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She turned from her ascent, whipping around to face him.
He quirked a brow. “Why call if you do not like the look of me?”
“Slayer, do not tempt —”
“You can’t help yourself,” he murmured, going in for the kill. Usually, he had no need for words. His fists spoke for him, but in this, he knew her weakness. “Did you love my father so much you need a glimpse of his son to get your fix?”
“Insolent cur. You are nothing like your sire.”
A lie. A bold one, given the painting that hung in her Great Hall. He was the spitting image of the male who’d sired him.
“Your Grace,” a guard called from the landing, braving his queen’s wrath. “Time is —”
“I am aware, Garrod.” Soothing her ruffled feathers, Lyonesse folded her wings neatly as she climbed the steps. Halfway up, she glanced at him over her shoulder. “Come, Slayer, like the good dog you are. Stay seven paces behind me. You come any closer, and I will strike you down.”
Westvane nearly scoffed. He doubted it. Lyonesse wouldn’t kill him. She wanted something from him first. Intriguing. A mystery. A puzzle only he could solve — just the ‘something different’ he’d been searching for, and so…
He followed, keeping his distance, curiosity piqued.
Garrod’s expression — along with the urgency Lyonesse tried to hide — warranted attention. Very close scrutiny. Something was more than just wrong. Whatever problem she needed him to solve must be dire. So huge, she courted the consequence of releasing him from his cage.
As he reached the landing and passed beneath the soaring stone archway into the prison, an unwanted shiver shook him. The first years of his life had been spent sharing a cell inside Eckizbad with his mother. He knew this place. Every brick. Every flagstone and well-travelled tread. All the cracks and crevices marring the interior corridors’ thick stone walls. The darkness, musty smell, and moans of agony. He remembered it all too well.
The place was a giant torture chamber. One designed to bring a person’s worst fears to life.
Trying to ignore the ripple of unease, Westvane followed Lyonesse down one corridor into a connecting one. Around another bend. Through an intersection, down more steps, only to turn a corner and encounter more. The faster she walked, the more memory assaulted him. She was headed to the maximum-security wing, a place so deep underground an ordinary male would never find his way out.
A set of iron bars clanged behind him.
Keys rattled as the guard at the next gate prepared to unlock it.
Lyonesse came to a stop at the end of a narrow corridor. She faced him and, with a flick of her hand, indicated the lone cell door in the long hallway… in a section of the prison set apart from the rest.
He breathed deep, picking apart scents, searching for clues, detecting in the way of a hunting Assenta. His brows collided. He glanced at Lyonesse in surprise. “The Wendigo.”
She blinked a second before eyebrows popped up “How can you know?”
“The scent… orange peel and ash. Unique. Powerful. One that should not be present here,” he said, stopping alongside her. “Why is it still alive?”
The accusation made her flinch. “You of all people know the answer to that.”
Clenching his teeth, Westvane glared at her. Of course, he knew. She liked to keep powerful things as toys — force them to dance to her tune any time she grew bored.
“Orange peel and ash,” she whispered. “You smell it that clearly?”
“Yes.” Sidestepping her, he walked into the cell. Every instinct he owned recoiled, screaming for him to get out. To get free. To never be caged again. Rolling his shoulders, he reached for calm, and with a deep breath, forced himself to hunt for information.
Big creature. Very small space. The scent of powerful magic in the air.
He frowned at Lyonesse. “What happened here?”
“It escaped.” Looking uncomfortable, she shrugged her shoulders, sending the tops of her wings arching. “Can you track it?”
Busy examining the walls, he shook his head, not in the negative, but in bafflement. “How did it get out? These walls are thick, the stone sound and magic strong. The Wendigo should never have been able to — "
“Westvane.”
Surprised by her use of his name, his focus sharpened on her.
