He blinked at me.

“Martin?” I bent closer. “Can you hear me? Are you all right? How do you feel?”

His lips parted and his eyes shifted back and forth. “There are no words for this, Cécile. Not in any language.”

It was only then that I realized he was whole once more. “You are as you imagine yourself to be,” I breathed, so painfully happy that I’d fixed my friend that it took me a moment to realize I felt no relief of my promise. Martin was free from iron and fey once more, but there was something more that needed to be done. Something that I’d missed.

“Tristan,” I said, turning. “I think I…” But the words died on my lips, because I found myself face to face not with Tristan, but with Victoria. And before she even spoke, I knew what she would ask.

Chapter 47

Tristan

“You fixed him,” Victoria said to Cécile, her voice strange and breathy. Desperate. “You made him better.”

I knew where this was going, and judging from the look on Cécile’s face, so did she.

“Victoria, no,” I said, catching hold of her arm to draw her back.

In a blur of fury, she spun, her fist connecting with my face in a burst of pain. She’d hit me. I touched my lip, then looked at the blood on my fingers, trying to understand how we’d gotten to this point. How instead of untrussing Angoulême and dealing with him, I was fighting with my closest friends.

“It’s not up to you, Tristan. Not this time.”

“Can we please discuss this rationally,” I said as Cécile crept away on her hands and knees. But before she got more than a few paces, magic lashed around her leg, jerking her back. Her grandmother grabbed her hands, but Cécile brushed her away. “Go,” she said. “Get out of the way.” And when the old woman didn’t listen, to Martin: “Take her.”

His brows furrowed, then his misty form solidified. Snatching up the fragile woman, he bolted for the trees. Chris remained, crouched low to the earth, pistol in hand. He was no more likely to leave with Cécile in danger than I was.

“Let her go.” I circled, trying to get closer to Cécile, but Victoria pivoted, keeping between us. I didn’t want to believe she’d hurt her, but Victoria was mad with grief, and that made anyone unpredictable.

“You owe me this,” she said. “You owe Vincent. Let Cécile fix him.”

“She can’t. Not yet.”

“Why?”

Against my will, my eyes flicked to Cécile then back. “You damn well know why not.”

Victoria laughed, and the sound of it made me cringe with its unfamiliarity. Not only had Angoulême stolen Vincent from us, he’d taken Victoria, too. Destroyed her spark, her humor, her spirit, and left a bitter angry girl in his wake. “Because you still have a use for us? Because you don’t want to give up any of your tools?”

“Don’t,” I snarled, remembering how Lessa had lobbed the very same insult at me when I still believed she was Anaïs. “You bloody well know how much he means to me. His loss hurts more than just you.”