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The weapons they used, however, were another matter.

He recognized the quiet clicking sounds — guns being loaded. Westvane heard the tinny rattle of shell casings. He never seen or held a gun, but he knew all about human weapons. Killing machines. Death dealers. The method cowards used to end a life. No hand-to-hand combat. Nothing up close and personal. Killing happened from afar. Point and shoot, then speed away without having to look at the devastation left behind.

A weak approach. An affront of every Assenta sensibility he owned.

The engine of the first sedan revved.

The inside corners of his shoulder blades itched. A bad sign, one that spelled disaster if what he suspected happened and —

The driver put the vehicle in gear and wheeled into the street.

A second car roared in behind the first.

Windows on the passenger sides of both cars rolled down.

Spinning toward the building, Westvane turned away from the curb. His gaze landed on Truly. She glanced at him over her shoulder. Her eyes widened in horror. She shouted a warning as barrels of multiple weapons cleared open windows.

Westvane lunged toward her.

Slipping from its leash, magic darkened the edges of his vision. Westvane pushed against the powerful tide, trying to stem the flow as heat bubbled through him. He heard the shooters disengage the safety locks. The burn in his veins intensified. Magic boiled over. Pain rippled along his spine. The sharp claws crowning his wings punched through his skin, shredding his shirt, tearing through his leather jacket.

One instant, he was wingless.

The next, jet-black feathers beat against his back. On full display. Out in the open for all to see.

He snarled, and knees pumping like pistons, grabbed the Door Master. Her feet left the ground. His boots slid over the sidewalk as his wings bucked in the autumn air. Truly gasped as she collided with his chest. His arms and wings came around her as he heard guns ratchet and tires screech.

“Tuck,” he growled, turning away from the street.

Truly reared in his grasp. “What are you doing?”

“Tuck!”

His hard tone produced results.

Giving him all her weight, she tucked her head and curled her legs up, turning herself into a compact ball, improving his ability to shield her. Smart girl. Bullets wouldn’t kill him. Hurt like hell as each one hit? Yes. The barrage would be agonizing, but he healed fast. He was built to last, which made him very hard to assassinate. His flesh would knit, his body pushing the bullets out the second the metal entered his flesh. A few holes would only serve to piss him off.

Truly was a different story.

Her magic might be powerful, but it was still in its infancy. Until she matured and mastered her skills, she remained vulnerable, unable to throw up a shield in defense, without the accelerated ability to heal. At this stage, she was little more than flesh, blood, and bone. Susceptible to the weapons of her world. Which meant…

He must do what she couldn’t yet do for herself. Ensure she stayed whole until his mission ended and he evened the score.

Lyonesse awaited his wrath. Nothing would stand in the way of avenging his mother’s murder and years of unwarranted confinement. He needed Truly. She would ensure his success, keeping possibility alive until he finished what he promised his mother on the day of her execution.

A series of pops beat through her air.

Time slowed.

“Eastbrook,” he said, calling on his friend.

The raven answered, peeling off his skin. Half inked on his throat, half his body in the open air, Eastbrook craned his neck, lending Westvane his eyes. An image bloomed on his mental screen, allowing him to see what the raven saw.

Three cars now. Windows down. Metal muzzles pointed at his back. Bullets leaving the barrels. He had just seconds before the first projectile hit.

Curled around Truly, Westvane ducked around the corner of Montrose & Brim. Raven feathers fluttered over his cheek. More gunshots, the spray coming from multiple weapons. Car engines roared. Men shouted, the words incomprehensible as staccato of weapons screamed.

Bullets struck the building inches above his head.