Page 72 of Wolf of Ashes
Diavolo reaches for me again. “Let me heal you.”
“How?” I snap, my sudden awareness of my pain making me angry. “With an illusion that makes me think I’m healed when I’m not?”
“No,” he says, and now his features morph into his blue-eyed persona, the strands of his hair casting shadows over his face. “With the oldest magic I control.”
While his gaze pierces me, he lifts his right hand toward the nearest tree.
The color of the leaves is muted in the dark, but their surfaces gleam as if, in the daylight, they would be vibrant green.
When the keeper’s fingertips twitch, the nearest leaves curl and blacken, falling softly to the ground.
Dark magic.
For which the cost is life.
I close my eyes as the keeper’s hands lower to my shoulders again, accepting his power. Sensing the way my skin reforms. Breathing more easily when the pain subsides.
Finally, I sense him step back and when I open my eyes, he’s morphing into his brown-eyed self, the darkness and shadows in his expression easing.
My voice is small, mostly because I’m again asking a question I’m not sure I want answered, and I’m not entirely sure it isn’t rhetorical. “Why couldn’t I heal myself?”
Diavolo’s reply is grim. “Because of what Jonah is.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
The city lights twinkle beyond my blindfold as we pass through the playground and onto the footpath beside the street.
Diavolo didn’t want to translocate us directly to the witch’s apartment from within the clearing because a burst of magic so close to the door would have inevitably attracted attention.
Once we emerged into the playground, the night air was refreshing. Sort of. Minus the conglomeration of scents from humans, vehicles, and restaurants. But I wanted to both clear my head and acclimate myself to the city lights and sounds, so I opted for the walk.
The keeper has remained tight-lipped since his declaration about Jonah’s nature and I don’t want to push it. I will, eventually, if he doesn’t offer up that information, but for now, I’m prepared to leave him with his scowling thoughts.
The panthers scamper around us, keeping close and veering clear of a group of teenagers who make ‘Aww’ sounds as soon as we step onto the footpath.
I’m on the front foot when one of the girls bends to the nearest panther. I’m surprised when the male panther nuzzles up to her, licking her fingers and making her laugh.
Of course, he could be buttering her up before he chomps down on her digits.
I scoop him up before there’s bloodshed.
“He’s adorable,” the girl gushes.
I paste a smile on my face, hoping my wolfish teeth aren’t showing as I hold tightly to the panther and try to ignore the way he’s salivating all over my hand.
“Uh-huh,” I say. “Extremely adorable. And not at all hungry.”
The girl’s forehead creases slightly, but one of her friends grabs her arm and pulls her onward. I’m relieved when she and the other teens continue on their way.
“You saidhome,” the keeper finally says.
I’m not sure what he’s talking about. “Huh?”
“Before. You saidwhen we get home.”
So I did. It was in the context of the panthers expressing their feelings about being turned into puppies. I’m not ready to reflect on why I called the place where I’ll sleep later ‘home.’
I bristle a little. “And?”
