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 him pay.
He stumbled back and raised his hand, clenching it around the thread. She felt the answering burn around her finger, but it was barely painful.
“That’s not enough anymore,” she said. “You’ll have to fight me if you want to win.”
She could see it in his face when he decided to stake everything on a final lunge. She ran him through. Then she pulled her sword out again. He was wavering on his feet; she kicked him to the ground, knelt over him, and pressed her sword to his throat.
He was a forestborn, and he would heal from all the wounds she had given him. But he wouldn’t heal once she had cut off his head.
“Any final words, d’Anjou?”
He spat out blood and said, “You might . . . want to look around.”
She looked up. A few paces away stood two forestborn, one of them the pasty-faced male she had seen last night. But now she could see past the human disguises, to the inhuman faces burning with terrifying power.
And between them they held Armand.
“Let him go,” said the forestborn who had been with them last night. “Or this one dies.”
Last night, that would have been enough to control her.
She grinned. “Go ahead. He already chose to be a martyr.”
“Rachelle.” Armand’s voice was quiet, but it carried across the room and clenched at her heart. “Please stop.”
“He marked Amélie as a bloodbound. You know what that means. And now you want me to spare him?”
“There must be fifty forestborn in the Chateau right now. You kill him, they kill you, and then there’s nobody left to stop them.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “If Amélie isn’t part of this world, I don’t see the point in saving it.”
“You don’t mean that,” said Armand. “You know that you have always wanted to save everyone. And killing him won’t save anyone. It’s just murderous revenge.”
“I’ve been a murderer for three years,” she snarled. “And now I’m a monster. Can’t you see I’m turning into a forestborn right now?”
Shadowy trees were sprouting up from the floor around her, spreading out branches and gnarling up roots. She could feel her hair drifting in the phantom wind.
“Yes,” said Armand.
“You know what that means. When people become forestborn, they lose their hearts. They lose their souls.”
Her head was starting to pound. Her blood was burning. She wouldn’t be strong for much longer; soon the change would overtake her.
“It doesn’t matter what I do now,” she said. “I’ll forget how to love in an hour. I will never save anyone again, do you understand?”
“I don’t believe that,” said Armand. “I don’t believe you don’t have a choice.”
“There are never any choices in the Forest.”
“Rachelle.” He met her eyes. “I lit a candle for you in the Lady Chapel, before the statue of the Lady of Snows. So you can’t possibly lose yourself.”