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Back Send Me Their Souls Save as PDF
Chapters (38)
  1. Copyright
  2. Dedication
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. Epilogue
  36. Acknowledgments
  37. About the Author
  38. Crown of Bones, by A.K. Wilder

He doesn’t confirm, but he doesn’t need to. Malachite and I go silent after that, our eyes meeting wide and watching in awe as Lucien’s entire hand goes void, as the sweat carves down his proud nose and over his lips. He gives a shuddering snarl again, pushing on something invisibly, and the last of the rabbit’s blood ekes out, and Fione’s wrist wound closes like a seam being zipped shut. Like Nightsinger used to zip shut my wounds. And then, Lucien puts his midnight hand on her throat, lightly, holding. The woods seem to go even quieter, the salt wind in the boughs dying away.

I pray like Ania Tarroux taught me. I pray like humans do. For Fione to be all right. For Lucien to be all right.

A shuddering gasp suddenly shatters the forest’s silence, and Fione sits bolt upright, throat pulling in air greedily and blue eyes wide. She scrabbles for something, and I thrust my hand at her. She clutches it, hard.

“The book.” Her voice is nigh tortured. “Where…”

“Fione! It’s okay. I’m here—you’re safe.”

“The book!” Her eyes scan frantically over everything, and it’s then I realize. She’s not worried about herself or if she’s safe. She’s worried about the book. About stopping Varia, above all. Even on death’s door.

I hold her close and whisper, “We have the book. It’s okay.”

Finally, her rigid body goes limp against mine. Next to me, Lucien wobbles, but Mal is behind him in a blink, supporting him. And the wound on Mal’s arm—it’s gone. Smooth skin where injury should be. Did he just heal everyone? The overexertion, the magic required to do that—

“Vachiayis, Luc,” his bodyguard swears. “If I knew we were showing off, I would’ve gotten that water with a little more aplomb.”

“Shut…up…” Lucien manages, lying bonelessly back in his arms, and Malachite smirks down at him, and then at me.

“Never ever.”

13

13

DESTRUCTION

From my personal experience, there’s nothing like a hot meal to lift the spirits. And a spirit. But alas. We’re stuck in the middle of the woods (just east of the Feralstorm coast, Malachite surmises after a jaunty scout), in which the only thing resembling alcohol at all is the single half-muddied puddle of deer piss not ten paces from our fire.