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Her gaze ran the gauntlet, picking up more details.
Small windows in a timber-frame structure. Narrow, tall wooden door with a rope handle. In front of the cottage, a chopping block, knives embedded in the wooden top, well-worn hilts issuing a silent warning. Large oaks did the same, branches curving over the thatched roof like a protective angel, on guard and at the ready. Her focus tracked right. A lopsided shed, sharp, homemade tools hanging inside, some propped against barnboard sidewalls.
A brook babbled somewhere nearby.
Birds sang in the arms of not-too-distant trees.
Truly took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air. Beautiful place. Calming. Peaceful. Full of the kind of quiet anyone would embrace.
Footfalls sounded behind her.
She turned to watch Westvane drag the Wendigo into the clearing. Leaving the monster in a heap, he strode toward his home. Curious, she trailed in his wake, walking past raised garden beds, full of growing vegetables. Leather hinges creaked as Westvane pushed the front door open, and dipping his head beneath the lintel, disappeared inside.
Truly bit the inside of her lip. She should no doubt wait for an invitation to enter, but with curiosity running rampant, didn’t bother. She invaded his space instead, following him into the small cottage.
The smell of fresh herbs and wood smoke greeted her. The plain interior struck her next. Everything had a place inside the one-room cabin constructed with squared-off logs. Even the white mortar between heavy wood lengths fell into line, the joints straight and even. Her gaze drifted over the scant array of cooking tools hanging above a short stretch of butcher block countertop. Neat. Tidy. Utilitarian. Walls without pictures. Walls without personality. Walls designed to shelter, but not nurture.
Feet planted on the dirt floor, she stood silent, watching Westvane move around the cabin, picking up more details. Every single one of them stark.
A sturdy table anchored the center of the space. Fat candles sat in a pool of once-melted, now-hardened wax on the wood planked top. Suspended from metal hooks screwed into the timber-beam ceiling, a huge hammock hung motionless in the back corner. And an ancient armchair, stuffing sticking up through holes where the upholstery had split, made its home in front of a fireplace that took up most of the wall to her right.
Truly stared at the chair.
No matched set for Westvane. Just a single place to sit, alone in the candlelight with no one to talk to and nothing but hunting and killing to occupy his time.
The idea sent a pang through her. In her mind, the chair —that stupid solitary chair— represented all the crimes committed against him. Forced into isolation, when it was clear he was a social guy who enjoyed interacting with others out in the greater world. Knowing Westvane the way she did now, she knew the starkness of his existence until now (until her) must’ve nearly driven him mad.
Her chest tightened. She cleared her throat. “I like your place.”
He shrugged, but she could tell her comment amused him. She’d gotten better at reading him. Attention on his face, Truly studied him from across the room. Maybe,better at reading himwasn’t quite right. Maybe, he’d simply become less skilled at hiding his reactions from her.
Toolkit in hand, he stopped beside the table opposite her. Dropping the leather-bound bundle on the wooden surface, he began to unroll it, revealing a wicked set of sharp knives.
“You’re a good liar, princess.”
“You deserve better than this, Westvane.”
“It’s a roof over my head,” Strapping on arm sheaths, he slipped twin blades into the leather casings. “That’s all it’s ever been.”
“I can see that, and given the circumstances, it’s done its job.”
“What’s that?”
“It kept you alive,” she said. “But now, you’ve got a new home. One where people care about you.”
His black eyes sliced to her.
“I know what you’re thinking… and what you’re preparing to do… but I need you to pull your head out of your ass. You’re not staying here.”
“You think you can stop me?
“Where I go, you go now, remember?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
Without answering, he skirted the end of the table and headed for the door. As he exited the cabin, she turned and followed him into the clearing. Hovering above the ground, the door from Earth Realm into Azlandia opened wider, the fire around its frame banked but still burning.
He gestured to it. “Close the door, Truly.”
