Send Me Their Souls (Bring Me Their Hearts #3) - Sara Wolf Page 0,26

thing that makes them jump is the occasional crack of wood as another village building collapses. The smoke’s not thick enough to obscure vision—the southwardly wind mercifully wicking most of it away. Less casualties, then, at least by smoke inhalation. It’s the little things in life.

Ingeniously, Fione uses her seeing tube to point me in the right directions—east, a pair of elderly men; northeast and between the burning market stalls, four teenagers trying to persuade a terrified cow to move. It finally decides moving’s the better option when I lovingly bite its flank as hard as I can with all my Heartless teeth. The children don’t follow me after that, preferring Fione and the more human adults, and I can hardly blame them; I wouldn’t trust a lady with fresh cow blood on her mouth, either.

At last we catch up to the majority of the village, stripped down to near-nothing and forming a long chain of sweaty bodies between the secondary well and a burning building, passing buckets upon buckets of heavy water to each other. On the frontlines, another chain of humans frantically shovels as much dirt onto the fire as they can, swapping in another villager when one starts to buckle. It’s an incredible display of human cooperation, but it’s a futile one—the building looks to be on its last legs, and the rest of the village is faring no better.

“What is that building?” Fione asks.

“The main granary,” one of the teenagers speaks up. “For winter.”

“The most important building in the village,” I muse.

“If we lose it…” An elderly man trails off at the look the children give him.

“You won’t.”

The new voice comes from behind us, and we whirl. In my heart I already know who it is—always. Lucien. He looks better than when we first arrived, his left hand no longer cradled by his right. Maybe…maybe he didn’t hurt himself? No. He’s just hiding it. For me. For all of us.

Because he’s the prince of Cavanos, and he’s been taught to show nothing but strength.

follow his example, you useless creature.

I step forward, the hunger and worry gnawing equally at me. At the determined look in his eyes. But Lucien cuts me off, catches me in it, and smiles. That real, true smile, cutting bright against the smoke and gloom.

“It’ll be fine,” he says, confident.

His body goes completely still as he bows his head ever so slightly on his chest. He holds both his hands up, and I’m only half relieved to see the left one rise. It shakes, his fingers trembling as they turn midnight to the knuckles. He’s not up for this. He’s going to hurt himself—

How can I stop him?

How can I stop him from doing what he wants to do? What he’s always done? Protecting his people is what he lives for, I know that, and still—

Cries rise up as the chain of men scatter, all of them clutching their buckets and fleeing from the pure, transparent column of water rising from the well’s mouth like a languid snake. Malachite rushes into the town square just then, covered in soot and carrying an unconscious little girl in his arms, a terrified woman trailing behind him. He shoots a look at me, red eyes in red flames, and all I can do is shake my head.

Let him.

All we can do is let him.

This is what he wants, more than anything.

The water column writhes, undulates, and then pauses at the very peak of its height, looming tall over the village. And then Lucien gnashes his teeth, eyes flying open and the whites crawling with tendrils of black. Like a signal, the water darts forward, languid no longer, and winds between the piles of dirt being shoveled, picking up more and more of it, the transparency turning thick and dark. Mud.

The men leap back, the children start to cry, and elders make Kavar-praying motions, fingers to their eyes, and for a moment, I’m reminded of Ania. Ania Tarroux, the pious, beautiful, kind Goldblood who taught me how to pray.

Ania Tarroux, the girl I tried to give Lucien to. The girl who died, torn apart by Heartless on the road fleeing with her family to Helkyris.

I raise my fingers to my eyes, too. But it’s not the New God I pray to. It’s her.

Because she feels more real.

Because she loved him too, once.

Please, Ania. Please shield him from his own magic.

The muddy column grows distinct—fangs, a frill, a snub-tipped nose, and a long, forked tongue. A real snake.