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Westvane sidestepped, using long benches as cover.
The viper’s head shifted sideways. Armored brown scales clicked as its forked tongue flicked out, scenting the air. Westvane’s shoulder blades began to itch again, sensation ramping into an insistent throb beneath his skin.
Yellow eyes with slitted pupils narrowed as the Wendigo grinned. “Not so cocky now, are you, Slayer?”
The giant snake tipping its tail hissed.
The itch along Westvane’s spine grew into a sting. His wings, still tucked away, drew half circles around the inside of his shoulder blades. His nostril flared. His gaze began to glow, throwing citrine shimmer across the floor.
The Wendigo growled.
Westvane stopped fighting it. With a murmur, he let his wings go, allowing bone to cut through his muscles. Bladed edges punched through his leather trench coat. Rolling his shoulders, he flexed the pair. The lethal claws tipping each wing flashed beneath the overhead lights. Black feathers fell like dominos, cascading into place.
He hummed in relief.
Better.
Much, much better.
When his wings had come to him inside the Parkland, Westvane hadn’t wanted them. He was an Assenta, born to be a hunter, taught by his mother, and back then, any sign of his Electi father hadn’t been welcoming. In the intervening months, he’d come to appreciate his father’s gift. He may not have met the male who sired him, but Westvane no longer wished to deny his birthright.
The powerful magic given to him by his sire was an asset. An advantage most never saw coming. Which left him with a clear path and one option…
Embrace his heritage. Learn how to wield his magic in order to defeat Lyonesse, oust the Electi elite who sat at the High Table, and give freedom back to the Azlandian people. A lofty goal, but a problem for another time. Right now, he needed to focus.
Predatory instinct sharpened as he flexed his wings. The sight caused the Wendigo to pause and reassess. He could almost see the beast’s mind turning, the questions not difficult to guess. What kind of opponent did it face? How had an Assenta warrior come to own a set of wings? What did it mean… did it make Westvane less lethal or more dangerous?
Focused on his wings, the Wendigo cocked its head. “What are you?”
Westvane widened his stance. “You’re about to find out.”
The viper’s forked tongue curled, scenting the air before it hissed, “Electi. Assenta. Hybrid.”
Huge hooves clicked across the marble floor as the Wendigo flexed its paws. Light from the overhead lights winked off razor-sharp claws. “You are unnatural.”
“An abomination, some say.” His mouth curved. “But then, so are you.”
“I am what the world made me, Slayer.”
True, but then…
Weren’t they all?
Gaze riveted to the beast and its viper, Westvane entered the center aisle. Still analyzing, the Wendigo stepped back, toward the wall of glass doors behind it. Keeping his feet moving, Westvane circled left and took stock, inventorying what he needed to bring the creature down.
Shield and sword were always good options, but the immediate environment mattered. The benches, the ticket counter, the ornate wall fixtures provided a multitude of interesting options. Westvane could throw any number of them, taking the Wendigo off guard, tripping it up long enough for him to neutralize the threat.
Shifting into a better position, Westvane scanned the interior again. Long wooden benches used for sitting. Slim light fixtures on long cables hung from the ceiling. Steel railing rimming the second-floor balcony.
His attention slid to the doors behind the Wendigo. A statue of an angel — wings spread, benevolent expression, holding a human who looked dead. Cast in bronze. Heavy. Solid. Perfect for smashing skulls. Weaponizable. In truth, everything he saw held potential. Even the board heralding times and places could be ripped from its moorings and —
“You begin to bore me,” the Wendigo said, flashing pointed teeth. “What are you waiting for?”
“Just being polite.”
The Wendigo’s brow creased. “Polite?”
“Giving you time.”
