Page 212 of Lana Pecherczyk

The lake seemed to hold its breath.

“No,” Manfri answered. “But you fuck faces trust me.”

Right? He glanced at them. Waited. Held his breath too.

“Ancestors save us, because I do.” Cielo scrubbed his face, blinking widely. “I trust you fuck faces.”

“Then we’re really doing this, aren’t we?” Nikan peered down into the depths.

“Yep.” Manfri grinned, grabbing one of their hands in each of his. “We’re fucking doing this.”

Then they jumped, no wings.

Chapter

Sixty-Six

River’s frantic wing beats thundered as he climbed through the dawn sky. Each stroke drove him toward the canyon spires, a bruised and purple shadow against the horizon. No matter how hard he flew, the spires never seemed to get any closer. Blake’s presence flickered through their bond like a voice calling from beneath ice. Barely there.

It didn’t feel like a disconnection this time, but a sense ofherfading.

His wings felt wrong. Too perfect. Too whole. They were nothing if they couldn’t take him to where his mate was in time.

In time for what?

The dark, unknown answer propelled him onward.

“Faster,” he snarled back at Ash, flying behind him.

Finally, they were there. River banked sharply upward, following the tallest spire’s edge. Its circumference was as large as the Ring in Cornucopia, but narrowed the higher they flew. As the air thinned, a horrible thought occurred.

Mana flowed in natural, living substances. This rock technically fit the requirements, but would be riddled with unmined raw materials that could be turned into metal. Maybe even ancient ruins inside, just like Cloud’s trove. The sense ofbeing connected was less and often spotty, but still there. Air fae, avian shifters like him, would have no problem flying higher from the mana-abundant ground, so long as they remained close to the spire.

“He flew her this high.” Panic tightened River’s throat. “This must have been when?—”

“She was cut from the Well,” Ash confirmed.

Cut from magic as Rory had been. As Cloud, when he crossed the wasteland to rescue her, when she betrayed him, when none of his triad had his back.

River’s jaw clenched as he spiraled higher, searching each craggy crevice in the clay and rocky surface just in case.

Their ascent took them through low-hanging clouds. Mana rippled across his skin like static electricity—the wards. He tensed, ready for pain or to suddenly find himself turned around and wondering where he was. But like the day they found Ash, he sailed right through.

The wards were definitely down.

He slowed his ascent, hovering upward until he cleared the mist.

The summit looked like a witch’s hat. The pointed, rocky spire had shrunk to about thirty feet in diameter—large enough to contain tunnels and caverns. From memory, there was a doorway around the circumference that led inside. Treasure spilled from its side and settled on the surrounding platform. Gems, shinies, glass coins, painted porcelain goblets, mana-enforced weapons, and devices from every era were stacked in chaotic heaps.

The Collector’s hoard.

River adjusted the angle of his aching wings and landed hastily on the slippery surface. His boots sent baubles scattering loudly. Lungs heaving, he squinted into the morning sun and scanned for threats. No one came running around the corner.

Ash landed beside him, far more deftly. Barely an item was knocked out of place, except for the feathers quivering on his ceremonial outfit. He could have delayed their departure from the Great Murder by stopping at his place to change into his Guardian uniform, but he didn’t hesitate when River said it was time to go.

“It was here all along,” Ash murmured as he crouched to pick up a gem and turned it in his fingers. “She must have changed the wards to block me.”

“So why aren’t they working now?”