He shook his head.
Rourke’s will to live was fading fast, and I surged to his side, sat, and shoved a braid of magic and spirit into him. Marcus cursed, then his warmth settled beside me.
“Damn it, be careful,” he growled.
I was faster this time, dropping through the layers of Rourke’s pain and tweaking my magic to resonate with his unique signature. The baetyl’s pattern drifted in and out of my awareness, and I altered my magic to harmonize with it when I could but didn’t let myself be distracted by chasing it.
When my magic clicked in perfect synchronization with Rourke, I saw him in my mind’s eye. He didn’t react, his inner self as frozen as his physical body. Gently, I wrapped him in love and admiration and thick layers of my spirit. We merged, and the weight of his body became my own.
I knew what to expect this time, but it made it no less disorienting. Or easier. I gathered my will and funneled it through my spirit and out to our limbs. Forcing our body to fold so we could walk on all fours took herculean effort. Our wings hung heavy and useless at our sides, trailing on the rock ground for four torturous steps before the baetyl’s song infiltrated my body. After that, each step grew easier. I still had to shove and strain to carry my unwieldy bulk, but the song urged me on.
Crossing into the baetyl felt like walking through a cleansing shower. I closed my eyes in bliss as magic bathed me from the inside out and the outside in. After decades of fighting, I relaxed and reveled in being alive. When I opened my eyes, I saw the warthog take flight, flapping lazily to a higher perch, folding and twisting the baetyl’s magic for the sheer joy of it.
I rolled onto my back and spread my wings on the tiny crystals, their sharp points a delightful massage against muscles and feathers long unused. My antlers scraped the crystals, making the quartz sing.
Something nudged me, a gentle but persistent prod, and I spiraled down into my—our—body. Blinking, I looked up into the bright eyes of Rourke’s spirit. His gratitude wrapped me like a soft blanket even as he used an antler to push me again. With a smile, I let go, and my spirit winged back to my human body.
“Mika?”
Who?
I squinted, the bright light hurting my eyes. Someone crouched over me. Marcus.
“I am Mika Stillwater,” I said, and the words felt right even if I wasn’t completely sure what they meant.
“You are a gargoyle healer and guardian.”
Right. My spirit and mind clicked into sync. I was in Marcus’s lap, cradled against his chest and arm. Safe, my heart whispered.
Seeing the empty tunnel where Rourke had stood minutes before made my heart swell with elation. I couldn’t wait to deliver the good news to Celeste. We’d done it: We’d saved her mate.
“How long?” I asked.
Marcus shook his head. “I don’t know. A little longer, I think.”
Longer? I’d tried to be faster, but it had been hard to remember my purpose over the call of the baetyl. If Rourke hadn’t nudged me from his body, I’d still be there.
Marcus studied my face, worry lines etching his forehead. He held me close enough that I could count the map of navy in his lapis lazuli eyes, but I looked away, not wanting him to see how much I didn’t want to move.
Pushing out of his arms took willpower I didn’t have to spare, and I selected the next weakest gargoyle—the rabbit-owl. Like Celeste, whose head and front legs were those of an eagle, his front legs and chest were all owl, and though his body was far more compact than the two previous gargoyles I’d inhabited, once I wrapped him in my spirit, it took just as much effort if not more to hop him into the baetyl. Despite my best intentions, I forgot about everything but the baetyl’s song and the glorious sensation of being home until the gargoyle raked his talons against my spirit and forced me back to my body.
Marcus was holding me when I opened my eyes to the bleak brown walls of the tunnel, and he assured me I was Mika Stillwater, gargoyle healer and guardian. I watched his lips move, heard the words vibrate against my eardrums, but he had to repeat himself several times before the sounds connected with my brain and made sense.
The citrine and smoky quartz badger with a seahorse head was next, then the onyx wolf. Following my magic into the gargoyles to find their weak spirits was easier when I started with my body right next to theirs, and if Marcus hadn’t been watching, I would have crawled to the gargoyles. Instead, I forced myself to stand and walk, though Marcus had to wrap an arm around my waist to keep me from falling. He didn’t comment on my fatigue or argue for me to slow down. The gargoyles were fading too fast for me to take a break. Or a nap.
I dearly wanted a nap—at least when I inhabited my own body. When I was in the baetyl, in those timeless moments before the gargoyles kicked me out of their bodies, I lived in their sublime bliss. There, I was rejuvenated. The baetyl, which had been a deadly, alluring source of power to me when I’d climbed into the heart and healed it, was sweet and comforting when I forgot I wasn’t a gargoyle. It made snapping back to my own body worse each time, the euphoric moments in the baetyl emphasizing my body’s growing misery. Sweat and time counteracted the greenthread’s numbing properties, and a multitude of injuries clamored with increasing fervor each time I settled back into my own skin.