The elevator ride was stifling. The interior lights flickered and fizzed, but at least none of the bizarre visions she'd seen the first time she'd gone up in it repeated themselves on the other side of the walls; instead, there appeared to be nothing but black smoke swirling beyond her glass box, and she saw it only because something like lightning flashed within it. The silence and closeness of the space was almost too much, as Emery was forced to stand still and listen to only the pounding within her own mind and body. How had she not known what he was? All the time she'd spent near and with him, and she'd never known! Did he even know what he was? He probably didn't! Someone should tell him.

Well, it wasn't Emery's problem. She had other things to take care of, now. The blackthorn twig was in her grasp, again. Charlie hadn't given her the vision he'd promised. Maybe he'd changed his mind about being eaten, as weird as all that was, and he no longer wanted to give her Tara, but Emery wasn't sure she cared to have it, anymore.

The elevator gave a little ding as it arrived at the top level, and the doors slid aside to reveal the hallway with the double doors at the end, which she'd been so afraid to traverse mere weeks ago. How different things were, now. With a confidence she'd never known herself to possess, Emery strode to those doors and pushed right through them, bringing into sight the same room she'd seen before, only . . . there wasn't anyone in it. The massive warehouse-of-a-space, windows all around, still contained the giant thrones, but none were occupied. The place was silent and shadowed as a graveyard. Where were they? Hadn't Bres said they were waiting? She was here! She'd come to them! But it was all right. She could wait. There was no rush, was there? They knew where she was. They'd come for her when they wanted to. She'd stay there for as long as it took.

Stepping into the room, Emery approached the thrones, recalling each freakish individual that had inhabited them, and wondered how many more there were. That psychic woman had said she was one of them, though she'd been weak; she must've been an underling of some sort, and there were probably hundreds or thousands of them. Charlie worked for them, didn't he? And Carman had, and her sons, and . . . Mug Ruith. Yes, the druid did! And his daughter, Tlachta, as well! Emery knew it now. It knows its own. The Darkness was a labyrinth of passages that led to one another, that created an awareness of and for its children, and Emery was one of them, now. According to Cullen, Mug Ruith had told him about New York City, but Emery now knew that he'd told him not because he'd wanted to help them get there to kill the Fomorians when the time came, but because he was prepping Emery for finding her way there. And hadn't Mug Ruith told Lir that there was no help for her? That anyone who found out would be hurt? Surely that was to convince her not to hope, not to try. Well, it had worked, hadn't it?

She should've known Mug Ruith was one of them. When he'd taken her into the fire and the sky had swirled with color overhead, they'd passed into some other realm; she'd been far enough from Charlie that she should've felt at least some degree of discomfort, but she hadn't--she'd felt fine, and only now did she understand that it was because she'd still been close to the Darkness; it'd been in Mug Ruith.

How clever it all was. She recognized the vines of their power now, how they'd always been weaving their way around her, even as far back as when she'd been Emer, and Tlachta had desired to take her from Forgall. The druidess had not really meant to take Emer; she would have done it immediately if she'd been as concerned as she'd said. No, Tlachta meant to give Cullen the time to elope with Emer, so that the druidess could lay the groundwork for all that was to come. And when Emery had seen Tlachta at Cú Roí's, hadn't the druidess told her not to fear The Dark Man? To listen to him? She'd known what Charlie would do, and she'd wanted Emery to walk right into his hands.

For so long, they'd had their sights on her, leading her down the path to this very moment, and she was ready for them, now . . . so where were they?

The moment she thought it, Emery became aware of a presence behind her and turned to see Bres at some distance, near the windows, his towering, cow-horned figure a black outline, backlit by the moonlight beyond the glass. Two red glints in his dark form indicated his eyes, burning in her direction. He didn't move. Was she supposed to? The confidence she'd had in coming waned the longer she stood staring at him.

"I'm here," she called rather stupidly. "I've come back!"

Bres stayed where he was, unmoving, unspeaking.

"You--you told me to . . ." Her voice weakened. Why was he making her feel so foolish? Hadn't he wanted her to return?

But then he spoke, at last, his voice deep and resonant: "Come to me, now."

She did as she was told, moving slowly but purposefully toward the far end of the room, toward the glass, and as she drew nearer him, his features began to form out of the shadow, the high brow, the pinched nose, the scornful blood-red mouth. His hair hung long and white over his shoulders, his attire and affect otherwise incredibly disciplined. He was beautiful, though wrongly so.

Rather than say anything, Bres held out his hand, and Emery, uncertain, reached out to him, but he didn't take hers. Instead, he turned it over, pushed back her sleeve, and, rather roughly, pressed the raw scar on her wrist. Emery winced as her body responded with real pain; his touch hurt more than just the old wound--something deep in her stomach pinched together, pulled in on itself. But the girl didn't want him to see her weakness. She was sure he'd let go when satisfied, but what satisfied him was seeing her in pain, and when he recognized her expression for what it was, he only pressed harder. Emery gasped, trying to hold back but unable to, and a sadistic smile threaded his face. "Are you sure you're ready?" he asked her, digging his thumb into her flesh.

Emery was afraid he'd break it open, as fresh as it was, but she would've still said she was ready, that she could take anything they gave her, if the double doors hadn't clattered to the floor beyond them, creating a clamor that didn't phase Bres at all but caused Emery to whip about to see Cullen emerge through them, aglow with a blue light as he'd been in the mirror.

Throwing Emery aside, Bres put a hand to a sword he wore at his waist and took several strides forward. "The stench of death enters with you," he growled.

Immediately, Cullen drew Claíomh Solais off his back, and the blade burned with radiance. When Bres was within twenty or so feet, he stopped, and the two men stood, swords hovering, the tension thick between them.

"I won't let you have her," Cullen informed the other.

But Bres merely laughed. "And she won't let you have her." He swung his sword in a sort of graceful figure eight. "You cannot stop this. It's far beyond you, no matter what you are. Our time has come, the Dark has risen, and when we lick her blood off our fingers, when it runs in rivers off the altar and waters the dead, you and your kind will fall." Bres spoke with certainty, with a black passion, pacing somewhat, as if sizing Cullen up.

Emery took the chance to approach the pair, and hearing what Bres said, she knew it was terrible, that it was wrong, and yet she couldn't bring herself to speak or draw her weapon against him, to run to Cullen.

Not one to be impetuous, Cullen held his ground, watching Bres carefully, unmoved by his words. "I care not for your prophecies," he said. "Sure you can be killed as anything else, or sent back to whatever foul hole you crawled from."

Bres lowered his sword slightly. "Not very poetic, are you? I'd expect more from a demigod." And then, after a brief pause, he lunged at Cullen, and the two became embroiled in all the clashing of a fight.

Between the noise and the only real light being that of Cullen's sword, Emery could hardly keep track of what was going on between them. The beam of radiance that was the Sword of Light sliced the air, leaving a shimmering trail behind it, almost as if it moved in some stunted motion, and the manner in which Bres's sword caught and reflected the light of Claíomh Solais only made keeping track of their movements more confusing. She kept her distance, half desiring to draw her own weapon but unsure how or on whose side she'd intervene. She'd seen Cullen fight only a few times, but she knew from what she'd seen as well as the stories she'd heard that he was generally invincible, that the weapons he wielded were supernatural, and yet Bres was some sort of inhuman, darkly magical being himself. They were evenly matched. But even more than the conflict without, Emery was confused about the conflict within her. In those moments, trying to figure out which man had the upper hand, waiting for some cry of pain or defeat to help her understand what was happening, she attempted to figure out which she even wanted to see succeed. The Darkness in her body drew itself toward Bres with a shameful fierceness, but there was a corner of her heart that refused conversion and that was terrified at the thought of something happening to Cullen.

Suddenly, Bres's cow-horned helmet was flung to the ground, and following a moment's hesitation, Bres hurtled at Cullen with a renewed intensity, as if his pride had been injured. His grunting and breathlessness amazed Emery; she'd expected they were well-matched, but to hear Bres get worked up--he whose frightening dispassion had been what most unsettled her--was startling.

She couldn't just stand there, anymore. Bres needed her help. They were connected; she shared in his Darkness. He'd guided her all this way. Whatever happened next, she was indebted to him. And Cullen--that piece of her that wouldn't give up was desperate to help him. But what could she do? She couldn't fight them, and there was surely no way they'd stop fighting each other until one of them was dead . . . one of them had to die. There was no way around it. Should she be the one to choose?

I want to speak to Death, she thought to herself, and in the midst of the chaos beyond, a new presence arrived. She smelled him before she saw him, the absolute foulness of everything rotten and decaying, the filth of nothingness. When last she'd met Death, he'd tried to take hold of her, but he wouldn't, now; she'd controlled Dark, hadn't she? And now she would expect the same with Death. He was behind her, she sensed, and turned away from the men to find him literally within arm's reach, huge and blacker than the blackness of the cold universe, a fetid wolf's pelt draped over the top of him where a head would normally be. Emery couldn't recall being so close to him the first time, for now he was so near she saw the maggots writhing within the wolf's weeping eye sockets.

"You have to take one," she demanded, mustering her courage.

The bloodless tongue of the wolf hung limp from its jaws, and Death asked her a question without using any words: Which?

Emery swallowed. Was he really asking her? Wasn't that why she'd brought him? So she wouldn't have to choose? "I--I can't pick," she said. "You have to."

Death didn't move at first, standing there with all his fumes rising around him in vaporous plumes. But then he slowly turned a corpse-like hand and motioned Emery aside. She stepped back and let him pass, and as he made his way toward the men, she followed in heart-stopping anticipation. What would Death do?

But Emery knew the answer, didn't she? Hadn't the Morrígan sent her ornithological reminders?

That slim fragment of Emery that was still herself, that was still in love with the man who'd always been meant for her, who had loved her before he knew her and would die loving her still, screamed out against everything that was happening, tried to tear down the Darkness that had corrupted all of the rest of her, but it fought a losing game. She'd become too hard, too unfeeling. She'd become exactly what they wanted her to be.

Death reached them, and the moment he did—the very instant—Cullen knew. Even in the shadowy darkness, Emery saw him turn to her, as if he knew she'd made her choice, and in that perilous second of hesitation, Bres found his opportunity, shoving his blade up under Cullen's breastplate and into his body. Emery heard herself cry out but felt distant from that person, both of them—the callous her and the caring her—watching in awe as the great warrior's body stumbled and fell to one knee. Bres slid his sword out with a sickening slither, ran a finger through the blood on his blade, and put it to his tongue. "Not so sweet as yours," he said toward Emery, sheathing his sword.

A rushing, as of relentless waves, filled her head, and a high-pitched ringing surged above all of the noise. The pearl of herself that was left, small as it was, strengthened at seeing Cullen fall, and as tumultuous as her thoughts were, Emery ran to him. Even as she reached him, Cullen was attempting to rise to his feet. He'd planted his sword firmly into the floor and was using its leverage to lift his athletic form. Emery threw her arms around him--maybe she could help! maybe he'd be all right after all!--but she quickly realized that the arm she placed around his waist was quickly drenched in his blood. He was mortally wounded, for certain. "Stop!" she cried to him, frantic, shoving down the desire to leave him there. "You'll hurt yourself more! Sit back!"

Cullen's breaths were pained, his face contorted, but he was determined. "I would not die--on the ground--like a dog," he managed.

A concrete pillar was near enough that Emery thought she could help him to it. As difficult as it was, the girl guided him while he stumbled to it, and they only made it because of Cullen's neverending impossible strength and determination. With his back to the pillar, his sword and stamina propping him, he tipped up his head to the shadows above and gasped in spite of his attempts to hide his suffering. Tears streamed down Emery's face, to see him like this, bleeding out, and she with no way of helping him. Why not my magic? she desperately thought, but no, it would work only for self-serving desires. And wasn't saving him selfish? Didn't she want him? Not enough, some evil voice within accused her.

Raising a hand, Emery stroked Cullen's smooth face, ghostly pale in the darkness, and she tried to speak words of encouragement, though they were disjointed and meaningless. At last, though no more than a few minutes had passed, he turned to her, the light dying in his emerald eyes, and said his last words, "My--Emer--," before the brightness left them, and his body went slack, slumping to the ground.

Emery fell with him, her arms around his shoulders, and sat in her disbelief and anguish. But the longer she was there, the more the ripples of her old self receded, and the more the Darkness reclaimed her.

"Are you done, then?" came Bres's cold, haughty voice above her, and Emery looked up to find him standing over her, while over him swirled a shiny iridescence, as if the space above were warping the very fabric of this place. And indeed, it was--it was a portal. "It's time," Bres added, and as he curled his outstretched fingers into his palm, the portal lowered until it engulfed the three of them, and Emery felt a dizziness and blackness overwhelm her entirely.