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Despite his political leanings, Priestly might be amenable to a changing of the guard. An ally in the fight for equality in Azlandia, instead of standing in opposition to change. If his intel proved true, Priestly could be the lynchpin — the inside man Westvane needed to dismantle the systemic discrimination plaguing his world.
A long shot, all things considered. A dangerous game that would no doubt end in his death, but…
Worth a try to set things right.
And Truly had ruined his chance.
Carrying her like a wounded soldier, he adjusted his grip, bouncing her into a more comfortable position. Stubborn Door Master. Total pain in his ass. Truly needed to start trusting him — and stop insinuating he was an idiot. He knew what he was doing. At least, he had five minutes ago — goading Priestly, manipulating with skill, angling for an eventual discussion. Now, however, half a mile inside Weeping Hollow, he wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Other than the fact he shouldn’t be here.
No matter what Truly thought, the forest wasn’t safe.
Crooked and angry, trees creaked as he strode past, branches bobbing, gnarled fingers reaching out to touch their neighbors. One limb swayed into the next, delivering a message, spreading the news intruders travelled inside hallowed terrain.Interlopers, giant pines whispered.Unwelcome, ancient sequoias and bent beeches replied.
Heaving with magic, humid air slithered against his skin.
Fine hairs on the back of his neck rose.
Westvane scanned the shadows, hunting for monsters in the dark. He felt the eyes. Knew something unholy hid inside the gloom, watching, waiting, ready to pounce as he moved between enormous trunks and jumped over downed logs. Montrose kept pace, running to his right, tension radiating like sweat from his pores.
He should not be here.
Wrapping his arm around the backs of Truly’s legs, he conjured a sword. Black flames bit along the blade, flickering blue, spinning to gray. The pool of illumination ate through shadow. The iridescent glow of eyes gleamed in the sword-light.
Surrounded. He wassurroundedand…
Westvane realized his mistake.
His sword made him a target. Firelight from the blade, a perceived show of aggression. Something the creatures hidden in the dark wouldn’t view as a peace offering.
Montrose hissed. “Westvane, put that ou —”
He snuffed the flame. The sword dissolved in his hand, leaving him weaponless, vulnerable as snarls rumbled through the quiet.
Air thickened.
The trees around him lashed out. Thick branches curled around his ankles, then whipped him off his feet. He lost his hold on Truly. Hanging upside down, he cursed as she fell. Eyes still closed, arms and legs akimbo, she hit the ground. The thump reverberated. She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Instead, she tumbled over rough ground, leaving him swinging upside down, unable to help as he watched her disappear over the edge of moss-covered rocks.
* * *
Truly surfacedlike a submarine through water. Slowly, looking through acute amounts of wavy blur. She blinked, battling mental fog, wondering at the strange pendulum motion. She kept swinging forward and coasting back, swaying in time to what sounded like footsteps.
Narrowing her view, she reached for focus. More information arrived, giving her bits and pieces of a jagged puzzle. Her body ached. Her palms and fingertips burned. Pressure beat against her temples, making her realize her hair swung loose, something rough pulling at the wet strands, tugging at her scalp.
Swallowing past a bad case of dry mouth, she fought to clear her vision. Flashes of detail pierced through the haze. Odd-shaped shadows. The rough texture of tree bark. Dead leaves below her, leafy green ones in full foliage above her, the visual scatter lit by an odd light. The moon, maybe? She frowned. No, not moon-glow. The luminescence was too yellow, ochre blended with buttery hues, not white or pale enough to be coming from the sky.
The strange swaying continued.
Battling to get her bearings, she concentrated on the motion and took another round of inventory. Body sore. Mind woolly. Exhaustion beating down her door. It felt as though she’d tucked into a bottle of tequila. The good stuff. Which didn’t make sense. Last thing she remembered, she —
She jolted as details came flooding back.
“Shit.”
More croak than coherent sound, the utterance garnered attention. Pressure tightened around her ankles. A lifting motion jacked her upright, making her realized she hung upside down and —
Something grunted at her.
A second later, she saw what held her — a one-eyed monster, made entirely of tree bark. Though,one-eyedmight be inaccurate. The creature didn’t have an eye, exactly. More like a round hole in the center of what she assumed was its face, the aperture aglow with yellow light.
