Slowly and carefully, the Croke removed a long dark glove from each hand. The skin underneath was maggot-pale and cold-mottled, but it was the markings that caught Twelve’s attention. Runes drawn in liquid darkness coiled around the Croke’s fingers, the patterns writhing as though alive, complex and shifting in the moonstone-light.

Ice-cold sweat trickled down Twelve’s back. Before she could organize her thoughts, the Croke was upon her. Its long-fingered pale hands reached for her face and no matter how much Twelve squirmed, she knew she wouldn’t get away; the bonds around her wrists and ankles were too tight. Her last coherent thought was of Silver, how she’d died when a monster touched her.

The Croke’s fingers were cold enough to freeze blood. There was a moment of searing, blinding white, as though a flare had gone off in front of her eyes, then images began flitting across her vision. Sickened and dazed, it took Twelve a moment to realize they weren’t just pictures, they were her memories.

Her senses were thrown into a tornado; sounds, smells, and emotions buffeted her as her past whirled, settled butterfly-like for an instant, then whirled again.

With growing panic, Twelve tried desperately to draw up a wall, but the Croke broke through as easily as if it had been made of paper. Beneath the torrent of memories, she could feel the thing sliding through her thoughts, pitiless and dark. Then it dived deeper and all Twelve could see was her past.

Chapter

Forty-Three

She and Poppy sat side by side in a sun-dappled meadow. “No, like this,” she explained, guiding Poppy’s fingers as the younger girl braided grass into a lopsided bowl.

Their ma sat by the fire, brushing Poppy’s cloud of hair until it crackled. Irritation fizzed in Starling’s chest; Poppy had been there for ages—surely it was her turn now?

She was walking through a barren landscape. Perhaps she’d make it to the Hunting Lodge, perhaps not. There were holes in her shoes and the wind pushed her cruelly on. Her heart was broken and the future was a vast, gaping emptiness.

Silver bent over her, questions falling from her lips like shattered stars. Twelve was so tired she couldn’t hear, couldn’t move, couldn’t feel. Silver’s eyes were infinitely gentle as she gathered Twelve up off the ground.

Five offered her an apple after a training session. Her arms were trembling from the strain of wielding her axes and Five’s grinning face filled her with an inexplicable fury. She threw his apple into one of the braziers. The skin blackened and split.

The memories swirled faster and Twelve sensed the Croke’s impatience. These weren’t what it was looking for.