by A Corrin
Now we had to fight tooth and claw. We locked together like feral beasts, pain so frequent it was like a third being hovering around us. For some time, we fought and struggled, the sky outside melding into the off-white that was the color of the average sunny swamp sky.
I took a blow to the throat and gagged, trying to find air with mounting terror. Finally, I was able to breathe, but that had been a close one. I could so easily turn and run…or fly, but then not only would I be leaving behind my new friends but also my new responsibility as the prince that everyone said I was—the duty handed down from griffin child to griffin child to try and end the war with the Rankers and save the world. If I turned tail now, countless millions would die. Tyson, Father, Nikki… With my girlfriend’s name came a burst of energy.
I waited for the gargoyle’s next monologue. This time, there came two sentences at the same time. But one was louder than the other. I thought it sounded like he said, “Can he understand me?” in a hushed and scared voice, and then, “The neck!” in a tone that echoed with finality.
He reached out with his hand, preparing to crush my jugular, but I ducked and pounced into his knees—just like when I tackled someone in football when I was playing defense.
With a breathtaking flash, the sun appeared for the first time since I’d arrived through the thick clouds covering the bog. Its beautiful golden touch reached in the tavern doorway and threw dazzlingly bright colors and shapes through the stained-glass windows.
Peter squinted his eyes at the light, but Kayle, no longer on fire, smiled full-on into the glow, his maroon irises turned a honey red.
I had pushed the gargoyle into the light from the doorway, and he flinched as if bitten. “Nooooooo!” he bellowed, as if trying to fight back some mighty, progressing foe. I was waiting for him to move away into the shadows, but then realized that he couldn’t—his feet were frozen to the floor. Actually, not exactly frozen but turned into inanimate granite.
Little by little, the Ranker became rigid, first his legs, then his torso, then his arms. He twisted his head to me, glaring with his red eyes. “Garrett…will…” He struggled to finish his last sentence, but his eyes glazed over and turned into slits of black obsidian, his mouth open in an eternal roar.
I shivered. Even though he had become a statue, I could still feel a sort of evil emanating from him—an immortal anger and spite.
With the sound of a small mountain crumbling, the Ranker broke up into a pile of rubble, dust ejecting up in a cloud turned gold in the sunlight.
And that was how I killed my first Ranker.
Chapter Twenty-Four:
Meanwhile, Back in Reality
At Jonathan’s House
Ethan He’klarr hadn’t shaved in days. The clothes he wore were wrinkled, his baggy eyes dry.
Jonathan’s father had come to accept that his son was dead. But he knew that if his mind lingered on that thought, he would go crazy with guilt and remorse, and some sore part of him would surge up and force him to keep fighting.
He didn’t want to fight; he was sick and tired of hope—and he was drained of faith.
On the news, signs of terror and possible war made common headlines. His son’s friends had survived that truck crashing into the hospital because of the heroics of a nice, strange young man. But so many others had died. And that was just the beginning. There were minor bombings all over Europe, and no one knew who was causing them. South America was suffering floods and storms. Africa, droughts. The US was wracked with crime.
Ethan welcomed the trouble. Anything to ease his suffering—or end it. Some small part of him could not help but believe that all of this was his fault. He had spent his whole life pushing Jonathan away. Maybe, if he’d been there, if he’d been more involved, if he’d had more conversations with his son, then he would’ve learned something about his life and the people he was interacting with; something that he could’ve told the police that would have helped them to track him down or find his attacker.
Ethan grimaced, thinking of the blood the police had found at the scene, and the last time he’d seen Jonathan, when he’d hit him across the face. He lifted one hand and rested it across his eyes as if to keep the tears in. What was left? What did he have to live for? He had lost the last, most precious thing in his life.
It was then, when his mind nibbled bitterly on that thought, that a vanilla-scented perfume slipped beneath his nose, and he closed his eyes, resting his head back against his chair.
Esther…
His wife’s voice seemed to sound by his ear, but when he turned his head, Esther wasn’t there. Maybe he was going mad. Maybe he was dreaming. But Ethan forced himself to relax and listened.
His wife’s voice came again. “Darling…our son is safe and well.”
Ethan’s heart raced. “But, where is he? Has he left because of me?”
Esther’s gentle tone carried a ring of sympathy. “He is not far, love. You will see him again. Have faith. Be strong, be patient, and wait...”
And then her voice and the scent of her perfume were gone. Ethan sighed longingly—sinking back into his vegetative state. But he felt, with some amusement, an indescribable feeling of hope blossom in his heart. He may have exhausted all of his limited resources in attempting to find his son, he may have done all that he could for the time being, but this was by no means the end.
At Tyson’s House
Tyson’s bedroom had been turned into a mini-hospital. He was getting better, day by day—could achieve a great speed on his wheelchair and could breathe without obstruction. His IV was no longer needed, only bed rest, fluids, and food he could keep down.
Posters of snowboarders, skateboarders, and some of his favorite movies were plastered all over the place haphazardly. A partially empty bookcase, his bed, a nightstand with a lamp, and a closet full of clothes, snowboard, and miscellaneous collectibles were normally the only other things showing that his bedroom was actually dwelled in. But today, six people sat in chairs brought in from the kitchen around his bed, wide awake despite the fact that it was almost four in the morning.
Vince was twiddling his thumbs—a new nervous habit—and tapping his shoes. Lia was slowly caressing Tyson’s hand with her own. Ben and Kitty were close together, Kitty staring up at the light, Ben looking hard at the boy Nikki was sitting beside.
There was something so weird about the new kid. His voice, looks, habits, the way he moved even. It was almost…royal…as if he were a duke. He wasn’t mean, but he was also too nice and polite. It made Ben sick.
“This is Donovan,” Nikki said to Ben and Kitty, touching Donovan’s arm. “He just came from England last week and was in the hospital to visit his grandmother. He saved my life.” She smiled at her hero gently. There were mumbles of gratitude, and Donovan dipped his head, his eyes briefly veiled.
Ben was very good at reading people and interrogating them without their knowledge. Not a person on the planet could avoid answering a question he asked. In an indifferent tone of voice, Ben queried, “How is she? Your grandmother?”
Donovan’s head slowly tilted toward him. He blinked. “She has passed. The explosion obliterated her room.” He looked minimally sad, turning down one corner of his mouth and averting his gaze.
Vince understood what was happening and watched the spectacle without trying to seem too wary. When they’d first met, back before Ben had honed his skill, Ben’s probing questions had earned him a punch in the jaw from Vince before Jonathan had explained that he was just trying to be friendly and get to know him. Now it was Vince’s turn to be ready if Donovan got too uptight.
Ben tilted his head, looking genuinely curious. “If you’re from England, where’s your accent?”
Kitty drew away from him, shocked at how brash he was being. “Ben!”
A frown glimmered across Donovan’s face, but he concealed it just as quickly behind a m
ask of polite grace. “It is alright,” he consoled Kitty without looking at her.
Ben’s eyes hadn’t even moved from Donovan’s face. Donovan seemed to have figured out what he was doing, so he decided to call it quits for the time being—after he got his answer.
Donovan spoke curtly, but not enough for anyone but Ben to notice: “I was born in Connecticut. I studied in England for a year and a half. Psychology and the arts.”
Kitty jumped in with a question of her own. “What’s it like over there?”
“Terrible,” Donovan murmured, and Ben noticed with puzzlement that, once again, Donovan was not looking at Kitty as he spoke to her, but gazing at the floor by her chair legs or the wall just beside her head. “Men and women are terrified and childless. Public places are in ruins. No one knows what to do or who to blame.” Sad mumbles droned through the room.
“We have to do something,” Lia declared morosely, resting her forehead in the palm of her hand. “Talk to someone, go somewhere. We can’t just sit here and wait for...” She didn’t finish her sentence, shaking her head at the floor.
Everyone but Donovan, who knew nothing about how close the friends were, surreptitiously looked at Tyson. It was a known fact that Ty was second-in-command whenever Jonathan was gone.
The young man straightened up as best he could and made sure to look into every eye when he spoke. “There’s a town meeting soon. We’ll go and see what’s on everyone’s minds and make a few suggestions of our own.”
“I hope it’s good news.” Vince sighed.
Ben read the room, absorbing his friends’ sorrow. He was sad, too. In all of his admittedly sheltered life, he had never thought that one of his best friends would go missing, or that another of his friends would almost die in a plane crash. He peeked at Donovan, who was watching him back with an unreadable expression—something almost...calculating in his deep blue eyes.
Ben’s heart thudded in his chest as an uncanny, foreboding feeling crept along his back. Whatever was happening, this wasn’t the end. Something told him that it was going to get a lot worse. But if there was anything he’d learned in fire cadets about traumatic injuries, it was that the smallest wound was sometimes the most lethal, and what seemed to be the most harmless symptom was sometimes masking a more malicious disease. Carefully, so that none of his friends would see, Ben gave Donovan the kind of smile that said, I’m onto you. Donovan blinked at him and looked away.
Leaning back, tangling his fingers with Kitty’s, Ben took comfort in the fact that, in a world where nothing made sense anymore, he had stumbled upon one certain truth: there was something wrong with Donovan. And Ben was going to find out exactly what it was.
Chapter Twenty-Five:
Victorious
The two Dark Knights that had been watching Peter were lying over by the wall, their armor ravaged by Kayle’s talons.
“Are you alright?” Peter asked me. He acted almost reverent. I recognized his lowered tail and half-open wings to be signs of submission—had read as much in Peter’s book on griffins.
“I’m fine,” I said, shaking myself and watching a few of my feathers float to the floor. “Are you two?”
Kayle looked at Peter, and when the older griffin nodded, he did too, adding, “And even better, we can finally leave this place.”
We stepped outside. Kayle let Peter lean against him, both moving at a slow, exhausted shuffle. I sagged against the buckled doorframe, surveying the damage that had been done. Dead Dark Knights littered the street. Sword slashes and pockmarks from daggers marred the sides of shops and still-leaking barrels of water.
As my adrenaline leaked away, true, bone-deep exhaustion settled in. I pondered all that I’d learned. I’d just terminated the Ranker that had killed my mom—but that wasn’t right. I had killed the Ranker of the man who had murdered my mom. Rankers were just the manifestations of the shadows that already existed in the human heart. I wasn’t here to do battle against monsters, I was here to fight the human condition.
I spent some time wandering up and down the street, trying to shake off the rest of my post-battle jitters and counting our losses. There were wounded—knife grazes, bumps, and bruises, and one of the Amazons had a fractured arm. But the only truly dangerous casualty on our side was one young army man who had most of his forearm cut off. Already, Mariah was growing it back, her jeweled collar gleaming.
The sky was a pristine blue, the air fresh and young. Villagers were cracking their doors, peeking outside. Some were returning from the depths of the bog where they had run to escape the fight. Their eyes were big and glassy, and they avoided our gazes. A few of the more polite inhabitants were touching their hands to their foreheads in a sort of salute. I guess we weren’t the only ones who hadn’t liked the Dark Knights.
Something dark moved in the corner of my vision—a shadow within a shadow. I looked over alertly. It was the bartender, still a shaggy black wolf. He was cautiously padding over, limping on his injured leg. I let him come close enough to where we stood eye to eye, him a little taller than me in my griffin form. He tilted his head to one side and wagged his tail a little. There was joy in his eyes—he was finally at peace. I smiled at him, and he barked in a friendly manner, letting his tongue hang out and beginning to pant.
“You’re welcome.” I chuckled. “No one will ever trouble you again.” He wagged his tail jauntily and loped off in the direction of his wife’s garden.
“Excuse me,” I heard a familiar voice say. “Do you know where the assassin is?”
Entertained, I watched the carpenter move from the confused samurai he had just confronted to the gladiator Marcus. He repeated his question.
“No…” Marcus replied, scratching his head. The carpenter moved on and blanched, one hand on his chest. He had just seen griffin-Mariah, who was growing another fruit of some sort to eat. His eyes wandered to the rest of us, his mouth open in awe.
I faced him, making him jump.
“Call me Jonathan,” I said.
The man stared at me for a few long seconds, his brow furrowing with anger. Crossing his arms, he growled, “What’s going on? Why are you really here? I trust it wasn’t only to rid us of the blasphemous Dark Knights?” I studied my talons, feeling guilty. A moment went by while the carpenter waited for me to speak.
“Who are you really?” he pressed. Peter walked by on his way to talk to Sergeant Flaherty. As he passed, he clipped my beak with his wing—giving me the okay to explain.
I moved toward the carpenter, who stepped back in fear, but I sat down a few feet from him and said softly, “I am here…to help defeat the Rankers.”
The carpenter didn’t have the same reaction I’d had when I had been whacked over the head with almost those same words. I braced myself for sarcasm or skepticism. (“Well, if you’re here to save the world, then I’m gonna go carpenter-up my coffin.”) Instead, he literally wriggled, and a joyful expression appeared on his face.
“Are you…the next prince?” he asked hopefully.
I almost whimpered, having come to hate that word, but cleared my throat and said, “Yes.”
The carpenter laughed. “I had heard rumors, but I never thought…” Practically jumping, he walked a circle around me, babbling good-naturedly about how kingly I looked. Gesturing at the others, he remarked, “You must be the ones sent out by the White Griffin!”
Kayle extracted his head from a barrel he was drinking from and said, “That we be.”
Some of the villagers had gathered in a ring around us, and their voices mingled into unintelligible chatter as they discussed the good news among themselves. Even the old woman who had confronted me outside the carpenter’s shop was smiling.
The carpenter was pacing now, frowning with determination and pumping his arms. “I have waited for so long. I want to help. Take me with you!” A clamor of agreement went up from the villagers, who began
to press in closer to try and make their individual voices heard.
Peter called for quiet and shouted, “It is a dear sight to me, all you who are so eager to assist us, but in all honesty, you would only encumber us.”
Indignant, uproarious voices rose up in a tidal wave of sound, each person trying to justify themselves.
“I can run faster than anyone here!” one young woman called.
A boy shouted, “I can fell a bumblebee with my slingshot if the need called for it!”
The cacophony got louder and louder—I pinned my ears back, still feeling edgy from the battle. I stood up and opened my wings, and the voices turned off as a unit. Peter clacked his long beak contemplatively and said shrewdly, “Alright. Any can come along if they are ready to take the risks. You have been ruled tyrannically by a few Dark Knights for a couple of weeks. Those creatures are cunning, thieving, and openly malicious. But you cannot begin to understand those who employ them: the Rankers.
“If you defy a Ranker, they will first go after your family. Most often, they use their easy, most painless tactic: they burn your family’s house down while they’re barricaded inside.” A few people blanched. Peter stood up and started pacing, looking into each and every face. “Next, after a few days have passed, during which they will allow you time to grieve, so that the true bitterness of your loss sinks in like salt in an open wound, they’ll go after your friends. They’ll probably torture them slowly, and leave them just alive enough so that when you find them, you can share a final farewell.” Peter, immense, stolid, majestic in his dark plumage and bristling fur, sat again and bowed his head so that he was gazing at everyone through the ridge of his eagle’s brow. “Finally, they will kill you after torturing you until you go insane or unless you join them. I won’t go into details, but if you are willing to travel to dangerous and long-distanced places, possibly only to die the most excruciating of deaths, you are welcome to come.”