Page 17 of The Lure of Wolves and Whispers

I shake her off and square my shoulders to face the woman with the sharpened teeth.

She studies me the way a cat might eye a mouse. Lightning crackles behind her glare, and the air seems to charge as the mist presses in close around us.

“Whatever you need. Whatever the price. I’ll pay it.” My words come out braver than I really feel. Beside me, Keeva shrinks back, but I keep pushing. “I just need one favor.”

The woman’s eyes roam like liquid poison over my skin, fear numbing me the longer she goes without blinking.

“Then ask your favor,” she says finally, opening the door wide enough for us to slip through into the darkened hall beyond. “But if we refuse, there’s no walking away.” She lets the door hang open.

I’ve come too far to turn back now.

My hands find the edges of the blackened door and curl around it. I step through, pulling Keeva with me, and seal us into the darkness.

Keeva’s shallow breathing fills the silence.

I fight to calm the racing of my heart as I let shadows wrap around me.

A single green flame bursts to life at my left—even though I don’t so much as hear the strike of a match—illuminating the older woman’s sharp cheekbones. She brings up a small stained-glass lantern, flame flickering inside. That must be what makes the light look green. Even her fangs take on the eerie tinge.

She waves us through, and the green lantern is the only light in a hallway that never seems to end. I can’t pick out more than faint details of anything we pass—a glowing bronze vase with some kind of yellow wildflower; portraits in faded, rich hues setin frames blackened with age; tapestries woven in brilliant threads that shimmer in the strange light.

Something soft and warm slashes against my leg, darting through the dark, and my hand leaps for the blade at my waist.

A faint hiss follows.

“Touch her,” the woman snarls in warning, “and die.”

I let out a breath and relax my grip on the hilt.

The woman’s steps are sharp and pointed, each one the tip of a needle seeming to thread the shadows just a few feet ahead of me.

Keeva trails right behind, never more than a heartbeat away. Her breathing shifts as we climb a set of narrow stairs, up to the second, then third level.

A dark wooden door polished to catch the light opens, and shadows spill out.

A dozen candles flicker on a table, casting a soft orange glow over the middle of the room but leaving the edges shrouded in darkness. The unmistakable scent of struck matches lingers in the air.

My eyes fly around the space. There aren’t any windows, no other doors.

There’s no way out.

With a sharp slash of her hand, the woman gestures toward a low cushioned bench. “Sit.”

Not an invitation—an order. I hear the difference in the iron of her voice, so we obey.

The woman’s lips curl, and she turns with a swish of her cloak to slip back out the door we came from.

A faint click follows, and my whole body tightens.

Keeva lets out a breath. “You shouldn’t have done that, Maeve.”

“Seriously?” I turn to face her. “She was about to shut the door on us.”

She hesitates. “Maybe we should’ve let her.”

The threat of soul-rending grief rips through me. I taste its poisoned promise and shove it down with every ounce of strength I have in me, slamming the door shut on the part of me that remembers what grief like that feels like.

I can’t go back there.