“Elian,” I whisper, low enough that the Sea Queen can’t hear. I keep my fingers pressed to the base of his neck, inclining him toward me. “You have to trust in it.” “In what?” he asks, hoarse and disbelieving. “In you?” “In your dream,” I say. “That killers can stop being killers.” Elian’s eyes search mine. “How can I believe anything you say?” “Because you’re immune to our song.” He frowns and it takes a moment, his gaze narrowing, before my words dawn on him. I can practically see the memory run through his mind and the new kind of uncertainty it brings.
