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The Bargainer lifts his chin, his own wings arching over his shoulders. “Not in my house, Thief. Not in my house.”

Des wraps linenbandages around my hands, his own trembling as he does so. At his back, his wings are still out, and the room we sit in is mostly cast in shadow. His face is placid, but every so often his upper lip ticks.

Down our bond I can feel his immense rage. This is about the time where the Bargainer begins breaking bones and making his victims beg for mercy.

Only, the Thief is hiding somewhere not even Des, Lord of Secrets, knows.

My own rage, by contrast, fled some time ago.

I stare at my blistered fingertips. “Can’t I just heal these with my magic?” Expedited healing was supposed to be one of the perks of fae power.

Des finishes wrapping one of my hands and sets it in my lap. “Iron doesn’t—” He takes a deep breath, then starts again. “Iron wounds take extra magic to heal. But you could.”

“Will you show me how?” I ask.

The Bargainer cups my injured hand between his. I can still feel him trembling with his anger.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

“Is this—are you showing me how to—”

“Close your eyes.”

Reluctantly, mine flutter closed.

“Now, breathe in and out. In and out.”

My breath whooshes into my lungs, my chest expanding as I hold it in. Then I exhale, and the air rushes out of me.

“Yes, just like that,” Des says.

I sense him taking his own advice, his hands steadying as they hold mine.

“Now,” he says, “quiet your thoughts and focus them inward.”

I’m as introspective as the next person, but I’ve never done this, never searched for the source of my magic. It’s always just been there, and I’ve spent close to a decade trying toleashit, not to go hunting it down.

“Where is your power?”

It takes looking for my magic to truly notice where it lays within me.

“It’s in the pit of my stomach.” My core really. It simmers there, right at my very center. This is where the siren slumbers when she’s not busy terrorizing the world. “And it’s in my heart.” Right where my connection to Des is anchored.

“Focus on that magic,” Des says. “And now, pull on it. Pretend it’s a ball of yarn and you’re tugging a thread of it loose.”

This is so weird.

“Okay,” I say.

“Now, pull that thread up through your chest. Imagine it traveling past your ribcage and across your shoulders. Direct it down your arms and into your hands.”

I do as he says, visualizing this power of mine as though it were a physical thing. I imagine it moving through me. When it gets to my hands, they heat like I’m holding them close to the fire.

My eyes flutter open, even as I continue directing my magic to my palms. Des releases my hand and, unwinding the bandages, shows it to me. I stare at my fingertips. Before my eyes, the angry swelling diminishes.

“Holy crap.” It’s working. I’m healing myself.

As the pulsing pain of my wounds lessens, my energy drains away. My siren is still there, but trying to rouse her into action would be difficult.