A sharp pain rips through my head and I taste metal in the back of my throat, the eerie heat of magic suddenly crawling up my fingertips, through my shoulders, my collarbones, and up into my brain.
You hate her, a voice that sounds eerily like my own whispers.You hate her. She abandonedyou,she shut you out, she left your family’s fate on your shoulders, then resented you for your power and fame. You were the one who dreamed of magic, but she stole your dream and became queen of the Otherworld. Emmett loves her. Maybe he’sinlove with her. While she’s living, you’ll always wonder if he wants her more. But you could kill her, kill her and be done with it. You’d be queen of England and of the Otherworld, just as you always imagined as a child. It was your dream. Not hers. Kill her, kill her, kill her.
I claw at my hair and throw the tiara on the ground, desperate to get the awful words out of my head.
Kill her. She’s jealous of you.
Kill her. She’s never loved you as much as you love her. In fact, she doesn’t love you at all.
“No!” I scream, just to drown out the voice. “It’s not true!” I know it’s not, because loving Lydia is an inexorable part of who I am, just as vital as my blood or bones.
It hurts to love a sister, but the only thing I’ve ever hated about her is the way she reflects the parts of me I can’t stand, my living mirror. I hate that I can’t lie to her, that I dread letting her down,that she’s always been more honest than me. But I don’t hate her. I couldn’t.
I know what my sister is made of because I am made of exactly the same thing.
I turn to see Lydia in an identical battle, curled up in the fetal position, thrashing in the dirt, with her hands clamped over her ears.
Lydia Benton
The voice that is both me and not me slithers through my mind like a venomous snake, whispering the worst thoughts I’ve ever had like they’re irrefutable facts.
Emmett and Bram chose her, but they should have chosen you instead. She never appreciated all you did for her. She’s selfish. An attention seeker. Deliberately childish. She was cold to you when you came home from the Otherworld the first time and needed her comfort. She’ll only ever resent you.
Kill her.
It’ll be so easy.
Kill her.
This will all be yours. They’ll both be yours.
I press my hands over my ears and scream as loud as I can to drown out the awful words.
I love Ivy, I remind myself. It’s the foundation upon which everything else rests.I love my sister.
I love her so completely, it’s not something Bram could ever corrupt, not with all the magic in the world.
The memories I saw in the Isern Caves come flooding back tome. Ivy might have seen Emmett, but I sawher. She was wrapped in her black cloak and Papa’s scarf, lost, in the dark streets of London. In one shaking hand, she held my pearl baby necklace, the twin to the one she left at the base of the tree for the creature we now know was Bram.
She was looking for me, I realized with horrifying clarity. It was a memory from last winter when I was first in the Otherworld. I’d abandoned my sister, leaving her lost and alone. She was putting her very life at risk to search for me, all because of a selfish bargain I made on a whim. Ivy had never been outside alone before, but she was brave for me, because she believed I needed her.
I’ve always needed her. I wish I could tell her that now. I never should have left her. I should have let her in when I came home. I spent so many nights turning the lock of the door of my bedroom and then pretending to be asleep when I heard her knocking. I shut her out because she was the only person who truly saw me and I didn’t want her to witness my shame. There’s so much I have to apologize for.
As quickly as the voice in my head came, it dissipates like mist clearing a harbor. The crowd has gone silent as well, watching Ivy and me in stunned horror.
The faeries have a thirst for blood and chaos, but this seems to have surpassed even their taste for horror. There are many good souls among them; it is a shame that Bram’s cadre so often drowns them out.
Rhion struggles against his shackles so desperately his wrists are dripping blood. There’s a dirty rag around his mouth, but his eyes say everything.
Bram stands from his throne and stomps his foot. “You’re not anyfun!” he screams, the edge of his voice sharp, like a toddler screaming for a toy. “This isn’t any fun! This was supposed to be fun!”
Ivy pushes herself off the ground and looks to where both the horn and the knife lie in the dirt, directly between us.
My eyes meet hers and I shake my head slightly.Not yet.
As I lift my gaze to Bram, it’s hard to believe that just hours ago he was asleep next to me in my bed, breathing softly.
But as I see Bram now, his face contorted with rage, I realize I’ve been indulging in a fantasy. Bram might still be living, but that boy is long dead. He likely died centuries before I was ever born, and there is no amount of love I can pour into Bram that will bring him back to life.
