He twitched, ever so slightly. “Oh, I doubt that, Cécile. There are consequences to my death, and now that I have his precious little peach, he’ll do nothing at all. You, you, you!” He was on his knees over me. “You are such a wondrous creature, because you make him weak. You make him stupid. You’ll be the death of him.”

I shook my head and looked away. “No.”

“Yes. Now, up-up. Time to go.” He dragged me to my feet, his cane still firmly gripped in one hand. He didn’t need it – he had no infirmity – and it wasn’t a weapon. But he always had it as he walked sedately, carefully, through Trollus. I marked his high collar, his hands gloved with thick leather. Nothing but his face exposed.

“Where is everyone?” I struggled futilely against his magic.

“There’s no one here but you and me.” His smile was all teeth. “Unlike Tristan, I do not put my trust in weaklings.”

He’d cracked, I realized. A lifetime of deception, of suspicion, of not being able to trust a single soul, had finally gotten to him alone in this place of the dead. “Except Lessa,” I said. “She told us where to find you.”

He twitched again. “Lies.” And in one smooth motion, he flipped me over his shoulder. “We are leaving, now.”

I bit down on the inside of my cheeks, hard, and then on my tongue. My mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood.

“You’re lucky you didn’t trigger one of my traps like your clown,” he said. “I’ve spent a lifetime coming up with the best ways to maim.”

I said nothing, keeping my mouth closed, slowly filling with blood.

“They are everywhere, as your friend Martin knows.”

The glee in his tone filled me with fury. Angoulême hurt people – hurt my friends – not just to accomplish what he wanted, but because he enjoyed it. He was sick and twisted, and he needed to be stopped.

Fury running hot through my veins, and I twisted my body, biting down hard on his neck, my blood flowing into the wound as I tore out a chunk of flesh. He howled and flung me, my body rolling and bouncing across the floor. I cried out in pain, but before he could attack, I shouted, “You kill me, you bleed to death, Angoulême.”

He froze, hand clapped to the wound on his neck, blood flowing between his fingers. My aim had been good. Lethal.

“Just like Pénélope,” I said, ignoring the screaming pain of my body as I pushed onto my knees. “You’re afflicted. Even the tiniest of wounds is a labor to heal, and that is no tiny injury. Especially given it is full of my nasty, iron-filled human blood.” I grinned, feeling the crimson droplets running down my chin. “You. Need. Me.”