15

Fi

cold air whipped through Fi’s hair as Briar flew over Andar, the wind whistling in her ears. Fi shivered, pressing herself closer to him for warmth. The Rose Crown was tucked carefully into her vest, and her heart was still galloping in her chest. The memory of her wild jump played over and over in her head.

It had been unlike her to take a risk like that. An act of total desperation.

When she’d realized Shane had her cornered, she had only one thought: Briar. She couldn’t let it end there, not when she was so close. She remembered the way Briar had caught her when she fell from the Spindle Witch’s tower, and the way his eyes seemed to follow her everywhere, always keeping her in sight. In spite of everything that had happened, she couldn’t banish the foolish hope that there was still a connection between them. So she had taken the chance, throwing herself over the cliff into the swirling white mist.

She had believed he would catch her, and he had.

Briar’s arms wrapped around her, snatching her from free fall, and for just one second, they fit together again, perfectly in sync. Fi felt relief and hope surging up through her chest like a rising tide. Finally, she had the first desperate glimmer of an idea about the bone creature in her dreams, always tugging at the thread in his heart and asking where it led. Maybe it led to Fi. Maybe he was trying to tell her that the connection the bone spindle had forged between them was still there. That it was their destiny to be together.

It certainly felt like destiny, weaving through the wispy white clouds with Andar racing by far below. A dark malaise hung over the Forest of Thorns and the castle, a vicious blight, but from this high, she could also see the gold and green and sparkling blue at the edges of the kingdom, the parts of Andar that were still alive. Andar hadn’t given up the fight yet. The battle had just been on pause for a hundred years—a whole kingdom trapped in the base of an hourglass, being slowly swallowed by sand.

But that was about to change.

Briar’s wings surged around her, shimmering as they broke from the clouds. Dead ahead, she could see the little forest where she’d made her camp near the base of a much smaller waterfall. She felt a rush of exhilaration as Briar swooped, scarlet wildflowers whipping beneath them.

Of course, she would give it all up to be walking next to Briar again in the mud and dirt, tired and worn and itchy, forever side by side. Right now, she was as close to the prince as she had ever been, but his heart was miles away. She wanted those sparkling blue eyes back, and his teasing, mischievous smiles. She wanted the future they had imagined together, standing on a starlit hill. She wanted to kiss him and taste roses.

“Soon, Briar,” she promised, whispering the words against his jaw. His face remained impassive as he descended, setting her down in a clearing of scrubby grass. Fi untangled herself gingerly from the long bone claws. With no orders to follow, Briar stood motionless beside her like a pretty porcelain doll: hollow on the inside and so very breakable. Fi forced herself to turn away.

Her camp was little more than a pile of ragged blankets, a brown sack with a few provisions, and a fire ring she’d set up the night before. She had picked large rocks, piling them high so that they would be noticeable, because the ring of stones was the sign—along with the little waterfall splashing through the mossy rocks and the scarlet fire flowers. Enough signposts to point even the rusty, out-of-practice Armand Bellicia here.

Fi’s pulse pounded in anticipation as she moved toward the crooked willow tree hanging over the waterfall’s glistening pool. She ducked beneath the sweeping branches—but there was no one waiting for her next to the knotty trunk.

Fi’s heart plummeted. Her entire plan hinged on Armand bringing her the cursed letter opener. She’d thought she had him with the poison, but she wouldn’t put it past him to have cured himself somehow and abandoned her at the most critical moment.

Fi cursed and knelt before the tree, searching frantically for any sign he’d been here.

“Looking for this?”

Armand ducked under the curtain of willows, flicking the branches aside with one hand. In the other, he held the letter opener that carried the Butterfly Curse, twirling it carelessly between his fingers. He was immune to magic, after all, so he had nothing to fear from cursed relics. Fi even knew how that particular Bellicia family trait had come about, now that she’d read the Lord of the Butterflies’s letter detailing how he’d severed Armand’s ancestor from his magic—and all magic—forever.

Armand was dressed in a red tunic and black pants, with a rich travel coat flowing from his shoulders. He had clearly been watching her from somewhere, waiting to make his entrance until she was on her hands and knees in the dirt. Probably a little payback for their encounter in Illya. Fi had no time for his games. She held out her hand for the relic.

Armand pulled it out of reach. “Antidote first.”

Fi frowned, but she lifted the little vial, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger so he could see the liquid inside. “At the same time?”

Armand licked his lips and nodded. Fi extended her hand slowly, only for Armand to suddenly snatch the vial and lurch back out of her reach.

“What are you doing?” Fi hissed.

“Just making sure you kept your word.” Armand yanked the cork out with his teeth, spitting it aside and downing the vial all in one go.

“You can’t be here, Armand,” Fi warned. “Just give me the letter opener and get away as fast as you can.”

Armand sneered. “And leave you to face this great threat to all of us alone? I think not. You’ve had your way quite enough.”

Fi clenched her fists, anger warring with fear. Armand was about to mess up weeks and weeks of planning—and for what? His egotistical need to always show her up.

Anger won out. Fi lunged forward, shoving Armand hard enough to make him stumble backward out of the curtain of willows. Fi followed.

“If the Spindle Witch sees you, it’ll ruin everything. And whatever happens, it will be on you.”

“I don’t see any sign of a world-ending evil Witch,” Armand said, waving lazily around the clearing. “And I looked hard.”

Not hard enough, Fi thought, if he’d missed the way she’d been flown here by a creature that was as much bone as human. Even now, Briar was probably just standing on the other side of camp, barely blocked by the trees.

“I don’t have time to explain everything to you,” she bit out, looking at the letter opener in Armand’s hand and fingering her rope. She’d take it by force if she had to. She hadn’t survived Aurora’s tomb and faced down her own partner to have the likes of Armand Bellicia stand in her way.

“Luckily for both of us, I’m not interested in your explanations,” Armand said. His free hand settled on the thin rapier at his waist, tracing the marigold engraved on the pommel. “I am the Border Master’s son, and if this threat is as dire as you insist, I will deal with it myself. Properly.”

Fi could have strangled him for his overconfidence, but she didn’t have time. “Please,” she begged, not for herself, but for Briar. “Before it’s too late—”

The screech of a wild crow split the clearing, its voice shrill in warning, and then a gust as strong as a whirlwind rushed through the forest. A thousand wingbeats like an army of crows. Armand’s coat flapped madly, and a rain of leaves and dust whipped around them.

A moment later, the Spindle Witch strode through the trees, the layers of her dark skirts dragging in the dirt. Her veil was a wisp of black that barely covered her eyes, sweeping down the back like a cape. The Witch’s face looked young today, but her limbs were twisted and withered with age. She would be hungry. Fi looked around desperately, trying to salvage her plan.

She had known the Spindle Witch would come—she had been counting on it. After Fi’s last betrayal, there was no way the Witch would leave the Rose Crown in her possession. The youth had faded from her hands as she wrapped bony fingers around Fi’s wrist, crooning that she would come to retrieve the rose personally. A warning. A threat. And a chance.

This was supposed to be her moment. Fi had not been idle in the Witch’s tower; she had been watching the woman closely, gathering all the information she could, and she had worked out a few things. Like the fact that the Spindle Witch’s golden thread wasn’t actually infinite. And that she only used the pieces she had already spun. Never just her hair—and after what Fi had seen in Aurora’s memories, she supposed she knew why.

It was a distinction that was practically meaningless in places like her tower or the castle of Andar, where she’d had hundreds of years to spin her threads, covering them with traps. But out here in the woods, whatever thread was on her spindle would be all she had. It wasn’t much of an advantage, but it would have to be enough.

Fi shot a look at Armand frozen by her side, his eyes wide in disbelief as the Witch bore down on them.

“My, my,” the Spindle Witch hummed, twisting a golden thread between her fingers. “More treachery, and so soon. I find I’m growing fond of your futile little rebellions.”

Fi didn’t say anything. She glanced at the letter opener in Armand’s hands, trying to decide if she could grab it before the Spindle Witch realized what she was doing. The Witch followed her gaze, studying the dark-haired boy.

“Spindle Witch,” Armand hissed out. He pressed the letter opener to his chest, his right hand gripping the hilt of his sword.

“I see you’ve brought another little friend for me to play with,” the Spindle Witch said, looking down at Armand like he was nothing more than an irritating bug. Then her gaze focused on the letter opener, and Fi could see the way she stiffened. Her eyes glittered with sudden anger. “Now, where did you get a dangerous thing like that?”

Armand’s rapier leapt out of the sheath with a scrape. He leveled it at the Witch, though the tip was shaking.

This was not the way Fi had wanted this to go down. She’d planned to have the letter opener hidden in her sleeve so she could stab the Witch in the heart at the same moment as she handed over the Rose Crown. Now they would have to improvise.

She’d gotten the idea from the Lord of the Butterflies. When she’d asked him how to kill the Spindle Witch, he’d warned her that was entirely the wrong question. Fi didn’t know if that was because the Spindle Witch was immortal or because she was simply too powerful for a mere human to kill. But she wasn’t the first Great Witch brought low—the Lord of the Butterflies was.

From what she knew, the Butterfly Curse hadn’t just banished him. It had turned his own magic against him. And now Fi was going to do the same to the Spindle Witch.

“Armand,” Fi hissed. If he was here, then she would use him. “Her threads probably can’t hurt you. Use the Butterfly—”

A golden thread snapped forward, twisting around Fi’s neck in the span between heartbeats. “That’s quite enough of that,” the Witch warned. Fi choked, scrabbling at her neck.

Armand looked between them in horror. As if mesmerized, he reached out, brushing his fingers over a few lines of golden thread. The thread seemed to lose its power under Armand’s fingers, instantly withering and turning back into dead hair.

Fi snapped it from her neck and shook it off, panting. The broken strands fluttered to the ground.

Maybe Armand would be more useful than Fi thought. She had known he was immune to magic and curses; she just hadn’t been sure how far that power extended. Armand looked disgusted.

The Spindle Witch yanked her thread back, spinning it angrily between her fingers. “Don’t think that little parlor trick will save you,” she spat. She lifted her hand high, tugging at the empty air. Fi had a bad feeling about this.

“Armand—the Butterfly Curse—” she tried again.

This time, it was not a golden thread that cut her off, but a gleaming bone claw. Briar Rose cut through the air on his dark wings, swooping down and dragging Fi away. Her boots skidded through the grass and mud. She struggled against his tight grip, trying to twist free.

“Filore!” Armand yelled, his thin rapier jumping to stab at Briar’s side. Briar let go of Fi long enough to knock the sword away. Fi took the opportunity to seize his hand, yanking one of the claws backward at the joint. The overextended finger cracked like it was about to snap, and Fi felt sick.

“I’m afraid she can’t help you anymore. Your opponent is me, little boy,” the Spindle Witch said, the words poisoned by a laugh.

Fi tried to crane her head around to see what was going on, but she was forced to throw herself backward as one of Briar’s claws sliced through the air right where her neck had been. She could only hope the Bellicia bloodline would keep Armand alive long enough for him to figure out to use the Butterfly Curse.

Fi’s rope was still wrapped around her arm. She let the ring fall, spinning it quickly and then flinging it forward with all her might. It slammed into Briar’s ribs with an awful crunch that he didn’t even seem to notice. Was he unable to even feel pain anymore?

Fi looked up at him, the hulking wings and horns glinting as Briar advanced on her. There would be no stopping him now without killing him.

“Briar,” she tried. “Please . . .”

That was all she got out before Briar leapt at her, his claws plunging straight for her chest. Fi ducked and rolled out of the way. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Armand fighting a mass of crows, the black wings beating at him as he slashed his sword wildly. The Spindle Witch’s golden threads gleamed in the air around him, waving like tentacles, searching for a weak point. One got too close to him, the end going suddenly slack.

The snap of wings was the only warning Fi had that she’d taken her eyes off of Briar for too long. She scrambled up to her feet, not even looking back before whipping the rope up in a high arc. It caught one of Briar’s wrists, wrapping around and around his forearm. Fi threw herself forward, yanking the rope with all her might and dragging Briar to the ground. He came down hard, raking deep grooves into the dirt as he landed. Then he launched himself at her on all fours, like an animal.

Fi didn’t have time to dodge. She dropped to the ground as Briar’s claws ripped through the air over her head—and then she was all out of moves. She panted, bruised and breathless, as Briar loomed over her, claws poised to strike.

Armand screamed in pain. Through the flare of Briar’s wings, Fi watched in horror as the rapier and the letter opener were yanked from his grip by shimmering golden threads. The sharp blade of the sword gouged deep into his shoulder as the Spindle Witch disarmed him, flinging the weapons away. The letter opener sailed in a wide arc, disappearing into the long grass.

Armand’s face and arms were scratched up from the crows, blood streaming down into his eyes from a cut on his forehead. The Spindle Witch bent down to pick up the sword with the bloodstained tip.

One of Briar’s hands pressed painfully down on Fi’s chest, trapping her in place. The claws of his other hand rested against her throat as he waited for a command. Fi heard a clank as the Spindle Witch threw Armand’s sword aside.

“Such an unwieldy instrument,” she murmured. “Briar, my pet, kill him.”

Briar’s jagged claws slid away. For a second, Fi felt like he was staring right at her, those red eyes locked with hers. Then he stood up, dutifully turning on the weaponless lord. Armand lurched backward, his usually arrogant face pale with terror.

“No,” Armand begged, shaking his head. “This can’t happen. Not to me.”

Briar lunged, his great wings flapping as he dove straight for Armand Bellicia. He had forgotten one thing, though—Fi’s rope was still tangled around his arm.

It took all of Fi’s strength to rise to her knees. She wrapped the rope around both hands and then yanked back with all of her might. Briar jerked backward midflight.

Fi’s shoulders screamed with the effort of holding him. Briar was strong, and the rope tugged hard, the rough coils ripping into the skin of her palms until they bled. She didn’t let go. She wasn’t going to let Armand Bellicia die—but she especially wasn’t going to let Briar Rose become his murderer. She just had to hold on—

Briar’s bone claws flashed, slicing through the rope. He and Fi flew in opposite directions. Fi tumbled into the dirt, and when she raised her head, something glittered right in front of her. The letter opener. Briar’s leathery wings flailed as he desperately tried to keep his balance, one hard joint smashing into Armand’s chest. The boy flew off the bank and splashed into the river. His head broke the surface with a gasp, and he bobbed once before vanishing with the current.

“You won’t get away so easily,” the Spindle Witch promised. She lifted her hand, gathering golden threads in her fingers, her hateful gaze locked on the spot where Armand had disappeared.

In that moment, Fi saw the opening she had been waiting for. She abandoned her rope, gripping the letter opener in both hands and racing forward. The Spindle Witch turned just in time for Fi to drive the blade with the Butterfly Curse directly into her chest.

The Witch’s eyes filled with pure shock. Briar crumpled into a heap on the river’s edge, and Fi held on, pushing forward with every ounce of willpower until she had driven the blade in all the way to the hilt. Blood slicked Fi’s hands, staining the swallowtail butterfly on her palm a deep red.

Fi staggered backward, losing her grip as the Spindle Witch doubled over. Fi’s breaths were coming hard, the tight feeling in her chest easing for the first time since the moment Briar had been taken. She had done it. Somehow, she had outsmarted the Spindle Witch. The woman clutched at her chest, wheezing and choking—

With laughter.

Slowly, the Spindle Witch straightened. Her red lips were curved into a cruel smile. The letter opener still stuck straight out of her chest, right over her heart, and Fi felt like the world was tilting under her.

“Fool.” The Spindle Witch closed her hand around the letter opener, yanking it free. “This hasn’t been a weak spot of mine in a very long time.”

“But the Butterfly Curse . . .” Fi protested weakly. “Anyone who touches it . . .”

The Spindle Witch laughed again, sickeningly sweet. “I see you put some thought into this,” she said. “But not enough. How many people has this wretched thing cursed already?” She held up the letter opener. “At least two, perhaps more? There’s not enough magic left in this relic to be a threat to someone like me. It’s used up—and so are you, my dear.”

The Witch’s fingers curled around the little dagger, snapping it in two. Fi flinched as the bloody pieces hit the ground. This was the curse that had ruined her life, the curse that had defeated the Lord of the Butterflies, the most powerful curse Fi had ever known—and the Spindle Witch had tossed it aside like it was nothing.

She hadn’t saved anyone. She’d played right into the Witch’s hand. Shane had been right all along.

The Spindle Witch clicked her tongue. “I thought I warned you what would happen if you defied me again.”

She raised her hand, and Briar staggered up from his heap, moving dutifully toward his master even though all she was going to do was torture him. The Spindle Witch took hold of that invisible thread, and this time, she spared Fi a vicious look as she began to turn it slowly, like she was twisting a dagger sunk into his very heart. Briar screamed—the only time Fi ever heard his voice anymore.

Fi couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t watch this happen again. She was beyond thinking; she had no plan. Fi threw herself at the Spindle Witch, grabbing for her arm. She was caught immediately in a web of golden threads, the sharp strands jerking her arms up above her head.

“You won’t win in the end,” she shouted. Her fingernails caught in the Spindle Witch’s veil, wrenching it back to reveal those hard eyes, that golden hair, the monster born in the shape of a girl. “I may have failed this time, but I won’t stop—I’ll never stop! I’m going to save Briar and Andar. We have a destiny, a bond that can never be broken. I was chosen for this.”

The Spindle Witch released Briar all at once, rounding on Fi with delight. “Chosen?” she repeated. “Is that what you believe?”

Something dark hung in the air, a sudden weight that settled on Fi’s chest.

“I know all about the silly little spell the Rose Witch cast on my bone spindle,” the Witch said, leaning forward so she and Fi were eye-to-eye. “The magic was meant to find a savior for Briar Rose—a Witch with magic powerful enough to defeat mine. And it did.”

“I don’t understand.” Fi sagged as the threads loosened around her. She wasn’t a Witch—she had no magic at all.

“Oh, I know, dear,” the Spindle Witch said with a condescending smile. “Spells aren’t intelligent. They simply do what they’ve been crafted to. That spell wasn’t reacting to you. It was reacting to this.”

She seized Fi’s wrist, jerking it up to reveal the butterfly mark on her bloody palm.

“A little piece of the Lord of the Butterflies—the only Witch who has ever been more powerful than me.” The Spindle Witch tightened her grip, her nails cutting into Fi’s skin as she squeezed tighter. Her red lips curved into a ruthless smile. “You weren’t chosen. You’re not the savior of Briar Rose. You’re nothing. Just the mistake of a foolish Witch and the foolish spell she died for.”

Every word flayed Fi open. It couldn’t be. If she hadn’t been chosen, then what had all of this been for? By waking Briar, she’d put him directly in the Spindle Witch’s grasp. She had entered Everlynd and doomed the last survivors of Andar with her curse. She’d abandoned Shane and wound up giving the Spindle Witch exactly what she wanted. And for what?

Fi was no savior. Her chest felt like it would cave in, her ears still ringing with the last of Briar’s screams. She had tried to defeat the Spindle Witch and failed. The words echoed in her head. A failure. A nothing. A mistake.

“Though I must admit you’ve been unexpectedly useful to me.” The Spindle Witch yanked Fi closer, reaching into her vest and pulling out the Rose Crown. “Just what I was looking for,” she purred.

“No . . .” Fi’s vision wavered, the whole world blurry through a film of tears. Her head was full of memories—Shane’s blood-streaked face, her determined expression, and her warning that Fi was on the wrong side.

The Spindle Witch let go of her, tossing Fi aside to admire the ruby crown, which shone in the sunlight. Fi fell to her hands and knees before the powerful Witch. She didn’t think she could get up even if she wanted to. She felt drained and empty, as hollow as the puppet Briar, who stood next to her. She didn’t have any more cards to play. She had finally outlived her usefulness.

The Spindle Witch looked down at her as though sensing her thoughts. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t kill you yet. Either of you.” She beckoned Briar closer with a crook of her finger, grabbing his chin. “You’re mine, and he’s mine, until you’ve solved the Rose Witch’s code.” The woman began reciting Camellia’s riddle, the same words Fi had repeated in her head over and over.

In the forest of spines

Where the thorns gather

The shine of Andar’s most precious rose

Reveals the hidden butterfly

She shoved Briar to his knees beside Fi. “You’ve brought the crown. Now bring me the rest, and maybe I’ll put you out of your misery . . . together.”

Fi barely heard the Witch’s final command to Briar—Take her home—or felt Briar’s cold touch as he lifted her into his arms. It was only after Briar scooped her up and they were in the air that she realized they were heading the wrong direction to be returning to the Witch’s tower.

Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore. She had been utterly defeated by the Spindle Witch. This was the end, for her and for Briar Rose. Fi buried her face into his unfeeling chest and sobbed.