“We’ll be safe up here,” he said.
Aria peered out of the shack, her shoulders drawn tight with strain. The rabid sounds continued. “How long will they stay?”
He saw no point in lying to her. The wolves would wait, just as the Croven had. “As long as it takes.”
Perry ran a hand through his hair as he considered his options. He could make new arrows, but that would take time and he’d dropped his bow somewhere below. For now, there was nothing he could think to do. He knelt and took the blankets from his satchel. They’d been running for their lives. They didn’t feel the cold now, but they would soon enough.
They sat together as night fell over the shack, the darkness amplifying the snapping sounds from below. Perry brought out water, but Aria wouldn’t drink. She covered her ears and pressed her eyes closed. Her temper seethed with anxiety and he knew—felt—how the sounds brought her physical pain. He didn’t know how to help.
An hour passed. Aria hadn’t moved. Perry thought he might go mad when the barking stopped unexpectedly. He sat up.
Aria uncovered her ears, hope a passing flicker in her eyes. “They’re still here,” she whispered.
He eased back against the board, absorbing the quiet. The howl sent a sudden chill down his spine. He tensed, listening to a wail unlike anything he’d ever heard. Like being rendered, it pulled him into the deepest, heaviest feeling, trapping his breath in his throat. Other wolves joined in, creating a sound that raised the hair on his arms.
After a few minutes, the howls died off. Perry waited, hoping, but then the barking and scraping began again. The boards shifted beneath him as Aria stood and moved to the edge, the blanket sliding off her shoulders. Perry watched as she stared down at the wolves. Then she cupped her hands around her mouth and closed her eyes.
He thought it was another wolf howling. Even watching her, he couldn’t believe she’d made the sound. The barking below ceased. When she finished, her gaze darted to his for a moment. Then she let out an even richer, mournful sound, her singer’s voice carrying more power, more reach than any of the wolves below.
Quiet fell over them when she was done. Perry’s heart pounded.
He heard a soft whine and a wet sneeze. And then, after a moment, the patter of paws retreating into the night.
With the wolves gone, they sat and shared water. Perry’s fear was wearing off, leaving a heavy fatigue. He couldn’t stop looking at Aria. He couldn’t stop wondering.
“What did you say to them?” he finally asked.
“I have no idea. I just tried to copy their howls.”
Perry took a drink of water. “It’s a gift you have.”
“A gift?” She looked lost in thought for a while. “I never thought so before. But maybe it is.” She smiled. “We’re alike, Perry. My voice is called a falcon soprano.”
He grinned. “Birds of a feather.”
With their nerves settling, they ate a quick meal of cheese and dried fruits they’d packed from Marron’s. Then they wrapped themselves into their blankets and sat against the planks, listening to the wind stir the branches around them.
“Do you have a girl in your tribe?” Aria asked.
Perry peered at her, his pulse picking up. It was just about the last question he wanted to answer. “No one important,” he said carefully. That sounded terrible, but it was the truth.
“Why isn’t she important?”
“You know what I’m going to say. Don’t you?”
“Rose told me. But I want to hear it from you.”
“Mine is the rarest Sense. The most powerful. It’s even more important for us to keep our bloodline pure than it is for other Marked.” He rubbed his tired eyes and sighed. “Crossing Senses brings a curse. It brings misfortune.”
“A curse? That sounds archaic. Like something out of the Middle Ages.”
“It’s not,” he said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.
She thought for a moment, her small chin jutting out. “What about you? You have two Senses. Was your mother a Scire?”
“No. Aria, I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Actually, I don’t either.”
They fell into silence. Perry wanted to reach for her. He wanted to feel like he had for the past day, with her hand in his. But her temper had become weighted, cool as the night.
Finally she spoke. “Perry, what would I scent now if I were a Scire?”
Perry closed his eyes. Describing their differences wouldn’t bring her any closer. But neither would refusing to answer. He inhaled and then he told her what his nose told him. “There are traces of the wolves. The scents of the tree carrying a winter tone.”
“The trees have a winter smell?” she asked.
“They do. Trees know first what the weather will do.”
He already regretted speaking. Aria bit her lip. “What else?” she said, but he scented how it hit her, all the things he knew that she didn’t.
“There’s resin and rust on the iron nails. I scent the remnants of a fire, probably months old, but the ash is different from yesterday, with Cinder. This is dry and has a taste like fine salt.”
“And yesterday?” she asked softly. “What did that ash smell like?”
He peered at her. “Blue. Empty.” She nodded like she understood, but she couldn’t. “Aria, this isn’t a good idea.”
“Please, Perry. I want to know what this is like for you.”
He cleared his throat against a sudden tightness. “This shack belonged to a family. I scent traces of a man and a woman. A stripling—”