House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(109)

“If you kill Dante, Mórrgaht, you will doom us all. And this time, not for a handful of centuries, or a couple of decades, but forever.” No tears tumble from Bronwen’s eyes, yet they gleam like the newly formed knobs atop a juvenile serpent’s head. “He knows how to turn you into a forever-Crow.”

Hisses erupt around the room.

“How the fuck does he know?” Lore’s voice is low yet somehow resonates over his people’s dread.

“Meriam told him.”

Imogen approaches Lore, berthing herself right beside him. “She refused to tell Marco yet told his brother?”

I’m well aware Aoife’s sister is part of the Siorkahd, but must she stand so close?

Even though my petty jealousy should really be the last of his concerns, Lorcan takes a step sideways, adding distance between their bodies. If you stood at my side, Fallon, no other would.

You’ve two sides, Your Highness.

“Yes, Imogen, Meriam told Dante in exchange for her freedom. Little did she know he would withhold it.”

Imogen’s mouth puckers. “Forgive me, but I find it out of character that she would strike a bargain without ensuring—”

“The Nebban-made substance my nephew has started ingesting hasn’t only made him immune to salt and iron; it’s also made him immune to bargains.” Bronwen’s words snap on the tail end of a lightning bolt.

My eyebrows bend because I remember King Roy’s surprise when my bargain failed to sink into his skin. Aren’t they imbibing the same chemical?

I’m about to ask why it would affect people differently, but lose my train of thought when my father asks, “What if I kill him? What happens then?”

“Any Crow who attempts to kill my nephew will be turned into a forever-Crow, Cathal. The Cauldron has shown this to me.” Her eyes shut for a moment, and she burrows her face against Cian’s chest as though to reassure herself that his heart still beats. “He’s been collecting Meriam’s blood.”

The tavern goes deathly-quiet as every Crow in attendance contemplates their humanity . . . and mortality.

“To do what with it? Cast spells?” My vocal cords feel as snarled as wind-tossed hair.

“No. To baste his weapons,” Bronwen explains. “If the mixture of Shabbin blood and obsidian enters a Crow’s heart, it rids them of their humanity.”

Making them forever-Crows . . .

Come to me, Little Bird. It will help me think. The fingers of Lore’s right hand unspool from their hardened fist. Fallon, take my hand. When I don’t move toward him, he adds, Please.

It isn’t so much the please that makes me pare myself off the rock wall at my back and approach, but the weariness in Lorcan’s tone. And perhaps also the desire to fence him off from Imogen.

I know Crows cannot die of strokes, Lore, but seeing at how purple in the face my father is, I believe it may be safer—for all our sakes—not to hand-hold? My unsettled nerves make this come out as a question.

Lorcan must take pity on my father, because he doesn’t spear his fingers through mine. Nevertheless, his dark smoke coils around my fingers and wrist before wrapping around my waist like a cashmere stole.

“It has to be Fallon.” Bronwen’s declaration makes every single person stare at me. “It is what the Cauldron wants.”

“What about what I want?” Lore all but roars, his shadows hardening and chilling, turning to frost against my pebbled skin. “What my mate wants?”

My father’s eyes glitter with fury. “Crow blood runs in my daughter’s veins, Bronwen.”

She inhales a deep lungful of her mate before turning her scarred face back toward us. “As long as Fallon’s magic is bound, obsidian will not affect her.”

Lorcan’s outline darkens. “I’ll get Vance to do it. That man will do anything for coin.”

“Vance is human,” Bronwen counters, “and humans are weak.”

“What if a Faerie—” Phoebus’s cheeks grow pink when everyone’s attention presses against him. “K-kills—”

“Don’t even think about it.” I shake my head.

“I suppose a pure-blooded Faerie could stand a chance—”

“No!” I all but shout at Bronwen before the insane seed can take root in Phoebus’s mind.

Bronwen stares in my direction, and I stare back. My anger is so potent that I’ve no doubt it leaps off me and into her.

“If a Faerie—other than one you’re attached to—can do away with my nephew, then perhaps, you and Lorcan can steal away to Shabbe to break his obsidian curse. I’d need to ask the Cauldron.”

My eyebrows scrunch. “Shabbe? I thought we needed to find Meriam to break his curse?”

“Your grandmother has nothing to do with—” Bronwen stops talking so suddenly that I suspect Lorcan or Cian have asked her not to spill more secrets. Because a Faerie is present . . . or because I am?

I turn toward Lore. Please tell me.

Lorcan’s eyes close briefly. When they reopen, they burn a path straight into Bronwen’s skull. “If Fallon and I head to Shabbe, we’ll be stuck behind Meriam’s wall.” His smoke thickens like the icy mist that rolls over Tarelexo in the dead of winter. “I will not abandon my people.”