Page 21 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers

Keeva’s throat works. “It’s not that simple. You don’t remember what it was like out on the streets, those weeks after your mother—” She rips her gaze away, eyes squeezing shut. As if the words could ever hurt her more than how much what happened hurt me.

“That’s how you met, isn’t it?” My throat tightens painfully. “You and Finn. After the execution.”

“We were both young and furious,” Keeva admits with a soft, sad smile. “And hurting. Hope felt impossible back then.”

Hope is as drained as magic in this city. “Some things never change,” I sigh.

Keeva’s dark gaze flickers to mine, just outside my front door.

“They can,” Keeva murmurs as I crack it open. “They are.”

I’ll believethatwhen I see it.

The slatted door widens—and my stomach heaves.

Rot hangs in the air. The reek of it coats the whole room, and it only gets worse as I move closer to the pile of soaked blankets in the corner and find Finn underneath them.

Please, no.

A horrible rattle shakes her body. Our father crouches at her side, brushing the matted auburn locks from her sweat-slick forehead, humming softly.

Envy sprouts sharp teeth in my heart. He would never do that for me.

But Finn would.

Keeva reaches out a hand for my father. “Maeve can watch her for a little while. We should get Finn some water.”

My father swats her off the way a bear might brush off a swarm of bees. But finally he relents and lets Keeva press a water bucket into his shaking hands and lead him outside. She glances over her shoulder at me, then shuts the door behind them.

We’re alone.

My fingers tremble. The well is at the end of the lane, barely six shacks down. I only have moments to figure this out.

Finn’s lips are as gray as a shroud, and her skin isfire.

The shimmering black liquid in the vial I draw from my pocket reminds me of starlight in ink. I pop the tiny cork and quickly bring the vial to my sister’s lips. The magic inside isthick, viscous. It slides in a slow trail of midnight honey into her mouth.

A faint tingle races up my arms, straightening every hair.

The Whisperer hadn’t said or done anything to the vial before he slipped it into my cloak pocket after we’d made our agreement. Did he need to? Or could a mage shape a droplet of magic for healing in advance, so it could work on any wound a person might find themself with?

I can’t imagine I’m the first one to throw a knife at him.

I squeeze my eyes shut so hard that stars burst in the darkness of my mind, and send up a prayer to the Old Ones—to the Martyr, even. To whoever might listen and help me now.

Heal her.

There are no guarantees with magic. I know that from the stories my mother told. Mages did their best to shape the tendrils drawn from the Seven Wells before the High King had them drained, but power is every bit as volatile as any other element. A flame can warm, or it can rage into a wildfire. The sea can lap at your toes or drown you in its depths.

But Old Ones, this dangerous hope is a lure I’ve never known before.

A long moment passes, but my sister doesn’t move.

A sob swells in my throat. This will work. It has to work. Then—

Finn’s eyes shoot open.

She gasps, sucking in air like a drowning woman breaking the surface. But the sound is clear. The veins in her eyes flare once, twice, with shimmering black. Her wild gaze locks on mine.“No,”she chokes out.