Briar’s Isolde-shaped dark eyes fill with confusion as we tremble and groan, as our teeth bite down hard enough on our tongue to draw blood. I don’t break her gaze, even as tears fill our eyes.

We grip the leather hilt so tight our hand shakes.

Her eyes narrow, like Isolde’s when I’m not telling her the full truth. Dark, messy hair frames her face. “What are you playing at now, Gossamer?”

Isolde’s eyes, Isolde’s face, Isolde’s clear voice and delicate hands and strong arms.

It isn’t Isolde.

But she looks so much like her.

The ache flares in my chest again, and this time, I allow myself to feel it. I feel anger all over again, knowing that no matter what I do, I’m going to lose her.

Not Isolde.

Not my sister.

We drag our arm up.

Not my sister.

Not real.

I raise my hand, and before I can talk myself out of it—

I stab my sister in the heart.

Not my sister.

The dagger moves with speed foreign to me, swift and vicious as a lightning strike. It lands with a sickening crack, slicing into the tender skin between her ribs, driving mercilessly up through skin and muscle.

We both cry out with pain in unison.

Briar’s eyes widen with almost human surprise.

She releases me, both hands flying to the wound, to the magic-scented blood seeping freely from her Isolde-shaped flesh.

But it’s already too late.

The knife is pure, cold iron, and no faerie could survive that.

“I’m not Gossamer,” I hiss, as faerie blood stains my hands.

chapter thirty-seven

The faerie’s eyes go blank, and her hands slip away from the knife. Then she goes limp and collapses into the ink-black soil.

Everything, even the faerie creatures and the wind, is still. For a horrible second, I’m looking down at my twin’s dead body: Isolde’s ashen skin, her eyes as dark and empty as a doe’s, her black hair spread in a halo around her slack face. Isolde’s hands and chest smeared with blood, with my dagger still protruding from her chest.

Then her form flickers, and Briar’s magic dies with her.

The remaining fog in my head clears, and I’m staring at a dead faerie’s pale skin, ruby lips, scarlet-tipped nails, wide and unseeing crimson eyes. It’s all a gruesome match to the red blood that soaks her translucent white dress and streaks her skin.

My thoughts are mine again, but Gossamer’s presence is closer to the surface than ever. Another tear slips down my cheek, and I wipe at it viciously. Then I remember my hand is still wet with blood, blood I just smeared all over my face.

Something snarls.

I wrap my fingers around the dagger’s hilt and pull. It comes free with an effort and another gush of faerie blood, filling the air with the bitter sting of magic and pine sap.

The scent of blood in the air breaks the moment of stunned silence. I scramble back from the body as a swarm of imps with dragonfly wings buzzes out of the trees to cover the dead faerie, their hair and skin a riot of colors like oil swirled in water. Something larger and too dark to make out stalks forward, lapping at her blood.