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He expected nothing back, and he received it.

Except for the smallest whisper when he was on the verge of sleep. A cold, strange stab at the edge of his mind:

Come home, it whispered.

Thirteen

“There,” Marigold panted, stepping back to admire her work. “What do you think?”

Briar looked up at Wick, who was shaking the magic shimmers from his hair.

Because he hadhairnow. A proper head of it. The illusion of it, anyway. Along with the illusion of a shirt, pants, and even shoes, with mortal proportions to fill them out. Marigold had pointed out that they would never get past the locals with a Skullstalker and had given Wick a glamor spell to ease the way.

Wick cocked his head expectantly. “Well?”

Briar hummed. He made for a handsome human, if you liked that sort of thing. But he also looked quite… bland. Especially his eyes, which were dull brown. Briar missed the fire. And the top half of his face looked naked without the skull fused to it. He was still very tall, but nowhere near as tall as he was a minute ago.

“You look great,” she lied. She nodded at his back, which looked deceivingly wingless with Marigold’s glamor spell. “You can still get us up the mountain, right?”

“I can.” Air displaced around Wick, and Briar imagined those invisible wings flapping.

“Then it’s perfect.” Briar patted down her borrowed clothes—another laced-up shirt and pants that were only slightly too baggy—and turned to Marigold. “Thanks. Really lowered our chance of getting attacked by angry townsfolk.”

“That’s the aim!” Marigold wiped sweat away from her brow and grinned, spinning her staff. “Safe travels, you two. Still have the sketch?”

Briar patted her pocket where the flower sketch resided. “Got it.”

“Good,” Marigold said. “I hope the locals aren’t too strange.”

“I promise not to get dragged into any magic sex rituals,” Briar said sarcastically.

Marigold’s laugh was less certain than Briar would like. Then she hugged Briar, who hugged back tightly. Marigold was the only person she could hug without reminding herself where her weapons were hidden.

She let herself sink into the embrace of an old friend. Sweet, familiar, and…

Cold? Briar frowned and leaned back. Marigold looked flushed, spots of color high on her cheeks. But that cheek had been icy where it had pressed into Briar’s neck.

Marigold blinked. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

“You’refreezing,” Briar said.

“I am?” Marigold patted her forehead with a titter. “Must be all this mountain air! Well, have a nice flight! I’m a little jealous I have to stay here and work. I bet no mortal has ever had a Skullstalker fly them anywhere. Unless it was to eat them, obviously.”

“Most Skullstalkers do not have wings,” Wick pointed out.

“Right! Of course.” Marigold spun her staff, a nervous gesture she had picked up since she had been given her very first one in childhood. “Anywho, have fun! Don’t get murdered.”

“As long as your glamor holds up, that won’t be a problem.” Briar stepped close to Wick and let him scoop her up in his arms.

The glamor flickered. But just for a moment, and only when her face brushed Wick’s chest. In that instant, he towered above her, horned and beautiful. Then she blinked, and the illusion was back in place, a boring mortal staring down at her.

“Whoo,” Marigold said, her voice high. “That’s… intimate.”

“What do you expect me to do, cling to his back? That’s where his wings are.” Briar flicked Marigold a salute. “Have fun with your theories.”

“I always do!”

Briar patted Wick’s chest. “Take me for a fly, big boy.”