He reached a point that was shallow enough that he could touch bottom with one boot, and that was when a mental voice entered his head, speaking with a strong accent.
Help us.
You speak telepathically? What the hell? He stared at the wolf in front of him, not surprised so much that the wolf could speak to him but that it chose to.
The wolf said, Beware. If you come to shore, we are bound by orders to attack you.
Quentin treaded water, thinking hard. It sounded sophisticated, like it really was a thinking individual. What are you?
We are Wyr too, the wolf said. Or we once were. Our alpha mated with Galya. When he was severely injured in battle, she caught his soul and tried to revive him. His body died, but he stayed bound to her. She has become obsessed with finding a way to resurrect him, and us. One by one we have given our lives to prolong hers, in the hopes that she will eventually find a way to bring us back. But she did not tell us that we would be bound to her will, and it has been so long.
She had prolonged her life through the sacrifice of theirs? Shock and revulsion froze him until he started to sink. He kicked up and treaded water again.
Resurrecting the dead was forbidden in every culture he knew, and he had always believed there was a strong reason for that. It bent an essential event in nature, and the results, or so he had heard, were invariably warped and tragic.
He said, Help me make sure I understand you properly. She’s looking for a way to resurrect you?
There is a thing mentioned in the very oldest of tales called the Phoenix Cauldron, the wolf whispered. It was said to have been so Powerful it could bring the dead to life. It was lost long ago when this land was barred from the rest of the world. She searches night and day for it. But I am so tired. Yet she won’t let me go.
She sacrificed Wyr to prolong her life and held their souls against their will. Rage followed closely on the heels of all his other emotions.
Aryal should have landed by now. It was more than past time to make a big noise and end this witch.
He swam closer to land.
As he neared, the wolf whispered, Some will not fight you with all of their strength, but don’t trust Pyotr, the alpha. He is as devoted to her as ever.
Understood. He stood to walk out of the water, and the other shadow whipped around. It stalked him across the sand.
The wolf that had been talking to him crouched and sprang. Quentin flung out his hand silently to throw the spell he had held ready. He put all the force he could into it.
::Dissipate::
The spell was meant to counteract dangerous magics, and it worked better than he could have hoped. It hit the attacking wolf in midair. The black shadow twisted as if it were in agony. Then with a snap and an outcry that rang in Quentin’s head, it vanished.
In the distance, out of sight at the top of the bluff, a woman screamed in shock and fury.
So he had gotten the witch’s attention.
Quentin ducked his chin down with a dark smile and strode onto the beach, and as the second shadow wolf raced toward him, he pulled his Power together and punched the air with another spell.
Like the other wolf, when the spell hit the shadow twisted and snapped into nothingness. He shook his head. Even though they had already been—mostly—dead, he still felt like he had killed them.
Then some sixth sense tickled at him. He looked at the path.
Ten shadows poured over the edge of the bluff. Then the last one appeared, and that shadow was the biggest and most Powerful of them all.
Yeah, those numbers didn’t look so good when Quentin had to throw each dissipation spell one at a time.
A woman appeared at the top of the bluff. Galya. The silver moonlight seemed to hollow out her eye sockets and turn her face to bone.
Come on, Aryal. Move your ass, sunshine.
The shadow pack reached the beach and hurtled toward him.
He gathered up his Power and prepared for battle.
TWENTY 
As the water pulled the sailboat away from Quentin’s dark, partly submerged form, Aryal nearly jumped overboard to swim after him.
It didn’t matter that everything he had said made sense, or that she had agreed with him. He was going to call all the attention to himself, and that meant he would take some damage. That also meant he was taking a serious risk, and she hated leaving him.
Hated it.
The current ran deep and fast as it swung her around the end of the island. She looked down the length of that side. Holy gods and fuck, water broke in white swirls of foam against broken rocks along the coast. There was no place to land the boat.
Then, because she was who she was, she looked up. The broken rocks rose up to a sheer cliff face.
And none of it should matter in the slightest.
She should be able to change into the harpy and fly over every inch of that cursed shore. She screamed out her outrage and pain, silently, hands clapped over her mouth.
Then she pulled her souvenir out of her hair and tied her arrows securely into their quiver. With it slung on her back along with her unstrung longbow, she flung herself out of the boat and tore through the water, swimming hard toward land.
The water helped by picking her up and flinging her against the rocks. She landed against one partially submerged boulder with a force that knocked the breath out of her, and she twisted and shapeshifted all in one desperate move, clawing at the granite to find some kind of hold before the treacherous, foaming maelstrom pulled her back out to sea.
Struggling to kneel on the slippery boulder, she lunged at the cliff face and clung to it, talons digging into the jagged, crumbling rock as she fought to catch her breath. Her entire right side had absorbed the impact. Bones were bruised, and they throbbed with a fiery pain. Tomorrow she would be black all over.
Face tilted up to her goal, she began to climb. If there wasn’t a fracture in the rock for her to slip her talons into, she made one, driving her hands and feet at the cliff to gouge out enough of a hollow to hold her weight. Climbing was grueling, exhausting work, and her aching wings hung heavily at her back like a ragged parachute, weighing her down.
She was halfway up the cliff when Power flared, and the witch screamed in the distance. Another time she might have savored the sound, but now fear gripped her. She wasn’t far enough up the cliff, wasn’t close enough to the battle. She redoubled her efforts, heart pounding when she felt Power flare again. She recognized Quentin’s signature.
Then Power flared with a different signature.
The witch had found him, and engaged.
Panic drove her through the rest of the climb, and she didn’t pause when she reached the top. Shapeshifting to be rid of her wings, she raced blindly along the edge of a massive, ancient stone building, around a corner and over what must have once been a manicured lawn but was now overgrown with weeds and neglect.
She found a path and took it, even as she reached over her shoulder for the unstrung longbow. A blast of light and Power flared ahead from the direction of the beach. It lit the ground ahead of her as if hell’s light poured out from a crack in the earth.
Precious seconds flew away as she stopped to brace the bow on one foot and strained to bend the strong, seasoned wood so that she could attach the bowstring. Then she hurtled along the path to the edge of a bluff and looked over a scene that could have been birthed from her worst nightmares.