Jude lights one of his witchweed cigarettes and inhales a deep drag. Then, with a slow exhale through that psychotic grin, “You say all that like it’s a bad thing, Tats.”
“FuckingJude.” I roll my eyes.
“What? I’m just saying—”
“Well, say less. We need an actual plan here, and you’re not helping.”
He lifts his hands in surrender, and Tatiana continues.
“Regardless of the bond, Westlyn should still recognize and trust you. However, she may be reluctant to leave her demon mate behind.”
“Thatmonsteris not her mate,” Rook seethes, his ire rivaling Draegan’s.
Tatiana places a hand on his arm. “I mean it in purely magical terms. The forced bond between them will, by its very nature, draw them close together. She’ll feel compelled to obey him. Your task will be to convince her she needs to leave the area with you and return home, leaving the demon behind.”
“We won’t be able to break the bond if Zorakkov remains close,” Fleur says. “He’ll do everything in his power to prevent that from happening.”
Laney nods. “If she won’t come willingly, you’ll have to force her in any way that you can. No matter how angry it makes her, no matter how hard she fights you. It’s her only chance.”
“We won’t let it come to that,” Rook says confidently. Then, removing his glasses and polishing them with a cloth, “Right now, we’ve got two big advantages. One, they don’t know we’re here. And two, they don’t know we’ve got three powerful witches on our side. The witches will break the barrier, giving us a short window to get in and grab West. That’s our primary objective right now. Like Tatiana said, we can deal with breaking the bond later.”
I nod, squeezing the back of Rook’s neck to let him know I’m with him on this. It’s rare to see him step up when Drae’s usually the one calling the shots, but this isn’t some hit job on a crooked city councilman. This is Westlyn we’re talking about here. We need finesse. We need logic. We need the kind of calm, rational approach that only Rook can provide.
“As soon as the sisters and I break the mages’ protection spell,” Tatiana says, “you’ll feel the barrier drop, like a shockwave rippling through the air. We’ll hold it down for as long as we can, but the moment you feel that ripple, you need tomove. Get in, take down as many of the mages as you need to, but above all else, get your witch.”
“And get the hell out of there,” Rook adds.
Jude’s nostrils flare, witchweed smoke billowing out of them. In a deadly voice, he says, “I’m not leaving until we’ve choked the bloody life out ofallthose shadow magic bastards. And I’m taking Forsythe’s fucking femurs, and I’m gonna use them to crack open Eloise’s skull like a rotten egg, and I’m gonna gather up all the pieces and make a lovely tile mosaic for our kitchen.”
“Let’s just make sure West is safe,” Rook says. “You can indulge in your creativity later. Deal?”
Our resident psycho grins again, but his eyes are deadly serious. “You’ve got yourself a deal, genius.”
We review the basics one more time. Then, the witches join hands and close their eyes, magic crackling between them as they begin their spell, and the rest of us quickly move into position.
High atop Thornwood Cathedral, the stained glass windows glow ominously, and a cold dread settles into my gut.
Hang on, witchling. We’re coming.
* * *
From their timeless perch around the bell tower, the stone gargoyles of Thornwood watch me and Rook fly circles overhead, their eyes impassive as ever.
The last time we saw them was the night of the first wedding. Draegan had taken some notes about their deteriorating condition, hoping we might find ways to patch them up. Protect them from the elements.
Sadly, we never got the chance. Everything happened so quickly that night with West, and it feels like we haven’t been able to take a breath since.
I look them over now, though, as we circle above the invisible barrier and await the witches’ signal. Jude and Drae are on the ground, preparing to charge through the doors on the main level—Jude in front, Drae in back. Rook and I will come down the bell tower stairs. Between the four of us, we should be able to spot Westlyn and get to her fast.
To save her from whatever darkness fate—and her cruel, fucked-up family members—have planned for her.
Nervous energy has me hot and twitchy, and I stretch my wings and sweep around the tower again, trying to calm myself in the stately presence of the old gargoyles. I’ve photographed them so many times and from so many different angles that I know every shape and shadow by heart. Every chip. Every fissure.
I knew them as men, and while their human faces have long since faded from my memory, their strength and courage has not.
I borrow it now, reciting their human names in my mind. Remembering them.
Tonight, I will honor them in the best way I know how—by keeping the ones I love safe.
