Blood dripped down Hæra’s sides from the bite Asgall had given her back. Maybe that’s why she wasn’t instantly denying what he said. She would, though. Of course she’d say Asgall was lying. She’d wanted to connect with Madeleine, explore the bond between them, as she’d sworn so many times.

Just say it. She only had to say it.

“Kill him,” Hæra said. “Jonathan, please.”

Madeleine’s heart grew cold. Colder even than when Asgall had stalked her in the cottage.

In her peripheral vision, Jonathan finally took a step forward. Then another. He looked unsteady in the mud. His face had gone from red to pale, white to the lips. “Lass?” he said, looking at Hæra. “It’s not true, is it?”

Hæra lunged toward Asgall, if you could call it that. Her bite would have been more of a nip if it had landed, which it didn’t. She was too far away, and Asgall only laughed, even as blood turned patches of his own hide even darker.

“And you came back for more,” he said to Madeleine. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you? Even after so short an encounter, you were bound to her. You had to return, just as this one”—he looked at the gaping Jonathan—“can never leave me.”

Jonathan’s gaze went slowly back and forth between Hæra and Asgall like a pendulum.

Madeleine’s voice finally dragged itself out of hell. She croaked, “Hæra? He’s lying, isn’t he?”

If Hæra said yes, Madeleine would believe her. Even now, when the depth of her soul knew Asgall spoke the truth. Denial was the most wretched, impoverished face of love.

Hæra turned to look back at Madeleine. Her yellow eyes were dull with pain and with something else, something Madeleine recognized all too well.

Confession.

Madeleine had brought the knife with her to use in Hæra’s defense. Now it fell from her nerveless hands. Hæra watched it fall. Her head lowered again, and she swung it back toward Asgall, though she faced the ground. Then she bowed forward, going down on her front knees, and lowered her head until her muzzle touched the ground. “Finish me,” she said. “I can’t make it to the witch.”

The witch? Hæra had only ever told Madeleine about one witch, the one at the bottom of a whirlpool who’d taken pity on Hæra and flung her ashore to save her. Hæra had never said why she’d done it, just acted as if it was a random act of mercy. Then she’d dreamed of her, and Madeleine had dismissed it as a nightmare. Was that the witch she meant?

If Asgall knew, he didn’t seem to care. He opened his mouth, and saliva stretched between his teeth, as if he meant to strain his sister’s blood through it.