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“I’ll take her.” Wide-eyed, face white with fear, she reached behind her. Her nails scraped over wood in her frantic search for the door handle. Her horrified gaze moved from him to Truly. “I’ll take you. Now, if you want and —”

“Okay. Let’s go, Azalea.” Grabbing his wrist, Truly swung his arm around, forcing him back onto the mattress. With a curse, he collapsed against the sheets, the pain so intense he thought he might throw up. “You — stay here. Rest, sleep… whatever.”

“Truly,” he rasped, watching her walk toward the door.

“I mean it, Westvane. Don’t move a muscle.” Tossing him a warning look, she pointed at the bed. “I’ll be back soon.”

He opened his mouth to order her to wait for him.

The door slammed behind her before he got the objection out. He clenched his teeth. Such a bossy little menace — and a total pain in the ass. He should let her go. Allow her to walk into whatever danger awaited her out there… in the murderous, magic-hating forest that tried to eat him. Eat him, for the love of Azlandia. Powerful mage or not, the new Door Master needed her head examined.

Still, he could no more leave her to whatever idiocy she planned than cut off his own arm. Truly might be crazy, but as a member of his team, he refused to let her go alone. She’d get herself killed, and Montrose roasted right along with her.

Breathing through the pain, Westvane slid his legs over the side of the bed. Mattress springs creaked. His bare feet hit the floor. He glanced around the room, searching for his clothes. He needed to get dressed and on the trail. Before her scent faded. Before she ended up buried in a ditch, hung in a tree, or burned at the stake.

Whatever.

The method of execution didn’t matter. Keeping her alive in Weeping Hollow, in a forest hell-bent on murder, however, mattered a whole lot more to him than it should.

35

TRIAD OF POWER

Gloom danced between towering trees, throwing long shadows over the front steps of the cathedral. Standing on the edge of the town square, at the entrance to a trail, Truly stared into the forest. Fat vines snaked over and between damp branches. Thick trunks covered in Irish moss. The scent of savagery in the air.

How she knew what savagery smelled like, Truly didn’t know. No time for her to care either as awareness prickled through her. She narrowed her line of inquiry, focusing inward instead of out, relying more on magic than her five senses. Information drifted on the breeze, informing her the woods teemed with hidden danger. The kind of wild animals people on her side of theEcotonehad never seen, never mind encountered.

Stepping onto the path, Truly tried to tamp down her apprehension. Problem was, she possessed an excellent imagination. Deep shadows slicing between heavy, knotted trunks lent credence to the legend growing inside her mind. Nothing good lived inside that stretch of forest. The odd mix of old growth oaks, stoic redwoods, and giant sequoias made a serious statement:Enter at your own risk.

The wind picked up, whistling between twisted branches. She stifled a shiver as more scents kicked up. The smell of wood bark, wet grass, and marshy ground. Dank. Fragrant. Almost pleasant, if it weren’t for the caustic curl of magic hanging heavy in the air.

An ethereal quality roped between the trees like Christmas lights. A faint wink here, a shimmering twinkle there. The effect was mesmerizing, urging her forward while simultaneously making her want to turn around and go back. An illusion cast by a malevolent spellbinder? A warning to ensure she stayed away? An enchantment cast to lure? She didn’t know. Couldn’t tell if what she saw was real or imagined.

No doubt the forest spirit’s intent.

Staying on the flagstone path, she walked deeper into the woods. Just before she rounded the first bend, Truly paused to look over her shoulder. “Are you coming?”

Back to wringing her hands, Azalea shook her head. “I’ve already been. The forest no longer wishes to hear from me. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

Truly hoped so. Otherwise, she’d never get Montrose back.

She scanned the trail ahead, where uneven cobblestones swerved behind an oak.

“Stay on the path,” Azalea called. “Do not step off the stones.”

“Why?”

“The Scions will be watching. If you step off the stones, you become fair game.”

“Scions? What are —”

“Never mind. Just stay on the path,” Azalea said, backing away, leaving her standing alone on the pathway. “When you come to the fork in the trail, go left. Your friend is not far beyond that point.”

Truly nodded. “If I’m not back in an hour, send someone after me.”

She heard Azalea agree, but didn’t look back. Squaring her shoulders, she walked on. Slowly at first, then faster as nerves got the better of her, pushing into her a jog. Time was of the essence. So was getting out the woods. Nothing about the forest saidpeaceful. She sensed the churn of violence beneath the surface beauty. Weeping Hollow was waiting for her to step wrong, make a mistake, giving it an excuse to strike. Which meant her mission had just moved from urgent to surgical. She needed to be precise — get in, retrieve Montrose, retreat to safety even faster.

Rounding the bend, she dipped beneath a low-hanging branch. Her boot soles slid across wet stone. She adjusted her balance, and stepping with care, headed down a sharp incline. The farther she travelled, the rougher the trail became. Thin slices of moonlight lit the way, helping her see the stones demarcating trail from rambling undergrowth.