Send Me Their Souls (Bring Me Their Hearts #3) - Sara Wolf Page 0,12

you.” Her voice comes out small, eyes on the floor, catching with the sparkle of tears. “You deserve to be free. Like everyone else.”

I can’t stop my own tears at the sight of hers. At her words that mean more than she’ll ever know.

“I am.” I laugh, moving to wipe her face for her. “Thanks to you.”

“I didn’t do anyth—”

“You made a white mercury blade. You made me Weep when I thought it was impossible. You’re brilliant. You did what your uncle, what every single pus-headed polymath in Vetris couldn’t do. For decades. You’re incredible, Fione. You’re the smartest person I know. And with your brain, and my balls, we’re going to find her.” I clasp both her hands in mine, trying to peer into her eyes. “Do you hear me? We’re going to find her, and stop her, and bring her home. To you. I promise you.”

She finally, finally looks up, eyes streaming. “Alive?”

I catch Lucien’s stare, and Malachite just looks away. Neither of them knows. We don’t even know how to stop her. We don’t even have a plan yet. Or, at least, I don’t. But I know the easiest way would be death. It’s an unwritten rule, hanging in the air like a low white crow.

I look back at Fione. “Death stops someone forever,” I say. “It’s the simple way. The easy way.”

Fione’s eyes crack at the edges, the light dimming from them as she looks at the floor again.

“But you know me,” I chirp. “I’ve never taken the easy way in my entire unlife. And I’m not about to start now.”

Her head snaps up, pure, unfiltered hope blazing out of her gaze. Malachite leans back in his chair with a little smirk. Even the old sage looks faintly pleased. But Lucien’s face doesn’t change at all. Stony. Unconvinced.

Is he ready to kill Varia?

No.

I know firsthand no one’s ever ready to kill—their own sister least of all.

Fione’s expression is flush with hope. Hard with it. Making it armor when it doesn’t need to be—or maybe it has to be. Maybe that’s the only way she can hold on to it—not as a blade but as a shield. Her body’s still, calculating. Always calculating with that immaculate mind of hers—to believe in me, in what I’m saying, or not? To believe in the more logical thing, the more likely thing—Varia’s death, or to take an impossible gamble on believing in her life? A happy ending, even when the world inside her bleeds misery?

“I know promises aren’t possible to keep for some people.” I hold her gaze, steady. “But I’m not some people. I promise you, Fione; I’ll bring her back. Alive.”

Fione’s smile breaks her rigor, and before I know it, her arms are pressed around my waist, squeezing tight.

A hug.

From her, to a Heartless she was so afraid of.

“Thank you,” she murmurs into my shoulder. “Thank you, Zera.”

We part with shy smiles, and the two of us slide into our seats at the table, and dinner begins. I try to ignore Lucien’s stony gaze as I cut pieces of the fatty pig livers off and eat—slowly, behind your napkin, Y’shennria’s voice in my head insists. And make sure you wipe the blood off your chin, for Old God’s sake. The sage asks me polite questions about Heartlessness, and it’s strange to have someone asking these out of curiosity, not malice. Not suspicion or hatred. It almost makes me feel sort of…accepted. Or at the very least less chased out of town with fire and sharp stones.

Fione chimes in with her own observations. “It’s remarkable the range-extending magic on your necklace has lasted this long,” she says. “Most powerful relics like that are functional for only a few weeks, at most.”

“Yes, well.” I smile at her. “I’m special. And so is my jewelry.”

My eyes flicker to Lucien, ready to play, and for a split second, his granite expression fractures, twin tugs at the corners of his broad lips. All right, so. It’s not a whole smile. Not anywhere near as beautiful as the ones he was giving me during our walk this afternoon. But we’ll get there eventually.

“There’s no need to worry over the necklace.” The prince stares at me. “She and I won’t be parted again.”

“You never know!” I tease him. “The gods might have something to say about that.”

“The gods”—Lucien lifts his chin, onyx eyes catching light—“will have to wait their turn.”

Suddenly, holding his gaze is like trying to hold on to water, to quicksand, to an