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Brick exploded. Shrapnel rained down, coating him with dust, bouncing off his shoulders and wings, abrading his skin. Eastbrook squawked in protest, the vocal array sounding like cursing. Westvane leapt onto the front stoop and —

The door flew open, slamming into the exterior wall.

Light from the street bled into the entryway.

Armed with an automatic weapon, a beast stepped over the threshold. Still moving, but feeling suspended in time, Westvane jolted in recognition. A gargoyle. Big. Muscular. Gray fur covered by a battered green jacket.

Blue eyes aglow, aggressive features set in severe lines, the gargoyle set a gun butt against his shoulder. “Get her inside!”

Truly jerked against him. “Rosy?”

“Shut it, Triple.” Stepping to one side, the gargoyle hit his haunches next to the door. With one knee pressed to the concrete, he leveled the machine gun at the attackers. Fangs bared, he pulled the trigger. The weapon jack-hammered in his grip. Bullets sprayed the lead vehicle. The sound of steel jackets annihilating metal echoed down the street, over building tops to reach the elevated highway.

Tires squealed.

The men inside the cars shouted.

Truly tucked tight, Eastbrook peering over his shoulder, Westvane entered the shop, one thought top of mind. He hoped Montrose didn’t kill the humans before he stashed Truly somewhere safe and joined the fight.

15

SHOOT FIRST. ASK QUESTIONS LATER

Truly couldn’t hear anything but the raging echo of automatic gunfire. Not her heart beating. Not the blood rush in her veins, or cloying rasp at the back of her throat. She knew it was happening. Evidence of panic was everywhere — throbbing at her temples, in her wrists and ears as her heart slammed against the inside of her breastbone. The constriction stole her breath, making the air in her lungs hitch and her stomach clench.

She was suffocating. Drowning beneath waves of machine gunfire as bullets slammed into the front of Montrose & Brim. Stone dust exploded into a cloud around the building. Chunks of brick flew like shrapnel. Terror tightened its grip, choking off her ability to think.

Truly knew she was moving… but not under her own power. A strange cage surrounded her. Black. Dense. Soft, somewhat lightweight. Which seemed odd, given she couldn’t see through it. The barrier seemed impenetrable, everywhere all at once, keeping her from being hit as the staccato of shooting intensified and shards of window glass and brick flew.

“Oh, my God.”

Westvane’s hands flexed on her. A wall of what looked like feathers tightened around her. The movement jarred frozen thoughts loose. Perception realigned, dragging her back into awareness. She was in his arms, curled in a ball, tucked in close, and he was running. Legs fired like pistons. Heartbeat raging against her ear. His pace so fast, the lamplit sky blurred into streaks as she looked up through the slim cove made by the protective curl of his dark wings.

Wings.

How did Westvane havewingsall of a sudden?

“Westvane,” she rasped, shifting in his hold.

He growled in response, firmed his grip on her, and kept running. The sound and fury of gunfire roared, peppering M&B. More shrapnel. More dust. Tons more shouting. What in God’s name was going on? Westvane hadn’t mentioned anything about people wanting to kill her during their conversation. Not that she could berate him for the omission now. Staying alive took precedence. Which meant she needed to pull herself together and do her part. Montrose kept a gun safe in the storeroom at the back of the shop. And given the firepower currently pointed in their direction, arming herself and returning fire had just become priority number one.

Pain spiked through her ribcage.

Truly forced a half-breath and refocused. “Westvane… ease up. I can’t breathe. You’re crushing me."

Taking a sharp turn, he came to an abrupt halt. The vice around her ribs unlocked. Her feet hit the floor. Off balance, she listed sideways, bumping into a wall of feathers.

“Open.” Chest heaving, she shoved against the plumes. “Let me out of here.”

The wings surrounding her opened, allowing her to see more than black feathers and the column of his throat. Grabbing her arm, Westvane propelled her backward, past the half-wall of the reception area, deeper into the bullpen. Grabbing the nearest desk, he flipped it over. The metal edge slammed into the floor. Bullets blasted in from the street. Window glass shattered, exploding into the room, ripping the blinds from the wall.

With a curse, Westvane spun toward her, using his body to shield her.

Both arms curled over her head, Truly lunged for cover. Her knees slid on worn linoleum, carrying her behind the desk. She expected Westvane to follow. When he didn’t, she glanced at him. Her lips parted a second before she jolted, incredulousness shoving fear out of the way. He was crazy. He must becrazy. Unlike her, Westvane wasn’t shaken. He was furious. Murderous. His expression so black she suffered an involuntary shudder. Attention leveled on the front of the shop, he turned away from her toward the battle.

Crouched behind a desk, she reached out and grabbed his pant leg. “Westvane — get down!”

With a jerk, he broke her hold.