“So you bring the Devourer back,” she said, “night falls forever, and then . . . we’re crowned king and queen of the forestborn? I suspect there are a few older ones who might take precedence.”
“Oh, certainly. But kingship isn’t what I’m after.” He pressed forward, nuzzling at her neck. “First, darkness. The sun and moon are eaten from the sky, and all the plump, satisfied world screams in horror. That’s what your saints dream of too, isn’t it, judgment on the complacent? Next—the Wild Hunt. No more bowing and scraping to the sanctimonious, the weaklings, and the proud. No more fear and guilt. We ride the steeds of night and we hunt the human race. When we have had our fill of hunting, then will come the dances, the everlasting starlit dances. And finally—” He planted a hand on the desk to either of side of her. “Finally, in the long secret silences, you and me together. World without end, amen. Is that not a paradise worth a little blood, my lady?”
Nothing she said would make a difference. The person she had—not loved, exactly, but been friends with—had never existed. All she could do was convince this forestborn that she was helpless and resigned and wait for a chance to escape.
She drew a slow breath and asked, “Why am I now your lady instead of ‘little girl’?”
He grinned, clearly thinking that he was starting to win her over. “Because you were once a sheltered little girl. But you took up the knife. You were brave enough to face the darkness. And you became strong.”
When she took up the knife, it was the weakest she had ever been.
“Eternity in the Forest,” she said. “Did I ever make you think I wanted that?”
“I think I can make you want it.”
Then he kissed her.
He was a monster. But her body still knew how to desire him. Of course it did; her body had been hollowed out and filled up and transformed by the power of the Forest. How could it help hungering after its maker?
If she wanted any chance to help Armand, she would have to play along with Erec. And it was going to be easy.
She couldn’t bear to think about that. So she kissed him back and didn’t think.
Then somebody knocked on the door.
With a sigh, Erec let go of her. “It’s never ending,” he said, and went to the door. The person outside spoke in low tones she couldn’t make out, and Erec answered just as softly.
Rachelle wasn’t listening very carefully anyway. She gripped the edges of the desk and stared at the floor. She felt like a bubble, a tiny gleam wrapped around nothingness.
“Alas, duty calls,” said Erec, returning to her. “But first—I have a present for you. Something to keep you busy tonight, and console you for all eternity. Come.”
Rachelle slid off the desk. Tomorrow, she thought numbly. And forever. If she didn’t find a way to stop the Devourer, she would become a forestborn, and she would live forever with nothing but this. Pleasure and despair.
“Don’t look so mournful,” said Erec. “You’re about to have all you ever wanted.”
As Rachelle followed him through the corridors, she tried to think of a way out. If she could just talk to Armand again he could tell her where he’d hidden Joyeuse. But she didn’t know where he was, and even if she did, he was under guard. She’d never been strong enough to defeat Erec, which made sense now that she knew he was a full forestborn, and the forestborn guarding Armand now were probably even stronger.
At least she hadn’t had to sleep with Erec again. Tonight. If the Devourer returned and night fell forever—
No. She wouldn’t live that way. If Endless Night fell, then Armand would be dead and Erec would have nothing left to use against her. She’d fight him with every breath in her body, she would force him to kill her, and before she died, at least she would make him bleed.
Erec took her to a little-used corner of the Chateau. He opened the door of a small storeroom, and suddenly Rachelle couldn’t move.
Because Amélie was crouched in the corner.
She lifted her head slowly. Her eyes were swollen and she had a bruise on one cheek. On her other cheek was an ink-black star.
No, thought Rachelle, no.
“Are you real?” Amélie asked in a low, hoarse voice. Her cheeks were flushed.
It was the fever, Rachelle realized: it struck some bloodbound when they were first marked. Fever, cramps, delirium, as if mind and body alike were rebelling against what had happened. It hadn’t happened to her, but she’d heard about it.
“Yes,” Rachelle whispered. The word was barely more than a catch in her breath, but it broke her paralysis; she lunged forward and gripped Amélie’s shoulders.
A present.
“I don’t feel well,” Amélie whispered.
“It’s all right,” Rachelle said, but nothing was going to be all right again.
“Father, I don’t feel well.” Amélie squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. “It’s all wrong. The flowers. They’re all wrong.”
Delirium, or was she starting to see the Forest?