Page 64 of Soulgazer

She smirks at last, full lips twitching as she walks forward to hook a hand in Lorcan’s collar and tug his face down to hers. My stomach flutters as I see his eyes drop to her mouth—and I tell myself to look away. But Brona only plucks his laces loose enough to drift apart, revealing the woad tattoo of a wolf below his left collarbone.

I gape at the marking as Brona releases her grip and then turns around to lift her own shirt so I can see a different wolf curved along her right shoulder blade. Tavin tucks his cards neatly into a line, coughing once. “Should we be—”

Nessa’s grin is pure cheek as she flicks his sleek black hair to one side, unveiling a wolf at the back of his neck.

“Odd moment to initiate the captain’s wife, isn’t it?” Nessa rolls onto her side where she sits and tugs her trousers down to show a fourth wolf curled playfully over her round hip. “But I guess it’s about time.”

“What are you…” It’s a stupid question. The wrong one. I shake my head, skin prickling all over. “Did Faolan make you get those?”

All four of them laugh, Nessa’s a full-bodied cackle as she reaches over to snatch one of the wooden cups poured out by Oona at the barrel. “Aye, and then he demanded we match our wardrobe to his every day, and wear pink ribbons in our hair—gods, can you even imagine him trying?”

“Yes. Easily.” Brona tucks her shirt back into place, then turns on me. I’m learning her expressions better with each passing day. Her brow is often furrowed, lips naturally pursed in suspicion or a scowl. But there’s light in her eyes—a depth that’s rare and inviting, if guarded most of the time.

They regard me openly now. “You said you wanted to be a wolf. Did you mean it?”

My breath falters. Heart thrumming hard in my chest.

“Yes.”

Brona smiles. “Then, Lorcan?” He hasn’t moved since she touched him, thumb tracing a ridge in the rope just above her head. She taps his knuckles once, and my stomach flips at the way his smile warms. “Get your needles and woad.”

“Aye, Captain,” he murmurs, winking before pushing off across the deck, steps straight in spite of the empty bottle at the center of their game circle.

Brona passes it by to snatch up another cup from Oona with a thanks and bring it over to me. “You’ll be wanting some of this.”

My hand fumbles the carved bit of wood, liquid amber splashing across my skirt. “It—thins the blood.”

“Aye, but it helps with the pain.”

Laughing, she takes up her own drink as I stare into mine, muscles locked at the memory of my other tattoo. The apothecary’s cold hands. Pain searing my flesh to the point of seizure. I didn’t want that mark on my back—didn’t ask them to cut into my flesh. Even weeks later, it still burns if I’m not careful how I lie down at night.

My neck prickles, and I glance up to find Tavin’s eyes on me.

He is quieter than the rest. Less prone to humor, far more patient and particular with his words. He hasn’t sought me out like Lorcan or Nessa, and we’ve had no quarrel like I did with Brona before. Yet I’ve noticed that when Tavin speaks, the others listen. “You don’t have to do it, Saoirse.”

I tighten my grip on the wooden cup. “And if I want to?”

Tavin hesitates, glancing across the deck where Lorcan prepares a carved wooden box of bone needles, Brona seated besidehim to crush the woad into paste. Something like pain crosses his face. Yearning too. “There’s no going back. Once a wolf, always a wolf.”

I stare into his eyes. Think of Faolan’s words, the night before his fever raged.

You’re becoming a wolf, you know.

The whiskey burns on its way down.

“I don’t want to go back.”

Twenty-Four

Morning light streams through the patchwork of soft yellow wool threaded between my hands, warming the web to a shade near honeycomb. The skein of yarn tumbles slowly between my legs as a strand passes from one bronze needle to the other in endless patterns, dancing over the wolf now laid over my veins.

She is a pretty thing, crafted of delicate blue patterns and intricate paths that flow from one part of her body to the next. If I bend my wrist, her nose scrunches like she’s caught a scent. A tilt of my arm, and she’s all long, languid lines—yet there is power in her stillness. I can’t help smiling at the sight.

Until twelve loops of yarn escape my needles, and I have to chase them all down. The craft is a pitiful distraction, but a necessary one.

When I returned to the cabin last night, half-drunk on my initiation to the wolves, it was to find Faolan rolled onto his side, his fever broken at last. But try as we might, no one could wake him. I wore a path into the rug for three hours after the others left and resorted to knitting on a trunk in the corner just after dark.

My needles clatter together as a stitch again slips its place, sending the scarf sprawling over my apparently broad thighs—acruel reminder all over again of that stupid ditty he sang. I glare at the gaping holes where other stitches have dropped, then try to hunt this one back out from the mire.