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Truly sucked in a rasped breath.
Westvane — lying prone, face up, limbs thrown wide. Battered black feathers lay like corpses around his body, as though each had been ripped out by the root from his wings.
“Westvane!”
Her shout echoed across the cave.
He didn’t move.
“Damn it.” Gritting her teeth, she climbed between two rocks, making her way toward him. “Westvane!”
No movement. Zero reaction. Not even a twitch.
Rounding a stalagmite, she slid through a crevice. Halfway through the narrow opening, she reached out and grabbed the toe of his boot. Wedged in the gap, she shook his foot. Still no reaction. With a curse, she wiggled between the jagged stones — boot soles slipping on fallen feathers — to reach his side.
She dropped to her knees beside him.
Dead. Was he dead? Was she too late?
Fear clogging her throat, she reached out and placed her palm on the wall of his chest. No up and down movement. She checked his pulse. Nothing there either. With a curse, she stacked her hands and pressed down on his chest. Once. Twice. A third time, over and over… again and again. A sob escaped as she continued giving him CPR. Trying to revive him. Praying she could get his heart started and Westvane breathing again.
33
TAKE A DEEP BREATH AND HOLD IT
Someone was pounding on his chest. Fists rained down. Forceful. Steady. The rhythmic beat pressed down over his heart. Odd mutterings followed each compression, strange accompaniment to the hard hammering. Westvane’s first thought — annoying. His second — no one touched him without permission. And he never extended the invitation.
Whoever owned those fists was going to die.
The muted utterances came again.
“One, two, three, four, five. If you wake up, I’m going to kill you,” the voice said. “One, two, three, four, five.”
More hard compressions against his sternum.
Floating inside his own mind, Westvane reached for focus. His brain glitched, flickering in warning. He tried again. Clarity flashed bright, then faded, leaving him drifting in soupy mental fog. He urged his body to move. Nothing. His muscles felt frozen. Even his fingertips refused to twitch.
His heart turned over in his chest as frustration collided with alarm. Not good. He needed to move. To get out from under whatever held him down in order to get mobile. Staying stationary wasn’t an option. His enemies would find him. The queen would —
The voice muttered, tone rising as the pressure increased on his chest.
Searching for a lifeline, Westvane grabbed hold. To the feel. To the sound. To the pain as someone struck him over and over, dragging him up to the surface of his own mind. Synapses firing, he clung to the voice, using the sharp tone to break free of the cerebral undertow.
“Goddamn it, Westvane. Wake up! One, two, three, four, five. You’re supposed to be my guide over here. How am I going to save Montrose, avoid the stupid queen, or find Brim inside the House of Scholars if you’re both dead? One, two, three, four, five. Tell me that much, you stupid jerk. Come on, tell me. How, huh?”
A pointy elbow jabbed him in the ribs.
“And let’s not forget about the Wendigo. It’s still out there. He’s probably eaten half of Philadelphia by now, and where am I? Here, at the bottom of a well, trying to save you.” A huff. Sounded like disgust. A sob hitched to an inhale. Sounded like panic. “One, two, three, four, five. Get up! I need you to get up. I’m not doing this, saving… I don’t know… the world, you and whoever else… all by myself.”
Palms slapped against him.
The sharp sound tunneled into his head.
A jolt rammed through his veins. The zap electrified his muscles. His fingers twitched. Westvane exploded into awareness. He sat up and, lightening quick, caught the hand swinging toward him. “Stop hitting me.”
“Westvane?”
He blinked away the remanence of haze. “What are you doing?”
