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I am not at all surprised when I see Selphine at her right hand. Marek Volkov at her left.

But there is great satisfaction in the way my fury becomes calm as my claws descend. That is how I know it is ready.

Marek smiles through the wound I gave him in the Tower, already healing badly. ‘You are alone.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I am merely the first to arrive.’

Selphine’s eyes sharpen. ‘Where is she?’

‘Where she belongs.’

‘Not for long, vampire.’

‘You continue to waste my time, witch.’ I turn to Morrighan. ‘What do you want? Or should I guess? You want the thing I will never divulge to you?’ I taunt.

Her face morphs and craters into pure evil.

The world narrows.

Marek lunges before I can tear the witch’s throat out. ‘Tell us where you hide the Blood Chrysalis!’

I laugh as we collide hard enough to crack the blood-glass plain. He is strong. Older than most. Fed on forbidden work and Morrighan’s attention. His claws rake across my chest, opening wounds that steam in Netheris cold. I drive my fist into his ribs and feel bone shatter. He laughs, blood on his teeth, and power surges around him in black ropes.

Morrighan watches, delighted.

Selphine lifts a hand. Witchwork coils towards my throat, seeking the bond mark, seeking the route to Eira. Or barring that, the centuries-old secret buried deep in my mind.

As if.

I rip through Marek’s guard and throw him into the riverbank before turning on Selphine. Her spell strikes my shoulder and burns down to bone. Pain flares white, then becomes useful.

I advance.

Selphine retreats a step.

Good.

‘Do you think killing me here frees her?’ Selphine asks. ‘The child exists because I kept her alive.’

‘Wrong. She exists despite you.’

‘She would have died in her father’s house.’

‘She nearly died in my arms because of your spell.’

Her face flickers. Old, young, old again. The younger face shows grief before rage covers it.

‘I did what was necessary. For Marek. For us.’

‘Then you did it all for nothing.’

Marek rises behind me.

I do not turn quickly enough.

His blade enters my back, unnervingly close to my heart, and exits beneath my ribs, black iron forged with witch-ash and underworld ore. My knees strike the glass. The river surges, hands reaching for me, dead fingers scraping my wrists.

Morrighan’s smile blooms. ‘Ah. There is the posture I always preferred.’