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23
THE STEPPING STONES
Truly had never been a kidder. The few who knew her well would never make the mistake of thinking so, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t right. Westvane needed flying lessons as soon as humanly (or rather,Azlandianly) possible.
The ability to fly would’ve been a game-changer. Made life so much easier. Hers — without a doubt — but, for all his physical prowess, Westvane’s too. Free-climbing huge red rocks wasn’t her idea of fun. The scrape and claw against her sore fingers sucked. Which naturally led to unkind thoughts. Murderous thoughts. Lob-a-grenade-at-the-big-bad-Slayer thoughts.
Truly clenched her teeth. If only she had one…
And knew how to throw it.
Digging her toes into a crevice, she searched for her next handhold. Small bits of debris tumbled down the cliff face, clouding the air with dust. Her nose twitched. Hanging on for dear life, battling the need to sneeze, Truly glared at Westvane. Not that it did her any good. Her grievance continued to be lost on him. He was well ahead, a black splotch above her, scaling each boulder with cat-like efficiency. Annoying. Frustrating. Admirable, if she forgot for a moment she wanted to kill him.
She scowled at the backs of his wings.
The plumage was a little worse for wear.
Even from a distance, she saw where the fire singed him. The feathers on his left wing looked sparser than on his right. Thinned out, balding in patches, some plumes bent at odd angles. He’d been shedding ravaged feathers all day. She’d watch each one fall. Studied the hole opening up in the middle of his wing. Jogged over the remains on the trail all day as she struggled to keep up.
He’d been burned badly inside Montrose & Brim while trying to shield her. The realization made guilt rise. She shouldn’t be angry at him. The current circumstances weren’t his fault. He was doing his best. His job. Leading where she couldn’t.
Truly wanted to let the thought raise her spirits. In truth, she’d been trying to stay positive all day, using it to battle the worry and cage her anxiety, but honestly? After hours of climbing, so late in the day? She only had two options left — give in to despair or channel the fury.
Tears weren’t her style.
Anger, however, was another story.
She excelled at shaping it. Living inside the Foster Care system had taught her a thing or two. She’d learned early, and often, turning anger into a friend. She knew how to mold her temper and the safest places to direct it. Right now, she needed rage to fuel her climb, and fair or not, Westvane made for an excellent target.
Still, she was glad he healed fast. Even in the gathering gloom, she watched the skin covering his wings shift from black char to pink healthy glow. New feathers pushed through the repaired flesh, growing over the bare spots. The plumage so glossy, the inky shimmer mesmerized her. The fascination lasted a second before he disappeared over the next rock, and she slid back into uncharitable thoughts. No one (inhuman or not) should be able to climb like him — rhythm steady, handholds swift and sure. It made her question everything. Like why in the hell she scrambled in his wake, struggling to keep up. Keeping pace with him was an impossibility.
With a grunt, she heaved herself upward anyway. Her foot slipped. She grappled, clinging to the rock face with two hands and one foot to keep from falling. It wasn’t too far down. Maybe fifteen feet, twenty if she wanted to be generous. Not enough to injure her if she landed right, but…
“Suck it up,” she gritted. “Keep moving.”
No way would she give up now. She needed to go up not down. And if she fell, she’d be right back where she started. At the base of the boulder she needed to summit, instead of closing in on the top.
“Climb faster, Triple.”
“Shut up, Rosy.” Breathing hard, she glared at the gargoyle. Another place to direct her anger. He was irritating the hell out of her. Like Westvane, he scaled the tall boulders with relative ease. Using his claws, he scampered along the rock face. Although, unlike Westvane, he kept pace with her. Always a little in the lead. Always off to her right.
“Want a piggy-back ride?”
“Touch me, and I’ll kill you.”
“You get your magic back online, you could fry me from all the way over there.”
“Something to look forward to,” she huffed, reaching for the next handhold, trying to pretend she wasn’t intrigued. Though, it was irritating. Imparting important information while she clung to the side of a cliff (and lacked the energy to ask questions) wasn’t fair. “If I wasn’t afraid of falling, I’d hurt you the old-fashioned way and plant my fist in your face.”
His whiskers twitched.
Truly read the amusement in his eyes. Hers narrowed on him.
He shook his head. “Hurry up. We’re falling behind.”
“I know.” Resuming the climb, she fought her way closer to the top. “Westvane’s too fast. He’s so far ahead, I’ll never catch up.”
“Part of the plan,” Montrose said, his gaze in constant motion, scanning the towering stones on either side of them. “He’s scouting. Charting a course through the rock field. Ensuring the Hyraxes don’t flank us.”
