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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

I thought it would be hard, this last sleep. But it’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Surrounded by friends. Cradled by love. Lulled by the Tree welcoming me. The smell of lavender, of vanilla, of Lucien’s honey.

His kiss to my cheek, and then I’m gone.

31

31

THE WYRM,
COILING

The first time I ever see the beautiful seaside country of Avel, it’s in dreams. And covered in blood.

Blood drips from my fingers like slick, gleaming syrup—half of my fingers made of wood. Varia. I’m in her body again, watching through her eyes and feeling what she does. A port town in front of us on fire, the proud redwood of Avellish buildings charring quickly to black. Valkerax circle above, ten of them flying in rainbow halos—no, twenty. Thirty. Fifty, at least, catching high air above the port town like a lazy tornado of untold death. Their tails fly out behind them, the white banners of victory giving us only a fraction of satisfaction before the clenching pain of the maddening song returns.

DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY—

I focus on it, focus on how it’s not my hunger, not my song, and pull myself out of Varia’s body. Floaty, and visible to her now. She can see me and I can see her, but neither of us is happy to. Her body is drenched in blood—the rags of her dress so far gone, barely covering her at all, her skin caked in blood and dirt and rubbery, fleshy patches that I know aren’t hers. Parts. Parts of people. Her cheeks are sallow, gaunt, her wrists thin and her collarbone stark. She looks famished—starving, her ribs showing through in her shreds of dress. But her face is the worst of all, her expression hollowed out, empty of anything resembling thought or emotion. Like a doll. No—emptier than even a doll. A glass shell, transparent and thin. It hurts just to look at.

Varia, I think to her.

She doesn’t blink, her deep black eyes staring at the same space over my shoulder, the flames of the Avellish port burning gold in her irises. I try to get closer to her, even if the idea scares me more than any nightmare—if she touches me, she could turn me to her side. I felt it last time, and I can feel it now. She’s more Bone Tree than mortal. I can feel it ringing in the air. Powerful. So powerful that as a fire-cracked beam falls from a nearby house and onto her, she barely twitches one finger before it instantly explodes into a fine cloud of ember splinters.

“Varia,” I say softly. “It’s me. Zera.”