“At least I’ve never pretended otherwise,” she snapped.
“Oh yes.” His mouth curved in a thin, ferocious smile. “Your sad little lost soul that you can’t stop talking about. Forgive me if I feel more pity for the people you killed.”
It felt like there were fishhooks sliding under her ribs. “I never asked for your pity.”
“Oh no, of course not. That would make you less special, wouldn’t it, if you were just another sinner needing pity. No, you have to be the daughter of the devil himself before you’re satisfied. You cry and you cry about your lost innocence, but the truth is, you love being this way. You love believing that you’re damned because then you can do anything you want. Because you’re too much of a coward to face what you’ve done and live with it.”
She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to hurt him, and for a moment she imagined pressing the blade home, imagined the blood spurting everywhere, slippery and then sticky between her fingers. It was so real, she could almost taste it. And she could taste the black despair sliding down her throat afterward.
She knew that if she killed him, the next thing she would do was turn the sword on herself.
Her heart pounded with longing for destruction, with terror that she wanted it so much.
She lowered the blade. It was one of the hardest things she had ever done.
“Don’t say another word.” She grabbed his wrist. “If you want to live a moment longer, don’t say another word.”
He must have believed her. Because he didn’t say anything as she dragged him away.
She took him back to Erec. By then the uprising had already been put down: it wasn’t a true rebellion, just an attempt to snatch Armand out of the Chateau. Half the soldiers involved had already fled; the rest were dead or captured.
Erec babbled something smug and smiled at Armand. Rachelle didn’t listen. She just shoved Armand at Erec and said, “Lock him up.” The words scraped at her throat.
“I’ll put him somewhere safe,” said Erec. “We’ll discuss this in my study.”
Rachelle turned and fled back to her rooms. She had to check, in case Armand had been lying about that too, but she already knew what she would find.
Joyeuse was gone.
Her only hope of stopping the Devourer. Everyone’s only hope. It was all gone, because she had been stupid enough to trust Armand.
“Rachelle? What happened?”
Amélie stood in the doorway, eyes wide. An hour ago, she had been drinking hot chocolate with Rachelle and Armand, and suddenly Rachelle wanted to weep.
“There was trouble,” she said, and took a step toward her. “Are you—”
Amélie flinched and took a quick little gasping breath. She didn’t move to hug Rachelle the way she always did, she didn’t ask if she was all right.
And then Rachelle realized: Amélie was terrified. Of her.
Finally, after three years, Amélie had woken up and realized what sort of monster she had decided to call a friend.
Rachelle’s shoulders slumped. “Go,” she said. “Just get out, now.” She closed her eyes. “Go back to your mother and stay safe. It’s only going to get worse.”
She heard Amélie draw a little shuddering breath. She heard her footsteps run out of the room. But she didn’t open her eyes until she was gone, because she couldn’t bear to watch.
Then she left and started walking in the direction of Erec’s study. Her skin felt too small for her body, like it was stretched tight over her skeleton and every joint scraped against it as she moved. She wanted to claw herself apart right now, limb from limb and bone from broken bone, until there was nothing left.
Forgive me if I feel more pity for the people you killed.
Even while he’d kissed her, he’d despised her. Exactly the way she’d always deserved to be despised.
I’ve killed a few, she thought viciously, but he’s killed us all. I’ll let him see the Devourer rise, and then I’ll kill him.
She had the right to hate him for stealing Joyeuse. It wasn’t any comfort.
In Erec’s study, opulence pressed down like the weight of a mountain. The walls were papered in gold and red, hung with gilt-framed paintings of naked, allegorical women. The vast cherrywood desk was carved with a multitude of curlicues. Flowering marble columns held up the mantelpiece over the fireplace.
Rachelle paced back and forth. She wanted to stop thinking of Armand, but she kept remembering the soft sound of his breathing, her hands winding yarn around his fingers, his mouth against hers. If she hadn’t loved him, she could forgive him. If he hadn’t been right about her, she could forgive him. But she had and he was and now she couldn’t seem to stop remembering his words to her over and over, feeling sicker each time.
Finally Erec strode into the room. “Well, I think we’ve put them all away,” he said. “It was a very little plot. To be honest, I’d expected more of our dear saint.”