The valkerax circling in the smoke above suddenly roar in tandem, an earsplitting symphony conducted on high. A valkerax lunges out from the sea, striking its long body across the beach and to Varia’s feet in an instant, all its thousands of teeth bared at me and its six white eyes snarled up into one another. Looking right at me. Dream-me. But I have no doubt if it tried to eat me, it would succeed, because I’m more than just a dream. I can speak, think, feel. I’m connected to Varia. We all are.

we are her fingers. we are her swords.

I fight against my own hunger as it turns traitor for her. It belonged to her once. She was my witch at one time, and the hunger remembers that, reaching out for her furious face with my hand, my dream-body leaning toward her like a plant leans for the sun—

Black hair, black eyes, long lashes, proud nose. Even in anger, even in hunger, even in ancient thrall to a Tree, she looks so much like Lucien.

Lucien.

I wrench my body back, pinning my hand to my side with my other arm.

“I’m going to split you apart again and again!” I thunder. “I’ll split you until you’re nothing, insignificant, too small to even see! Until you can’t hurt Varia again! Until you can’t hurt anyone ever again, you hear me?”

She turns away, putting her half-wood hand gently on the valkerax’s side. Shaking.

“YOU HURT US FIRST.”

She whirls. What’s left of Princess Varia d’Malvane’s face contorts into a wrinkled, skull-hollow horror, her black eyes gleaming, blood pouring from beneath the tines of her collar in frenzied rhythm with her furious heartbeat.

“BUT WE WILL HURT YOU LAST.”

Her hand snaps out faster than I can move my torpor dream-body, fingers digging deep and instant into my chest, as if I’m made of cotton. Fire. Fire everywhere, in my flesh, in my veins—the otherworldly fury burning out of her eyes and into me as she speaks with a triumphant rasp.

“THERE YOU ARE.”

The pain is so great, it wrenches me out of the dream gasping for air. And unlike most dreams, it follows. Lingers. The motion of the jolt up from Lucien’s lap sears across my chest—five small holes buried in the flesh there, and about the exact size of fingertips.

“Heart, I’m here,” Lucien murmurs comfortingly, pulling me close and putting his hand over the wounds. I can feel his magic pouring into me like molten salve, numbing and easing all at once. He wasn’t lying—magic here is easy and strong, like the finest well-decanted alcohol instead of the usual water.

“What happened?” Fione asks, brows knit as she hovers over me. “Did you see her?”

“She’s…she’s on her way,” I gasp between breaths. “And she’s not happy.”