Page 9 of Lana Pecherczyk

“With you there,” River said carefully, “we stand a better chance of bartering for the cryptex. You don’t have to speak to her. I’ll do all the work, but it’s this or the raid. We’re running out of time to find it before Nero does.”

Everything River said was the truth. Just not all of it. He needed Ash there because if Cloud turned up before they bartered for the cryptex, then someone needed to carry on with the mission. He could be dead. Or arrested. Even if Cloud was a wanted fae, he wasn’t considered a traitor to the Order until he faced a democratic trial. But a Guardian murdering another Guardian in cold blood was a definite death sentence.

Not if River could get away with it.

Ash’s unblinking stare promised suffering, but he stood and unfurled lustrous wings, scattering black feathers.

“Fine.” He grabbed a leather satchel. “I’ll meet you at the Summer Palace. They have something the Collector will want, but I’ll need to convince Jasper to relinquish it. Give me a day.”

“Princeling.” River waited for Ash to look his way, then touched his fingers to his mouth in the fae gratitude sign. “I know this won’t be easy.”

Ash scowled, grabbed his supplies, and stalked out. Two minutes later, a flurry of shadows signaled his takeoff outside, wings beating into blurs before fading in the blue sky. Envy clawed at River’s gut. It had been too long since he’d flown—so long that he feared it would never happen again.

Shoulders slumped, he dragged his feet down the hall to his room. When he passed Cloud’s room, the door was ajar. He entered cautiously.

A shaft of light streamed through a gap between boards covering the window. Unlike other Guardian quarters, Cloud’s room held only a single mattress pushed against the wall, far from the window. One pillow. One sheet. No furniture. No trinkets. No weapons.

Nothing except the mural River had painted when they’d been promoted to the Cadre of Twelve. A sun in a cloudless sky. A river winding through a ravine. The cliff where they’d jumped together as teens—where the end of their innocence began.

Rhythmic thumping against the joining wall ruined River’s moment. He tried to block it out, to admire his handiwork, but then a woman’s pleasure-filled moan joined the thuds. He stomped out of Cloud’s room and pounded on the neighboring door.

“Shut up!” he shouted. “Have some respect for the only Guardian actually doing his job!”

The noise stopped. The door opened to reveal a sweaty blond elf wrapping a sheet around his waist, spectacularly failing to hide his tented erection. Leaf arched his brow.

“Be careful, D’arn,” he warned. “You’ll sing a different tune when you find your mate.”

“Not happening.”

“The Well wants what it wants.” Leaf gave a cocky smirk and then slammed his door.

River stalked to his room—neighboring their team leader’s alternate side—and slammed his door in retaliation. Hard enough to tremble the walls. Two seconds later, the wall-banging resumed.

The Well wants what it wants?

If that were true, then he, Ash, and Cloud had devoted most of their lives to protecting something that wanted to see them suffer.

Chapter

Three

Sand and grass gave way to crushed limestone that bit into Blake’s feet as she stumbled toward the citadel. People here were odd. Their fashion here jarred her senses. All wore loose and light garments that seemed to be constructed with a practical purpose rather than for show. No spandex or Lycra, no denim or shiny faux leather, no stilettos or Gucci suits. Not even a hint of sequins.

Were they all farmers?

And what was with that glass wall filled with glowing, swarming lights?

Had she washed up on some remote island civilization? Crashed onto some sort of movie set? But then, wouldn’t the sky still bear traces of soot? And she hadn’t even been on the boat when?—

“Must be dead,” she mumbled.

Shocked faces turned her way as she pushed deeper into the market’s core, teeth chattering and hair still dripping down her spine. Then something touched her on the shoulder. It fluttered against her skin, and she recoiled at the sensation, stumbling back into another body. More fluttering.

“Watch it,” the man behind her grunted and half-walked, half-flew beyond her reach. She gaped after him, dumbfounded, as he vanished into the throng.

Cosplay wings don’t flutter. Do they?

Dread coiled in her gut as she pivoted in a slow circle, registering details that shouldn’t exist. Some people had pointed ears. Others sported horns spiraling from their skulls. Wings varied beyond feathers, some shimmering like prismatic dragonfly wings.