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“Not like that,” Myra says firmly.
Arsene bristles, clearly bracing for an argument. Nur is torn between a selfish desire to turn his back and his instinctive need to step up for his bonded. The child still wailing into his shoulder keeps him frozen in place.
Only one thought runs through his head: if Arsene kills the wagon master, Nur can eat his soul.
It’s ugly.
Someone takes his arm, shaking him out of the fog. “Come on.”
It’s Rhys, tugging him away from the scene. The child cries harder as Rhys leads him to the other wagon and urges him to sit. Nur obeys, stroking the girl’s head absently.
“Don’t get in the middle of it,” Rhys advises.
“I wasn’t planning to,” he mutters, tearing his eyes away from the gathered crowd. He takes a deep breath.
“It’ll be alright.” Rhys crouches in front of him so he can brush sticky strands of hair out of the girl’s ruddy face. “Sometimes we gotta do bad things to keep everyone safe. The mule had to go away, but now she won’t suffer. It’s better for her. Okay?”
The girl hiccups, wiping snot off her face. “Okay.”
“Areyoualright?” Rhys’s eyes flick to him.
“Me?” Nur repeats.
“The angel’s kind of intense. You don’t know him very well, do you?” The human’s gaze is far too knowing.
“I’m not a child who needs comforting.” Nur falls back on sharp words at Rhys’s concern. He’s a killer of innocents. He doesn’t need or want Rhys’s sympathy.
Rhys only shrugs. “Everyone needs comfort sometimes. Here, I’ll take her.”
He holds out his arms, but the girl clings. Nur is certain no version of himself has ever held a child, and he doesn’t especially want to keep holding this one. Yet some long-buried instinct makes him glare at Rhys as he reaches out.
“She’s fine.”
Arsene’s cold silences may have eaten away at him, but the simple nod of acceptance he gets from Rhys sends a trickle of warmth into that empty place. He shuts his eyes, letting his meagre focus drift. His mind fogs over with exhaustion. In the aether-sight, the child is a tiny glow. But he doesn’t find her soul enticing at all. His hunger is dulled by her presence.
When the girl finally stops crying and grows heavy in his arms, he becomes aware of an unfamiliar emotion pulsing through the bond—one not his own. He looks up. Arsene watches him from across the field, blood and dirt up to his elbows from the grave he’s digging. His eyes are piercing even at a distance.
He jerks his head at Nur and his mouth moves. It’s obvious what he’s saying even from twenty strides away—he’s summoning Nur.
He could ignore it.
He briefly imagines a reality where he doesn’t need Arsene. Where the humans accept him in and he pushes through his hunger to become someone else. Someone better.
The mirage dissipates almost as soon as he envisions it.
Foolishness.
He stands. “Take her.”
Rhys takes the sleeping child, frowning. “You aren’t at his beck and call, you know.”
“I do what he says.” Nur flashes him a bitter smile. The young man might be worldly, but he has a lot to learn.
When he gets within reach, Arsene hands him a second shovel.
“They’re not your friends,” he tells Nur.
Nur’s hands settle into the grooves of the wooden handle and he digs the tip into the hard, dry earth. The two mules’ bodies lie nearby, not a single fly in the air around them. The wagon is drawn closed and silent.
