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Truly scowled at the brick building opposite her. Of all the rotten luck. Landing in a field, far from anyone or anything would’ve been safer. Better for her continued good health. An easier environment to navigate, a quieter place for her to figure out the next steps.
Scuttling along a stone wall, she stayed low and kept to the shadows. She needed to get out of the street — and find a place to lie low — before one of the inhabitants decided to come out and investigate. A distinct possibility. Her landing hadn’t been quiet. She’d fallen straight out of the sky and hit the ground… hard. Sleepy village or not, someone, at some point, would pop their head out of their front door. She wanted to be far, far away before that happened. Maybe even back through a —
Realization scored through her. “A door.”
She needed to conjure another door. If she managed to open a portal, she could walk out of Azlandia, back into Philadelphia, with no one being the wiser.
On her haunches next to a garden wall, Truly took a shaky breath and closed her eyes. Inky waves swelled behind her lids. Clinging to Westvane’s advice, she sank into the darkness, searching for the spark. Side to side. Up and down. Nearer, then farther. She traveled miles inside her mind, but went nowhere at all… and found even less. Not a single pinpoint of light. No answering pulse of power in her veins. Just a great swath of blackness, and a stillness so absolute Truly knew the magic had deserted her.
“Goddamn it,” she murmured, worry mixing with fear. “Move. Get to safety, find shelter, then try again later.”
Sound advice. A wise approach, even if the whispered words didn’t comfort her. Forging ahead into the unknown was scary. Truly told herself to go anyway. Move quietly. Do it strategically. One step at a time, instead of rushing ahead. Imagining all the terrible possibilities wouldn’t serve her. The second she got too far ahead of herself, panic would set in, pushing her into making a mistake that would alert the Electi who lived in Azlandia.
Looking both ways, she scooted around the end of a garden wall. She kept her footfalls light and her eyes peeled, using thick shrubbery to shield her movements, searching for the quickest route out of town. After she left the Azlandian settlement behind, she’d look for a hidey-hole. A place to rest and recharge. Somewhere she wouldn’t be spotted. Somewhere she could blend in, a place people wouldn’t immediately identify her as an outsider. A city would be best, one with a large population, too busy to notice a stranger walked amongst them.
She might even be able to locate Brim.
Other than opening another door, finding Montrose’s wife seemed like the next best option. Brim might not know her, but she’d know what to do. Westvane said gargoyles were scholars, teachers, the intellectuals of Azlandian society. Astute individuals who loved learning, and she hoped (at least for her sake) hated Lyonesse as much as Montrose.
Blood rushing in her ears, Truly crept across an alley, then sprinted across someone’s lawn. Please God, let Westvane be right about gargoyles. If he spoke true, Montrose’s biting personality broke the mold, running contrary to a normal gargoyle’s nature. If she got lucky, Brim would be helpful instead of hostile, calm and calculating, able and willing to hide her until she found a way back through theEcotone.
Wet grass underfoot, she moved from house to house, dodging rain barrels and stone pathways, slipping through hedges and raised garden beds with well-tended vegetable patches. Picking her way past some stables, she entered another backyard. She glanced over her shoulder. Her foot slipped on heavy dew. Stumbling sideways, she reached out to stop her fall and —
Her hand collided with the side of a stone cottage. A hoe and two shovels started to fall. She reached for the long handles. Her fingers brushed against wood, but slipped out of range, hitting the stone walkway with aclang!
Heart hammering, Truly froze.
A light came on, slashing across narrow porch steps, cutting across the yard. The thud of heavy footfalls sounded. Metal creaked. The door swung open. A man stopped on the threshold, his shadow cutting a swath across freshly cut grass. He waited. She remained unmoving next to a wide trellis.
Stay still. Stay calm. Be smart.
The instructions unspooled like ticker tape in her mind. Night blooming roses nodded overhead, smelling sweet, as a huge figure stepped onto the porch. Shadows concealed his front, throwing his silhouette into sharp contrast, making her realize it wasn’t a man. Her first clue was the rap of hooves hitting wooden planks as he strode to the edge of the deck. Her second was the tall, twisted horns rising from his temples. She couldn’t see his face. Didn’t need to either, for her imagination to conjure up all the horrible possibilities.
The urge to run thumped through her.
Contracting into a smaller ball, she stayed still and silent, her gaze locked on the beast now walking down the steps. Treads groaned beneath his hooves. A thick dark mane fell around his horns, brushing his shoulders, as he scanned the backyard.
Hidden beneath a fall of leafy foliage, Truly pressed her hand over her mouth, quieting her breath, wanting to run, knowing she wouldn’t make it. No way would she able to out-distance, well… whatever Azlandians called his species. The hooves suggested swiftness. The horns on his head promised violence. Not the best combination when planning a foot race against an opponent, never mind a full-frontal assault.
His nostrils flared as he scanned the yard again.
She held her breath.
His eyes narrowed on the back wall where she hid.
Adrenaline hit her like rocket fuel. Her muscles quivered. She quelled the urge to run, and focus locked on him, pictured the interior of M&B. Her senses contracted. Perception expanded. Information filtered in, allowing her to sense theEcotoneand what lay on the other side of it. A picture formed in her mind’s eye. Westvane appeared on her mental screen. Wings folded, weapons raised, a snarl on his face, dead bodies littered the ground at his feet.
Her breath caught as realization struck. Even here, on the other side of theEcotone, she remained tethered to Philadelphia. She could feel and see Westvane through the vast expanse, knew exactly where he stood. All she needed to do was find the thread and pull him through.
Gaze glued to the porch, Truly allowed her mind to tunnel. Body present in the here and now, mind combing through the mental-scape, she searched for the spark. She failed again… and again. Over and over, unable to find the light as the Azlandian stepped onto the path, casting a long shadow over a rambling pumpkin patch.
With no assistance on the horizon, Truly started to pray. For a little luck. For more time. For her magic to come back and open a door, allowing her return to Philadelphia.
Luck was all she asked. Time all she needed. Magic all she desired. Before the man-beast spotted her, and she died a horrific death in the middle of small town Azlandia.
19
FAR TOO RISKY
