Because that was the truth of it. Brella had burrowed into her skin. Into her mind. She had changed Scratch, and there would be pain in the undoing of it.

Gods, that dream. What had she seen? In that room, Brella and her co-conspirators had concocted a trap, and Scratch had walked directly into it. Pain seared her stomach like a brand. She folded over herself, clutching at the ache.

She had known Brella was a liar, but she had barely investigated beyond that. The truth was, she hadn’t wanted to know. The clues had been there if she had only bothered to see them. But Brella had been there, too, dazzling and angry and more tenacious than anyone had the right to be. Brella had known who Scratch was. She had been ready to travel. She’d had too many answers, too perfect answers. She had revealed enough, just enough for Scratch to think she was getting somewhere when, in reality, she’d been walking in circles.

She was going to die out here.

“Sc-sc-scratch?”

Something emerged from the trees ahead. A woman wearing familiar muddy boots and an embroidered apron. Her hair was braided and bronze, her skin rich brown and freckled. At the sight of her, relief flooded Scratch’s chest like warm water.

“Brella?” she said, the word nearly a moan. In this moment of pure relief, her body had forgotten to be angry.

“Y-yeh-yes. Scra-a-a-atch.”

Instantly, the warmth of relief froze into icy horror. That was not Brella’s voice. This was not Brella.

“Who are you?” She reached for her knife, pointing it at the . . . something, some not-Brella, who was opening her mouth too wide, splitting her face to reveal rows and rows of teeth, yellowy stalactites hanging down from her palate.

“Scraa-aa-aatch. I have yo-o-ooou. Give to me-me-me-meeee.” The thing shambled forward, feet clumsy and hands outstretched. Its head hung limply. When it walked, its ankles rolled, feet pointing impossibly inward. Its hands were long-nailed and flaky-red, and an odor rolled off it like sickly-sweet rot.

“Stay back!” Fear prickled at her skin. Her mind swam. “Get away from me. I don’t have anything you want.”

“Flesh or truth.” It snapped up its lolling head, opening two black eyes. And then a third. And a fourth. “Flesh or tru-u-th. Give me what you wa-a-ant.”

Scratch’s pulse slammed in her throat, and she tasted fear, acrid and sour, on the back of her tongue.

“What does that mean?” she shrieked desperately.

The thing bent in on itself, quivering as it shifted shape. When it raised its slack head once more, its many eyes were bright green, shaded by thick brows.

“Yo-o-our truth or your flesh,” croaked the not-James. “Tell me wha-at you wa-a-ant.”

“I want you to go away!”

“Wrong answer.” It curved down again, its hair growing long and yellow, its eyes ocean blue and too wide in a wizened face.