Page 223 of Lana Pecherczyk

Maybe Blake was right. He should have flown to the Great Murder. It was closer than Helianthus. The Donna might. But if she couldn’t. Without a portal stone?—

Why didn’t River think of taking one before coming?

His right wing spasmed, tilting them to one side. He fought to correct, but more feathers stripped away, leaving patches of vulnerable skin exposed to cold air.

Then they were in free fall.

River’s left wing, the only good wing left, beat frantically. It sent them spinning. Blake’s hair whipped a rainbow across his face. Her fevered mumbling was lost in the roar of their descent. The ground rushed up, jagged rocks and death.

Blake’s eyes fluttered open, focusing on something beyond him.

“Storm’s coming,” she whispered.

Impact never came.

Hands gripped beneath River’s arms, jerking them back from the pull of gravity. Black wings above blocked out the sun. Cloud’s shadowed face hovered over them, jaw set with determination.

“I’ve got you,” he grunted, neck muscles straining as molting feathers continued to fly into his face. “Tuck your wings!”

River pinned them to his back. Not enough mana to shift them away. Too terrified to borrow from Blake. But with them, they were too heavy. They dropped.

“You still have one good wing,” Cloud shouted, and angled to River’s right—the weak side. He deftly switched his grip, one now beneath River’s armpit and the other beneath Blake’s, sharing the weight of both.

A fleeting glance between them conveyed an unsaid promise, a vow. If it came to it, if River needed to let go so that his mate would live, then Cloud would carry her to safety.

Maybe he saw the defeat in River’s face because he suddenly shouted, “Fly or die, fuck face!”

Fly or die.

Where was Ash?

And if you give up, then what hope?—

The memory of his voice urged River to beat his good wing harder, to the point of pain. They almost fell, almost veered into a pinnacle that appeared from nowhere, but somehow, they found a rhythm. When he looked at Cloud, he was met with a carefully blank expression. Eyes straight ahead.

River wanted to speak—to thank him, to ask where Ash was, why Cloud’s grip felt desperate rather than confident. But then he noticed Blake’s rainbow hair had dulled.

In broad daylight.

Chapter

Sixty-Nine

Voices. Urgent. Familiar.

Blake struggled to focus. White ceiling. Moving fast.

“—get her to bay three?—”

Did we make it? Did you get the diagrams?Her lips wouldn’t work, and the thought dissolved when she landed on something soft.

Sand.

She was back on the sand. The mermaid lounged on her rock again, copper hair—no, she had blond hair.

Odd. Blake swore it was a different color.

This time, the mermaid waved.