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The Wendigo’s headless tail twitched.
Razor-sharp blades smoothed back into ribbons. Following a crooked path, the slithering cords wound around the Wendigo, tying it up, securing the beast for transport.
Westvane stared at the dead viper a second before redirecting his focus to the trussed-up Wendigo. His brows rose. Impressive bit of magic. The ribbons were flawless — silky and thin, but strong. Coiled tight, hold secure, the triple-tied knots unbreakable.
A splash sounded.
Westvane glanced at Truly. He watched the sphere dissolve and her step out of the remaining goo. A look of horror on her face, she stared at the decapitated snake. “I had no idea I could do that.”
His lips twitched. “Handy skill to have in your arsenal.”
“Messy, though.” Her nose wrinkled. “Really messy.”
“Mess is good,” he said, taking in the destruction around him. “I enjoy mess.”
“Of course, you do. But then, we’ve already established you’re crazy.”
“The good kind.”
“I’m not sure there’s a good kind.” Palms up, fingers spread, she looked at her hands. “But if there is, I hope I’m that kind too.”
He grinned.
Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe, at long last, she was coming around to his way of thinking. He’d known it would take time. The adjustment from human to magic-wielder wasn’t an easy one… and he should know.
Locked away in the Parkland, he’d had time to come to terms with his magic. He understood it better now. Had spent years testing it, learning what no one had wanted to teach him. Truly hadn’t been afforded the same advantages. She’d been thrown straight into the fire, but then, she had something he’d never possessed — a house designed to protect her, a friend like Earl to guide her, and nowhim. A world-class killer, able to shield her until she acclimatized to her magic and sharpened her skills.
“Truly —”
“You used your wings,” she said, smiling at him.
The pride in her tone prickled through him.
A curious tightness gripped his chest. A lump formed in his throat. Uncomfortable with the praise, not knowing what else to do, he tipped his chin in acknowledgement.
“Very cool!” Still grinning, she slapped him on the side of his arm. “I wish I had wings.”
The idea made him cringe — on the inside. The last thing the Door Master needed was wings. He could barely keep track of her as it was. “You grow wings, I’m cutting them off.”
She rolled her eyes.
He glared at her, then looked past the rubble toward the side entrance. His senses webbed, dropping a net over the building and surrounding area. Gathering the web, he pulled on invisible strings. Westvane titled his head and listened harder.
“What?” she asked, gaze sharp on his face. “What is it?”
“Sirens.”
“Police. We need to get out of here.”
“Agreed.” Moving to the Wendigo, Westvane studied it a moment. Six eyes closed. Unconscious from blood loss, but fit to travel. Hitting his haunches beside it, he checked Truly’s knots. Warm to the touch, the ribbons stuck to his fingertips. With a nod of approval, he shook his hand free and stood. “Eastbrook — to me.”
Black eyes blinking, the raven leapt from the balcony railing. Smooth descent. A few drops of shimmering blue liquid stuck to his plumage. None the worse for wear after witnessing the battle. With a loud caw, the bird landed on his shoulder. One moment, Eastbrook claimed solid form, the next he dematerialized, sliding onto the surface of his skin.
“I need one of those too.”
“What — a raven?”
She shook her head. “A cool tattoo.”
