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How awful.

How unfair.

How absolutely wrong.

Through no fault of his own, Westvane would never be accepted. Never be anything other than a stain upon Azlandian society. Truly clenched her teeth, disliking the way he was viewed in his world, the way he’d been treated, but also what it implied.

Different castes, classes kept separate at all costs. Sounded like feudalism in the Middle Ages, and a lot like Azlandia needed its own civil rights movement.

“It’s weighed, isn’t it?” she asked, taking a guess. “Some castes are considered more important than others?”

“Electis are magic wielders, the dominant caste and ruling minority.”

“Top of the food chain.” Shifting the gun, Montrose flicked the safety off. “Bastards like to keep us in our place.”

“Where do Gargoyles sit along the chain?”

“Separate class, specially grouped caste.” Montrose spat on the floor. “Above Assentas and Croppers. Below Electis.”

“Gargoyles are members of the House of Scholars. Record keepers, supreme judges, the deep thinkers of Azlandia,” Westvane said. “Investigators of things both known and unknown.”

“A prestigious link on the chain, Rosy, so…” she said, seeing her boss in a whole new light. “Why are you so grouchy all the time?”

Montrose’s whiskers twitched, first one way, then the other. “You’d be pissed off too, if you’d been trapped in Earth Realm for twenty-seven years.”

“Twenty-seven years?”

“For as long as you’ve been alive.”

Truly blinked. Trapped in Philadelphia when the queen sealed theEcotone. Unable to return home to the House of Scholars. Separated from family and friends. Had it happened to her, she’d be angry too.

“But now, you’re going to fix it, Triple.”

“Who’s Brim?” she asked, listening to her instincts instead of the steel in his voice. She’d asked before — more than once — wanting to know who owned the other half of the shop. Seemed like information she should have, given the criminal element in the neighborhood and the company Montrose kept. No matter how many times she asked, he refused to answer. Seeing his expression now, though, Truly knew she needed to press him. If she didn’t, he’d never tell her the truth. “He’s more than just your business partner, isn’t he?”

“She,” Montrose said, his tone so soft she almost didn’t hear him.

Her throat tightened. “Your wife?”

“My mate.” Blue eyes intent on her, he stepped closer. She titled her chin up, getting a crick in her neck to maintain eye contact. “I miss her, Truly, so I need you to fix it.”

“What if I can’t?”

“Bullshit.”

“Rosy —”

“Knew it the moment I saw you. Imagine,” he said, throwing a bewildered look at Westvane. “Been trying to get home for years, and one day, just like that, in walks a Door Master. No idea who she is, wandering around the city all by herself. No magic. No protection. Bull’s-eye on her back. Totally clueless. I tell you, man… what was I supposed to do?”

Amusement sparked in Westvane’s eyes. “Only thing you could.”

“Exactly. I hired her. Got her clueless ass off the streets and a roof over her head,” Montrose said, his eyes narrowed on her. “So now… pay back. Open a door, Triple. I want to go home.”

She sucked in a breath. “I don’t know how.”

Montrose scowled at her. “’Course, you do. You’re a Door Master.”

Truly glanced at Westvane, hoping for help. Montrose wasn’t wrong. She was clueless, and had been for a while. She didn’t know how her magic worked, or what triggered it. Since entering her new house, she’d caught glimpses of it — the faint, shimmery smudges left behind when she touched something, the strange current in her veins, the vague hum inside her head — but the glimmer disappeared almost as fast it arrived. Her magic wasn’t stable, her grip on it unsure, which left her grasping at straws. She didn’t understand it. Couldn’t access the power at will, never mind control it.