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Truly nodded. “Thank you. Do you have a doctor here?”

“A healer,” Azalea said, eyes on Westvane, face white with fear.

“Get her.”

“Him.”

“Whatever. Just bring him to me,” Truly said, worry eclipsing patience as Westvane shivered, shaking the bucket, making water slosh. “And while you’re at it, bring Montrose to me as well.”

“Who?”

“My gargoyle.”

Azalea opened her mouth to reply.

With a slash of her hand, Truly cut her off, gaze bouncing over the crowd. Her attention landed on two shaggy looking… she frowned, trying to figure out what species the two creatures standing at the back of the throng belonged to — Sasquatches, Yetis, relatives of Chewbacca? All pretty good guesses, given the duo possessed thick white fur sticking up at odd angles. Head and shoulders above the rest, the Yetis looked strong, calm, less afraid than the others. She made a split-second decision and drafted both into her make-shift army.

She pointed at the shaggy pair. “You two — I’m gonna need your help.”

Grunting in unison, the Yetis lumbered toward her, approaching with caution as they moved through the crowd. Breathing a sigh of relief, Truly helped moved Westvane from the bucket onto a cart someone rolled alongside the well.

Westvane growled.

The on-lookers gasped.

Truly ignored their fear and, crouched on the wagon bed, wrapped Westvane in blankets

“Hold on, Westvane.” Brushing aside his hair, Truly laid her hand on his forehead. Hot to the touch, the sharp rise in his temperature a direct contrast to the shivering. She checked his pulse. Strong despite his clammy skin. “Hold on. We’ll be safe and warm soon.”

Unconscious now, Westvane didn’t answer.

Her chest tightened as panic clawed through her.

Taking a deep breath, Truly controlled the emotion. Freaking out now wouldn’t help anyone. Least of all, Westvane. She must reach deep and smooth her upset. Too many eyes watched her. Too many eyed Westvane with a combination of mistrust, disgust, and fear. Voicing her concern for him wouldn’t get her far. Or get her friend what he needed.

A show of strength — of assured command — would produce better results in the long run. But as the Yetis pulled the cart away from the well, away from the town center into a side street, the relief she should’ve felt didn’t come. Dread hammered her instead as Westvane struggled to breathe.

Air rattled in his chest. Each labored inhale a sure sign he’d spent too much time in the belly of Weeping Hollow.

Too long for him to make a full recovery?

Truly didn’t know. Westvane was in bad shape. She didn’t understand Azlandians well enough to know how fast one healed. Had no idea how long it would take for a hybrid like Westvane to recuperate. But as the cart swayed, progressing down cobble-lined streets, she prayed he made it through alive. If he didn’t, she was dead in the water. A sitting duck set adrift in a foreign world before she’d learned to tread water, never mind swim.

* * *

Whispering woke him up.Two distinct voices, and an odd clicking noise. He listened closer. Truly’s distinct accent, for sure… along with a second person’s. Deeper voice than the Door Master’s. Hushed and husky, stress vibrated in the other woman’s undertone, an argumentative quality layered on top. His senses contracted, laying down a grid. The gossamer threads spilled into the room, expanding around him. He pulled on the strings, sending each out to explore the outer edges of the room.

Standing fifteen feet away, the pair were trying to be quiet… and failing miserably.

His hearing was keen, so sharp he detected the slightest sound.

Staying still and silent, Westvane took stock of his surroundings without opening his eyes. Warm air. The crackle of a fire burning nearby. Soft cotton under him, softer blanket over him.

He shifted on the sheets.

Belly down. He was lying belly down, head on a pillow, arms flung over his head, feet hanging off the end of the bed.

The quiet argument continued.