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“Please.” The way his voice rumbled against my ear made me shiver. More than I already was from the cold. “Now that sounds nice coming from you.”
“Oh, shut up. How much farther?”
He banked hard to the left. I yelped.
“Not far now. Keep quiet. Voices carry up here in the air.”
The humor had left him. He became rigid, muscles taut, as we moved below the cloud cover. What would happen if a human was found in the Drakos territory? Were we so hated that they’d try to harm me? I wanted to ask, but didn’t dare open my mouth after his warning.
We flew over a dense woodland on the outskirts of a mountainous region. He whispered in my ear as if knowing my curiosity. “We’re in the foothills of the Feygreir Mountains. That’s Singing Wind Wood below us.”
Singing Wind Wood! I’d learned so much about it in a class on Morgon fables and legends. Stories claimed magic lived in those woods. Supernatural animals roamed the forest, ethereal voices carried on the wind, mystical energy lived in the very trees. All fairytales and rumors, but I’d always wanted to find out if there was any truth to the legends.
A small clearing appeared out of the gloom. Kol skimmed above the treetops, the naked limbs stark and shining like bone under the moonlight, like spidery fingers webbing the forest in. As he beat his wings for a gentle landing, a cabin with a square window of warm light loomed before us.
It was an odd sensation, weighty, to be back on solid ground. I even felt a pang of regret as Kol busily unbuckled and removed the straps, his body heat vanishing as well.
“A cabin on the ground. Strange place for a Morgon to live.”
Morgons liked to live closer to the sky. And now I knew why.
“Petrus lives here for the privacy. Not many Morgons venture into Singing Wind Wood. And even fewer search for dwellings on the earth floor.
“I hope you warned Petrus we were coming at such an hour,” I said, stepping out of the harness. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”
My foot snagged on a strap, nearly tumbling me to the ground. Kol caught me by the waist and righted me so that I faced him. My hands gripped his biceps for support. A shimmer of blue-silver met my gaze.
“Petrus is the eccentric sort. He keeps no time. And we’re friends. He won’t mind.” Kol still held my waist in a tight grip, not yet releasing me.
“And you believe he has some information to help us.” My voice came out as a breathy whisper.
“He’s the oldest historian living. If anyone has information we need, it’s him.”
He studied me a few seconds longer. I waited, unable to break the tension-infused moment by pulling away. Finally, loosening his hold, he let me go with a frown and then stepped toward the door before knocking with three sharp wraps. A fumbling and shuffling noise came from the other side of the wooden door, and it burst open.
A white-haired, white-winged Morgon stood there in brown homespun robes. He was of the Icewing clan, the only clan with such wings. My sister had confided in me that the Icewing clan had some kind of healing powers, but she hadn’t elaborated. It was one of their clan who had healed a wound on her shoulder. The mark left behind was a radiant scar of an iridescent, scale-like pattern. I glanced at the reddened scar streaking across Kol’s face, wondering why it didn’t bear the healing mark of an Icewing.
Petrus had a kind face, wrinkles marking his brow and mouth, and twinkling gray eyes. He stood eye-level with me, which meant he was short by Morgon standards.
“Kol Moonring. What a peculiar surprise. Come in.”
“I’ve brought a friend.”
“I see that.” His eyes swiveled, taking me in. “A lovely, lovely friend. Please. Come in.”
The cabin was one large room, smelling of old parchment and heady spices. A fire crackled in a smallish hearth, soot stained at the base. A six-tiered candelabrum set on a desk piled with papers. Floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with books lined one wall. On the side of the fireplace stood a black, wood-burning stove, and in the far corner was a lumpy mattress piled with wool blankets, which I assumed was his bed. To say I felt as if I’d stepped back in time was an understatement. I knew that Morgons preferred natural elements like fire to electric lighting and stone to steel buildings. Something about their beasts was drawn to the natural. Petrus had immersed himself in the most comfortable Morgon abode I could possibly imagine.
“Have a seat.” He waved to a small couch, only enough room for two people. Petrus picked up a poker and stoked the fire. A log shifted and spit up sparks as I sat on the small sofa, nearly jumping right out of my skin when a cat-like creature leaped from the cushion to the arm rest. It was feline, no doubt, but I’d never seen a domestic cat like this before. Its legs were abnormally long, it’s ears big and pointed, its tail a short stub. With silver and black stripes, its orange-gold eyes glowed like fire coals in the gloom.
“Oh, don’t mind Seerie. She’s a little witch, but she won’t bite.”
Seerie aimed her golden gaze on me as I sat on the low-back sofa—made to accommodate Morgon wings. Kol took the seat next to me, his thighs brushing against mine. Unfortunately, there was nowhere to push over. We crammed in together. It didn’t seem to bother him, so I pretended it didn’t bother me.
“I’ve never seen a domestic cat like her before.”
“Oh, no. You never would. And don’t let her hear you calling her domestic.” He chuckled again. “No one owns her. If anything, she owns me.”
“She’s a necrominx, isn’t she? I’ve read about them, but I’ve never seen one.”
