Unseen by all, she’d dragged herself forward, throat mangled, each breath a wet, hollow sound. Her skin had grayed beyond pale. Corpselike. Even now, she struggled to keep her eyes open as her lifeblood poured freely.

She didn’t let go.

Appalled, Josephine tried to kick free, but she slipped in Nicholina’s blood, falling hard to the ground. The movement cost her. Mustering the last of her strength, Nicholina crawled up her legs as Angelica advanced. “Get off of me, you disgusting little—” Though Josephine scrambled backward, kicking harder, she couldn’t dislodge her attendant.

“Miss . . . tress . . .” Nicholina gurgled.

Josephine’s eyes widened in true panic now. Turning, she attempted to push to her feet, but Nicholina held on, trapping her legs. Angelica loomed behind. When Josephine crashed back to the ground—twisting, snarling—Angelica knelt beside her, sliding her blade neatly through her sister’s neck.

Right at the base of the skull.

The three of them died together.

It wasn’t poetic. It wasn’t grand or heroic or momentous, like one might’ve expected. The heavens didn’t part, and the earth didn’t swallow them whole. These three women—the oldest and most powerful in the world—died just like anyone would: with their eyes open and their limbs cold.

Coco pulled her mother apart from the rest, fighting tears. Heedless of the fighting around her.

I staggered to her side. When she saw me, she gasped my name, flinging her arms around me. “Are you all right?” She pulled back to look at me, frantic, wiping her tears. Her fingers touched my face. “Oh my god. Here—let me—let me heal you—”

“Save your strength. I’m already healing.”

Her eyes dropped back to her mother. “We need to finish this, Lou.”

Slowly, I knelt to the ground, closing each of their eyes in turn. Even Nicholina’s. Even Josephine’s. “And we will.”

She supported my shoulders as we hobbled through the trees to the street. To Coco’s surprise—and less to mine—a handful of blood witches ceased fighting when they recognized Josephine’s corpse on the ground. Some knelt beside her. Others fled. Still more looked to Coco as if lost, mirroring her own unnerved expression. At the blood witches’ abrupt withdrawal, the melusines moved on, following the sounds of shouts and steel.

Claud—still shaped as the Woodwose—thundered around the corner at the far end of the street. When he saw us, he moved faster, raising his voice to shout, “What is it? What happened? I heard your call—”

Something moved too quickly behind us.

A flash of white. Of moonbeam hair.