That’s not a controlled descent...
Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
Altair banked hard, scattering a handful of witches as he flipped up and over before pulling his wings in tight and letting gravity take over. He plunged from the sky after Christine as her limp body fell.
He watched, seeing her twist as she was buffeted by the winds, and his big yellow eyes went wide as he saw the huge wound to her side. How the hell had that happened without someone noticing?
She was falling fast, but Altair was faster. Still, he wasn’t sure it was going to be fast enough.
Calling to his powers, using energy he’d hoped to conserve for the flight home, winds swirled around him and he sped forward, propelled by the air. As he closed on her, he reached out, steadying her flight, slowing her fall. His body was dangerously weakened, low on energy and reserves, but none of that mattered now. All he was concerned with was catching Christine.
He slid underneath the falling body with precision and spread his wings. She dropped onto his broad back, lying there limply between several spikes. Craning his neck, he watched her, ensuring she stayed put as his wings beat hard.
They had come within several hundred feet of the ground, but she was safe now. He gained altitude and speed, working to reunite with the rest of the group.
Inside, he tried to ignore the feeling of relief. He had simply been doing his job, he told himself, saving one of the team. Nothing more. It wasn’t personal. There was nothing personal between them.
That’s what he tried to tell himself at least.
HE TOUCHED DOWN BACK at Winterspell, the last to arrive. Other witches were pouring out of the castle-like building by this point. Some of them rushed to his side, leaping upon his back when they noticed his cargo.
“How is she?” he asked. “Is she going to be okay? Will she survive?”
There was no response. His long neck turned, and he watched as they cast spells on her, the greenish energy covering her mangled side in a soft glowing patch.
“Well?” he asked impatiently. He needed to know. Now.
“She will live,” one of them said, looking up at him. “She’s in bad shape, but she’ll be okay by morning. She’ll need to sleep until then though.”
He nodded and sagged in relief. The pair of witches jumped off his back as shouts went up the line, rushing to the next victim.
“Wait, where do I take her?” he called, but they ignored him.
All around him, he could see witches streaming to the walls. In the background, lights were flashing as Winterspell came to life. Altair understood then. They were preparing for attack.
Lord Berith and his army of demon creatures from the Abyss could attack at any moment. The walls were manned and as he watched, a powerful light emerged from the very top of the main building. His keen eyes picked out a hooded woman standing on the very highest tower. The light was coming from her hand.
It rose up and spread out, descending over all of Winterspell, a shimmering shield barrier.
Altair swallowed and reminded himself never to cross Circe. A woman with that sort of power was to be respected. Lots and lots of respect.
Back in his human form, he knelt beside Christine. She looked peaceful now, while her side glowed under the magical bandage.
Ignoring the onlookers, those staring at his nudity—there had been no time to take off his clothes and stow them safely during the retreat—Altair scooped her up into his arms.
Her room was likely empty. But so was most of Winterspell. Its witches were on the walls, prepared to fight back any assault. If he took her to her quarters, she would wake up alone. Unsure of everything. After her performance today, she didn’t deserve that.
Knowing what he had to do, Altair turned and headed toward the smaller of Winterspell’s main buildings. The one that housed the dragons. To his room. She could sleep better there, quieter, without being disturbed.
He walked slowly, not wanting to jostle her in her sleep. Others watched him go but he ignored them. They could say what they wanted, but damn them all. He wasn’t doing this for him; he was doing it for her.
Reaching his room, he lay her on the bed, folding the covers over her to ensure she stayed warm. Despite all the movement, she never stirred, the magic keeping her fast asleep.
Altair watched her for a moment, knowing that he was glad she was okay, and yet not wanting to explore what that meant. Not now.
Reaching into his drawer, he drew out a pair of pants, sliding them on. Then he dragged a chair and put it between the bed and the door. He sat down, and seconds later his eyes closed as he passed out, his foot against the door.
If someone came for her, they would have to go through him first.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Christine
SHE AWOKE SLOWLY, FIGHTING her way to full wakefulness against something that insisted on lulling her back to sleep.
Christine was known for being a little stubborn sometimes, however, and she thrashed the notion aside. If she wanted to get up, then she would get up, and nothing was going to stop her.
Her eyes flickered open, revealing an unfamiliar pattern of stones in the ceiling, and a layout to the room that wasn’t hers. Wherever she was, she wasn’t in her quarters, but somewhere else.
A memory of her injury returned, and she pulled back the covers that had been folded over her to inspect the wound. Her robe had been sliced free around the area, as had her shirt underneath. All that was there now was bright pink freshly healed skin.
She sagged back into the bed. Somehow, she must have kept it together enough to
