She punches him in the face, a hard knock that splatters blood across the pavement. When he turns back, his lip is bleeding.
“Tell me.” She flashes her fangs. “I should have stayed behind to finish you off back in that field. I should have done it a long time ago.”
Lonnrach launches himself at her, but I’m there first. I grasp him by the arm and turn it at a painful angle. His scream is so, so satisfying. He deserves it after everything he’s ever done to me. He deserves more. He deserves to have his memory emptied. His hope destroyed. His will broken.
God, how I want to end him. My other hand is so close to my sword, all I have to do is take it out.
Then I hear footsteps behind me. When I turn, Aithinne is there, taking in the sight of Lonnrach on his knees and bleeding. Mortal.
He’s not my kill. He’s not Sorcha’s, either.
“He’s yours,” I tell Aithinne. He struggles in my grip, but I hold firm. “Remember what I promised you. We’d do this together, but he’s yours.”
“Sorcha.” Lonnrach sounds desperate now. “Sorcha. I’m sorry—”
“Now you’re sorry?” Sorcha laughs, and her fangs glisten white in the darkness. Then, to me: “Falconer, when you saw my memories, I didn’t show you that I asked Lonnrach for help to save our mother, but he refused because we were Unseelie.” She lets out a growl, teeth bared. When she speaks again, her voice is cold and quiet and angry. “What was it you said, brother?”
Lonnrach presses his lips together and shakes his head.
Sorcha grasps him by the front of his shirt. “Say it. Remind me.”
His whisper is so low, I barely hear him. I flinch at what he says, at the sudden memory of what it was like for Sorcha under the Strategist’s control. Lonnrach told her that. He’s her brother, and he abandoned her.
“That’s right,” Sorcha says with a smile. “How well I remember those words.” She strokes a fingernail down his cheek. “Now allow me to return the sentiment: You’re not my problem.”
Then she steps back and nods once to Aithinne. A silent message: she’s not going to do anything to stop us.
Lonnrach jerks in my grip as Aithinne comes forward, but I shove him to the ground, holding him tightly. He’s no match for my strength, not while mortal. It’s time. It’s time to end this.
Aithinne’s breathing trembles as she stares at him, but when she speaks, her voice is strong. “If I were half as cruel as you, I would make this the worst pain imaginable. I would make sure you suffered as long as you made me suffer. Your death would take me two thousand years.”
She slides her sword from its sheath and stands before him. She looks at me, a signal to release him.
I let Lonnrach go and he drops to his knees. When he tries to run, I shove him down again with my powers. Again. Again. Until he’s panting with exhaustion and fear, kneeling before Aithinne.
“My Queen,” he whispers.
“Am I that?” Aithinne places her fingertips under his chin and she looks almost gentle. “After everything, you’d claim fealty to me again?”
“Yes,” he says, almost desperately. “Yes.”
“Then consider this my last act as your Queen. I’m giving you a better death than you deserve.”
She plunges the sword through his heart.
Sorcha and I give Aithinne a few moments to collect herself and retrieve her sword. I put my hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“No. But I will be.” She looks over at Sorcha. “Thank you.”
Sorcha is looking down at her brother’s body with an unreadable expression. “I know what it’s like to want revenge against the man who hurt me, and you showed him compassion. That was a kinder death than I gave mine.” Then her eyes meet mine, and she murmurs a single word, and I know it’s for me: “Different.”
Different. Aithinne is different. She’s not like Sorcha—not like me. I wanted to make Lonnrach suffer for the things he did; I wanted to make his death last. But Aithinne? She’s merciful. Even when she doesn’t have to be.
What does that make me, when a faery is capable of more humanity than I am?
The patter of faint footsteps distracts me. I look up and see the tattooed girl hurtling out of a building and into the street. She catches my gaze and without a moment’s hesitation, she takes off again.
“Wait!” I sprint after her.
“Falconer!”
I don’t stop. I have to catch that girl. Something about her calls to me.
A flash of her hair, just up ahead. My pace quickens. She enters a shadowed row of tenements and I go in after her. I’m gaining on her, close enough to hear her breath as she runs.
She heads around a building and I follow, calling out to her again. But just as I turn, I end up going through another portal.
I’m in a room. A room full of mirrors.
CHAPTER 38
I TURN TO escape, but the portal closes. Mirrors surround me. No way out.
I’m not here. Aithinne just killed Lonnrach. I’m not here. I whirl and sprint down the long line of mirrors, hating my reflections. Don’t look. Get out. You have to get out.
I slam against a mirror with a painful jolt, but I barely notice it. My pulse is racing, my breathing coming fast now. My vision is blurring.
This is an illusion. I strike the mirror with my fists. I have power now. I strike it again. He’s dead. I summon the Cailleach’s power, until it’s a great whirling storm through my veins created out of exhaustion and absolute desperation. I throw all that energy out against the mirrors.
They don’t break. They hardly even shimmer. A humiliating, pathetic cry escapes me. Then a deep, shuddering sob. One more time. Then again if you have to.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Blood streams down my face from my nose, my eyes, my ears, but I don’t care. My vision wobbles and stars pulse in front of my eyes, but I ignore it. Don’t stop. You can’t stop. I lurch forward to strike the mirror with my power again. It doesn’t do anything. Thoughts race through my brain. I’m too frantic to think clearly.
“You can still change your mind.”
I freeze at the sound of Lonnrach’s voice. My stomach knots with terror. My blood roars in my ears and I squeeze my eyes shut. “You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re a memory. Aithinne just killed you and you’re dead.”
“Turn around, Aileana Kameron.”
I don’t. I can’t. I can’t look at him, not in this room.
“Turn around.” His voice is sharp, commanding. Don’t show your fear. I raise my chin and turn. Lonnrach’s face is staring back at me, but instead of his stormy gray irises, his eyes are glittering twin pools of liquid sapphire. The Morrigan’s eyes.
“I wanted you alone,” she says, staring down at Lonnrach’s hands. “I saw this room in his memories, what he did to you here. Lonnrach was such a clever boy, but too arrogant. Too demanding.” Her lip curls in disgust. “He didn’t even sing.”
“So you let us kill him.”
She blinks at me. “Of course. I gave him to you as a gift. Didn’t you like it?”