Page 86 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

“I’d rather be infected by anthrax than undergo whatever character-building transformation you went through.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I’d rather have every one of my nails slowly shaved off with a blunt, rusty razor than ever call myself good again.”

“That’s…excessive.”

“So I hate to inform you, but you’ve wasted your time coming here. Please leave, preferably out the window. I always did enjoy a good splat.”

Morfran stared at her. There was no hint or sign in her eyes or body gestures that told him she was telling any lies. Her smile bordered on a smirk, and she seemed to want him to attack her. Something about it felt like a trap. And yet what did he have to lose? Nothing. Bronwen knew his secret. She’d tried to kill him, and would have, if the hex hadn’t stopped her. She’d tell Brim. She’d tell Grandfather Tortoise, and little Toothless Pete, and Rapunzo, and all the others. All the friends he’d made were gone, and everyone in the kingdom would want his death now.

He raised his sword again, pointing it at her with a fierce glower. “I’m not leaving,” he growled. “Not until you’ve either stepped down or stopped breathing.”

She grinned viciously. “That’s the seductive man I know and love.”

Gueldefore popped up at this. “I can be seductive!” he shouted. “Let me fight him for you, my love! Let me take care of him for you!”

She gave him an irritated glance. “Like you took care of him with that crossbow earlier? Sit back down.”

“But dearest, I insist! I am a knight who swore to protect you. You must allow me to fulfill my vow, lest my honor—”

“I said sit down!”

“—be damaged, and woe be unto me. But I vow again that I will fight him and I will win this time. I will win your token of affection—”

“Will you shut up!” she screamed, whirling on him, slashing out across his throat with something that she’d slipped from her sleeve. A line of red instantly followed; Gueldefore choked out, blood spluttering instantly from his mouth, spluttering from his neck. The knight clawed at the wound, but it was too late, and too soon he slumped towards the ground, let out a last cough, and stopped moving.

Morfran raised his eyes from the dead man back to Ravana, all his nerves alert.

She looked down at the mess, wiping a splatter of blood from her forehead with the back of her hand. He saw she was holding a simple knife. “Oops,” she murmured, a little tonelessly. She turned to him, and he saw—

“Ravana?”

Her forehead was a strange coloring of ivory and the sickly green of moldy bread. She looked at her sleeve where her makeup powders were, then touched her skin. “Drat.” She shut her eyes. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

Alarmed, he asked, “What is happening to you?”

She lifted and dropped one shoulder, then raised her left hand up to stare at her fingers. “My magic ring,” she drawled, staring at it gleaming dully on her finger. “It’s gone bad. Ever since you smashed yours and abandoned me, it’s been causing me all sorts of grief.”

“What does that have to do with your skin?”

She cast him a lazy look, but after seeing her so quickly lose her temper and kill Gueldefore, he couldn’t ignore her casualness. She was going mad. The jars, the trophies, how she hoarded soldiers up in Warshire—she was going mad.

“I’m getting older, Morfran,” she said. “I used the magic to preserve my looks. But about six months ago, it started to backfire.”

He studied her. The makeup didn’t just cover her face. She’d caked it onto her neck, her arms, and her hands, too. That was why she’d been so powdered up when she’d projected her spirit to him. She was hiding the problem. “You’re decaying?”

She scoffed, her nose wrinkled in distaste, her smile nasty. Then she nodded, a strange look in her eye. “I am, dearest.” She spread out her arms. “So why don’t you come embrace and kiss me one last time?”

“Is this why you don’t want to turn yourself in? You think there’s no time to become good? Ravana, the rebels have a healer, two actually, who can heal you. They’re with us now. Just remove the ring. Let us help you.”

“I don’t want your friends to touch me with their dirty fingers,” she spat. “If they come near me, I’ll slaughter them.” Her eyes gleamed as she said this, a dark gleam, the same one he’d seen when she’d smiled at the screams of men she tortured. “Gueldefore told me all about them. That crusty old man who can barely walk, that annoying little girl who acts so benevolent all the time. I’ll kill them both, Morfran, you know I will. I’ll kill them all. And if you don’t believe me, bring them here and watch as I rip their limbs from their pathetic bodies.”

He was wrong. She wasn’t going mad. She was there already. And after seeing the black look in her eye and hearing her giddy glee as she threatened to kill an old man and a little girl, he knew there was nothing he could do or say to reach her. She was wicked-wicked, evil-evil, and she needed to die.

But for the first time since he’d abandoned her, he found he didn’t want to kill her.

He raised the blade with great, reluctant sorrow. “Then I think there’s nothing more I can say to convince you.”