Cassian glowered at me, then Azriel. We both ignored him as I strode to the shadowsinger, unwrapping my hands as I went.
Thank you, I said down the bond.
You can make it up to me tonight.
I tried not to blush at the image Rhys sent into my head detailing precisely how I’d repay him, and slammed down my mental shields. On the other side of them, I could have sworn talon-tipped fingers trailed down the black adamant in a sensual, silent promise. I swallowed hard.
Azriel’s wings spread, dark reds and golds shining through in the bright sun, and he opened his arms to me. “The pine forest will be good—the one by the lake.”
“Why?”
“Because water is better to fall into than hard rock,” Cassian replied, crossing his arms.
My stomach clenched. But I let Azriel scoop me up, his scent of night-chilled mist and cedar wrapping around me as he flapped his wings once, stirring the dirt of the courtyard.
I caught Cassian’s narrowed gaze and grinned widely. “Good luck,” I said, and Azriel, Cauldron bless him, shot into the cloudless sky.
Neither of us missed Cassian’s barked, filthy curse, though we didn’t deign to comment.
Cassian was a general—the general of the Night Court.
Surely Nesta wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.
“I dropped Amren off at the House on my way in,” Azriel told me as we landed at the shore of a turquoise mountain lake flanked by pines and granite. “I told her to get to the training ring immediately.” A half smile. “After a few minutes, that is.”
I snorted and stretched my arms. “Poor Cassian.”
Azriel gave a huff of amusement. “Indeed.”
I shifted on my feet, small gray rocks along the shore skittering beneath my boots. “So …”
Azriel’s black hair seemed to gobble up the blinding sunlight. “In order to fly,” he said drily, “you’ll need wings.”
Right.
My face heated. I rolled and cracked my wrists. “It’s been a while since I summoned them.”
His piercing stare didn’t stray from my face, my posture. As immovable and steady as the granite this lake had been carved into. I might as well have been a flitting butterfly by comparison. “Do you need me to turn around?” He lifted a dark brow in emphasis.
I cringed. “No. But … it might take me a few tries.”
“We started our lesson early—we’ve got plenty of time.”
“I appreciate you making the effort to pretend that it wasn’t because I was desperate to avoid Cassian and Nesta’s early-morning bickering.”
“I’d never let my High Lady suffer through that.” He said it completely stone-faced.
I chuckled, rubbing at a sore spot on my shoulder. “Are you … ready to meet with Lucien this afternoon?”
Azriel angled his head. “Should I be preparing for it?”
“No. I just …” I shrugged. “When do you leave to gather information on the High Lords?”
“After I talk to him.” His eyes were shining—lit with amusement. As if he knew I was buying time.
I blew out a breath. “Right. Here we go.”
Touching that part of me, the part Tamlin had given me … Some vital piece of my heart recoiled. Even as something sharp and vicious in my gut preened at what I’d taken. All that I’d taken.
I shoved out the thoughts, focusing on those Illyrian wings. I’d summoned them that day in the Steppes from pure memory and fear. Creating them now … I let my mind slip into my recollections of Rhys’s wings, how they felt and moved and weighed …
“The frame needs to be a bit thicker,” Azriel offered as a weight began to drag at my back. “Strengthen the muscles leading to it.”
I obeyed, my magic listening in turn. He provided more feedback, where to add and where to ease up, where to smooth and where to toughen.
I was rasping for breath, sweat sliding down my spine, by the time he said, “Good.” He cleared his throat. “I know you’re not Illyrian, but … amongst their kind, it is considered … inappropriate to touch someone’s wings without permission. Especially females.”
Their kind. Not his.
It took me a moment to realize what he was asking. “Oh—oh. Go ahead.”
“I need to ascertain if they feel right.”
“Right.” I put my back to him, my muscles groaning as they worked to spread the wings. Everything—from my neck to my shoulders to my ribs to my spine to my ass—seemed to now control them, and was barking in protest at the weight and movement.
I’d only had them for a few seconds with Lucien in the Steppes—I hadn’t realized how heavy they were, how complex the muscles.
Azriel’s hands, for all their scarring, were featherlight as he grasped and touched certain areas, patting and tapping others. I gritted my teeth, the sensation like … like having the arch of my foot tickled and poked. But he made quick work of it, and I rolled my shoulders again as he stepped around me to murmur, “It’s—amazing. They’re the same as mine.”
“I think the magic did most of the work.”
A shake of the head. “You’re an artist—it was your attention to detail.”
I blushed a bit at the compliment, and braced my hands on my hips. “Well? Do we jump into the skies?”
“First lesson: don’t let them drag on the ground.”
I blinked. My wings were indeed resting on the rocks. “Why?”
“Illyrians think it’s lazy—a sign of weakness. And from a practical standpoint, the ground is full of things that could hurt your wings. Splinters, shards of rock … They can not only get stuck and lead to infection, but also impact the way the wing catches the wind. So keep them off the ground.”
Knife-sharp pain rippled down my back as I tried to lift them. I managed getting the left upright. The right just drooped like a loose sail.
“You need to strengthen your back muscles—and your thighs. And your arms. And core.”
“So everything, then.”
Again, that dry, quiet smile. “Why do you think Illyrians are so fit?”
“Why did no one warn me about this cocky side of yours?”
Azriel’s mouth twitched upward. “Both wings up.”
A quiet but unyielding demand.
I winced, contorting my body this way and that as I fought to get the right one to rise. No luck.
“Try spreading them, then tucking in, if you can’t lift it up like that.”
I obeyed, and hissed at the sharp pain along every muscle in my back as I flared the wings. Even the slightest breeze off the lake tickled and tugged, and I braced my feet apart on the rocky shore, seeking some semblance of balance—
“Now fold inward.”
I did, snapping them shut—the movement so fast that I toppled forward.
Azriel caught me before I could eat stone, gripping me tightly under the shoulder and hauling me up. “Building your core muscles will also help with the balance.”
“So, back to Cassian, then.”
A nod. “Tomorrow. Today, focus on lifting and folding, spreading and lifting.” Azriel’s wings gleamed with red and gold as the sun gilded them. “Like this.” He demonstrated, flaring his wings wide, tucking them in, flaring, angling, tucking them in. Over and over.
Sighing, I followed his movements, my back throbbing and aching. Perhaps flying lessons were a waste of time.
CHAPTER