Page 133 of Veil of Blood and Bone

“It’s better to keep her in one place instead of move her,” Helene insists.

“When there’s a single caretaker, yes. Lucky for you, there are three of us. We’re more than capable of heavy lifting.”

“Wren.” I push his name through my teeth. “This is no time to flirt.”

Luckily for him, his eyelids stay where they belong rather than drop south for a wink.

“Leave her there.” Helene remains on the floor in a prayer position. Her knees tuck underneath her body like a fawn, too wobbly to rise yet, fury ebbing out of her. The ghost of a shadow brushes her jaw.

Freckles stand out against her cheeks as her pallor increases, and the space falls into an uncomfortable sort of quiet.

In a world that’s forgotten how to be silent, the hush should be a blessing. It’s not.

“This can’t keep happening. If learning about the past opens her up, makes her vulnerable to those vultures, then we stop here.”

Helene rises to her feet, and her steps slow until she reaches the apartment door, lingering there. A swift glance cast haphazardly over her shoulder has me desperate to move to her side.

“I need some air.”

Tension written on her features threatens to shatter into a grimace. Her nose crinkles as she heads into the hallway and leaves us trapped inside.

Another flash of lightning splits the room into shades of monochrome, and Wren’s shadows snake under the door to follow her.

He shakes his head. “Absolutely fucked.”

“A mouthful.” Nicholas hunches his shoulders forward and jerks his head toward the table. “Did you have to bring out the books this soon?”

“If this cycle is different?” I scratch a hand across my chin, stubble prickling. “I thought it was the best course of action.”

“Leave the thinking to us, bird brain,” Wren says.

How many times have the three of us gathered this way? There is always a table. There are always three seats, or stumps, or stools.

We’ve done this a thousand times. No one has never spoken of locks and keys before.

“The girl will sleep deeply. And Helene will be back,” Wren assures us. He folds himself down onto the chair, hardly enough cushion to absorb his weight. “Those bitches steal the energy from the bodies of their prophetesses. I’ve seen it.”

“Liar.” Nicholas snaps his teeth. “You’ve never seen them use an oracle this way. None of us have.”

“I’ve heard stories,” Wren clarifies.

“Your gilded tongue won’t accomplish much.” My chest constricts, sending a spasm through my fingers. “Save your practiced patrician gymnastics for the courts, you bacraut.”

Warning shadows sharpen around my wrists, and I reach for a weapon. “Call me an asshole one more time, Forest...” A savage glint in his black eyes wars with the haughty tone. “And I disagree. There is always a usefulness for my skills. As you’ve found in the past. Unless you don’t remember them yet?”

He clucks his tongue, and Nicholas growls. “Circles. Cycles. Take an ax to your bantering, and let’s focus.”

“I agree with the Visigoth.” I bob my head.

Wren studies his nails. “Of course you do.”

“The Norns are weaving a new tapestry. Freyja and Loki are on the move. And Rökkrheim?” I glare at Wren. I know who you met with. He reeks of Hrimfrey. “What of them?”

“Draven will do what he does best. He will advance and conquer. And gods help the rest of us if we get in this way,” Wren says.

“You know this for certain?” Nicholas asks.

“I'm as confident as a banished bacraut like me can be. Right? Fuck.” Wren tips his head backward.