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I HAD NOTseen my reflection in several weeks.

I had never been one to pay a great deal of attention to my looks. I wasn’t like Feena, a creature of vanity, who constantly needed to assess herself in the mirror. Besides, I had always been told how very unpalatable my appearance was... especially my regrettable hair.

But now, sitting at the dressing table, I stared hard at myself, appraising, searching. As though I could find the truth etched there, like words writ upon the page... or like the erosion of wind upon a mountain.

I turned my face slowly in one direction, and then another, staring at it from every possible angle, seeking the evidence of what I now understood to be my new and dreadful reality. I was grateful for the privacy in which to conduct my self-examination.

Upon entering the fortress, I had been escorted to this chamber. It was far bigger and grander than the one I had left behind in the palace. The stronghold itself may not have been as lavish as the palace, but clearly they had given me far superior sleeping quarters.

Shortly following our arrival, Fell had excused himself. Obviously, after such a long absence, he had several matters demanding his attention. That was hours ago. I imagined I would not see him until tomorrow, if even then. Now that we were here, Fell would not stand around pandering to me. He would have better things to do.

I’d dined alone in the chamber, enjoying a fine meal of roasted pheasant, vegetables, and warm, crusty bread that I generously slathered with fresh butter. I fell upon the food as though it was the only meal I had eaten in the long weeks since leaving the City. And while it was not, it was certainly the best meal.

The chamber had its own dressing room with shelves and armoires and a lounge and a vanity table with a gilded mirror. The table was littered with all manner of combs and brushes and little bottles of scented oils and lotions.

It was the mirror, however, that held my focus—or rather my reflection in it did. As I sat there, I searched for changes. Differences, small or large, nuances that pointed to that thing I had become.

I looked like me. Same red hair. Same fiery amber eyes, if not a little brighter, a little wild. Feral. And perhaps I appeared a little—a lot—bolder. My expression gazed back at me almost in defiance, ready for a challenge, ready for battle. Was it the dragon inside me? Or was it simply a consequence of the past several weeks, when I had been put to the test on so many different levels, inured to conflict... even eager for it?

I wanted to believe that what happened with Arkin was a one-time occurrence, that I would neverturnagain. That I could live out the rest of my life here in relative peace, just a person, a woman. A person who never hurt another person. Who possessed not the will nor the ability. As calm and mild as a summer breeze.

I grimaced. It all sounded so wonderfully normal.Normal.And I knew that was the one thing I wasn’t. Perhaps I never had been.

I gripped one of the small bottles of scented oil, flexing my fingers around the glass.

It was so wretchedly unfair. For a brief moment I had thought I could have it. A normal life. A husband who made me feel things. Good things. Exciting things.

I had thought I could have the kind of life that Stig had shown me the day he walked me through the portrait gallery, introducing me to the previous whipping boys and girls, explaining how they had all gone on to live full, meaningful lives.

I’d dared to hope, to believe that I might have a family. A real family. My own family. A family no one could accuse of not being truly mine. These things had circled around and teased me, tickling like a feather, tempting me since the night Fell and I had married, since we departed the City and started north. Since he said the words:We can try to get on.

But no. That was never to be my destiny. That teasing feather had been snatched away. In its place was the hard slap of my existence striking me across the face.

I gasped as the small bottle exploded in my hand.

It shattered.

Ihad shattered it.

Opening my trembling fingers wide, I stared down in dismay. I gripped my wrist with my other hand, trying to stop it from shaking so violently. I did not realize I had been gripping the glass so very hard.

As the aroma of crushed roses in oil drifted on the air, I examined my palm. Amid the broken shards of glass, my fingers and palm were smeared with a glossy purple fluid. I had not realized the oil was dyed.

Frowning, I shook the glass off my palm, letting the pieces fall onto the dressing table. Reaching for a handkerchief, I blotted at the wet purple shimmer, attempting to clean my hand. And thatwas when I saw the cuts. Several little gashes marred my skin like random flecks of mud.

One gash in particular was deeper than the rest, and glistening purple leaked thickly from the opening like blood.

I wiped harder. Notlikeblood.Blood.

This purple shimmer was my blood. It came from me. Out of me. Not human blood.

Not human. Not human. Not human.

The words repeated like an awful mantra, a poisoned vine growing, winding, twisting, sprouting a devastating path through me.

I had bled before. Granted, not often, and not for long, as I had always possessed the uncanny ability to heal quickly.Maybe not so uncanny anymore, though.

But I had bled. And when I bled, I’d bled red. I guessed I no longer did. Now that I had turned, my blood told the truth.