In the distance, Big Ben chimed out the hour, its brutal chords filling up the dreadful quiet. Midnight. The hour I always drank my elixir, the hour I always lost myself.
And now, the last hour of my life.
A dark shadow loomed over me, blotting out a full moon sky. The voice was edged in hate, so snakelike that I couldn’t tell whether it was a woman or a man. “Time to die, Rowena Mortensen, and rid the world of your sick and twisted magic.”
My enemy raised an arm. A knife flashed in the dark. The dark vines twisted tighter, trapping me, caging me, holding me in place so that—
The knife swung down and sunk into my chest.
I woke up in bed with a scream.
I tossed and turned, my limbs twisted in the silky sheets. Even though Kipling had found some more blankets for me to pile onto the bed, the hardness of the mattress kept me from drifting off to sleep. Not that I really wanted to. Images of my nightmare kept flashing in my mind. Knives. Darkness. Horror and fear. Death felt as if it clawed at me from every corner of the room.
It had all felt so real.
Blowing out a hot breath, I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. A faint orange glow had begun to fill the sky. I’d find no more sleep, not now. Shivering, I hugged my arms to my chest and frowned down at the flimsy silk nightgown that did little to cover my skin, particularly my breasts. The shifters had found me some clothes: sweaters, jeans, socks, coats…and this skimpy little bedtime nightgown. It was a hell of a lot more revealing than anything I’d worn in the past, though I had to admit it was very soft and luxurious across my skin. Just as long as I piled a bunch of blankets on top of me to stay warm.
A thump-thump-thump echoed from somewhere outside of my window. My breath caught. And then came another thump, followed by a muffled groan. A few pebbles crumbled off the rock face from somewhere up above, some tumbling into my room through a small crack at the top of the window and others plunging further below, plopping into the rushing sea.
Clutching my throat, I stood and stared at the window, eyes wide. Fear churned in my veins as another set of rocks came tumbling down. Someone was out there. Crawling around on the roof over my head. Or some thing. And now it was right outside my window and coming close.
I bit back a scream at the rush of flapping wings and the blur of black feathers pounding against the weathered panes. And then the wings slowed. Stopped. A large black bird blinked at me through the window, and then it quickly flew away.
I loosed a tense breath and tugged at the ends of my silky gown, rolling my eyes at myself. What an idiot, I thought. It was just a freaking bird.
But then the thump-thump-thump sounded from the hall, and my blood went ice cold once again.
I padded to the open door and peered into the darkness, the hard stone floor cold against my bare feet.
Another thump. This time it sounded even closer, perhaps just around the bend up ahead…
Should I hide inside my room? Or should I investigate? Tell the others? If we had an intruder in the city, the others needed to know. One step. Two steps. Three steps into the hall. Another thump, this one so loud that I swore it shook the thick stone floor. Surely a bird couldn’t be making that sound.
Heavy footsteps sounded behind me, and I whirled with a scream in my throat. And came face-to-face with Jasper’s naked chest.
Because the very first thing I noticed was the fact he was topless. A pair of loose sweatpants hung low around his bare hips, the carved V of his chest dipping underneath the thin material. I swallowed hard and backed up, eyes caught on the way the shadows enhanced his towering form.
His golden eyes gleamed when he glanced down at my nightgown, and his jaw tensed. Not just his jaw. His entire body. And his eyes were hungry, drinking me in, dragging hungrily across my exposed skin, focusing hard on the swell of my cleavage. With a low growl, he pointed a finger at my open door. “Go back inside your room. I’ll investigate that noise.”
His voice was harsh. Animalistic. And it sent a thrill through my veins.
“I saw a bird,” I said.
His lips quirked, gaze still focused on the way the thin nightgown dipped low between my breasts. “Good for you. Now, go inside and lock your door.”
“No, I mean.” I took a deep breath, trying to form my rampant thoughts into words. “I heard the noise outside my window. A bunch of rocks fell, and then a bird appeared. I thought maybe it was related.”
“A bird wouldn’t make that kind of noise.” His face went grim. “You say some rocks started falling?”
“Yes.” My heart pulsed. “You don’t think it’s the hunters, do you?”
“If the hunters were here, we’d know. Kipling rigged an alarm system for us.” Jasper took my elbow in his strong calloused hand, and my skin buzzed from his touch. He tugged me along, steering me toward my room. “It’s probably best that you don’t see this, Ro.”
I frowned up at him. “See what?”
“This is one of those things that I can’t tell—”
The thump echoed down the hall. This time, it came from the direction of the open archway that led into the main lobby of the Scriptorium. I whirled toward the sound, heart lurching into my throat. And what I saw, it was terrible to behold.
Because what had dragged its way into the Scriptorium wasn’t a bird. Not even close. It was a gargoyle statue, its rocky face contorted into fear and pain. The statue’s skin—or whatever it was—rippled as it slowed to a stop like a mirage in the middle of the dessert. For an instant, I saw the vision of a living, breathing man. And his eyes…his eyes were nothing like stone. They were a brilliant black that pierced into my soul, full of life, full of fire, full of pain and agony and fear.
But then the statue rippled once more, and the black as night eyes shuttered back into gray. Silence echoed in the chilly expanse.
“Is that…is that a…?” I barely dared to whisper the words aloud.
“That’s Alaric.” Jasper’s voice was soft, strained. “He was the last one of us to permanently change six months ago, and he’s been perching on the roof of the Scriptorium. Kipling warned me that sometimes…that sometimes he can do this.”
I stared at the gargoyle. It was hard to believe that only moments ago he’d been shuffling his stone form across the floor. He was so silent and still. No life was reflected across his hardened features, and that piercing black of his eyes was now nothing more than silver rock.
“Does that mean it’s not permanent?” I whispered, feeling as if I didn’t want to speak too loud, just in case the stone man could hear me in his strange slumber.
“Kipling says that magic in this world works in balance. If there’s a way to do something, then there is always a way to undo it. But I think that might be bullshit. Blind optimism isn’t really my thing. Besides, some of these gargoyles have been stuck in their stone form for decades. There’s no way they’re coming back from that now.”
My mouth dropped open. “Decades? Are they…are they conscious in there? Do they know what’s going on?”
I couldn’t even begin to imagine. It sounded like hell on earth. Being trapped in a body that couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t touch, couldn’t sleep. All you could do was watch and wait and hope and pray to the goddess. Kipling had mentioned immortality before. Would these gargoyles spend eternity like this? Horror clenched my gut.
“I didn’t think so, but now I’m not so sure, Ro. If Alaric is still in there, then maybe the others are, too.” He squeezed his hands into tight fists, power radiating off his bare skin. “As much as I don’t want them all to be dead, I fucking hope they aren’t suffering like that.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said quietly. “For your losses.”
And for making you come back here. I remembered in the forest clearing, Jasper had said the city was the last place on earth he wanted to go. Now, I truly understood why.
He let out a weary sigh. “Thanks, Ro. Listen, do you mind giving me a minute? I’
m going to try to help Alaric. I can’t just leave him stuck in the archway like that, and…Maybe if I sit with him for awhile, he’ll be able to shift back long enough to tell me what he wants to say. Because he wouldn’t come down here off the roof unless there was a reason.”
“Okay,” I whispered, though there was nothing I wanted more than to stay and help him do whatever he needed to do for Alaric. He’d done so much to help me. I wanted to do the same for him. But he’d been clear. He wanted to be alone, and I had to respect that. So, I padded back into my room and eased the door shut, heart beating wildly in my chest. Because if all the shifters in the world were turning to permanent stone, how long would it be before one of my friends was next?
I had to hope that Kipling was right. I had to hope there was a way to reverse what had happened in this graveyard of a city. And stop it from happening ever again.
Chapter Twelve
The next week was full of more of the same. Every morning, I ate with the gargoyle shifters and Kipling. Silas always joined us, but he rarely said a word, and there was never any news about the fate of Dreadford Castle. A couple of hours after we ate, Jasper would put me through the best—and worst—workout of my life, never mentioning Alaric again. And then I’d fall into a heap on the armchair that Eli had brought to the Scriptorium, where he tried, unsuccessfully, to figure out what my powers were.
“So,” he said brightly when I shuffled in from yet another brutal dose of Jasper’s exercise routine, “where did we leave off?”
I eased into the armchair, gasping at the pure pain that radiated through every muscle in my body. Including muscles I’d never known I had.
“I think we’ve determined that I am not a shadow witch, a blood mage, a sun mage, or a bone mage. That, or I’m a terrible example of any of those, one who can’t call upon her powers.”
Eli tapped his pencil against his chin, flipping through a book I swore he’d read cover to cover at least five times already. “Well, you must be one of them. They’re the only four mage types in existence.”
“Have you ever considered that maybe I’m not the girl in that prophecy?” I asked with a shrug. “That maybe I just don’t have any powers at all?”
“No, that’s impossible.” He glanced up from his book and met my eyes. His were so different to the gleaming gold of Jasper’s. Eli’s eyes were a deep forest green, flecks of white dancing around his pupil, like the thoughts that were constantly darting around in his head. “You may not believe it, but you are powerful, Ro. I can see it in you. I’ve always been able to see it, even when you were lounging around in your sweats reading—”
He cut off, suddenly glancing away from me. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t like to think about how we used to watch over you day and night without your knowledge.”
“You’re right,” I said, frowning. “I don’t.”
Everything about my life at Dreadford Castle still felt raw, achingly raw. As the days chugged past, I swore I only felt worse, instead of better. It was as if a rug had been ripped out from under my feet, forcing me into a vat of boiling lava. The shock of it all had meant I didn’t truly feel the heat, not at first. And now I was burning.
“We were just trying to protect you,” he said after an agonizingly-long moment.
“I was a prisoner, and I didn’t even know it, Eli,” I whispered, voice scratching my throat. “How could you not see that was wrong?”
His face fell, and he let out a heavy sigh. “I should have, Ro. I really should have.”
I awoke with a muffled scream. My heart banged wildly in my chest, and my skin was soaked in sweat. Water had clogged my lungs in my dream. Knives had flashed. Blood had poured on the rain-slicked streets. The magic hunters had killed me. Again. And it had felt as real as the silk sheets I hugged around my body.
Morning light slanted in through the weathered windowpanes, and I padded over to the bench with the sheets pulled tight around me. I flung open the windows and breathed in the salty air, cool wind whipping around me. It cleared my head and filled my lungs with frost, anchoring me in the here and now where maniacal humans weren’t stabbing me.
Leaning out of my window, my eyes were caught by the small sliver of the city I could see from my vantage point, all the way to the right. It was a collection of tall, thin townhouses whose bricks had been haphazardly stacked oh so long ago. There were no front doors on the ground floor. Instead, each one boasted of a rooftop landing pad with a cellar-like door leading down into the house. I could just imagine parents returning home from work, tucking their brilliant wings into their backs. Children playing, learning how to fly. Indeed, there were several gargoyle statues dotting the roofs now, frozen in time, staring vacantly at the sea.
A hard lump formed in my throat, and my mind drifted back to the sight of Alaric’s flashing eyes. We’d made no progress in the last week. Not with me, and not with the fate of the shifters. In my spare time, I’d been doing my own research in the books Eli had lugged down from Silas’s tower and into the Scriptorium, but I hadn’t found a single clue as to why the shifters might be turning into permanent stone. Or any hint as to how to stop it from happening again.
And they were too focused on me to focus on themselves. So, I had to focus for them. Because my life might be in danger, but so was theirs.
At breakfast, everyone was quiet until Silas cast a sideways glance my way. “Have another nightmare, Rowena?”
He hadn’t taken to calling me Ro. In fact, I rarely saw him. He was the only one of the four of them who wasn’t invested in my training, which was why I found it so odd when he asked about my dreams. Every morning. Without fail.
“What do you think, Silas?” I said with a slight snap in my tone. Instantly, I felt terrible. With my constant lack of sleep, I was beyond weary and more than a little crabby.
“I take it that it was similar in nature.” Not a question. A statement.
“Same one.” I poked my fork against my eggs, not really hungry. “Clock strikes midnight. The crazy knife person stabs me in the chest. And somehow I know that he—or she—plans to dump my body in the river.”
“And you’re certain you can’t tell who it is?” he asked.
My fork clattered onto my plate. “Why does it matter, Silas? It’s just a dream.”
“Perhaps.” He pursed his lips. “Perhaps not.”
I opened my mouth to demand he explain what he meant, but we were interrupted by the sudden blare of a screeching alarm. It sounded like a horde of banshees had been let loose in the place. Grimacing, I slammed my hands over my ears and twisted toward Kipling, who had launched up from his chair with a speed and grace that surprised me.
He clicked his fingers once, and the alarm stopped.
“Silas,” he started to say, but the shifter was already halfway to the door, his ebony wings spreading wide. In a flash, he was gone.
“Okay, Rowena,” Kipling said, wrapping his soft hands around my shoulders. “We’re going to need you to go to your room and lock your door.” He glanced over my shoulder. “Eli can go with you.”
Gently, I pulled my arms out of his grip, shaking my head. I knew he was only trying to do what he felt was right, but—
“I’ve spent my entire life locked away. I’m not going to do it again now.”
His lined face looked weary. Oh, so weary. But strong. “If the witch hunters have somehow tracked you here, and if they somehow get inside, then—”
“I’ll stay hidden,” I said. “Just please don’t make me go lock myself up in my room. Anything but that, Kipling.”
His eyes flashed with something akin to understanding, with a kindness I’d rarely seen back at Dreadford Castle from anyone other than Tess. “Okay, Ro. No more locks and chains. But stay by Eli’s side. If he tells you to hide, hide. And if he needs to fly you out of here, let him.”
I nodded, the tight tension unknotting from my shoulders. Just for an instant. Before they tightened once again. Because if the witch hunters were
here…
Who among us would survive?
But, the new arrivals to the City of Wings were a different kind of terrible. They were ghosts from my past.
Only moments after he’d left, Silas strode very glumly back into the hall, his hands sunk deep into his pockets, his shoulders curved forward as if he held the weight of the world on his back. He jerked a thumb behind him and sighed. “Kipling, we’re going to have to get some more rooms ready.”
Marcus strode into the room, his back tall and straight, practically beaming compared to the gloom Silas carried around with him all the time. And behind him came a cluster of familiar faces. I took a step back, slamming into my chair. The entire room froze at the scrape of the legs on the stone floor.
It was the Queen, Tess, and a half a dozen other witches from the castle.
And every last one of them—save Tess—shot daggers at me with their eyes.
“What are they doing here?” I asked Marcus, though a strange pang of relief went through me. Tess was safe, and so were the others. No matter what they’d done to me all these years, it mattered to me that they were alive.
“It’s a long story.” Marcus’s face brightened as his silver-flecked eyes scanned the table. “Are we having breakfast? Fantastic. Kipling, can you rustle us up some more plates?”
Kipling let out a grunt. It was the first time I’d seen him anything less than warm toward anyone, even Silas during his grumpiest moments.
“I’ll go get the plates,” I said quickly, glad for the excuse to leave the tension-filled room for a moment to catch my breath. And let the reality of the situation sink in. The shadow witches were here. There were questions I needed to ask them. Answers I needed to know. Apologies I knew I would demand. But, I wasn’t ready for any of that. I was still coming to grips with what they’d done.
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