The sun wasn’t yet touching the horizon, but the long walk through the city earlier and the pounding pain in her head made her want to curl up and hide under the thick wool blankets and silk sheets of the big four-poster. But actual sleep eluded her. When she closed her eyes, she found herself back in the battle, not watching the Girls’ Own rankers shot down around her or in her desperate final struggle with the Deslandai officer, but delivering her warning to Jane through clenched teeth. Again and again, she saw Jane’s eyes widen in shock, as though Winter had just run her through the belly with a rapier, then narrow in—what? Rage? Frustration? Chagrin? She could picture the expression exactly, but not read it.

I should never have brought her here. Jane had done the impossible—escaped from the Prison and her husband, built a life for herself in Vordan City, and helped hundreds of others along the way. Winter had come into that life like a hurricane and knocked it to pieces. I should have made her stay behind. Made them all stay behind. Janus would have listened to me. He could have made them do it.

But if Jane wasn’t fitting into the army, others—Abby, Cyte—had taken to it like a duck to water. Should I have sent them home, too? She’d told Jane that the women of the Girls’ Own knew what they’d signed up for, and that was true, too. Why do I get to make the choice for any of them?

And no matter what, the thought of sending Jane away—of being separated from her again—made Winter feel as if someone were tearing her ribs out of her chest. But why does my pain trump hers? If being with me means ruining her life, how is that worth it? If I really loved her, I should have been willing to stay by her side in Vordan, and to hell with Janus and the army.

Of course, that had never been a realistic option. The passenger in the pit of Winter’s mind rarely made itself felt, but she could feel it if she turned her attention inward. Infernivore. A devouring beast, slumbering until it felt the approach of prey. Army or not, since the moment she took on the demon—or the naath, or whatever it is—she’d marked herself. According to Janus, it would stay with her for the rest of her life.

“Fuck.” Winter pressed her face into the thick down pillow, muffling her voice. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Balls of the fucking Beast. What the hell do I do now?”

Then, a bit unsteadily, she rolled out of bed and went in search of the rest of the bottle of wine.

*   *   *