Framed by the gray skyline of Cesarine, a dozen Chasseurs rode through the crowd, slowing traffic. Some inspected the faces of those on foot. Some dismounted to check wagons and carriages intermittently. I recognized eight of them. Eight out of twelve. When one of those eight—Phillipe—started toward our wagon, I cursed.

“Watch yer mouth!” Bernadette said in outrage, elbowing me sharply. “And budge over, would you—” She stopped short when she saw my face. “Yer white as a sheet, you are.”

Phillipe’s deep voice rumbled through the procession, and he pointed toward us. “Have we cleared this one yet?”

Older than me by several decades, silver streaked through his beard. It did nothing to diminish the breadth of his chest or heavy muscle of his arms. A scar still disfigured his throat from his battle with Adrien’s kin in the werewolf raid.

He’d hated me for stealing his glory that day. For stealing his advancement.

Shit.

Jean Luc’s Balisarda weighed heavier than the other knives in my bandolier. If Phillipe recognized me, I’d need to kill or disarm him. And I couldn’t kill him. I couldn’t kill another brother. But if I disarmed him instead, I’d have to—

No. My mind raged against the thought.

This isn’t the time for a principled stand, Reid, Lou had said. If even one person recognizes us, we’re dead.

She was right. Of course she was right. And even if it made me a hypocrite—even if it condemned me to Hell—I would channel those insidious voices. I would hang myself with their golden patterns. If it meant Lou would live, I would do it. Damn the consequences. I would do it.

But how?

Open yourself up to your magic. Accept it, welcome it, and it’ll come to you.

I hadn’t welcomed anything on Modraniht, yet the pattern had still appeared. The same had happened at the pool near the Hollow. In both situations, I’d been desperate. Hopeless. Morgane had just cut Lou’s throat, and I’d watched as her blood poured into the basin, draining her life by the second. The golden cord had risen from my pit of despair, and I’d reacted instinctively. There hadn’t been time for anything else. And—and at the pool—

The memory of Lou’s blue lips surfaced. Her ashen skin.

But this wasn’t like that. Lou wasn’t dying in front of me now. I tried to summon the same sense of urgency. If Phillipe caught me, Lou would die. Surely that possibility should trigger something. I waited anxiously for the floodgates to burst open, for gold to explode in my vision.

It didn’t.

It seemed imagining Lou dying wasn’t the same as watching it happen.

Phillipe continued toward us, close enough now to touch the horses. I nearly roared in frustration. What I was I supposed to do?

You could ask. A small, sinister voice echoed through my thoughts at last, reverberating as if legion. The hair on my neck rose. You need only seek us, lost one, and you shall find.

Panicking, I shoved at it instinctively.

An unearthly chuckle. You cannot escape us, Reid Labelle. We are part of you. As if to prove its words, it latched tighter, the pressure in my head building—painful now—as tendrils of gold snaked outward, stabbing deep and taking root. Into my mind. My heart. My lungs. I choked on them, struggling to breathe, but they only pressed closer. Consuming me. For so long we have slept in the darkness, but now, we are awake. We will protect you. We will not let you go. Seek us.

Black threatened the edges of my vision. My panic intensified. I had to get out, had to stop this—

Staggering backward, I faintly registered Bernadette and Lyle’s alarm. “What’s the matter wif you, eh?” Bernadette asked. When I didn’t answer—couldn’t answer—she moved slowly to her bag. My eyes struggled to focus on her, to remain open. I dropped to my knees, fighting desperately to repress this growing thing inside me—this monster clawing through my skin. Inexplicable light flickered around us.

He approaches, child. He is coming. The voice turned hungry now. Anticipatory. The pressure in my head built with each word. Blinding me. Tormenting me. My nightmares made flesh. I clutched my head against the pain, a scream rising in my throat. He will burn us if you let him.

“What’s happenin’ wif yer head?”

No. My mind warred against itself. The pain cleaved me in two. This isn’t right. This isn’t—

“I’m talkin’ to you, imp!”

He will burn Louise.

No—

“Oi!” A whistle cut through the air, and fresh pain exploded behind my ear. I crumpled to the wagon floor. Groaning softly, I could just distinguish Bernadette’s blurred form above me. She lifted her frying pan to strike again. “Bleedin’ mad, aren’t yeh? I knew it. And today o’ all days—”

“Wait.” I held up a weak hand. The peculiar light shone brighter now. “Please.”

She lurched backward, face twisting in alarm. “What’s this happenin’ with yer skin, then, eh? What’s goin’ on?”

“I don’t—” My vision sharpened on my hand. On the soft light emanating from it. Hideous despair swept through me. Hideous relief.

Seek us seek us seek us.

“P-Put down the frying pan, madame.”

She shook her head frantically, struggling to keep her arm raised. “Wha’ witchcraft is this?”

I tried again, louder now. A strange humming filled my ears, and the inexplicable desire to soothe her overwhelmed me—to soothe and be soothed. “It’s going to be all right.” My voice sounded strange, even to my own ears. Layered. Resonant. Part of me still raged against it, but that part was useless now. I left it behind. “Put down the frying pan.”

The frying pan fell to the floor.

“Lyle!” Her eyes boggled from her head, and her nostrils flared. “Lyle, help—!”

The wagon flap burst open in response. We turned as one to see Phillipe standing in the entrance, his Balisarda drawn. Despite the bandage—the wig, the cosmetics—he recognized me immediately. Hatred burned in his eyes. “Reid Diggory.”

Kill him.

This time, I heeded the voice without hesitation.

With lethal speed, I charged, seizing his wrist and dragging him into the wagon. His eyes widened—shocked—for a split second. Then he attacked. I laughed, evading his blade easily. When the sound reverberated through the wagon, infectious and strange, he recoiled.

“It can’t be,” he breathed. “You can’t be a—a—”

He lunged, but again, I moved too quick, sidestepping at the last moment. He barreled into Bernadette instead, and the two careened into the wall of the wagon. My skin erupted with light at her shrieks.

Silence her!

“Be quiet!” The words tore through me of their own volition, and she slumped—mercifully quiet—with her mouth closed and her eyes glazed. Phillipe launched to his feet just as Lyle entered the wagon, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

“Bernadette! Bernadette!”

I struggled to look at him, prying Phillipe’s fingers from my throat with one hand and holding his Balisarda off with the other. My wig tumbled to the floor. “Qui—et—” I said, voice strangled, as Phillipe and I crashed through the wagon. But Lyle didn’t quiet. He continued shouting, lunging forward to grab Bernadette beneath the arms and drag her from the wagon.