16

Red

it was raining when they trudged back into the Everlynd camp. Red peered at the rows of shuttered windows and covered tents from under the lip of her gray hood. She was cold and hungry and generally in a damp mood.

Shane wasn’t in any better spirits. The huntsman had barely said two words to Red since coming back from Aurora’s tomb. Shane preferred to throw herself into chopping firewood that was too wet to use and kicking apart the remains of stone walls that were barely in their path. Red watched her put a fist through a cracked branch as they broke trail, and she couldn’t help but wonder whose face Shane was imagining under her knuckles.

Shane had returned from the tomb dirty and ragged, with such a grim expression that Red had felt a moment of panic. But Shane hadn’t been dying, and she hadn’t failed. Instead, the huntsman wrapped one arm around Red and pushed the butterfly ring into her hands, whispering that she’d lost her partner again.

The rain started a few hours later. It had followed them for days, sometimes coming down in sheets, sometimes just a foggy drizzle that left Red shivering by a weak fire, holding Cinzel close and watching Shane hurl wet pine cones into the flames. So many times, Red opened her mouth to say something—that it wasn’t Shane’s fault, that she’d done everything she could, that she’d come back with the ring and her life, and maybe that was all they could ask for right now. She stopped herself every time. She already knew it wasn’t what Shane wanted to hear.

Red desperately wanted to help Shane. To be there for her the way Shane was always there for Red. She just didn’t know how.

The Paper Witch and Perrin were waiting for them when they reached the little stone house. Cinzel immediately plopped down in front of the fire, leaving a big wet wolf splotch on the nice rug. The Paper Witch suggested they could take their time to warm up, but Shane just shot him a dark look.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said.

Which was how Red found herself in the tower again, a few straggling curls stuck to her face. They’d changed out of their soaked traveling clothes, but the chill had gotten into Red’s bones, and the hem of her crimson dress was already damp and discolored from the downpour. She wrapped her arms around herself, watching as a few drops of the Paper Witch’s blood ran down the mirror once more. The storm was growing worse, the wind outside rising to a desolate moan. The first flash of lightning split the dark beyond the tower window and seemed to crackle in the surface of the mirror.

It was a long, tense minute before the Lord of the Butterflies appeared, and when he did, his image was fuzzy, his reflection rippling as if in rough water. At last, it settled in the glass.

“Speak quickly,” he said, his voice almost lost in a rumble of thunder. “We may have even less time than I thought.”

Suddenly, Red wanted to be anywhere else. She swallowed the feeling down as Shane pushed forward, holding up the butterfly ring. The Paper Witch stood beside her with the hairpin laid reverently across his palms. The little butterflies shivered on the ends of the delicate chains.

“We have it,” Shane said, swiping rain out of her hair with a damp sleeve.

The Lord of the Butterflies frowned. “That’s not what I sent you to retrieve.”

“What are you talking about?” Shane demanded. She leaned in until she was practically nose-to-nose with the man, every angry word fogging the cold glass with her breath. “It has to be. It was the only ring in her tomb. I pulled it from her hand myself!”

A shiver crawled along Red’s spine at the thought of the Witch Queen’s skeleton being disturbed. She had never liked dead things.

The Lord of the Butterflies wasn’t impressed. “It may be my ring, but all of the magic has been drained from it. It’s useless for fixing the hairpin.”

Shane’s face was livid, her hands curling into white-knuckled fists.

“How it that possible?” Perrin asked. Red could barely hear him over the rain lashing the old stone walls.

“Only Aurora herself could have done it,” the Lord of the Butterflies mused. “She was quite clever at making use of other people’s magic. I wonder what she could possibly have needed such a vast store of my magic for, though . . .”

The Paper Witch suddenly looked very pale. “I believe I can answer that question, great lord,” he said slowly. “She used it to make a curse—a very powerful one. I know a girl who bears its mark.”

A curse mark in the shape of a butterfly. Red knew immediately who the Paper Witch was talking about. So did Shane. The huntsman’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles in her neck stood out.

“Fi.”

The Lord of the Butterflies sighed heavily, his bright red robe flaring around him as he shrugged. “It’s a pity you didn’t bring this girl with you. I might have been able to use that magic—even in the shape of a curse. As it is, there’s nothing I can do.”

It couldn’t be. After everything they’d gone through—everything Shane had gone through—it couldn’t have been for nothing. That horrible squeezing feeling in Red’s stomach had become a vise around her chest, and she almost couldn’t breathe against it as she stared at the huntsman.

Shane’s shocked expression should be morphing into anger. She should be yelling and threatening and overturning the tables, swearing she’d fix everything. Like she always did.

Instead, Shane just stood there, looking away. Looking defeated.

For a second, Red was teetering on the edge of a precipice, all her fear threatening to swallow her. And then she was feeling something else—molten-hot, boiling anger that seared through her and burned the fear to ash.

Shane came through for everyone—always—whether they deserved it or not. They couldn’t turn around and repay that by failing her.

Red stomped forward, elbowing Shane out of her way and snatching the hairpin. “So that’s it?” she demanded, staring down the ancient Witch in the mirror. “You’re giving up? That’s not good enough!” It felt like the storm was shouting with her.

“Red . . .” Shane said, laying a heavy hand on her arm. Red shook her off.

“I’m not talking to you,” she snapped, brandishing the pin at the Lord of the Butterflies. “You! You’re supposed to be the most powerful Witch of all time, and we need you! Aurora’s descendants need you. Aurora’s kingdom needs you. So don’t you dare tell me there’s nothing you can do. We’ll find the girl, and we’ll get the magic back—all I’m asking you to do is complete this pin. Fix it at least partway!”

“Partway?” Something glittered in the Witch’s eyes. He looked amused and fascinated all at once, as if they had his full attention for the first time. Red recognized that look. It was exactly how the Spindle Witch had looked the first time she heard Red sing and recognized something she could use.

A deafening roar of thunder split the air, sounding like it was right on top of them. The candles wavered madly in their braces. The Lord of the Butterflies smiled.

“It’s always those who know the least about magic who have the most interesting ideas,” he said. “Perhaps because they know no limitations. What you ask may be possible, but there’s something you need to understand. It isn’t merely raw magic that makes these spells so powerful. The Lord of the Butterflies infuses each of his creations with a sliver of his own magic, giving them a life of their own, so to speak. Like me.” He waved a hand airily at his own form in the mirror. “That butterfly has been completely drained. To restore the spell, it would need to be given new life.”

“Like yours?” Red asked. “If you’re also a sliver, can’t you just—go in there?”

“Deliciously ruthless,” the Lord of the Butterflies purred. “Your tiny mind can’t even begin to understand the complexity of my existence, and yet you’re willing to sacrifice me for your own ends.”

Red’s heart lurched uncomfortably.

The dark-haired man laughed. “Don’t misunderstand. I wholly approve, and I am more than capable of fulfilling this request. But I’m in here, and the butterfly pin is not. I’ll need one of you to serve as a conduit for my power to leave the mirror.”

The Paper Witch swept forward. “I would gladly volunteer to assist you . . .” he began.

“No. You,” the Witch said. His gaze was locked on Red. She felt the pit drop out of her stomach.

“Me?” Red repeated.

“You’re the one asking for a favor,” the Witch pointed out. “Besides, I have a sense this isn’t the first time you’ve been a conduit for a magic greater than your own.”

His words shook her to the bone. Red stared at the mirror, feeling all the shadows pressing in around her until they could have smothered her. She wondered what the Lord of the Butterflies saw when he looked at her. Maybe he sensed the blood magic that had bound her to the thorn rod and the Spindle Witch for so long.

The Paper Witch looked between Red and the Lord of the Butterflies, his face tight with worry. “It’s up to you whether you are willing to take this risk.”

“Not a chance!” Shane broke in with a snarl. “This has bad idea written all over it. And I’ve had enough of trusting our future to deceptive Witches.”

“Shane, stop,” Red said, tugging on the girl’s elbow. “I can do this. I need to do this.”

She was surprised how much she meant it. Red’s moral compass was long since broken; she wasn’t even sure it could point her toward what was right anymore. But it had pointed her to Shane. Shane was the best thing that had ever happened to Red. She was good and true and sweet in a way nothing in Red’s life ever had been.

As long as Red’s heart pointed to Shane, she had the sense she would never go astray again.

“She can do it.” It was Perrin’s voice. When Red looked back, he gave her an encouraging smile, along with a wink only she understood. “Take it from another member of the club.”

Shane shook her head, at a loss. “He’s not even promising it’ll work,” she argued.

“Will it?” Red demanded, turning back to the Lord of the Butterflies. “If you use me as a conduit, can you fix the butterfly?”

“I thought I was just going fix it partway and you were going to finish it yourself,” he pointed out, smirking.

“You know what I meant,” Red insisted.

The man huffed out a short laugh. “Nothing can take the place of my magic. But, yes, the hairpin will be whole again—brought to life, as it were. And the butterfly will be able to siphon my magic back from that girl. Assuming you ever find her.”

“Okay,” Red said, nodding too hard. Her head felt wobbly on her neck, and she wondered if anyone else could tell she was trembling. “What do I do?”

The Lord of the Butterflies looked pleased. “You’ll need to shed a few drops of blood on the mirror to start.”

Red could hear Shane growling behind her, but she ignored it. The Paper Witch was already at her side, offering his small dagger. Red held out her hand, trying to swallow down the sudden lump in her throat. She wished Cinzel were with her.

The Paper Witch’s fingers were soft, and he gave her a reassuring squeeze before nicking a tiny cut into the pad of her index finger. It stung. Red watched in fascination as a few pearly red drops splashed down onto the mirror, sliding into the grooves.

“Good,” the Lord of the Butterflies whispered. “Now slide the ring onto the hairpin.”

Shane reluctantly pressed the ring into Red’s hand, giving her a significant look. The single butterfly seemed to flutter in the flickering light.

The rain was howling now, the roar threatening to drown out everything else. Quills and inkpots rattled on the shelves. Red’s heart almost leapt out of her chest when a sudden surge of rain slapped against the shutters, rattling them like cage bars. The Lord of the Butterflies was still smiling, a wide, eager smile that stretched across his face as he leaned forward in anticipation. His glittering eyes bored into Red.

“Now stab the pin into your palm.”

A shock of thunder split the air as he said it. Red was certain she was the only one who heard him. Fear seized her chest, and she hesitated. Stab herself with a weapon powerful enough to stop the Spindle Witch? The spell wasn’t finished, that was the whole point, and yet . . .

“You’re going to come this far and then quibble over a little discomfort?” the Witch asked coldly.

“Red . . .” She could hear the worry in Shane’s voice.

She couldn’t fail at this—she wouldn’t. Red lifted the hairpin. The sharp end gleamed like a knife. Before she could think too hard, she jammed it down into the palm of her hand, piercing right through the ugly mark left by the thorn rod, still raw and red and barely healed.

Thunder crashed around the tower. The shutters blew free of their braces, banging against the stone wall, and half the candles went dark. Red shrieked. Her entire body was suddenly crackling with pain, white hot and searing, radiating from the center of her palm where the pin had pierced her.

Distantly, she could hear Shane screaming her name. It felt like she was falling, slipping backward into blackness, into herself. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the mirror. The Witch’s eyes flashed like the whole of the storm raged inside them, and then, just as suddenly, it was inside Red, too, filling her with power, with pain, the lightning rippling right under her skin. Her throat closed over a scream.

The Lord of the Butterflies was too powerful to contain. Even a faint sliver of him was tearing her apart from the inside.

Then Red’s body was gone, and the world was blackness. She wondered in horror if she had lost consciousness or maybe even died. But there was still a smooth voice in her ear.

I suspected you had been touched by powerful magic. Is that her, then . . . your Spindle Witch?

The darkness was gone, but it had been replaced by something far worse. Red could feel the Lord of the Butterflies rifling through her memories, dragging her through each one until she ended up before the Spindle Witch again and again.

Red saw herself receiving the thorn rod, on her knees before the veiled figure as the Witch forced the thorns deeper into her bloodied hand, binding it to her with golden thread.

She saw herself using that rod to summon the milky-eyed crow, whispering into its windswept feathers the secrets of Witches she’d spied on.

Or worse—selling them out to the silver-eyed assassin and letting the Wraith do the dirty work so she could steal their relics and treasures and present them to her master. All the worst regrets of Red’s life on display.

Through it all, the specter of the Spindle Witch hung over her. She was too real to be just a memory. Red knew suddenly she’d been here all along, lurking in the darkest parts of Red’s mind, haunting her like a ghost. A cruel painted smile and those beautiful golden threads that made monsters. Monsters like Red.

She hadn’t lost consciousness, because she realized her eyes were open. The Lord of the Butterflies had disappeared from the mirror, leaving her staring into her own tearstained reflection. Perrin was wrong. She couldn’t do this. She had been responsible for bringing so much pain and darkness into the world—shedding a few drops of blood couldn’t wash that away.

The pain of the thorns in her palm was as sharp as the day she’d first let the dark power ensnare her. She had welcomed that little piece of darkness inside her, and now she would never be free of it. After everything she’d done, she was still snarled in the Spindle Witch’s golden threads.

The Lord of the Butterflies’s voice was in her head again.

That’s a nasty bit of residue she’s left in you. I think I’ll take it with me when I go.

Red didn’t understand what the Witch was saying, didn’t understand what was happening, only that she was falling again.

No—she was on her feet, standing in front of a cracking mirror. Whatever was falling was inside her, a great swirl of power like the torrent of a river rushing through her and then draining away. She felt like she was being wrung out. A crack slid along the surface of the mirror, fracturing her reflection. The noise of the storm returned at a fever pitch, the rain pounding harder than her hammering heart.

A great fork of lightning split the sky, lighting up the tower, and the mirror gave a sickening crunch. Then, all at once, Red was herself again—just herself—cold and shuddering and dizzy from the wound in her palm. But alone.

It felt like an eternity had passed, but it must have only been a few seconds. She stumbled back from the mirror, and Shane caught her.

“Red!” she yelled.

Red shook her head, her vision hazy. The only brace of candles still burning had toppled over, sputtering against the stone floor. Perrin rushed to close the shutters while the Paper Witch righted the brace, removing one candle to relight the rest.

“Are you all right?” Shane demanded, spinning Red around.

Red had to swallow to find her voice. “Yes,” she croaked. “I think so.” Or she would be, as long as it had worked.

She looked down at her hand, her face twisting in horror. The butterfly pin was whole, as promised—three glittering butterflies now dangled from the chains, the empty band of the ring hanging uselessly on the stem. But the pin itself was driven all the way through Red’s palm, the sharp tip gleaming where it protruded from the back of her hand. Drops of blood slid down her wrist to the floor in a steady drip, drip, drip.

“Get it out,” Red begged, thrusting her hand at Shane. “Just get it out!”

“Okay, just calm down. I don’t want to hurt you.” Shane’s face was pinched with worry. She wrapped her fingers gingerly around the pin. “On three,” she said.

Red nodded mutely.

“Three,” Shane said all at once, yanking the pin free. Red shrieked out a gasp, but she felt better the second the sharp tip was out of her skin. The empty ring band fell to the floor, clinking against the stone. The Paper Witch picked it up and studied it thoughtfully.

“Let’s see the damage,” Shane said, slowly uncurling Red’s fingers from around the wound. Red was almost too afraid to look as Shane wiped away the blood to reveal—

Nothing.

There was no gaping hole, not even a scratch or a scab. But there was a scar. A ragged circle-shaped scar marred the center of her palm, so smooth it looked like she’d had it for years. It had completely obliterated the worst of the marks from the Spindle Witch’s rod.

Red gaped, thinking about the Lord of the Butterflies’s final words: That’s a nasty bit of residue . . . I think I’ll take it with me.

She glanced over at the mirror. The glass was cracked from end to end, the surface only reflecting their splintered faces. Red felt lighter, freer—like the Lord of Butterflies had scraped away the last remnants of the Spindle Witch from her heart. She turned the butterfly pin this way and that, watching the firelight ripple in the little jeweled wings. He was in there now, she supposed, but she had a feeling he wasn’t going to be answering any more questions.

“Do you think it worked?” she asked breathlessly, turning to the others.

Perrin closed his eyes, swaying on his feet as he looked at the pin with an entirely different set of senses. “It feels complete to me,” he said with a shrug. “But I don’t think we’ll know for sure until we try to use it.”

“And that is the last time any of you will admit that to anyone outside this room,” the Paper Witch warned. “We are all in need of a little hope right now. The ritual was a success, and the butterfly has been restored. I think we may finally stand a chance.”

Shane suddenly looked miserable again. “We don’t,” she said dully. “Because I lost Fi. We have no idea what she’s doing—if she’s even still alive . . .”

“Don’t say that.” The Paper Witch fixed Shane with a stern look. “Filore is a very resourceful girl. She may yet surprise us. For now, we can try to contact her ourselves.”

“How?” Red asked.

“Through Perrin.” The Paper Witch waved at the boy, who was currently staring thoughtfully at the wax dripping down the side of a candle.

Perrin’s eyes widened, as though he was just as shocked as any of them to be called out. “Me?”

“You,” the Paper Witch agreed. “Your dream magic has the potential to be every bit as powerful as any of the Great Witches of Andar. You should be able to jump into the dreams of someone like Fi, with whom you already have a connection.” The Paper Witch shook his head as Perrin hissed, a hot splash of wax striking his hand in his distraction. “Though it may require a little more . . . focus than you’ve achieved so far.”

“If Perrin can contact Fi, then maybe we really can finish this.” Red wrapped her hand around Shane’s, holding the completed hairpin between them.

Shane’s fingers curled around the pin—then she jerked back, shaking Red off.

“Maybe,” Shane repeated, her lip curled. “That’s all we have—maybe and if. Face it—I lost the only chance we had of defeating the Spindle Witch when I let Fi go again. This is just a useless piece of junk!”

Shane threw the pin. It bounced against the stone floor.

“Hey!” Perrin protested, bending over to retrieve the precious relic.

Shane was already gone, the door banging behind her as she strode out of the tower, heedless of Red calling after her. Red shot one look back at Perrin and the Paper Witch and the broken mirror, then rushed after Shane into the rain. Within seconds, she was soaked.

“Shane!”

Her voice was almost drowned out by the storm, but she had a feeling Shane heard her and was just too stubborn to turn around. Red hurried as fast as she could, but Shane was quickly getting ahead. Red’s boot plunged into a puddle, and her patience snapped.

“Shane, stop!” she shouted.

Shane shot her a dour look over her shoulder. “Give me one good reason.”

Red huffed, trying and failing to push a dripping lock of hair out of her face. “Because it’s wet and I’m in a skirt and I’ve got mud up to my ankles. And it’s not fair to make me chase you down.”

She had a feeling that wasn’t the argument the huntsman was expecting. Shane blinked at her. Red could just imagine the picture she made, bedraggled, with sopping curls plastered to her face, stuck in a puddle and holding fistfuls of her long skirt out of the muck. Shane’s lips quirked a little, just a twitch of a smile.

“I guess there was a good reason buried in there,” she muttered.

Red sighed, relieved that Shane was walking back toward her. She took another slippery step herself and nearly ended up flat on her back—but Shane was there, close enough for Red to catch herself against the girl’s shoulder. Shane didn’t seem angry anymore; she seemed resigned, and that was worse.

Red bit her lip. “Look. I wanted to say . . .”

“I told you so?” Shane guessed with a dark chuckle. “Because you did. You knew this was impossible right from the beginning. And you tried to warn me. I just wasn’t listening.”

Frustration boiled in Red’s chest. “You’re not listening now!” she accused. Shane looked lost and bitter—she looked like the girl Red saw in the mirror, and she couldn’t stand it. Without thinking, she reeled away and pushed Shane as hard as she could, sending the other girl stumbling across the road.

Shane caught herself against a rough stone wall, head whipping up in surprise. “You pushed me.”

“Shut up!” Red warned. She stalked over to Shane, grabbing the front of her coat. Her fingers were cold and shaking, but inside, she was nothing but anger, hot enough to ignite. “You don’t get to say those things, and you definitely don’t get to give up! Not after dragging me here. Not after promising me a life and a future together. I didn’t want to believe in any of it—in you—but I do now. And I’m begging you not to take that away from me.”

Shane stared at her. Her voice, when she spoke, was oddly rough. “I didn’t think I was getting through to you. Not after . . .”

The Eyrie? Her father’s death? Ivan’s secrets? Red could remember a hundred moments Shane had reached out to her, and she had wanted to reach back, but she just hadn’t been able to reach far enough. So she’d let go—she’d let Shane go. But not anymore.

“You weren’t getting through. At first.” Red let go of Shane’s jacket, resting her fingertips on the girl’s strong shoulders. “But . . . you make me want to be brave, Shane. You’re the first person who ever took a chance on me. The only person who ever told me I’m worth something.”

“You are,” Shane said, and though the words were so soft Red could barely hear them, they still made her heart flutter like it had wings. She gave Shane a playful shove.

“I know that now. It just took a while to sink in.”

A lot of things about Shane had taken a while to sink in. Like the fact that she really was as straightforward and loyal as she seemed, and that she meant every word she’d ever said. And most of all, that she was the only person in Red’s life who’d never made a promise she didn’t intend to keep.

Red swallowed, holding on to the wet collar of Shane’s coat. “Shane, I . . .”

“Yeah?” Shane pressed.

The words were on the tip of her tongue—the feelings that had been growing inside Red every day until they were almost overwhelming. But she didn’t want to say it, not on a night like this, in the dark with the rain beating down on them and the wind howling in the empty streets. Those words were too delicate to cut through the storm and too important to waste. Red would hold them inside herself for now, until she was sure Shane would hear them the way she meant them.

Red pulled back and wrapped her arms around herself, pouting. “I’m wet and I’m freezing,” she said matter-of-factly, as if that was all she’d ever meant to say.

Shane snorted. “Well, that’s what you get for chasing somebody into the pouring rain.”

That was the Shane she recognized. Red dug her heel into the toe of Shane’s soggy boot, making her yelp. “That was your opening to invite me to stay in your house again, with your nice warm fireplace,” she explained. “Unless you’re planning to leave me and Cinzel out here to fend for ourselves.”

Shane gave her a searching look. Red had a feeling the other girl could see everything she’d been about to say written all over her face. But Shane didn’t push it—just let out a long, slow breath, her tentative fingertips brushing the back of Red’s hand.

“I want you to stay,” Shane said, swallowing hard. “And not just tonight, but from now on.” Red’s heart skipped at the intense look in those gray eyes as Shane leaned in, pressing her forehead to Red’s shoulder. “I’m so tired of important things slipping through my fingers.”

Red rested her hand on the back of Shane’s neck, pulling her closer. “Me too,” she whispered against her ear.

They stood like that for a long minute. Red closed her eyes and let it all in—the rain and the wind and the heat of Shane’s body against her, burning like an ember everywhere they touched. The storm had softened, but she could still hear the raindrops pattering around them, so cold she never wanted to let go.

“I’ll stay as long as you want,” Red promised. When Shane lifted her head, she tweaked the huntsman’s nose. “But, just so you know, Cinzel and I are a package deal.”

“I’m not sharing the bed with a wet, muddy wolf,” Shane grumbled.

Red laughed. “We’ll see.” Somehow, she felt warmer already.