Whitefish River some sad singers, they just play tragic

The sheepdog’s eyes were wide and watchful, and shock predominated over any other emotion she might have felt upon seeing Olive again. All at once she was back in Ravensblood Forest —

no, bathing in the star-dappled river, rejoicing in her new name —

no, in the dead of winter, trying to feed three hungry mouths —

no, beside the sea lions’ shoals, and Doe was on the ground, screaming —

NO!

Doe’s exit wound was still raw; Seelie’d always had a penchant for hanging on to things. It never seemed to be enough, though. If she’d held on just a little harder to the golden-eyed siren —

Not even a creature like Coelacanth, whose shoulders were built for carrying guilt, could weather the knowledge that she had failed to protect not only the witch doctor’s children but the witch doctor herself — so the door holding all that guilt and all that failure back slammed shut, creating a rip current of consciousness that thrust her back into the present so heartily she rocked on her feet. She backpedaled furiously, flinging up her head with a whuffle of panic when Olive threw herself to the earth, but she could not bring herself to flee altogether.

“I am so very, very sorry,” Olive quavered, and the tiny Groenendael’s expression drew taut with confusion. Up until now, she had regarded Olive as utterly blameless. Those present at her abduction were not to be trusted — Dakarai had summoned her, Lotte had driven her away, Arturo had sanctioned his corrupt queen’s decree, and Chusi had done as much by holding her silence — but Olive had remained unsullied in the little crossbreed’s eyes. Despite her intelligence, Seelie was a simple, naïve creature who tended to believe that other creatures were innocent until proven otherwise. Olive’s apology now struck the sheepdog as a particularly suspicious act.

Suddenly distrustful, the selkie’s daughter swept elegantly forward, her tufted ears pressing forth upon her skull in an uncharacteristically demanding display; the tip of her tongue darted out to taste the air in a manner that was almost reptilian. The rest of Olive’s words were carefully, meticulously stored away, but Carina made no outward response. She believed the mist-shrouded druid to be a peaceful creature — trusted her to refrain from physical harm. Though Olive was taller and older, two things that automatically demanded the dog’s respect, the prostrate position of her body called to something wild and primal that had been awakened during Seelie’s imprisonment.

Stiff-legged, she circled the Shakti woman, her feathery fur bristling — and although her fangs remained firmly behind her velveteen flews, there was a tightness to her mouth that betrayed the effort of keeping them there. “Did you know?” she wanted to demand. “Did you know, when your husband called for me, that I would be sent away? Do you know what I have suffered? I was alone! I was alone and cold and hurt and sick and did you know?” Her touch was invasive as she drew nearer still, the tip of her nose pressing insistently into the pale fur of Olive’s nape.

She breathed in the woman’s sorrow, her aloneness.

Coelacanth, the littlest Corten, the pacifist, wanted very much to score Olive’s flesh with her teeth in that moment — to make a prisoner of the woman as she had been made a prisoner. Experimentally, she mouthed at the tender hollow at the base of one perfect, petaled ear — but with her lips and tongue only. Again that not-quite-a-growl, not-quite-a-whine susurrus stirred in her throat, tickling hotly along the wolf’s cheek. Her feathered tail waved slowly, but there was something tensile and predatory about it that suggested Olive would be wise to remain quite still.