“My name?”

“Yes, your fucking name. You’re my brother, I should at least know your bloody name.”

“I am the wolf, I am—”

“Your name.”

Her flash of anger seemed to startle him.

“Lyle,” he said in a quiet voice. “My name is Lyle, Lyle Reave, and I am the barghest, the new Red Wolf. It’s what I was made for.”

“Listen to me, Lyle. My friend Nikki, who you took, she wasn’t born here. She wasn’t born in Fiddler’s Woods, okay? She hasn’t got anything to do with this, all right? Let me take her away from here. That’s all. And I’ll leave you be.”

“No.” He said it softly. “No, it’s a bit late for that.”

“What do you mean? Where is she, Lyle?”

“She’s in the Folly,” he said, coming forward again. “With the other one. That’s why she can’t go, because she’s seen her, and she’s seen me. And anyway, the old wolf is there now.” He seemed to brighten. “But maybe this is right. If you’re my sister, then you belong to the woods, too. I can take you there.”

“No!”

He came forward, the knife raised. Heather sprang at him, trying with everything she had to push him over, but he was too strong. Instead, he shoved her roughly toward the bannister, which struck her across the middle of her back, and then slashed at her with the knife. Heather threw herself out of the way just in time to avoid a blow that would have struck her in the chest, but he came straight after her. A thin line of agony moved down her left arm and she knew he’d got her.

“Stop it!” She swung her own knife around, but it seemed hopelessly inelegant in the face of his wicked little blade, and the flat of it bounced off his arm. “Do you think Michael Reave would want you to kill me? Your own sister?”

But his face was closed, masklike. There was nothing behind his eyes now but a terrible flatness that made her think of the red painting downstairs. His knife flashed again, this time slicing across her belly, and she screamed thinly, horrified by the immediate hot wetness soaking into her jumper. The stairs were directly behind her now, and she clasped onto the newel post for balance, her fingers slippery with her own blood.

“It’s good that you came,” he said. His cheeks were still wet from his tears. “This is how it should be. I am the wolf.”

“Oh fuck you,” Heather spat through her teeth. “You’re nothing but a murderer, a desperate sad waste of space. Every woman you’ve killed is worth ten of you!”

For the first time, a flicker of some alien emotion passed over his face, and Heather was reminded of the time she had seen Michael Reave lose his temper—the truth, she thought bitterly. He doesn’t want to hear it.

“There’s nothing grand or mysterious about you,” she said, and she laughed, genuinely amused. Her head felt very light. “Just a little man hurting women because it’s the only way you feel powerful. God, losers like you are ten a penny.”