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There are leather breastplates and metal breastplates and tightly fitted black bodices with leather straps for knives. There’s a dark cloak in an alcove beside another with an emerald green dress.

“How did you know this was here?” I ask and take a tentative step inside.

“Faos told me.”

“The commander of the flock? What else did he say?”

The Tinman steps around me to examine the options. “The Wizard took command of the flock with the mask and I imagine Faos has been ordered not to speak to us. He said nothing more.”

I grit my teeth and inhale through my nose. What right does Rook have to keep answers from me? To bar me from the truth? I want to know all of it. Why he did what he did, what he might know, and more importantly, what he plans to do now.

And even as my gut aches with the phantom pain of a blade being jabbed into it, it’s equally thrilled by the thought of seeing Rook again.

I try to quash that feeling with rationale and logic and reason.

Maybe the question I should be asking myself is what the hell is wrong with me?

He betrayed me once. He will betray me again if I give him the chance.

“This one will probably give you the best protection.” The Tinman points at the black leather breastplate. “The leather is thick, but it’ll have some give should you need to fight.”

Fight? I’m in over my head.

“And the claws of flying monkeys will easily shred metal. Leather will hold up better.”

“Great.”

He turns back to me and some of the light spilling from the alcove limns him in faint gold. For a second, his expression softens, but just as quickly, it’s gone again and his sharpness returns. “This was your idea.”

“Yes. And I’m already regretting it. Especially when you say words like shred and fight.”

“The fighting will be the easy part.”

“What will be the hard part then?”

He breathes out through his nose, then turns and walks away without answering.

THREERook

The water is running red into the copper sink.

Steam billows up around me, clouding the gilded mirror with condensation, blurring my reflection.

How much blood could one girl possibly bleed?

I grab the soft-bristle brush from the tray behind the sink and scrub at my nails until my fingertips turn angry.

But the stains won’t budge.

I rest my forearms on the edge of the marble top and bow my head.

A low rumble sounds behind me.

Turning, I make eye contact with the massive lion crouched in the corner of my private bath.

Gabriel is still mad at me. He won’t turn back into his human form. Or maybe he doesn’t want to.

For as long as he’s been cursed, he’s turned into a lion when he’s afraid.