, Vincent mindlessly following his sister’s guiding hand. Angoulême hadn’t just ended one life when he’d detonated that staircase, he’d ruined two, because there was no life for Victoria without her brother. Part of me wondered if they’d have been better off if I’d let them die.

“Chris took Martin back to camp,” Tristan said, and I jumped. It was the first thing he’d said since we departed the tombs.

“His body, you mean?”

He shook his head. “He was alive when they left, but Cécile…” I turned in my seat in time to see him swallow, his throat convulsing as though what he had to say made him sick. “Angoulême dismembered him.”

All the blood rushed away from my skin. Martin, poor dear Martin, who’d wanted nothing more than to bury himself in books until that fateful day I’d walked into the library looking for a way to break a curse.

“Don’t,” Tristan said. “It’s not your fault. He made his choices, and he has to live with the consequences, just as we do.”

“Will they grow back?” I whispered. The idea of it made my stomach twist, but the trolls could recuperate from so many things.

“No.”

Recuperate from almost anything. Except for dismemberment. And injuries to the brain.

And iron.

I chewed absently on my thumb, my mind going to the task the Summer King had set me. Of a surety, iron was the problem, and, to a lesser extent, gold. They were all fascinated by it, every one of them known to extract a gold coin from a pocket to play with while they were deep in thought. It was what had kept those ancient fey in this world long enough for the iron to infect them. To infiltrate their bodies. To steal their immortality.

Infect.

I frowned, trying to think of the iron as a disease that could be healed, but it felt all wrong. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, the skin on my thumb torn open. “Stones and sky,” I muttered, spitting into the snow and then sitting on my hands.

“Camp’s ahead,” Tristan said. “Victoria, wait here with the sled, and…” He grimaced, then gave me a look that said don’t let anything go wrong while I’m gone. As if I could stop Victoria if she decided to have her vengeance.

Tristan trotted off toward the camp, magic falling away to reveal a campfire and a single figure. I recognized Chris’s sturdy frame, his hand going to the pistol at his side, then relaxing as Tristan’s light flickered in the predetermined signal. Their heads bent together, one fair and one dark, and it dawned on me that they’d become friends.

The snow crunched as Victoria approached, and I tensed. “Untwist your knickers,” she said, sitting down in the snow next to the sled. “I haven’t had enough time to think of creative ways to hurt him, so he’s safe for now.”

Angry shouts burst from the camp, Martin’s voice and Tristan’s. “You might have to get in line,” I said, resting my chin on my knees, my eyelids heavy even as I knew there’d be little rest in the coming days.

We both regarded Angoulême, Tristan’s black box of magic having been replaced with fetters that blocked him from sight and sound. He shifted, testing his limits, and my skin prickled with unease. I’d spent so much time fighting against him, watching him hurt those I cared about, that he’d taken on almost monolithic proportions in my mind. It was difficult to reconcile that with the slight troll lying helpless at my feet, his fine clothing dirty and ragged at the cuffs, one boot half pulled off his foot. His strength was in his mind, his genius; and, as he turned his head to me, nostrils flaring slightly, I had to fight the urge to recoil.