Send Me Their Souls (Bring Me Their Hearts #3) - Sara Wolf Page 0,32

prince off down the road.

“We could’ve taken more cheese,” Malachite drawls, his arms packed full of paper-wrapped wheels of the stuff.

“You look ridiculous,” I tease. “Like you’re about to tip over.”

“Into a bed, hopefully, where I will stay for the rest of the season.”

“Nonsense,” Fione says as she passes us, cane thumping more easily in the drier mud of the road. “You have work to do. We all do.”

“Ravenshaunt is twenty-five miles northeast,” Lucien asserts, looking at a half-burned map the headman palmed to him before we left.

“Should we commandeer a horse? Or four?” Malachite asks, adjusting cheeses so his hand can twitch back toward the blade strapped to his spine.

“No,” Lucien says. “When we get closer, I can teleport us.”

“No, you will not,” I start. “Save your energy.”

Lucien’s eyes grow tired and thin as he looks over at me. “My magic is a tool, Zera. It should be used.”

“Yes,” I agree lightly. “But not for every little thing. We have legs, Lucien. We can walk.”

“It would be faster to—”

“I’m not going to have you lose another hand just because—”

I bite my tongue too late, and not hard enough. Malachite and Fione go still, the birds in the trees go still, and Lucien makes a clicking sound.

Malachite starts toward him, cheeses spilling. “Luc, you can’t do this horseshit so lightly—”

“It’s not horseshit,” Fione says evenly. “It’s magic.” She fixes her gaze on the prince, periwinkle-blue turning icy on the edges. “Which means it’s dangerous. You have to treat it with respect.”

“You don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t understand,” I interrupt Lucien. “You’re important to us. You’re the one who ties us together—ties the whole fucking country together. Sacrificing parts of yourself to stop Varia faster is not how we do this.”

“Then, pray tell.” He snarls. “How do we do this? You obviously know better than I.”

of course we know better. The hunger grows louder, as if it’s echoing his anger. silly young thing, we’ve been fighting before you, shedding blood before you—

“I don’t know any better,” I fire back. “But this can’t keep going on. You need to get a handle on your magic. You need to understand—watching you throw pieces of yourself away just to stop Varia—”

“I will do whatever it takes.” His voice turns stony, with none of the vulnerability from the pool last night. “Alone, if I have to.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Malachite scoffs. “I thought we’ve learned our lesson about ‘doing things alone’—”

“If the four of us are going to stop my sister,” the prince interrupts, “if we’re going to stop who knows how many thousands of raging valkerax, all of us have to be ready. Ready to do anything.”

He’s made some decision between last night and this morning. I watched his back as he slept, rising and falling in his bedroll in the woods, and I knew his mind was churning. But not in this direction. Our direction.

“Lucien—” I start.

“You’re just as bad as she is!”

It’s a loud, clear voice, burning in the muggy air. Fione, her hair undone, sweat beading her brow and anger flushing her whole face the brightest red. Since the moment Varia touched the Bone Tree, she’s been subdued, tempering herself to keep back the pain. But now it radiates off her like heat waves.

“If you think sacrificing yourself to stop her is the right thing, then you’re just as bad as she is. Just as fanatic. Just as foolish. Just as short-godsdamn-sighted!”

Her shrill notes ring. Malachite’s chest deflates, and I can’t look anywhere but at my hands.

“I don’t want to lose her!” Fione shouts. “I don’t want to lose you, either. I don’t want to lose anyone anymore!”

I look away with a wince. Fione’s voice fractures, the shards of her anger falling by the wayside as her fists unclench and her eyes water.

“If the only way to win is by losing, then I don’t want to win at all.”

human fools, the hunger sneers, burning quieter now. nothing can be gained without something being lost. that is the nature of nature. it is futile to fight it.

Lucien looks utterly thunderstruck. Malachite’s frozen, Fione panting. Above us, the storm clouds roll out a too-perfect rumble of thunder. The graves. I look up, to the white peaks of the distant Tollmont-Kilstead mountains. All I can think about are the graves, sitting in the snow. Fourteen red ribbons, fourteen iron bells. My steps are tender as I walk up to Lucien’s side. Not touching, but close enough.

“Is death really a victory?” I ask him softly. “Is sacrifice