At least she knew.

He prowled down the aisle toward her, over crinkled fall leaves turned golden in the chill, and roots slowly upturning the flagstones, lined with broken benches. His steps were slow and methodical.

She swallowed the knot in her throat.

Don’t turn around, she told herself. Whatever you do, don’t turn around.

Because this was not her dear friend. This was a monster, truly, the thing Di had been so afraid of becoming. And that gave her a little more courage, because he was not her Di. She had to repeat that.

He was not hers, he was not hers—although it sounded wrong in her head. Hadn’t he said he was hers so very long ago?

“Turn around,” he ordered.

She slowly reached into her ratty cloak and pressed her hand against the solid square in her coat pocket—Di’s memory core. She’d managed to hold on to it despite the dreadnought and the ark and the universe trying to pull him away from her. She took a deep breath and remembered that he was with her. And she wasn’t afraid.

She wouldn’t be afraid.

He clucked his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “I prefer looking into the faces of the people I kill—”

“Did you always like to hear yourself talk?” she interrupted, quite unable to stop herself. “Or is it a new glitch?”

She turned around—and wished she hadn’t.

Her heart faltered.

He looked just as she remembered, bloodred hair and fake Valerio-blue eyes. The wound she had given him still looked fresh on his cheek, stitched together with steely thread. He wore the Iron Crown atop his head and a black cloak that rippled as he came closer, a black jacket emblazoned with golden buttons and sunbursts stitched into the shoulders and sleeves, and black trousers. There was a great deal more gold and jewelry on him now, decorative cuffs on his ears and a thick choker rising up his long neck, a jeweled clasp keeping his cloak shut—he looked overwhelming. As though he didn’t even try to hide his power.

No, that was not her Di at all.

Even though he had the same sharp chin, and the same lips that curved perpetually downward, and the same thick red eyebrows, his eyelashes the color of oil. High cheekbones, and a narrow nose. The curve of his neck was the gentle slope she remembered pressing her lips against, once upon a time.

But this—this was the monster who had tried to murder her.

And yet . . .

“Di,” she whispered, unable to stop herself.

He recognized her and came to an abrupt halt. His eyebrows furrowed. “You.”

Not that she thought he would call her by her name, but she missed it all the same.

His face darkened. “You will not escape me this time.”

Then he outstretched his hand.

It happened so fast, she couldn’t even draw her weapon. A crackle of lightning surged from the comm-link on her cloak collar. She cried out, trying to wrench it away—and dropped her guard.