Deveraux sighed. “Yes, darling. Me.”

And with those words, Claud Deveraux began to change. Growing taller, broader, his form stretched over even me. Cloven hooves burst from his polished shoes. Stag antlers erupted from his styled curls. A crown of oaken branches wove around them. Pupils narrowing abruptly to slits, his eyes gleamed in the darkness like a cat’s. He stared down at us in silence for several seconds.

I took a shaky breath.

“Holy shit.” Lou gaped up at him in disbelief. In confusion. I edged toward her. “You’re . . . you’re the Woodwose.”

Winking, he tipped his hat to her. It vanished in a burst of lilacs, which he presented to her with a flourish. “’Tis a pleasure to meet you, little one.” His voice was deeper now, ancient, as if it hailed from the earth itself. “I do apologize for not revealing myself sooner, but these are strange and difficult times.”

“But you aren’t real. You’re a goddamn fairy tale.”

“As are you, Louise.” His yellow eyes crinkled. “As are you.”

“You shouldn’t have come here, Henri,” Morgane said through tight lips. She still hadn’t lowered her hands. “I’ll kill all of them to spite you.”

He smiled without warmth, revealing pointed fangs. “Tread carefully, darling. I am not a dog who must obey his master’s summons.” His voice grew harder, fiercer, at Morgane’s grimace. “I am the Wild. I am all that inhabits the land, all things that are made and unmade. In my hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind. The mountains bow to my whim. The wild animals honor me. I am the shepherd and the flock.”

Despite herself, Morgane yielded a step. “You—you know the Old Laws. You cannot intervene.”

“I cannot directly intervene.” He drew to his full height, looming over her—over us all—his catlike eyes flashing. “But my sister . . . she is displeased with your recent exploits, Morgane. Very displeased.”

“Your sister,” Lou repeated faintly.

Morgan paled. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for her. Soon, her children will be free—”

“And your child will be dead.” Frowning, he reached down to touch her cheek. She didn’t recoil. Instead, she leaned into his touch. I wanted to look away. I couldn’t. Not when profound sadness welled in this strange being’s eyes, not when it slid as a tear down Morgane’s cheek. “What has happened to you, my love? What evil poisons your spirit?”

Now she did recoil. The tear curled into smoke on her cheek. “You left me.”

The word broke something in her, and she leapt into movement, thrusting her hands toward him. Lou lifted her own instinctively. I followed a second too late, dropping one of my knives, cursing as it skidded across the ground past Morgane. She didn’t see it, thrusting her hands at Deveraux again and again. He only flicked his wrist and sighed. The sharp scent of cedar wood engulfed us.

“You know that won’t work on me, darling,” he said irritably. With another flick, Morgane sailed directly upward, suspended as if pinned to a tree. Her palms snapped together. The tumult around us quieted as everyone turned to stare. “I am the land. Your magic comes from me.”

When she screamed in frustration, flailing wildly, he ignored her. “But you’re right,” he continued. “I never should’ve left. It is a mistake I will not make twice.” He paced before a line of corpses, growing steadily taller with each step. Nausea pitched violently in my stomach when I looked closer. When I recognized my mouth on one face. My nose on another. My jaw. My eyes.

Deveraux spotted the toddler, and his voice darkened. “For too long, I’ve sat quietly—watching you drown others, watching you founder yourself—but no longer. I will not let you do this, ma chanson.” He glanced at Lou, and the terrible fury in his eyes softened. “She could have been ours.”

“But she’s not,” Morgane spat, throat bulging with strain. “She’s not mine, and she’s not yours. She is his. She is theirs.” She pointed to me, to Ansel, to Coco and Jean Luc, to Beau and Blaise. “She was never mine. She has chosen her side. If it’s the last thing I do, I will make her suffer as her sisters have suffered.”

Several witches crept toward the main tunnel now. Blaise—face bloody, mouth dripping—blocked the entrance, but he numbered only one. When the witches engaged, streaking past, the Chasseurs gave chase, deserting us. Ansel edged back to guard the smaller actors’ tunnel. Trembling beside the corpses, Célie stood alone. When she turned to look at me—alive, terrified—I beckoned her over. The slightest twitch of my fingers. Her face crumpled, and she raced toward us. Lou caught her, and I wrapped my arms around them both.

We would survive this. All of us. I didn’t care what Coco’s vision said.

Deveraux watched us for a moment, his expression wistful, before turning back to Morgane. He shook his head. “You are a fool, my love. She is your daughter. Of course she could have been yours.” With the wave of his hand, Morgane floated back to the ground. Her hands broke apart. “This game is over. My sister has grown rather fond of Louise.”

My arms tightened around her, and—shuddering with relief—she dropped her head to my shoulder. To my surprise, Célie stroked her hair. Just once. A simple gesture of comfort. Of hope. The unlikeliness of it startled me, shattered me, and warm relief swept in. My knees buckled. We really would survive this. All of us. With Deveraux and his sister on our side—a god and goddess—Morgane’s hands were tied. For all her power, she was human. She couldn’t hope to fight this war and win.

Panting and flexing her wrists, she glared at Deveraux with pure animosity. “Your sister is the fool.”

His eyes flattened, and he motioned for Blaise and Ansel to step away from the tunnel entrances. “You try my patience, love. Leave now, before I change my mind. Undo what can be undone. Do not attempt to harm Louise again, or feel my sister’s wrath—and mine. This is your final warning.”

Morgane backed toward the tunnel slowly. Her eyes darted upward, watching the last witches flee from sight and the last huntsmen follow. Deveraux let them go. Morgane would never surrender with an audience. Now the auditorium was nearly empty. Only our own remained—and Manon. She stared at Gilles’s empty face, her own equally lifeless. Lou looked as if she might approach her, but I squeezed her waist. Not yet.

“My final warning,” Morgane breathed. “The wrath of a goddess.” When she lifted her hands, everyone tensed, but she only brought them together in applause. Each clap echoed in the empty auditorium. A truly frightening grin split her face. “Well done, Louise. It seems you have powerful pieces in our game, but do not forgot I have mine. You have outplayed me . . . for now.”

Lou stepped away from Célie and me, swallowing hard. “I was never playing, Maman. I loved you.”

“Oh, darling. Didn’t I tell you love makes you weak?” A wild gleam lit Morgane’s eyes as she inched backward. She was close to the tunnel now. Close to escape. Ansel hovered nearby with an anxious expression. It mirrored my own. I glanced to Deveraux, praying he’d change his mind—capture her—but he didn’t move. He trusted her to leave, to obey her goddess’s command. I didn’t. “But the game isn’t over yet. The rules have simply changed. That’s all. I cannot use magic, not here. I cannot touch you, but . . .”

I realized her intent too late. We all did.

Cackling, she swooped up my fallen knife and lunged, driving it into the base of Ansel’s skull.

The End of the World

Lou

The world didn’t end in a scream.

It ended in a gasp. A single, startled exhalation. And then—

Nothing.

Nothing but silence.

Something Dark and Ancient

Lou

I could do nothing but watch him fall.

He dropped to his knees first—eyes wide, unseeing—before falling forward. There was no one to catch him, no one to stop his face from hitting the ground with a sickening, definitive thud. He did not move again.

Ringing silence filled my ears, my mind, my heart as blood surrounded him in a scarlet halo. My feet wouldn’t move. My eyes wouldn’t blink. There was only Ansel and his crown, his beautiful limbs draped behind him as if—as if he were just sleeping—

By midnight, a man close to your heart will die.

A scream pierced the silence.

It was mine.

The world rushed back into focus then, and everyone was shouting, running, slipping in Ansel’s blood—

Coco tore her arm open with one of Reid’s knives, and her own blood spilled on Ansel’s face. They turned him over on Reid’s lap, forcing his lips apart. His head lolled. Already, his skin had lost its color. It didn’t matter how they shook him, how they sobbed. He wouldn’t wake.