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“How —”

“I’ll knock.” Sharp fangs flashed as he smiled at her. “You’ve got, like, a thousand doors inside your head or something. You’ll hear me when I start banging.”

She didn’t like the idea at all. Hadn’t expected it, although, she should’ve been prepared. She knew Montrose longed to go home. He’d waited decades to come back. Only made sense he’d want to stay upon his return. Somehow, though — somewhere along the line — she’d convinced herself the three of them were a team. She belonged with them, and they with her, no matter the obstacles set in their path.

Her throat tightened. “You’ll be alone, Rosy.”

“This is my home, Triple. My mate is here. I’ll never be alone in Ipsalar.”

Hating it, but knowing it was the right thing to do, she made it easy for him. No goodbye. No hug. Holding her tears at bay, she tipped her chin, giving him a smile. “See you on the flipside?”

“Count on it.” Clucking her under the chin with the smooth side of a claw, he turned and began walking along the bluff. “Later, Assenta.”

Westvane grunted in return.

Truly watched her ex-boss-slash-new-friend leave her behind. It felt wrong to let him go. She did it anyway, knowing what he needed from her, giving it without reservation.

“This totally blows,” she said, watching him reach the trailhead.

“In my experience, most things do,” Westvane said softly.

Seconds ticked passed in solidarity, in stillness and silence as she stared at the spot Montrose disappeared behind the bluff.

“Time to go, princess.”

Grief clogged her throat.

Pressing her hand against her breastbone, Truly breathed through the pain, dragged her gaze away, and did what Westvane expected. What she been born to do and made to be. Widening her stance, she closed her eyes. A spark appeared in the darkness in the back of her mind. She coaxed it to life, commanded the flame, bending the magic to her will.

A frame made of fire spread in her mind’s eye.

Truly opened her own and, without looking at Westvane, walked across the clearing, pushed the door hovering above the grass open, stepped over the threshold, and heart aching, left Azlandia and Montrose behind.

41

FIND THE GARGOYLE

The updraft played in her feathers as Lyonesse angled her wings and swung into a holding pattern above the clearing sandwiched between two bluffs. One revolution turned into two, then spun into another. Gaze locked on the Electi warriors trampling the grass below her, she surveyed the mood on the ground.

Strong vibrations rode the morning wind, strings taut in the sunlight, tempers flaring hot, patience at an end. Snug and warm inside a cloaking spell fed by her magic, she spread her wings to slow her flight, then hung in mid-air to soak in the atmosphere.

Angry.

Frustrated.

Murderous. Priestly wanted to kill someone.

From what she could see from her altitude, his entourage stood off to the side, backs to the bluff, giving him a wide berth. All the time and space he needed to cool his anger.

And her personal guards?

Her lips curved. The entire contingent refused to go anywhere near him. Instead of landing in the clearing, her warriors perched on the opposite cliff top, removed from striking distance, wings folded, looking down, waiting for her to land first.

Bad mood rising.

An advantage to her, given the way Priestly wore calm like armor. Not much ruffled his feathers. The warrior was unflappable, but… not today. His temper and competitive drive were on display. The sight encouraged her. He might not like doing her bidding, but he wouldn’t balk when she gave him his orders now. He’d been sufficiently provoked. Would stop at nothing to chase down and eliminate the threat to his honor.

No need for her to convince him of the mission. All thanks to the Door Master she wanted dead, and in a satisfying twist of fate, Priestly now wanted impaled on a stake.