Edging away from the corner, she turned to go. But a few barked words in the incomprehensible gargoyle language startled her, and she stumbled, dropping her bucket as a massive winged form bore down on her with murder in his eyes.
She only caught a glimpse of the unfamiliar gargoyle, just enough to see the gold jewelry on his horns. His claws were extended, his fangs bared, and there was nothing in his gaze that suggested he planned to stop and ask questions after a single bite. Her courage fled.
She turned to run, but her feet tangled in her skirts. The corridor floor rushed up to meet her, and she threw her hands out to break her fall just as the gargoyle’s shadow fell over her.
The impact never came.
A tremendous crash shook the stones around her as two massive bodies collided in midair. She rolled over to see Brandt grappling with the other gargoyle, both of them slamming into the wall with enough force to crack the ancient stones.
“Enough!” Brandt bellowed, but his opponent was beyond hearing. The gargoyle with gold-wrapped horns twisted in his grip, still trying to reach Idabel with desperate swipes of his claws. “Let her be!”
“It’s a goblin spy!”
“She’s human, you fool!” Brandt managed to get an arm around the other gargoyle’s throat, cutting off his air until he stopped struggling. “Look at her! Does she look like goblin cavalry to you?”
The younger gargoyle’s wild eyes focused on Idabel’s prone form. She could see the exact moment sanity returned to him, his expression shifting from murderous rage to bewildered horror.
“What—how—” He looked from her to Brandt and back again. “The scent—I almost killed her. What is she doing here? They’re going to take my wings.”
“We’ll sort it out.” Brandt’s voice was strained, and Idabel could see fresh blood seeping from the wounds on his leg. “Go to the masons. Get your shoulder tended before dawn breaks.”
The younger gargoyle nodded shakily and departed, casting one last confused look at Idabel before disappearing down the corridor.
Brandt turned to her, and she shrank back from the fury in his dark eyes. “You,” he growled, advancing on her with slow, predatory steps. “What in Tael-Nost have you done to yourself?”
She tried to scramble to her feet, but her legs felt like water. “I can explain—”
He cut her off. “Why you smell like a goblin war camp?” He reached down and hauled her upright, his grip firm but not painful. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Still trying to get bitten,” she admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I thought if I smelled like an enemy, someone would react without thinking.” Indeed, it seemed they had. Just her bad luck that Brandt was there to interfere.
“You thought—” He stared at her in disbelief, then shook his head sharply. “Never mind. We can’t discuss this here. There are moths, and half the Tower probably heard Rikard’s shouting.”
He scooped her up before she could protest, cradling her against his chest as he launched himself out of the gallery, beating his wings toward another tier. He inhaled deeply as though trying to calm himself, and she saw him wince as the war-bat smell hit his sensitive nostrils.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered against his shoulder. “I swear I wasn’t looking for you.”
He didn’t answer, but his arms tightened around her slightly.
His rooms were exactly as she remembered them—austere but comfortable, with heavy tapestries and furniture scaled for beings much larger than herself. He deposited her on the stonefloor near the fireplace and immediately limped away, putting distance between them as he lit a few candles.
In the better light, she could see the extent of his injuries. Deep gashes ran down his calf and across his ribs, still seeping blood. Fighting her would-be attacker had only made them worse.
“You’re hurt,” she said, taking a step toward him. “Can I take a look?”
He held up a hand to stop her. “Don’t. Not until you’ve washed that stench off yourself.” He gestured toward a basin and pitcher on a side table. “There’s soap. Use it. All of it if you have to.”
Idabel nodded and hurried to comply, scrubbing at her hands and face with the harsh lye soap until her skin felt raw. She couldn’t do much about her clothes, but at least the worst of the scent was gone from her exposed skin.
When she turned back to him, she found him sitting on the floor, leaning forward to examine the deep gouge in his calf. He winced as he tried to push the torn flesh back into place.
“Let me tend you,” she said, approaching him slowly. “I know some healing. Betje has been teaching me, and she’s the best.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding all over your floor.” She knelt beside him, ignoring his protests as she examined the gashes. They were deep but clean—like knife wounds rather than jagged tears. “I can stitch these closed. It will at least stop the bleeding.”
“With what needle?” he asked weakly.
