Percy’s voice was carefully monotone. “Because I helped create it.”

Ranka’s vision went red.

She jerked forward and slammed her forehead into Percy’s nose, straining against the bonds, trying to work her hands free so she could throttle him where he stood. Yeva. Talis. The nameless witch in the north, the one in the morgue. How many had died? How many more would? She’d kill him. By the grace of the Goddess, she would kill him—

Percy didn’t move.

He just stood there, nose dripping blood, scalpel dangling from his fingers.

“You’re a monster—”

“We have that in common.” Percy’s eyes flicked to the door. “One minute.”

A sob died in her throat. If Ongrum were here, she’d order Ranka to glean whatever information she could from her enemy. “Why?”

“Do you know your history, Bloodwinn? Do you know that before Witchik and Isodal fought each other, they came to our shores with warships and mage-fire?” He gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles went white. “Did you know your people nearly wiped mine from existence?”

“That was hundreds of years ago.”

“My people have a long memory.” His eyes flicked to her, and in the half-light they shifted from brown to molten gold. Ranka tasted smoke, recalling stories whispered over dying campfires of a time when the world teemed with magic, when merfolk sang sailors from their ships, and dragons shed their wings to walk among men and whisper in the ears of kings.

They’d all been hunted to extinction. Progress took its casualties one way or another.

Then the moment was gone, and the person standing in front of her was only a boy incredibly far from home.

“Winalin was never supposed to be a disease, it was supposed to be a defense. A shield.” Percy’s lips trembled. “We were supposed to be protecting ourselves. Fight fire with fire, so to speak. Even the playing field, so we finally had the weapon the humans feared most.”

The horror of it dawned on her. “The Star Isles were trying to make blood-witches.”

Percy looked like he wanted to be ill. “Yes.”

“But Yeva—the sick witches I’ve seen—”

“Test strands,” Percy said softly. “When I fled, a winalin-sickened witch could only survive for a few days, and it wasn’t infectious. But eventually the strain has to mutate. Eventually—”

“The new blood-witches will live.” The room swam.

“And if they don’t? Then our work is done for us.” His mouth twisted. “Either way, it removes the threat. We get our blood-witches, or you go extinct.”

Her head pounded. If what he was saying was true, if they could make it last longer—if they could make it infectious—

How could the covens fight when their own bodies acted as invader and weapon all in one?

“The coronation,” Ranka said thickly. “In a few weeks witches from every coven will be coming here….”