Page 145 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers

Talon’s hands squeeze mine back. “I can’t promise I’ll find her, Maeve. Fang ordered everyone working with us to—”

A beast shrieks above, the dark shadow of wings swooping low and circling back toward the castle looming over the merchant quarter.

We both duck, flinching at the sound.

Talon’s gaze finds mine again, and I see grim resolution tightening the edges of their brown eyes. “I’ll check your house for her. But then I have to go help the others.”

Surprise grips me before I remember.

Of course.

Talon was one of the gardai on the night they came to haul me from my bed. They know where I live—where Finn must be now. All the Whisperers probably do.

They push the door open wider and nod toward the darkness inside. “Wolf’s room is upstairs, at the end of the hall. Wait there. And if the house does anything…” Talon frowns, searching for their words. “Strange, just remember… a mage lives here.”

I step inside and pause. “What’s that supposed to—?”

The door clicks shut, separating us.

Flickering votive candles spring to life down the same hall I walked through many weeks ago with Keeva, floorboards creaking under my boots. They spark with each step I take, as if they want to light my way. They must have something in the wax, orin the wick, because they cast a strange greenish glow against the pure darkness of the shuttered house.

Impossible,the rational part of my mind whispers.

Magic,the rebel in me purrs.

I let the light guide me down the hall and up a set of narrow stairs at the very back of the house. Climbing up the steps makes me wince—aches flare in my exhausted bones.

At the top, the stairs open onto a cramped hall. A lone door creaks open at the end, a faint glow coming from inside.

All it takes is walking through that door, and the dangerously familiar scent of him surrounds me fully.

Old Ones, each muscle in me seems to unclench.

Every inch of this room is pureWolf. A wall of knives, neatly arranged and polished to a high gleam. Boots, kicked off and lying at the foot of a wide bed in the center of the cramped room. A dresser in the corner with a small tin box resting on top. A small twine-wrapped bundle of sage rests on a plate, one end burned black.

Safe,some quiet, content part of me purrs.

Even if it’s only for a little while, this place—his place—feels safe.

I strip out of my filthy clothes, tearing everything off me and leaving the heap in a soaking pile on the floor. I grab a fresh black tunic from the half dozen of them folded neatly in his dresser, pick out a pair of leathers all but guaranteed to be too big for me from the next drawer down, and pad to what turns out to be a small bathing chamber at the back of the room.

Shaking, I fidget with the hand pump on the wall, and with a rush, water sprays out, filling the bottom of the deep woodentub. And, thank the Old Ones—it’s blissfully, inexplicably warm. The water—heated by magic, I have to assume—stings every one of the scrapes across my palms.

It makes quick work of the blood all over me, except for the hardened chunks sticking under my nails. I scrub at it with numb, furious determination, until my skin feels raw.

Breathe.

My chest swells, straining against the cage of my ribs. Just like the night I ran into the rose garden—whatusedto be the rose garden—panic rises up my throat. I dig my nails into the wooden edges of the tub and pull myself out of the water, now a stubborn pink from all the blood.

The bathing chamber is sparse. A couple of towels, a brush for scrubbing teeth, and a small jar of minty paste. I swipe a tiny bit onto one finger and scrub at my teeth. And it might not change anything about what I’ve done, but the small shred of familiarity calms my racing heart.

There’s a small basket in the corner, full of long, clean strips of bandages just like the ones Wolf used to bind the gash down my side. I use two to wrap my scraped palms, knotting the soft fabric at the backs of my hands.

I trail my thumb along the faint red scar slashing down my side. Even though the wound is healed enough not to reopen, the muscles all around it ache. Everything aches—everythinghurts. But I’ll deal with the pain, deal with all of this, later.

The black tunic pulls on easily over my wet hair. The leathers feel like slipping back into my own skin, though several sizes too big. I roll the legs up and belt the waist with one of the long strips of bandage from the basket. It’ll do for now.

But I can’t settle.