Send Me Their Souls (Bring Me Their Hearts #3) - Sara Wolf Page 0,27

A snake like on every banner of his father’s, every seal of his letters, every emblem of his breastcoats. Surrounded by the d’Malvane snake, making it flesh. Maybe not on purpose. Maybe, deep in his mind, it’s a symbol he’s always wanted his people to know as one of safety. Not Vetrisian witch-persecution. Not Vetrisian noble excess. Protection.

The snake hovers, as long and wide and big as a valkerax, and then strikes. It lunges after the fire on the granary’s roof, snapping its jaws as the muddy water surges over the building. The snake eats the fire, a trail of smoke hissing up wherever it touches, and the fearful cries of the villagers slowly, slowly turn to cheering. Malachite whoops, and Fione’s tense face allows a single small smile, one of the children squeezing her hand. Even the cow seems to relax, drooping its head and picking at a tuft of spared grass.

Lucien remains taut, arcing his midnight fingers to the left, and the snake moves with it, scattering over the village and shedding itself as it goes—sheafs of water like scales being dropped, all the fire sputtering out on contact. One by one, the village houses stop burning, smoldering down to mere hissing embers. Lucien raises his arms, and what’s left of the snake ascends, higher and higher, before bursting out of its shape, muddy water raining down on the last of the buildings.

The cheering grows thunderous, and Lucien is swarmed by his people. Sweat and mud slicks his brow, but his face—his expression. Gods, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. I thought I knew him happy. I thought I knew what that looked like. But I had no clue. I had no idea he could smile this big, laugh this purely and without care, the arms of his people reaching for him and embracing him tight. Like a savior. Like a brother.

Like a friend.

…

If there’s one thing I’ve learned to admire about humans, it’s that when there’s nothing left, they become strongest.

The village is a blackened mess. The graves have been dug, and the bodies of loved ones buried. Not many.

not enough.

Even one is enough, I argue with the hunger.

The little girl Malachite saved is now an orphan.

The village gathers around her, around the campfire they’ve made—with some hesitation—to roast sweet tubers and saltpork. Women thread thoughtful fingers through the girl’s messy hair, coo over her brilliant, sharp dark eyes. Her name is Dewen. She’s five—almost Peligli’s age—and she refuses to leave Malachite’s side, shadowing him like an overly attached ferret and demanding to be picked up every few seconds. Malachite obliges insomuch as his patience allows, which is to say, instant deference every single time.

“You’re awful light for a human,” he grunts, circling the fire with her.

Dewen kicks her feet against his chainmail. “No.”

“Yes,” Malachite argues sagely.

“No!” She pouts.

The beneather looks over to where I’m sitting on a pile of mostly clean debris and grins. “Is it just me, or does she sound like someone you know, Six-Eyes?”

I stick my lip out exaggeratedly. “No.”

He laughs and saunters off to show Dewen the Red Twins—two blood-red crescents high in the sky. I surreptitiously shove more of my dinner into my mouth—depressingly, fresh organs very suddenly became a non-rarity in this village. Most of the cows burned to cinder, but a few of their corpses were intact enough to feed from. Fione cut me out a liver herself, which I thought awfully nice of her.

As I wash my bloody hands in a nearby bucket, a sigh slips out. I didn’t expect Lucien to wait on me hand and foot with soggy organs when I became his Heartless, but I didn’t expect him to not speak to me for two whole halves, either. Granted, he’s been surrounded by a thick ring of villagers since the moment he saved them—busy organizing the recovery efforts, turning down what gifts they could salvage from the fire and what village girls suddenly think him overwhelmingly attractive. And I mean, I’ve been busy also. Staring. And dressing what wounded would allow me near them with Fione. But mostly staring.

I suppose a busy prince is better than one who gazes off into the distance, toward the smoke column of Vetris, with eyes like the end of the world. But even so, I catch him doing it in quiet flickers between the bustle. Mourning.

I can feel Fione’s gaze on me as she nears, wiping bloody hands on her apron. We both thoroughly inspect the crowd of villagers