Page 59

The pain she had lived with since being struck by lightning had vanished. When she shifted her weight, placing her palms on the crunchy frosted grass, no agony shot up her arms. Instead, a simple dull ache ballooned through her muscles, like the soreness before a fever.

Hope fluttering in her throat, Brier pushed aside her collar, looked down at her chest, and cried out.

The lightning burn hadn’t vanished entirely, but it was small and faded. No longer an angry glistening charcoal, but a muted, tired-looking gray.

“It’ll come back,” said the boy, “and I’ll let it, if you don’t obey us.”

Brier glared at the boy, but the absence of pain was such a relief that she could only ask, “How did you do this?”

Grinning, the boy held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. A faint white light flashed along the lines of his palms.

“Stormwitch,” he said.

A tiny tremor dropped down Brier’s backbone. Some of Noro’s stories about the Old Wild, and the Vale as it had been long ago, were about witches. The idea of witches had always fascinated Brier: like humans, but with powerful pieces of Old Wild in their blood, which gave them the ability to heal and weave spells.

Brier lifted her chin, determined to look unimpressed. “Where’s Mazby?”

“The little flying rat?”

It required all of Brier’s self-control to not slap the boy. It was one thing for Noro to insult Mazby. He was family; that was allowed.

“He’s a grifflet,” said Brier, turning her right hand into a fist. “And his name is Mazby.”

Grinning, the boy gestured over his shoulder. “Don’t worry. We haven’t cooked him and eaten him. Yet.”

Brier looked beyond him. Two pale, white-haired children crouched behind a ridge of rock covered in brown fuzzy moss. One held a squirming Mazby in his hand. Twine bound the grifflet’s wings, legs, and beak.

“If you hurt him,” said Brier through her teeth, “by the storms, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” The boy shook back his wild white bangs. “We outnumber you, sweep.”

Sweep.Sweep.

Because she wasn’t Brier; she was Thorn. And Thorn wouldn’t threaten her captors. She would... what?

Brier lowered her gaze, let her shoulders slump. “How do you know who I am?”

“Lightning sees far, and stormwitches pay attention. I’d wager we know Westlin better than even you do.” He paused. “You’re a curious one, you know. Always rooting about in the gutter for whatever people have thrown out and forgotten. What do you do with it all? And how did you get that burn? It’s a grisly one.”

Brier didn’t answer. “How many of you are there?”

“Enough.”

A sharp snowbird’s whistle sounded from Brier’s left. The boy turned narrowed eyes onto the rocky slope below them. Then he echoed the whistle and gestured at the unicorns. Swift and silent, they fanned out to hide behind the rocks that framed the clearing.

“All right, sweep,” the boy muttered to Brier, “listen closely.Your sister’s murderous little friends are getting close.”

Brier frowned. “Murderous?”

“Not a nice enough word for your delicate city-girl ears?” He bowed, hand on his heart. “Your sister’sharvesterfriends, the ones we’ve watched do their killings for years and years? They’re heading this way. You’ll sit here, pretend your leg is hurt, pretend you can’t move. You’ll shout for them, ask for help. You’ll cry and sniffle and look pathetic—shouldn’t be hard—until they’re right on top of you.”

“And then?” Brier’s heart thudded fast.

The boy’s eyes held a wicked gleam. “You’ll stay as still and flat as you can until it’s all over. Unless you want to watch your rat’s feathers get plucked out one by one.”

Brier swung hard at his chin with her fist—but the boy caught it easily.

“Careful, sweep,” he said. “That won’t help you.”