by Cory Barclay
With a grimace, he picked them by the stem, then checked for gills on the sides. He saw none and dropped them into his basket.
He and Fueda had already been at it for an hour and he wondered how much longer they would search. The sun was blazing overhead. His shirt stuck to his skin from the humidity. The weather was different in Soreltris than in San Diego, despite occupying the same location. It felt more like the Deep South on a hot day here, and Steve didn’t take too kindly to sweltering heat. His excuse was he was dehydrated, but the sun was giving him another headache.
He stood up and pushed himself away from the tree, stalking and inspecting the ground for more signs of caps.
Then he heard a low whining sound—a mix between a growl and a cry for help.
Steve’s eyes moved up from the ground.
The bushes ahead of him moved. They were about ten feet away. He froze, trying to be a statue as his eyes zeroed in on the bush.
A moment later, a wolf’s head poked through the green. The wolf was sniffing, its purple tongue lolling out the side of its mouth.
Shit, Steve thought, remaining still. It didn’t seem like the wolf had seen him. His eyes darted from left to right without moving his head. If there was one wolf here, surely there were others nearby . . .
The wolf sniffed again, as if trying to smell him.
Then he realized it wasn’t sniffing, it was sniffling. Like it was sick or . . . sad.
Steve cocked his head to the side and stared at the animal, perplexed by its odd behavior.
The wolf looked right at him with its fierce, yellow eyes.
Steve’s heart nearly stopped in his chest. His entire body was telling him to flee, but he refused to budge.
The wolf took a slow, plodding step toward him. It jutted its nose in the air.
It was less than five feet from him. This is either the most daring, stupid, or friendliest wolf in the world, Steve thought. Perhaps he’d had it all wrong and wolves on Mythicus didn’t run in packs. Maybe they were solitary creatures, like the werewolf Tiberius had killed.
The werewolf, Steve thought. There was no doubting the wolf in front of him was in distress. Could it . . . know that I had something to do with the werewolf’s death? Could this . . . be another one?
If anything, these werewolves were the inverse of what he’d been taught as a boy on Terrus. He’d learned werewolves were humans by day and turned into bloodthirsty beasts by the full moon. The werewolf Tiberius killed had started as a wolf during the day, and had transformed at night.
The wolf got so close Steve could see the little hairs on its wet, black nose. He took a chance and reached out to pet it.
To his amazement, the wolf didn’t flinch or fuss, but seemed to enjoy Steve’s touch. Despite seeming crestfallen, it curled its head around his hand, closing its eyes. Steve was pretty sure that, whatever else she was, this wolf was a female. Steve’s touch brought her a little respite—a small dose of joy.
That man-wolf, wolf-were must have been her friend, Steve thought, continuing to run his hand through her fur.
Steve was suddenly filled with sorrow, like the wolf had transferred it over to him through touch. Poor girl just wants to see her buddy again, and we’ve killed him . . .
Does she even know?
The bushes and trees behind Steve shook and snapped. He spun around as his fight or flight response kicked in.
But it was only Fueda.
As she jumped over a trunk and came into view, Steve saw the little woman had a basket full of mushrooms. She glanced at Steve’s barely filled basket and fixed him with an exasperated stare.
“Seems you aren’t very good at foraging, either,” she said. “What are you good at, Steve Remington?”
“Disappointing you, apparently.”
He turned around, wanting to introduce his new friend to Fueda. I am the Wolf Whisperer, he thought with a smile.
But the wolf was gone.
“What are you looking at?” Fueda asked when Steve didn’t turn back around.
He was about to tell her what he’d seen, the craziness of it all, but then he decided against it.
Let her go in peace. She at least deserves that . . .
Fueda decided they had enough mushrooms between them, thanks to her, and said it was time to go.
Steve had no objection. He couldn’t wait to be out of the stifling heat. They headed back toward the Reynolds’ estate.
STEVE SAT ON A CHAIR in the basement kitchen. He watched Fueda delicately place small bits of ground mushrooms on a cake she’d made.
“I’m supposed to stay down here and do . . . what, exactly?” Steve asked as Fueda finished making dinner. They’d been home for a few hours and had been cooking since their excursion ended. Or, rather, Fueda had been cooking, making a lavish meal of peppered beef, honeyed bread, and mushroom cake. Steve had watched and passed her ingredients when she demanded them.
“Your goal is to stay out of sight,” Fueda said.
“I know. But why?”
“Because Jareth and Dosira Reynolds ordered it. We aren’t here to question their decisions.”
Steve frowned. He felt argumentative, but kept his mouth shut. To be honest, he would have preferred to stay down here, knowing Constantin and Mariana Lee were the guests. He didn’t want to see the vampires, and he assumed if they saw him, their suspicions would be raised.
They’d ask what he was doing there, a mile down the road and still so close to their daughter.
Nothing good could come from that.
“Not to mention,” Fueda said, “you’ve rebuffed Emilene and angered Tiberius to the point of him destroying his father’s prized guitar. I think you’ve done quite enough over the last twenty-four hours, don’t you?”
Steve nodded glumly.
He helped stack the plates on a tray Fueda would have to bring herself. He felt bad because she was so small. He took the tray to the top of the stairs, opened the door, and placed the heavy table on the floor. He vanished downstairs as she started taking plates from the table.
He quickly grew bored in the kitchen after helping himself to leftovers Fueda had forgotten or deemed not worthy enough to feed her guests.
Steve had always been a curious fellow. Now was no different. No more than half an hour had passed before his rambling thoughts brought him away from the kitchen. He meandered down a hallway.
He knew the basement level of the mansion matched the first level. Plus, there were secret passageways he’d checked out over the past two days. He knew his way around the basement pretty well now: which stairs led where, which doors opened into which rooms.
He decided he’d have a little peek . . . just to see what the Reynoldses and Lees were talking about.
He took a left down a hallway, then a right, into a small closet room. The back wall of the room opened into a hidden stairway. The stairs spiraled up, and he knew they’d let out in a little nook in the stairwell between the first and second level.
The room was somewhere between the eighth and twelfth step of the main staircase.
It was a very small room—obviously made for someone as small as, say, a house brownie, and not a human. Steve scrunched himself in and crossed his legs. He leaned forward to look out of the hidden eyehole. The latticed opening reminded him of a confessional, the little gate that separated a priest from a penitent.
From his cubbyhole he could make out the dinner table below him, in the other room.
Four people sat at the table: Jareth and Dosira Reynolds on one side, and Constantin and Mariana Lee on the other. Neither of the Reynolds children were present, nor Annabel, of course.
Constantin was speaking quite loudly, his hands gesticulating in the air. “ . . . we are steadfast in this union,” he was saying. “Our charge is prepared to do what is asked of her, for the greater good.”
Jareth and Dosira eyed each other.
“You mean she doesn’t wish to be married?” Jareth asked. “She sees this as a s
acrifice?”
Mariana put a hand on Constantin’s arm. “Only a sacrifice of her independence,” she said, trying to soften the blow. Of course Annabel didn’t want to be forced into marriage—who would? But Constantin could only see her daughter’s “duty”—doing things for the “greater good.”
Steve scoffed, rolling his eyes at what he was hearing.
“Ah, well, she is well past childhood,” Jareth said. “If you two wish to join my wife and I in the Council, you know what is asked of you. It is a simple matter.”
Constantin and Mariana nodded.
What is asked of them? Steve wondered, wishing he’d eavesdropped on this conversation earlier. This is a step up the Brethren ladder for Constantin and Mariana, but what are Jareth and Dosira getting out of it? I never even wondered why two powerful people such as them would marry their son below his station . . .
He flinched to think of Annabel as the lesser of these people. She would never be lesser in his mind, in power or significance.
Jareth and Dosira leaned forward.
Steve also leaned forward, intrigued.
“Of course, our agreement cannot be seen on paper,” Jareth said, still loud enough for Steve to hear. “But I would have you speak it aloud for my wife and I to hear. To know we’re . . . on the same page, so to speak.”
“Of course, Lord Onyx,” Constantin said. He leaned forward conspiratorially. Now it was clear they were making some sort of back-alley deal—something no one at the table was proud of. Or at least not proud enough to speak aloud to their constituents or those outside this house.
“Our alliance with your family will give the House of Lee two votes on the Council,” Constantin said. “Since you have brought us on, we will . . . look highly upon your opinions in all Council matters we vote on.”
Jareth leaned back. He didn’t seem happy with the way Constantin had said things. To Steve, it sounded like Constantin was reneging on their deal, somewhat. He was willing to be persuaded and influenced by the Reynoldses, but the casting of those votes would still belong to the Lees.
“That’s not good enough,” Dosira said, speaking for her husband.
Constantin began, “My Lady Dos—”
“It’s Lady Opal when we’re discussing congressional matters, Constantin.”
Constantin’s pale skin tightened at the remark.
“The Council is split six-five, currently,” Jareth said. “We are on the losing side of that split. If you can’t guarantee us your votes, this union will not take place. Remember, you have more to gain from this decision than we do.”
Steve wasn’t so sure of that, but he was getting very intrigued by all this. His knees were cramping in his cross-legged position, so he shifted his weight and moved to a slightly different angle. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his chin on his open palms.
“Very well,” Constantin said, glancing at his wife. “When we are made Council members, we will use our votes to aid you in overthrowing Overseer—”
The vampire cut himself off. He sniffed the air.
Jareth leaned back in his chair. “What is it, Constantin?”
Steve held his breath.
“We are being observed,” Constantin said.
Shit! Steve thought, panic rising in him like bile. Did he just sniff the fucking air?!
Jareth looked around. “I see no one—how can you be sure?”
Steve decided it was time to go. He backed out of the cubbyhole, dragging his legs by crab walking backward with his arms.
“I can smell—”
Steve’s knee hit the side of a wall as he got out of the hole. It thudded—not enough to be heard usually, but enough to be heard when people were listening for anything out of the ordinary.
Shit, shit, shit!
When Steve had cleared the hole, he went to his feet and started power walking down the hallway.
He heard the tugging fart sound of wooden chairs sliding on the wooden floor.
He made it to the staircase, opened the door, and closed it behind him. He panted, wondering if the Reynoldses knew the secret passageways of their own house as well as he did.
Of course they do! His mind reeled.
He hurried down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and almost tripped.
He heard a door open in the distance, somewhere behind him.
Jareth and Dosira were checking every hidden doorway and every hiding hole.
Steve made it to the kitchen, where Fueda was cleaning dishes. She turned at the sound of his rapid arrival. Her face sank and twisted in surprise when she saw his wide eyes and frightened expression.
“What have you done?” she demanded to know.
“Heard something I wasn’t supposed to!”
“Foolish boy!” Fueda snapped, but she was already dashing away from the kitchen sink.
Steve had to suppress a smile. As ornery and angry with him as she always sounded, it was clear she was going to help him.
She reached into a drawer and came out with a thick, deadly looking butcher knife.
Or not, Steve thought with a gulp, backing up.
She handed the knife to him.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with this, fight my way out?” Steve asked, taking the knife.
“No, you idiot, you’ll use it to survive in the woods overnight.”
“Huh?”
“You must be gone from here, this instant!”
Steve knew she was right. But he didn’t want to leave her. “Come with me!” he said. “They might think you were the one spying on them.”
“I am smarter and sneakier than you, Steve Remington. I will be fine.” Fueda nodded with finality, putting her small hands on her hips.
Steve knew she was correct on all accounts. But he was skeptical about her being “fine.”
It was clear she would not be dissuaded, though, and his time was running out.
Another door opened, this one closer than any before it.
Footsteps sounded from above, clearly heading for the stairs leading down into the basement.
“Be gone!” Fueda said in a harsh whisper. She turned and pointed down a hall. “That way!”
Steve nodded his thanks, unable to say the words due to his terror. But he hoped Fueda saw the gratitude on his face.
He stuck the butcher knife in his belt and ran from the kitchen, down a dark hall he’d never been down before. It seemed to get darker and smaller as he ran and bumped into turns and curves.
And it got colder. At the end of the hall he jumped through a web of bushes and leaves, then felt the nighttime breeze on his face.
He’d come out of a secret exit far from the house, a hundred yards into the woods.
He kept running without looking back.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Steve ran far into the dark woods. Hoping no angry vampires or mythical beings were pursuing him, he stopped and doubled over, resting his hands on his knees.
He panted like an Olympic swimmer after a race, taking big, long breaths. One thing he’d done since coming to Mythicus was he’d quit smoking, which was good. He hadn’t had a cigarette in about five weeks. But years of abuse on your lungs takes longer to heal than that, he knew, and he felt like he was dying.
He wasn’t sure how far he’d run, and he had no clue where he was. The dizzying silence of the woods surrounded him. He had cuts and scrapes around his arms where he’d been caught by thorny branches and limbs during his escape.
Catching his breath, he stood to his full height and surveyed his surroundings. There were no trails or roads he could see. The moon was his only light and it was obstructed by a gray film of wispy clouds. He knew he would get no further tonight, but he was still scared shitless.
Being in the middle of the woods on a dark and scary night was not ideal. Especially when an angry duo of vampires were hellbent on killing you. He knew Constantin and Mariana would want blood from whoever eavesdropped on their conversation. His only glim
mer of hope was that somehow Fueda would convince them he was not a threat . . . to let him go.
But that, in turn, could put her in a tough spot. Would she lose their trust? Would she be tortured to give up Steve’s whereabouts, even though she didn’t know where he was?
What have I done? Steve thought, horrified. His innocent curiosity could lead to Fueda being hurt, or worse.
The thought made Steve shiver.
He roamed around the darkness for a short time, feeling his way from trunk to trunk. He eventually found a clearing. He wasn’t lucky enough to find the clearing from the day before, the one where he’d seen Annabel at the pond.
He sighed and put his back against a tree trunk, sliding down until he was sitting on the hard ground. He took the butcher knife from his belt and held it.
But who was he kidding? If someone wanted to kill him, the butcher knife wouldn’t stop them. He was no fighter and had no idea how to use a knife in combat. He hardly knew how to use a knife when making dinner, as Fueda had made abundantly clear over the last couple days.
It was still reassuring to have the cold, stainless steel in his hands.
He closed his eyes . . .
Just a few minutes’ rest, he thought. I won’t be able to see until dawn anyway.
When he blinked his eyes open, a woman sat across from him.
He sat upright against the tree, alarmed and reeling, feeling the ground for his knife. It was still on his stomach.
He wasn’t dream-leaping, he realized, which frightened him even more.
The woman had rough, pale skin, like she’d been laboring for too long in the shade. It was a peculiar look. Her eyes were yellow and fierce, her hair was long, black, and tangled. She sat against a tree across from Steve, her knees drawn to her chest, staring at him with her bright yellow eyes.
Her face looked familiar, but he couldn’t place it. She didn’t look dangerous or aggressive, but he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he’d seen this woman before.