I’d never heard or read anything remotely like this, but just because I’d never heard of it didn’t make it impossible.

“The statues are a warning. They mean ‘This is a city protected by lamassu.’ The human heads to show that they are both human and beast, and the five legs to show that they are not always what they appear. We have known of lamassu for a long time and we stay clear of them. Not all lamassu are evil, but those who choose to eat human flesh are.”

If he was right, then any of the packs in the castle could be lamassu. “So how can you tell if a shapeshifter is a lamassu?”

Atsany shrugged. “Feed it human meat,” the shepherd translated.

Duh. Ask a dumb question . . . “Is there any other way?”

“No.”

“Do they have any kind of weakness? Anything special?”

Astamur sighed. “He says they don’t like silver.”

I must’ve looked desperate, because Atsany came over and petted my hand. It will be alright.

I sighed. “Can I have more wine?”

* * *

The sky turned dark. I lay on the blanket watching the stars sparkling like diamonds. The moon shone bright, spilling veils of ethereal light onto the mountains. Maybe it was my imagination, but the night seemed brighter here. Perhaps the mountains brought us closer to the moon.

A soothing calm came over me. The castle and the strain of being there had worn me down, and right now I couldn’t care less about Curran, Hugh, or Roland. The pressurized walls that had ground on me while I was there fell away. I just wanted to stay here, lie on my blanket, and be free.

Maybe if I was extra lucky, Hugh and Curran would elope together and take Lorelei with them while I was gone.

I would probably go back in the morning. But right now I just didn’t want to, and the thought of running away tasted so sweet, I was afraid to turn it over in my mind. I could disappear into these mountains and live a simple life: hunt, fish, grow fruit trees, and not have to worry about anything.

Atsany told us great stories of his people, of fighting giants and dragons, of great heroes—narty—and winged horses. Astamur translated quietly, sitting propped against a pillow.

“. . . the great Giant-adau saw the strange herd of horses in his pasture. He crossed his huge arms and bellowed. ‘Whose horses are these? They look like the narty’s horses, but the narty wouldn’t dare—’”

Astamur fell silent. Atsany blinked and poked the shepherd’s boot with his pipe. I leaned over. Astamur was staring at the mountain, his jaw slack.

I turned.