Free Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) by Missy Sheldrake Page A

He’s ten now, and always wants to do whatever I’m doing, only better. He doesn’t notice me yet. I pause. My mouth waters as the smoky aroma of roast meat wafts past. Supper. Nessa worries if I miss it. It’s really all she asks of us in exchange for her kindness. Make sure you’re home for supper. But these new thoughts about Celli are weighing on me. Valenor’s words ring in my ears with Loren’s. Something’s coming. Listen.
    I take off at a jog. Past Ruben. Past the manse.
    “Where you going?” Ruben calls after me. “It’s grouse tonight! Raefe caught ‘em! If you’re late, someone’ll eat yours! Tib! Can I have it then?”
    “Go home, Rube,” I shout, waving him off. “And don’t you dare eat my grouse!”
    He keeps following.
    “Go home or Saesa will eat yours,” I shout over my shoulder. His footsteps stop. Go back the other way. My mouth is still watering. I’d much rather be at the table right now, but I have to find out about Celli. Why she stole that bag. The real reason. I pick up my pace. Run fast. Think about the red swirls. Celli’s screaming. Did they take her to the conclave, I wonder, or the Academy? Did the Mark keep growing?
    My feet pound across uneven cobbles. Pebbles. Dirt. Mud. I leap over the filthy gutter and skid to a stop. The street that runs through the crooked houses of Redstone Row is empty. Too empty for this time of day. Usually at supper there are people wandering around, chatting. Looking for an open place at the table of a generous friend or neighbor. Either that or standing in their own door, calling out they have extra. Not tonight. All the doors are closed. Everything is quiet.
    I step back over the gutter and pull the cobwebs around me to sink out of view. I press against the crumbling wall of Old Ven’s house. Listen harder. Hear low voices. Whispers. Urgent. Frightened. I follow the sound along the wall. Four houses down are the Deshtals. Celli’s family. Their small house is full of people. The door is closed tight. The shutters, too. I press my eye to the crack. Try to see. It’s too dark to make anything out, though, and the whispers are all jumbled together.
    I turn to press my ear to the shutter. When I do I catch a glimpse of something even more strange. Two boys across the way, slipping into an alley. One looks back over his shoulder. His glance is full of fear and secrets. I step lightly into the street. Follow them to where they’re huddled together in the narrow space between crooked buildings. They don’t notice me as they stand close together, whispering. I know these two. Griff is twelve, skinny and scrappy. The son of a woodcarver. Mikken is eight. Rounder. Son of a butcher. Both are thought to be good boys by the adults, but I know better. They’re almost always up to some scheme.
    I step closer. They smell strange. Like Averie’s apothecary booth. Old, odd things. Dead things. Not just that. Magic. Strange magic. I feel it around them. It lingers like perfume. Powerful. Quiet. Forbidding. These boys are mine, it seems to say . Don’t touch.
    “What are we going to do?” Mikken, the younger of the two, hisses. He’s terrified. Breathless. He’s got Griff by the arm. Griff’s not doing much better. He’s shaking. His eyes dart around. He tries to catch his breath.
    “We gotta tell someone,” Griff mouths. His voice is too weak, too scared to make a sound.
    “We can’t. He said—” Mikken starts, but Griff cuts him off.
    “Shh!! Don’t mention him! You remember? Don’t dare, Mik. Don’t, or he’ll…” Griff trails off. Shudders.
    “But Celli,” Mik whines under his breath. Glances toward her house. “Everyone’s looking for her.”
    “She didn’t listen. They told her to get it and not to touch it, and she didn’t listen,” Griff clings to Mik, too. Keeps looking around, like the shadows will pop out and grab him.
    “That doesn’t mean she deserves what they—” Mikken starts again, but Griff claps a hand