“That’s right.” Beau choked on a cough, still struggling to breathe. He pointed to his chest. “I’m in charge. Me. And I’m telling you to concede.”

“But you’re”—Reid shook his head sharply and winced as if in pain—“you’re my . . . are you my brother?” He touched a hand to his temple. “You are my brother.”

Beau slumped on the ground. “Oh, thank God. You remember.” He twirled a hand and coughed again. “Put your knife down, Reid. You’re outnumbered if not outmanned, and I have no interest in seeing your second asshole.” He turned to Célie, who stood apart from the rest of us, her face ashen. “Do you want to see his second asshole?”

It was Reid’s turn to blanch. “Célie.” Instead of dropping his weapons, however, he streaked to her side, his righteous anger deepening to outright rage. He pushed her behind him. “Stay back, Célie. I won’t let them touch you.”

“Oh, good lord,” Coco muttered.

“Reid.” Tentatively, Célie pushed at his back, but he didn’t budge. His eyes found mine, and in them, hatred burned hotter than anything I’d ever seen. I could feel its heat wash over my skin, primal and visceral. Eternal. Like Coco’s Hellfire. “Reid, this is unnecessary. These—Louise and Cosette are my friends.” She tried showing him the green ribbon around her wrist. “See? They will not harm me. They will not harm you either. Just give us a chance to explain.”

“What?” He whirled to face her then, seizing the ribbon and tearing it free. “You call them friends? They’re witches, Célie. They killed your sister!”

“Yes, thank you for that kindly reminder.” She snatched the ribbon back, scowling and stepping around him. “You’ll be surprised to find my ears actually do work. I know who they are. More importantly, you know who they are, if you’d stop acting like a barbarian and listen.”

“I don’t—” He shook his head again, eyes narrowing. Confusion clouded his gaze, and stupid, useless hope lit in my heart. He sensed the truth in her words. Of course he did. Surely he could feel something had gone terribly wrong. Surely if he followed the thread of his thoughts, he would realize what had happened, and he would reverse the pattern. And he had to reverse the pattern. Forgetting me was one thing, but this—this wasn’t Reid. This was a murderous zealot. He must’ve botched the magic somehow, perhaps pulled two cords instead of one.

As quickly as the thought came, I dismissed it, knowing in my heart it wasn’t true. Reid hadn’t botched anything.

He’d simply . . . forgotten me.

Forgotten him.

Forgotten everything.