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So she did the only thing she could.
She blew on the spark, fanned the flame, trying to build it into an inferno, praying her magic obeyed and her gamble paid off. Hoping she was right, and if she provided the way, Westvane would walk through the door she opened before Samarin reached the stew pot and made a meal out of her.
21
JUST STARTING TO HAVE FUN
Pivoting on the sidewalk outside Montrose & Brim, Westvane kept his eyes trained on the enemy. Protected by a line of vehicles angled in the street, the Yeomanry retreated as he snarled. He wanted to laugh. He settled for baring his teeth instead. The idiots. Did they really think they stood a chance? Against him? With his magic humming — and the sword and shield in his hands — the combat unit assembled fifty feet away was all but finished.
About to be done.
Cooked. Flambéed. Skinned alive.
Whatever.
Five minutes tops, and the fools would be dead. Nothing but disarticulated corpses. Lying in bloody piles in the middle of a city street.
A human in charge yelled out instructions, calling for further retreat.
Westvane smiled, flashing elongated canines. Eyes wide with fear, an enemy solider panicked and raised a rocket launcher. The fresh-faced youth fired the weapon. Time slowed. A high-pitched whine erupted as the missile shot from its casing.
Ducking his head, Westvane brought his shield up and shifted to his right.
The missile rocketed over him. The smoke inside his shield seethed. The bomb slammed into the building behind him. Concrete, brick, and glass exploded up and out, then rained down. Spinning out of a crouch, Westvane swung his sword, aiming for one of the armored vehicles.
Lightning flashed from the tip.
Electricity arched, burning a path through smoked-filled air, then struck. The military truck blew sky high, flipping end over end, sailing above the streetlamps. The group hiding behind it shouted and scrambled. The smell of gasoline suffused the air. Westvane slammed his shield into the pavement. Sparks snapped against the edge. The accelerant caught fire. Blue flames streaked toward the puddle of fuel as the truck finished going up and started to come down. The wind rush scraped over the fine threads of his singed feathers.
He folded his wings.
Pain burned through him. Rage rippled in its wake.
The human platoon didn’t know whom they faced. The burns he’d suffered in the first explosion inside the shop only served to piss him off. Now he didn’t want to just kill the Yeomanry. He wanted to give the task special attention. Tear each man apart. Make the dissection painful. Ensure the torture lasted… and lasted… andlasted.
Twisted metal that used to be a truck slammed into pavement.
Fire burst from the engine block, over the hood into the cab.
Smoke billowed into the street.
Stepping off the concrete curb, Westvane cut a swath through the fray. Tossing a car aside, he slammed his shield into the soldiers rushing him. Three went flying. Blood sprayed, painting the asphalt red, the crunch of bones echoing as he sighted the leader. Standing behind an array of armored vehicles, his men between him and danger, the commander shouted orders.
His eyes narrowed. New prey. The yeoman he wanted. The one who needed to be killed most. The one he’d —
“Westvane!”
“What?” he snarled, kicking the limp body off the end of his sword. Pivoting right, he skewered another human, then glanced toward Montrose.
Blood dripping from his claws, the gargoyle finished snapping a yeoman’s neck, then pointed toward the side street. “Look!”
The black death trap Truly called a car sat unscathed next to the curb. And beyond it — the shimmering edge of a doorway. Not open completely, just cracked at the frame. Enough for him to see the glow beyond the threshold.
“Hell,” he growled. Talk about bad timing. He was just beginning to have fun.
“We need to go,” Montrose yelled, running toward him. “She can only hold it open so long. We need to —”
Something exploded.
