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“They’re regrouping.” Down on one knee, gun pointed at the street, Montrose slid out of the entryway. “Bringing in heavier artillery.”
“Shit,” she whispered.
Westvane moved right, covering Montrose’s retreat, seeking a better vantage point. “Told you not to move, princess. Where were you going?”
“Storeroom,” she said, trying not to freak out. Stark quiet after such calamity seemed wrong, heralding the arrival of something much worse. Clearing the dust out of her throat, Truly watched blood trickle from the tip of Montrose’s pointy ear and roll across his fur. She stared at his bat-shaped face as he bared huge fangs, thinking, not for the first time, she understood how Dorothy felt when she landed in Oz. She was not in Kanas anymore. “There’s a gun safe, and better cover. I need a place to work.”
“What do you mean — work?” Montrose asked, stopping beside a control panel mounted to the wall inside his office.
“I’m going to try and open a door.”
Treating her to a load of stink-eye, Montrose flipped the panel open to reveal a bunch of buttons. “You know how?”
“No, but now seems like a good time to learn.”
“No need,” Westvane said, eyes on the street, shifting toward the front door.
“Westvane — don’t go out there.”
“Ending this now, princess.”
“Don’t. There are too many of them, and anyway…” She paused, trying to think of something to say. A clever argument to keep him from attacking. She didn’t know how, but intuition warned her if he went into the street alone, he wouldn’t come back. “This isn’t Azlandia. Someone’s probably called the police. You can’t be seen, you know…”
Black eyes aglow with citrine light, Westvane raised a brow as she trailed off.
She pointed to his wings. “Like that.”
“Princess — "
“The police will shoot first and ask questions later. They’re as likely to shoot you as the bad guys, and honestly? We don’t need more guns pointed at us.”
Flaming sword and smoke shield raised, Westvane unfolded his wings, glanced at the feathery appendages, and scowled.
She read him instantly. His expression said violent aggressor. His body language said he didn’t care what happened to human police. He wanted blood. He wanted death. He wanted to deliver both to the men outside. She could see the intention in the rigid lines of his face. His sword and shield weren’t for show. He knew how to wield the weapons and planned to use both.
On anyone who got in his way.
Policemen.
Pedestrians.
Innocent bystanders and Neighborhood Watch inductees.
Truly refused to let him.
Crouched across from Montrose, she shook her head. “Westvane — no. Tuck the wings. Shelve your weapons. You’re not allowed to kill police.”
Dark eyes filled with fury, Westvane bared his teeth.
“She’s right. Never a good idea to kill lawmen, Slayer.” Montrose said, surprising the hell out of her.
Montrose never agreed with her. Her boss seemed allergic to all forms of cooperation. As she blinked, battling the shock, he pushed a series of buttons on the control pad.
Something rattled near the front.
A sheet of steel sliced down from the battered ceiling. Heavy. Thick. Slab-like. The security shield covered the picture window and door, blocking out streetlights, anchoring into the floor, keeping the shooters out and Westvane in.
For now.
