Raisa tensed up, her skin tingling in anticipation of the contact. His fingers hissed and fizzed as they brushed lightly against her head, her shoulders, the back of her neck, her waist. It reminded Raisa of the sculptor who’d struck her portrait for the crown coin, getting the feel of the clay before he shaped it.

Han stepped back and rubbed his chin, frowning. Then his expression cleared as he stared down at her hand. “Oh,” he said. “You need to take off the talisman ring, or it won’t work.”

Raisa looked down at the wolf ring on her right hand.

“Your Highness, Elena Demonai gave you that ring for protection against jinxflinger charms,” Nightwalker said. “Now would not be a good time to take it off. Not when you’re going to be facing the most powerful jinxflingers in the Vale.”

“Now would be a very good time to take it off,” Han said. “If you want this plan to work.”

“Forgetting about Alister and what he might be up to, that ring protects you if one of the wizards at the memorial decides to flame you,” Nightwalker argued. “Without it, you’ll be vulnerable.” He paused, then murmured, not quite under his breath, “Unless that’s the idea.”

“She won’t be vulnerable if you shut up and let me do my job,” Han said, his hand still inside his neckline, his chin cocked up aggressively.

“Stop it,” Raisa said. She slid the ring from her finger and tucked it into a pouch at her belt. “There. I’ll have it right here in case I need it. You’d better hurry. It must be nearly time to leave.”

This time was different. Han murmured charms as he circled around her, his face hard with concentration, his eyes fixed and focused internally. His fingers kindled little fires wherever he touched her. Raisa gasped as the magic slid under her skin, bringing the blood to the surface. She felt glowing and dizzy-headed, like she’d just stepped out of the sweat lodge at Demonai Camp.

Or like a lover after an episode of kissing.

Nightwalker watched from his corner, taut as a bowstring.

Then the wolves came. Singly and in pairs, they slid under the canvas dividers and through the walls, eye bright, tongues lolling, until a dozen were assembled, sitting on their haunches in a circle around them.

It reminded Raisa of the dream she’d had after Byrne was killed in Marisa Pines Pass—the visitation of the wolf queens on the night her mother died. There was gray-eyed Hanalea and green-eyed Althea. Sometimes, for a split second, she thought she saw the queens themselves.

Han glanced at the wolves, then back at Raisa. “Friends of yours?”

Raisa blinked at him. “You can see them?”