by A Corrin
I dried my face on my T-shirt sleeve and took a step forward. The clawing came again, more frantic. The whining picked up a more urgent tone. Was it a dog? Maybe someone had been hurt and it was searching for someone to go rescue them!
Using the light from the window, I stumbled forward. My hands hit the rough wood of the door. I placed my palm flat on its surface and slid it down, feeling for the knob. My fingers brushed cold metal. I wrapped my hand around it, and—
“No!” Peter was suddenly there. He threw his weight at the door, preventing me from opening it. I cringed back, frowning uncertainly at him. The thing on the other side of the door growled angrily and clawed more fiercely.
Peter rushed over to his pack and began to rummage through it, mouth moving desperately, forming soundless words. Maybe a prayer? I wondered if something like that would work in this desolate place.
“What is it?” I asked in a strangled whisper.
Peter found what he was looking for: a shiny silver ball about the size of a marble. He clenched it tightly in his fist and rejoined me at the door, saying in a hushed voice, “A poor, cursed creature.”
Outside, the clouds must have shifted, for a beam of moonlight filtered into our room, casting everything into better detail. I was hit by a revelation.
“It’s a werewolf,” I said, feeling a mixture of terror and pity.
“Yes,” Peter confirmed. “And I strongly believe that it is the bartender.”
I thought back to the man’s appearance. His sharp teeth, his luminous eyes. “What does he want?” I asked faintly.
Peter was rolling the silver ball around in his hands and said, “You can never tell. Maybe food…or something to sate the evil spirits and poison filling his veins.” The werewolf at that moment hurled himself at the door, snarling wildly, but the thick wood held even as the hinges creaked in protest. Kayle snorted where he lay and rolled over. “Or maybe,” Peter continued, undaunted, “he’s looking for love.”
“That’s sad,” I murmured, looking down at the floor. I thought of Nikki, and my heart went out to the lost and lonely werewolf.
“Yes, it is,” Peter agreed.
He kneeled and rolled the silver ball beneath the door; it made a low ringing sound as it moved. The wolf yelped, and we heard its heavy paw steps retreating down the hall. Whistling, Peter held his hand open on the ground. The ball rolled back inside and into his palm. He put it back in the pack, watching me.
“Werewolves have an aversion to silver,” he said.
I nodded. “I remember reading that.”
“He won’t recollect anything in the morning,” Peter said, and held his arm out. “Go to sleep, sonny…”
When I woke up the next morning, it was to white light glowing through the window, and with a sore back from the hard floor. Mariah’s blonde-brown hair was immensely tangled, and as soon as she sat up, she began combing her fingers through it, giving me a bleary smile. Peter winced and popped his back, going over to the pack and rummaging through it. Kayle was staring up at the ceiling, lost in his own thoughts.
Peter murmured, “I suggest we bring up that recipe to someone today. The one that came with the key. May as well see where it leads.”
I pulled the slip of paper out of my sweatpants pocket where I had transferred it and the key from my sweatshirt, and held it up to show I still had it. “Sounds good to me. The sooner we leave this place, the better.” Perhaps I could get some time to myself today, explore the swamp, get some of the answers I sought. If any place had valuable information about Rankers, it had to be this dive.
“Agreed,” Mariah chirped cheerfully, and went over to the window. A thin hook held it closed through a loop in the wall beside it. With a flick of the finger, she had unlatched it and pushed it open to a cloudy, pale fog that was settled low over the bog’s now busy cobbled streets.
“I want to fly again,” Mariah added softly, breathing in the semi-fresh air. I had to agree with her. Flying was something you didn’t forget easily.
Peter had pulled out a pouch of clinking coins and attached it to the belt of his suspenders. He tossed Mariah a black blouse and loose leggings, and then Kayle a gray sweatshirt and faded dark-blue pants. He gave me some pants and a long-sleeved striped tunic.
Mariah got dressed first, emerging from the bathroom looking modestly radiant. She gave her old clothes to Peter, who vowed to get our garments to a washer and have them cleaned.
Two sharp raps resounded on the door, followed by three more, making us all jump.
“Here he is,” Peter smiled. He opened the door to admit the second-in-command marine.
He looked completely different now than how he had looked yesterday in his MARPAT. He wore warm apparel, as we did: patchy trousers and a sweater. They made his vibrant light-brown eyes stand out. I heard him say, “We’re ready, sir,” before I shut myself in the bathroom to get dressed.
The clothes fit perfectly, to my gratification, and I re-entered the main room feeling fresh and ready.
Peter was asking the marine, “Are the rest of the men dressed casually?”
The marine grimaced and said, “Yes, sir, but the gladiators, Amazons, and knights feel vulnerable without their armor, and the samurai are completely offended at not having clothes befitting their culture. Is this really necessary?”
Peter put a hand on the younger guy’s shoulder and said, “Afraid so, Sergeant. We can’t walk around looking like a threat. We have to appear comfortable. Just like a band of traders on our way to a sell.”
I snorted, and all heads turned my way.
“Oh, good morning, Prince,” the marine greeted, bowing his head.
I dropped my folded, dirty clothes on our need-to-be-washed pile and said, “Hey, please just call me—”
But apparently the sergeant wasn’t too into first-name terms. He turned to Peter and asked, “Is he ready?” before I could get my name out.
I looked from him to Peter and back again. “Ready? For what?”
Mariah answered, “Remember our plan? We have to make you look like a soldier ’cause no one saw you come in as a human.”
And if there are any Rankers around I don’t want them to recognize me, I thought, breaking into a cold sweat at the very thought.
Everyone was watching me.
I shrugged. “Okay.”
Chapter Sixteen:
I Almost Get Stoned
Our big group of disguised warriors and griffin people tromped downstairs to the ground floor fifteen minutes later.
I felt and looked like a new person. The sergeant had ripped holes in the knees of my pants and frayed some areas along the hem of my shirt. Then he’d scruffed up my hair. I felt like one of the kids at school who spent evenings hunting or camping and were constantly going through clothes because of their rough-and-tumble lifestyle.
Peter had me tuck my coral necklace beneath the collar of my shirt, as it could arouse suspicions since I’d been wearing it as a griffin when we’d arrived. Also, one of the gladiators was taking a shift staying locked up in our room and making random noise so it would seem like a griffin was locked up inside.
Peter got the four of us a booth built into the wall. The squadron divvied themselves up and sat close by. I slid sideways onto the torn red cushioning of my side of the booth and folded my arms on the scratched wooden tabletop, facing Kayle. Kayle immediately plucked up a napkin from a small pile against the wall, unfolded it, and studied it curiously for stains (probably trying to decide whether or not to set it on fire).
It may sound completely bonkers to say so, but it was kind of cozy. We were situated in our own little boxy alcove. Facing each other over the table set with sheep’s-wool napkins and empty tin tankards, we were bathed in warm light from the fat, half-melted candle set on a wide tray attached to the ceiling by chains.
Mariah slipped delicately
in next to me, and Peter thumped himself beside Kayle, one leg sticking out from beneath the table.
A waiter with slicked-back hair and shadowy, baggy eyes traipsed over and passed out four menus. The menus were made of sheets of paper covered in scrawling, handwritten lime-green ink that seemed to sparkle and glitter and were fastened with a crude staple of dry twine. The script got harder and harder to read further on, as if the scribe’s hand had gotten tired. I read some of the dishes:
Swamp Rat, bathed in a blend of slime root mushroom and lichen spice (traded all the way from the Fortress of Iron Teeth)
Bowl of Leeches, cooked to a fine roast and set in a soup of swamp froth
Fish and Swamp Mussels (recommended only if you have a very, very strong digestive system)
“Are we positive about eating this stuff?” I asked uncertainly.
Mariah, scanning her own menu with something akin to placidity on her face, replied without looking up, “I’m sorry, but I don’t have the energy to grow up a huge meal for all of us; this swamp seems to drain my strength. And it would be too suspicious anyway, cleaning up after ourselves—there’d be some people bound to find out we were eating fresh, good food from somewhere. Leeks, tubers, a big juicy watermelon...” She dwindled off, gazing wistfully at the wall. I saw Kayle wipe some drool from his chin. Mariah shook herself and looked at me. “Plus, we don’t want to use up any of the trail vittles we do have, do we?”
“If it means not having to fight for my life with one of these appetizers!” I exclaimed, jabbing my finger at one of the dishes and reading, “‘Non-gutted pike with a side of either sour leeks or bullfrog.’ Does that sound good to you?”
Mariah suddenly seemed to have swallowed a ripe batch of grapes whole.
“I don’t know,” Kayle said. “A little tartar sauce, ketchup…” I gave him a glare. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.
The greasy waiter returned to take our orders, and the four of us decided on the only dish that sounded remotely normal: steak with a side of swamp escargot (I would not be eating that) and shredded and salted potatoes. When he had moved on, Peter leaned forward and murmured, “The plan is to split up and see if we can find what our little key opens—while we do that, we can question the civilians and see if they’ve had any news about Rankers or their allies.”
“What about the recipe?” Kayle asked, voicing what I had been about to ask myself.
“We’ll wait ’til the waiter returns,” Peter said, “and then we’ll ask him.” I studied Peter, wondering if he had actually purposefully chosen this inn because he knew we’d get information. Perhaps the old guy had more of a plan than I’d originally thought. It made me feel a bit safer, more confident in our mission.
Our food was soon brought out to us on round wooden platters; it was difficult to keep from making a mess, eating greasy, slightly bloody steak on a flat disk with no rim. Our silverware consisted of heavy, metal, crudely fashioned forks that jarred painfully against our teeth if we bit down too hard. But none of us were picky. The food was decent, and we immediately dug in with the air of a famished pride of lions.
Before the waiter could slink off to another table, Peter caught his elbow gently. The man whipped about, eyes fierce, looking like he expected a rebuke. But Peter reached out to me for the gross recipe. I gave it to him, and Peter said, “Young man, could you possibly cook this up for us?”
The waiter pinched the parchment in his long fingers and held it close to his eyes. He turned a shade lighter and spoke hesitantly in a high, self-important voice, “I do not think you wish to try this stew, sir. You must understand it is a sort of work in progress. Strange men visit us from distant areas and parts of the land, and they bring with them ideas and theories new to us. We always accept new foods and drink for a cost, of course, but this one is different. This latest invention was brought to us by an eerie fellow. It gives the eater adrenaline and energy, but its side effects include fury and brief insanity. Those who dare to test it become addicted to its seductive taste.” He looked around, as if checking for eavesdroppers, and his eyes fell briefly on the bartender where he hunched behind his bar scrubbing at a mug.
Lowering his voice, the waiter added, “The bartender hates it. When he drinks it, he becomes so fierce that he turns into…something else. And then no one can stop him.” I believed I knew what that something else was and buried my fears in a mouthful of shredded and buttered potato slices.
I remembered reading about werewolves. How they could be the size of an SUV. How their fangs sometimes grew so long that they curved into scissoring tusks. How they feared silver and holy items, and how it was the poison in their saliva that carried on their…disease.
The waiter left, and Peter handed back the recipe, eyes distant and mouth pursed thoughtfully.
“Why would the Rankers leave an actual recipe as a clue? What kind of a clue is that?” I asked, grinding my teeth against a chunk of gristle.
“Your guess is as good as mine. I’ll try and find out more,” Peter said ruefully. “But if it turns the bartender into a monster, then what do you think it does to Rankers that drink it?”
We all exchanged serious looks over our plates, and left the question unanswered.
When we had finished eating, we all split up and went outside to find a place, an object, anything with a keyhole matching our tiny key—specifically places of business like a locksmith or blacksmith where someone could have commissioned the unique little key or an antique shop that may have sold it.
I went left down the unkempt street, its stones rutted by wagon wheels, its potholes full of dirty rainwater. The shops on either side of the street were dark and worn. Nothing looked very appealing. I passed a bookstore. Vials and jugs of different colored liquids bubbled on a rickety table out front. A patron stood over them trying to follow instructions from a thick, important-looking book. Nervous sweat slicked his forehead, and a scrawny tabby cat sitting tranquilly at his heels said, “You had better rectify this calamity posthaste, my good friend, or you’ll be listening to me talk like this all day.”
Smiling to myself, I moved on, scouring a market, a locksmith’s, several other shops, and even peeking in the windows of a few dark houses, each new building bringing my hopes lower and lower. None of these places accommodated something that my key could unlock—or if they did, we would either need a warrant to enter or a few weeks’ worth of time to search everything. Then I came upon a carpentry shop.
It was the only friendly looking place I’d yet encountered. Mahogany tables with gracefully thin legs; chairs, soft from their recent shaving; and a wardrobe covered with images of flowers and trees all stood under the extended roof waiting to be bought. I was enticed forward by the skill, the craftsmanship that so many had forgotten in reality.
The door was open invitingly, and I stepped in. Furniture, wagon wheels, oxen yokes, a horse trough, a few baby cradles, and more were pegged up on walls or stacked on the floor, categorized by color and style. The objects became more beautiful, more intricately detailed, or painted brighter colors the deeper I delved into the quiet shop. Now I was surrounded by doors and chests. I ran my hand over the lid of one, tenderly feeling the specks of grain at its surface.
At the very end of the carpentry, pushed against the wall and surrounded by its own shavings, was a pale birch chest with a round gold lock keeping it closed. The keyhole was so promisingly tiny that I dropped to my knees almost in a trance, took out the key, and slid it in, jiggling it. But no, there was too much room.
I breathed out dejectedly, realizing I had been holding my breath. A cheery voice behind me made the hair stand on my neck, and I fell over on my backside.
“I ain’t seen a chest for that thar key since the one I made for the bartender over at ol’ Grub’s Haven Inn.” It was the carpenter himself.
He took in my heaped form on the floor, staring up at him wide-eyed,
and chuckled. “Pretty easily spooked for a”—he looked at my scruffy countenance—”blacksmith’s apprentice?”
I stood and brushed myself off. “Prin—Griff—Warrior,” I corrected myself just in time and met the man’s twinkling blue eyes with my own.
He was a tall, stocky guy with gray whiskers on his chin and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He stuck his hands in his pants pockets and briefly bowed his balding head. “Forgive me, then, young sir.”
We stood staring at the unfinished chest, and then I asked, “What did you mean? About the chest?”
“Ah, may I see yer key?” The carpenter held out one hand. I reluctantly gave it to him, and he leaned closer to me, pointing at the key’s teeth. They formed a heart shape.
“Hard ter make a key this way. The metal is difficult ter bend into a specific shape. I’d remember it anywhere.” The carpenter returned it to me, and his face was sad. “The bartender’s wife was killed by a werewolf. Then the beast turned on him… I made that chest as a wedding present to them. He keeps all of her belongings in it.”
Bingo.
“He came in not too long ago, real upset, and told me ter make a copy of the key belonging to ’is chest, for some reason. I’m assuming he gave the copy ter you?”
I nodded, wondering what could make a werewolf distraught. “Oh, yeah. We go way back, him and I. We’re friends.” Dial it back, I chided myself.
The carpenter scratched his receding hairline in confusion. “Well, why you want the key’s your business, but he had told me it was fer a fellow who’d be wearing a black cloak.”
Cold fear washed over me, sending my nerve endings trembling. The bartender was in league with the Rankers? I looked at the chest, frowning, trying to get my adrenaline-pumped brain to slow down and think up a course of action. My fingers clenched into fists.