Page 71 of Wolf of Ashes
“Well,” he says, with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Since we’re about to step out into a children’s playground…”
His magic glows.
Each of the panthers hisses-growls-yelps as their bodies shrink dramatically in size.
I blink at the four fluffy, little dogs staring up at me. They’re like shoe-sized puffs of black fur with startled, brown eyes peeking out of the middle.
“Now, they’re cute,” the keeper announces.
I clap my hand over my mouth, muffling my outrage. “Cute? You made my pantherscute?”
At that moment, the panthers seem to find their voices, breaking out into a chorus of indignant yaps. They express their displeasure by jumping up at the keeper, but they’re so little and he’s so tall, they barely make it up his shins.
He pays them no attention, his magic glowing once more as he adjusts the illusion around his body, returning from his smoke-demon shape to his brown-eyed form. His torn clothing mends itself until once again, he’s dressed neatly in pants and a shirt. When the panthers give up trying to get his attention by barking and start biting his shoes instead, he simply waves his hand and his shoes morph into thick-soled boots.
Their tiny teeth don’t stand a chance.
He looks up to find me glowering at him.
“I’m protecting them,” he says. “We don’t need anxious parents running around screaming about dangerous dogs.”
“Granted, that’s probably your intention.” I give him a suddenly malicious grin. “But who will protectyoufromthemwhen we get home?”
I breeze past him toward the nearby trees, slightly confused when his expression softens despite the impending threat.
“Wait,” he says. “Let me fix your blindfold.”
He’s by my side in seconds, reaching for my face. “I’ll make it invisible.” His fingertips brush my forehead and his magic glows again. “So you can keep wearing it.”
“You could have done that with my masquerade mask,” I grumble.
He shrugs. “You looked good in it.”
I narrow my eyes at him, even though he won’t see the movement beneath the sash.
“There,” he says. “All done.”
I shake my head at him. “Don’t think you can be all sweet to me and I’ll ignore what you’ve done to my panthers.”
His hands fall to my shoulders, but he doesn’t make contact, his palms hovering. The sudden darkness in his eyes—the flash of blue irises—gives me pause. “What’s wrong?”
“Your skin is burned.”
I shrug. Which is a bad idea because it brings my shoulders up against his palm and that brief contact sends pain shooting through my chest.
I recoil a little, hunching away from him.
“You’re not healing,” he says, his lips pressing together in an angry line.
I study the wounds for the first time since Jonah touched me. I have a high pain tolerance when it comes to flesh wounds. I learned to deal with burns because they were inflicted so regularly. Actually, I remember one instance when Mom was hit with light repeatedly in the same spot on her back and afterward, she said she felt no pain at all. When I asked her why, she said that the nerves on that spot must have finally died.
Well, not so for me. Not yet, anyway. I definitely felt pain when I brushed my shoulders against Diavolo’s palms.
The skin across both of my shoulders is red and raw, the flesh exposed.
I quickly look away with a whispered, “Fuck.”
Around me, the panthers have become silent and now they gather around my feet, soft whines reaching my ears as they attempt to comfort me.
