“You wish to go with me?” As if considering, she circled him where he lay, her long black gown rustling like wings.

“I’ll grow strong again. I’ll bring you the stars. I’ll bring you the heads of the guardians.”

“Words and promises mean nothing. Get me what I want.” She leaned down toward him. “Or the pain they gave you will be as nothing to my displeasure.”

“I will heal. I will give you all you want. Take me with you, my queen.”

“Very well. Take my hand.”

Shaking with gratitude, he reached out. The hand he put in hers was blackened, the skin peeling in sheets, and the nails an inch long, thickened, yellow, curved like claws.

“If you were not what I made you, what you’re becoming, you would be gone like the rest of those you brought here, those who failed. Remember that. My pet.”

Pain came again, a shock of it, as if he’d been ripped out of fire into ice. The cold nearly shattered him. His bones seemed to crack and hiss.

Then came the dark, complete.

When he blinked, he could see dimly. Some sort of room or chamber, with chains and shackles hanging from walls of stone.

The birds that weren’t birds hunched on perches, eyes glinting yellow in the darkness.

“You will bide here. When you have become, I will have use for you.”

“The dark. The cold.”

“Ah, yes, there is still some of that in you, some that yearns for light, for heat. Very well.”

Candles and torches burst into flame. On their perches, the birds that weren’t birds shrieked and fanned their wings. The walls, stone polished to a gleam, shot out dozens of reflections.

Nerezza, in her black gown, a bloodred ruby at her throat. The birds, yellow eyes glinting, wings folding in.

And someone—something—crouched on the floor. Its skin rawly red and scorched black, peeling in sheets and flaps to reveal . . . something else beneath. Hands and feet like claws, hair burned away to a scalp where glistening nubs rose. Eyes, yellow like the birds, slitted like a snake, that stared back in abject horror.

It moved when he moved. It rose on clawed feet when he rose.

“What am I?”

“Between, for now.” Nerezza flicked a finger at a flap of his skin. When it dropped away, fell to the floor, birds swooped down to fight over it.

“I . . . I’m a monster.”

“A demi-demon, and in my service. Remember the pain, my pet. Remember who restored your sight. Remember your oath.”

“I’m a man.”

“You’re mine, and will be for eternity or until I end you.” She walked to a door he hadn’t seen, opened it. “You’ll know when I have use for you.”

He tried to run to the door, stumbled and fell. Once again he tried to crawl, but there was no door, no way out, only the stone, polished like glass. Polished like mirrors that showed him his own image everywhere he looked.

Malmon crawled into a corner, hunched and hunkered there with all he’d become staring back at him.

He began to laugh and laugh, until the chamber echoed with the sound. And the sound was madness.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Sawyer slept deep. Dreams joined him, but quietly, soothingly. Voices—Annika’s soft singing lulled him. Sasha’s joined it on a murmur that offered peace—then Riley’s a kind of determined cheer. Bran came into the dream, and Doyle, with a briskness that added hope.

Once he saw his grandfather, sat with him by a campfire. In its flames his grandfather’s face was young, as young as his own, as they spoke of legacies and stars and gods, as the moon floated white overhead.

And he floated, as if inside a clear bubble. Gently, gently, over seas, over lands, over worlds. Over an island clear as glass with a castle on a hill, and a stone circle.

So beautiful.

Then the bubble popped, and he woke.

Annika sat beside him on the bed, holding his hand, so hers was the first face he saw.

And his first thought was, she was safe. He’d gotten her back.

“Hush, don’t try to speak yet. Bran made you sleep.” She brought his hand to her lips, pressed kisses to it, then to the wrist still raw. “For healing. They hurt you. They hurt you.”

“Annika.”

“No, you should be quiet. Bran said to get him when you woke.”

“Wait. Just wait.” He started to sit up, despite her distress, and felt it. Oh boy, he felt the remnants of the torture.

“You have pain. Bran said to have you drink this if you woke with pain.” Annika grabbed a small bottle from the nightstand. “It will help you sleep.”

“How long?” He had to clear his throat, and breathe through the aches. “How long have I been out? Asleep,” he explained.

“You brought us back it was night, and there was another night, and this is the day after. Not the morning, but after the noon. Please drink, Sawyer.”

“I’ve slept long enough.”

“I’ll get Bran.”

But he kept his grip firm on her hand. “They hurt you, too.”

“Bran and Sasha helped, and I slept, too. Not so long, but I wasn’t hurt like you. He put the knife in you. Here.” Gently, she touched his side. “It’s healing well. Bran said. And they struck you in the face, and . . .”