“Alright, let’s try it again. One more time.”

  “I don’t want to try it again.” Mul tilted his head back with a groan.

  “I am well aware of your inherent dislike of magic. But so help me, Mulberry Stoneclaw, as the gods as my witness, you will learn to use the gifts you were given. Now,” Briony said, pointing to the corner, “coax the mouse out of hiding.”

  Mul crossed his burly arms defiantly over his chest. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  Mul’s bullheadedness was no match for the unbridled intensity of Briony’s stare. Still, that didn’t mean he was going to give in without a fight. Oralia was convinced the man enjoyed the quarreling almost as much as he enjoyed not partaking in his lessons. “Why?” Mul challenged. “What’s the point if you’re not going to let me do it my way?”

  “Because your way involves eating the mouse.” Briony’s hands appeared to have a will of their own. They thrashed about in front of her face as the faun spoke, wiggling and waving like uncoordinated dancers fueled by fury, not talent. “You are an animal spirit. Your powers allow you to communicate with animals and, in some exceptional cases, command them, not eat them!”

  Oralia’s restless gaze wandered the dingy walls of the subterranean bunker as the pair argued. She’d already lost track of how many days she, Mul, and Briony had been squirreled away underground. Too many, apparently, as her companions had clearly succumbed to a vicious bout of cabin fever. She couldn’t blame them. There wasn’t much else to do but sleep, sit, and squabble.

  Squabbling, in particular, appeared to be the preferred choice.

  Their current hideout was in the sort of poor condition one expected from an abandoned safe house. Groundwater leached in through the surrounding dirt and pooled in the low spots, rendering the once compacted dirt spongey to the step. There was no furniture, not in working condition anyway. The random scattering of rotted piles of decomposed wood was all that remained of the hideout’s former furnishings. It wasn’t all bad, though. Despite its years of abandonment, the bunker still had a solid foundation, soundproof walls, a roof that only leaked when it rained, and a somewhat operable ventilation system. Oralia and Mul had spent their first day underground cleaning out the old vent shafts, ensuring that if they were to die underground, it would be due to one another and not air deprivation.

  Oralia had tried to stay busy after that. She moved from room to room, cleaning out the adjoining chambers the best she could, ensuring the space was prepared for a sudden influx in numbers. It was wishful thinking, sure, but it gave her something to occupy her time. The fact that it had taken several days was a small blessing. The bunker was large. Less of a subterranean basement and more akin to a gopher burrow, with three separate hallways that branched off of the main room into smaller, more intimate spaces.

  The cleanout and, by extension, Oralia’s sense of purpose did not last. By the third day, the only things left to do were remain alive and uncaptured. While, in theory, these seemed like simple tasks, Oralia found them downright unbearable. She was a doer, a shaker, someone who didn’t side idle while there was danger afoot. She belonged smack dab in the middle of it! And yet, here she was, forced to do the one thing she absolutely detested with every errant bone in her body — nothing.

  She was so utterly desperate for something to do that she’d reverted to weaving handicrafts from dried grass. It was a pastime she’d learned as a child and not something she’d expected to be doing while on the lam. It kept her trembling hands occupied, at least. Oralia already had a pile of rings and bracelets and was midway through a decorative crown that would either be placed on Mul’s head or shoved down his throat, depending on her mood when she finished it.

  “Mulberry Stoneclaw!”

  Briony’s shout drew Oralia’s wandering attention back to her quarreling companions. Somewhere during the last few days, the faun had discovered the power of utilizing Mul’s full name. It wasn’t so much effective as it was annoying, but Oralia suspected that was precisely the reason she kept doing it. The theory was that a riled, reactive Mul was better than an unresponsive one. It was for the best. There very well couldn’t be two sad sacks bringing the mood down. Oralia had already chosen that role for herself and she was proving quite good at it.

  “Stop stalling,” Briony ordered with a harsh snort, “and use your powers.”

  Surprisingly, Mul obeyed. He clamped his belligerent mouth shut, narrowed his eyes with concentration, and channeled his thoughts into the aether. At Briony, naturally, not the mouse in the corner. Because gods forbid a Stoneclaw carry out an order without some form of malicious compliance.

  Briony’s eyebrows knitted together, unamused. “I am not a mouse.”

  “You’re right,” Mul agreed. “You have more in common with a rat, don’t you?”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Ugh!” Briony curled her hands into tightly balled fists. “What is it with your family and your magical hang-ups? First that little brat brother of yours and now you. Why are you all so afraid of power? Do you know what I would give to get even a fraction of what you have? It’s not fair!”

  In an unexpected show of compassion, Mul leaned over and placed his hand on Briony’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything, which was somehow even more compassionate.

  Briony was rightfully suspicious. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to infect you.”

  “For the last time, you don’t become a witch by being infected by one. That’s not a thing.”

  “Then explain the bees.”

  “I did explain the bees.” Briony removed his hand from her shoulder with all the care of someone not trying to contract a contagious skin fungus, and let it drop away from her. “Like it or not, you’re what we call an animal spirit. It just happened that your powers were repressed from a lifetime of equating magic with evil. Like everything else you keep bottled up, it broke through during a time of overwhelming stress. And now that it’s out in the open, there will be no shoving it back down. You’re going to have to learn to use it.”

  Animal spirits came from the same branch of magic as nature elementals. Except, instead of affecting plant life, their powers influenced animals. At least that was Briony’s heavily watered-down version of it. Oralia was too depressed to delve any deeper and Mul certainly didn’t have an interest either. Unlike Briony, who had suddenly made it her life’s mission to teach the stubborn Stoneclaw how to wield his natural talents. It was a move born of desperation, likely. But at least it gave Briony and, by extension Mul, something productive to fight over while they sat on their hands waiting for help to arrive.

  “Fine.” Mul gave in at last. “But does it have to be a mouse? I don’t want to be the guy who talks to vermin. I can already hear Lingon’s taunting. He’d call me Mouse Man.”

  “Why are you concerned with what your brother thinks? He’s not even here.”

  “Rat Boy,” Mul carried on. He flinched when he realized Briony was still glaring rather expectantly at him, urging him to move along to the part that involved doing things without bringing up every potential obstacle along the way. “What if we tried with something more formidable, like a wolf? Or a falcon, maybe? Now that’d be badass. Lingon couldn’t say shit about that if there was a bird pecking his eyes out.”

  Briony gestured around them. “Do you see any wolves or falcons down here?”

  “You’re right,” he agreed with a sigh. “It’s obviously a sign we should give up. Clearly wasn’t meant to be.”

  “You can’t just jump in and link with a wolf anyway,” Briony said, switching tactics. “You have to start small, hone your skills, build the pathways, steadily work your way up. A mouse today is a wolf tomorrow.” She paused before feeling the need to rectify her former statement. “Or, in your case, never. Considering a tiny little mouse is obviously too much for you.”

  Her tactic worked. The insult inspired yet another argument which, inevitably, spurred Mul to prove Briony wrong through any means necessary, including doing exactly what it was she wanted him to do. Face scrunched in concentration with his fingertips burrowed deep into his temples, Mul slowly but surely coaxed the mouse out of hiding. It was nearly halfway to him when the harsh call of a raven rattled down through an open ventilation pipe and filled the bunker with its disembodied croak.

  “Not now,” Mul grunted, still hunched forward, willing the mouse forward. “I’m busy!”

  “It could be a message.” Oralia tossed her weaving aside and stood. She sprinted across the room to lift the hatch and allow their guest inside. The raven’s screech of gratitude rang in Oralia’s ears as its feathery body hurtled past her head.

  Ravens from the Iron Ridge, much like their human Stoneclaw counterparts, knew nothing of volume control. Oralia plugged her already ringing ears, wincing as the large bird circled the room, croaking up a storm.

  Mul appeared indifferent to the bird’s obvious urgency. “Gods dammit, Crow! You scared the mouse away!” he cried, throwing his hands out in exasperation. “I almost had it eating out of the palm of my hand.”

  The raven landed near Mul’s feet and ruffled its feathers.

  “Of course, I was going to eat it,” Mul sneered. “Might’ve even shared had you not scared it away with your chicken squawk!”

  Croak!

  “You’re only proving my point.”

  Briony stood and shuffled over to Oralia. The faun leaned closer, whispering, “Do you think he even realizes he’s using his powers right now?”

  “Would it be quieter if he did?” Oralia said with her fingers still stuffed in her ears.

  “There’d probably be a lot more crying.”

  Oralia’s concern was not for Mul’s accidental use of magic, but who had sent the raven and, more importantly, what the strip of message strapped to its left foot said. “Mul,” she said, attempting to wield some control over the situation, “what does the message say? Can you read it?”

  Mul offered his hand to the noisy raven who, after several threatening snaps of its beak, reluctantly accepted the invitation to perch. Supporting the bird’s weight with one hand, Mul unfastened the message clipped to its food with the other. “It’s from Rali,” Mul explained without bothering to unravel the strip of parchment. He offered it to Oralia instead. “According to featherhead here, she’s on her way with reinforcements.”

  Hope sparked in Oralia’s chest, igniting the fire she feared had gone out permanently. She didn’t know whether to kiss Mul or the damn bird. Retaining what little of her dignity she had left, she swept Briony up in her arms instead and squeezed. “She did it! I knew she could.”

  “Put me down!” Briony squirmed in her arms. “I’m not the hugging type.”

  Oralia set her back down still in one piece, albeit a little more breathless than before. “How do you feel about being the stabbing type?”

  The faun straightened her wrinkled clothes as the weariness lifted from her expression. “Now that I can get behind.”