The voices practically quiver with anticipation as our memories sync, filling in the gaps to paint the entire portrait: how Nicholina possessed him and walked the forest under pretense of a hunt, how she led him to where Morgane lay in wait. How Morgane abducted him, tortured him within the bowels of a dank, dark cave only a handful of miles from the blood camp. And La Voisin—how she’d known all along. How she’d practically delivered Etienne’s and Gabrielle’s heads to Morgane on a silver platter.

Part of me still can’t believe it, can’t process my shock at their betrayal. My humiliation. Josephine and Nicholina have allied with my mother. Though I didn’t like them, I never suspected them capable of such evil. They sacrificed members of their own coven to . . . what? Return to the Chateau?

Yes, Etienne whispers.

He knows because he saw it all happen through Nicholina’s eyes, even after the real Etienne had perished. He witnessed his own desecrated body propped against my tent. He watched helplessly as Morgane kidnapped Gabrielle for the same fate, as my mother tormented his little sister, as Gaby finally escaped from La Mascarade des Crânes.

Except . . .

I frown. There are noticeable gaps in his memory. A small hole here, a gaping one there. My own involvement in the skull masquerade, for example. The color of Gabrielle’s hair. Each gap fills as I think of it, however, as my memory supplements his own, until the timeline is mostly complete.

Despite being, well, dead, he witnessed it all as if he was there.

How? I ask warily. Etienne, you . . . you died. Why haven’t you passed on?

When Nicholina possessed me, I joined her consciousness, and I—I don’t think I ever left.

Holy shit. My shock spreads wildly into outright horror. Has Nicholina possessed all of you?

I can feel them sift through our memories once more, piecing together our collective knowledge of Nicholina, of La Voisin, of blood magic. The darkness seems to vibrate with agitation as they contemplate such a fantastical and impossible conclusion. And yet . . . how often did Nicholina speak of mice? Gabrielle claimed she and La Voisin ate hearts to remain eternally young. Others whispered of even blacker arts. Their understanding resolves as mine does.

Somehow, Nicholina has trapped their souls in this darkness with her forever.

Yours too, the prim one sniffs. You are one of us now.

No. The darkness seems to press closer as their words ring true, and for a moment, I can’t speak. No, I’m still alive. I’m in a church, and Reid—

Who says we’re all dead? the mischievous voice asks. Perhaps some of us are still alive, somewhere. Perhaps our souls are merely fragmented. Part here, part there. Part everywhere. Yours will shatter soon enough.