“Which only convinces them that you are one. Do you think that makes a difference?”
“Maybe. Do you believe me now?”
“Maybe,” said Rachelle, but she knew she meant, Yes.
He seemed to know it too, because the edge of his mouth turned up. “Does that mean you’re going to be kinder to me?”
“Of course not. I’m still a heartless bloodbound.”
His face cracked in a smile utterly different from the one he’d used playing cards. “Between you and me, you’re not very good at it.”
The flickering candlelight danced across his face. He was beautiful.
No. Beauty was something you admired from a distance. Rachelle wanted to lock her fingers in his hair and close her mouth over his and pull him down to the bed on top of her. She wanted to possess him, and more than that, she wanted him to possess her. More than anything else in the world, she wanted him to look at her with the same absolute, burning attention he had when he talked about what he believed.
Her face heated. This was lust, plain and simple. It was why she couldn’t stop watching him on the hunt, why she couldn’t stop noticing his every movement now. She hadn’t thought she could feel this way about anyone except Erec.
It didn’t matter what she felt for anyone. It wasn’t love, and even if it was, she didn’t have time for it. Very soon now, she would die fighting the Devourer. Or more likely, the Devourer would return and she would simply die. There was no room for love in her future.
No room at all.
Armand let out his breath suddenly—the noise was almost a laugh—and Rachelle realized that she had been staring at him. She jumped to her feet.
“Then if we don’t hate each other right now,” she said, “will you help me look for the door again?”
Armand seemed to hesitate a moment; then he squared his shoulders and said, “Actually, I had an idea.”
“What?” asked Rachelle.
“None of the rooms look the same as they did in Prince Hugo’s day. But the name of the place—that hasn’t changed in five hundred years. Maybe longer. This was Chateau de Lune when Prince Hugo knew it.”
“You mean the whole Chateau is the ‘moon’?” said Rachelle. “Then what’s the sun?” As soon as she said the words, she realized. “The sun,” she said, answering her own question.
Armand nodded. “One of the old women on my mother’s estate said that some woodwife charms only work at certain times of day. Is that true?”
The sun had set hours ago. It was, in a sense, beneath them. Now they only needed to get beneath the Chateau.
“Yes,” said Rachelle, and hope was almost as dizzying as terror. “Let’s go.”
This time they didn’t have to spin a story to get past anyone. Rachelle stole the keys from their hook and they slipped down together into the chill, silent darkness of the tunnels.
“Do you see anything?” asked Rachelle, as soon as they had stepped off the bottom stair.
Armand paused. “No, just— Wait. Gold.”
A cold shiver slid down her spine. “Where?”
“All over the walls and floors,” said Armand. “Like traces of an old mosaic. I think it gets stronger up ahead.” He strode forward more quickly, and Rachelle followed him.
Please, she thought, and she hadn’t dared pray in years, but now she almost did. Please, let us find it. Please.
They came into a wide room lined with wine racks. Armand strode right to the center of the room, stopped, and stared down at the floor a moment.
“Here,” he said. “There’s a great big sun on the floor.”
To Rachelle, the floor looked like the same dreary gray stone as the rest of the wine cellar. But Armand sounded absolutely certain. Heart beating very quickly, she knelt and pressed her hand to the cold floor.
She closed her eyes and reached to awaken the charm.
Nothing happened.
“Am I touching it?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Armand. “Right at the center.”
She tried again. Nothing happened, except that her head began to ache.
“Are you—” Armand started.
“It’s not working,” she said harshly.
Of course it wasn’t working. Why had she thought that anything would start going right for her now? Why had she thought that she might possibly be able to work a woodwife charm? She was bloodbound. Nothing could change that and nothing could make it better.
She still gave it one final effort. Black speckled the edges of her vision, but nothing happened. With a sigh, she staggered to her feet.
“It’s no use,” she said.
“Wait,” Armand said breathlessly. Then he closed his eyes.
The air changed. The simple chill of the wine cellar became the sweet cold of the Great Forest. Rachelle’s heart pounded, but she couldn’t move.
She saw the Forest. Tree roots wove among the wine bottles. Moss and bloodred flowers with teeth swarmed over the walls. Tiny bright blue butterflies—no bigger than her thumbnails—fluttered through the air.