“Do not touch that!” Skadi commanded.
This time I really did duck.
“Quinn!” Othello said. “What are you doing? I found the flower.” She held the flower up for me to see as if she’d been standing there calling my name for a while. It was secured in a glass cylinder, glimmering like an amethyst beneath lamplight, its petals shimmering. I turned back to the tree, and again felt it beckon to me, more forcefully this time. Not whispers. Shouts.
“Our agreement was for the flower,” Skadi said. “If you take anything else from this garden, I will be forced to kill you.” She sounded sad, as if she knew her threat was a double-edged sword, as likely to cut her as us. It was that tone that made me stop and think. If she’d merely threatened me, I’d have touched the tree simply to spite her. But genuine sadness? That surprised me.
“Quinn, what is it?” Othello asked. Without my realizing it, she’d come up beside me and grabbed my wrist, presumably to stop me from touching the tree. I shook my head, trying to clear it, and eventually had to close my eyes. Once closed, it became easier to think. The voices became more distinct, as if I could hear actual words being spoken. A conversation between a man and a woman. A violent conversation. I drew away, taking small, shuffling steps backwards, and the voices quieted. The urge, too.
“There’s somethin’ about that tree,” I told Othello, eyes still pinched shut. “I feel like I need to touch it. Like I need to touch it, d’ye understand?”
“What are you, little one?” Skadi asked.
The pure curiosity in her voice made me open my eyes. I turned to stare into one of Skadi’s obscenely large orbs, and I felt the weight of her gaze hit me like a semi-truck. The sensation reminded me of what it must feel like to spot an ex-lover in the middle of a crowd, thousands of miles from where you’d last left him, the whole affair tinged with something simultaneously serendipitous and mortifying. There was something inside me—some deep-seated part of me—that recognized Skadi, and yet was repulsed by her. “I don’t yet know what I am,” I replied, voice shaky.
Skadi chuckled and the ground beneath our feet shuddered. “As you like, child. As you like.”
“Quinn, let’s finish this and go home,” Othello urged.
I nodded, but my eyes were all for Skadi’s face, for that teasing expression she wore which said she knew something I didn’t. Or perhaps something I didn’t want to know. I let Othello draw me away, pointedly avoiding the silver tree and its alien promise.
Othello was right.
It was time to get the fuck out of this place.
Chapter 33
Now that Othello had the flower that could open any lock tucked away among her things, all we had to do was free a goddess. Ironically, it seemed the raskovnik couldn’t be used to unlock Skadi’s manacles; they’d been forged without so much as a seam, as if no one had ever intended for her to escape. Which left the chains. We found them bound to the earth by a ring that loomed at least thirty feet over our heads. I stared up at it, reminded of the sort of installation art you sometimes find in major cities—pieces that mock our perspective, like a giant table you can walk beneath, the legs twice as tall as a person. Of course, this bit of art had been taken to a whole other level; the chains rose so high they got blurry as they continued up and up, forcing me to crane my neck in order to make out the faint outline of Skadi’s hands and face.
I kicked the ring and listened to the reverberating clang. The thing sounded dense. Durable. Considering the fact it had been designed to hold a goddess, I wasn’t surprised, merely disappointed. “So, we have to destroy this?” I asked, dubiously.
“That’s the deal we made,” Othello replied, as if second-guessing our decision.
“Any idea how?” I walked a circle around one end of the arched ring. It was as wide and thick as a Redwood tree, impossible to see around no matter how far I leaned.
“No.”
I completed my circuit and stared at Othello. “What d’ye mean, no?”
“I mean I didn’t bring anything with me that would take care of something like this,” Othello replied. “I used my latest batch of nanobots on your prison cell. Nothing else I have would do the job. Ordinarily, I could use a Gateway to dematerialize it, but I can’t risk what might be on the other side.” She kicked the ring herself, clearly frustrated.
“D’ye t’ink grenades would do the trick?” I asked.
Othello shook her head. “Probably not.” She perked up. “Wait, you brought grenades?”
I nodded and shrugged, still mulling over our predicament. “Never hurts to be prepared, or so I hear,” I muttered.
“Where did you get them from?”
“The back of the truck, why?”
Othello grinned. “Because those weren’t grenades. How many did you take?”
I fished the two grenades out of my pocket, tossing one to Othello. “Catch,” I said, grinning. Othello almost fumbled the grenade but managed to clutch it close at the last second. Frankly, while I’ve found people are understandably anxious about having a grenade in their possession, the handheld explosives are actually fairly safe so long as you didn’t go around pulling out pins—which requires more force than most people think. Othello, regrettably, didn’t seem to share my opinion.
“Sometimes I think you have a death wish,” she said, glaring at me.
“Only sometimes?” I asked, juggling the grenade from one hand to another while she watched, wide-eyed. “So, what do these t’ings do, then?”
“Please stop doing that,” Othello hissed.
I rolled my eyes but stopped playing with the explosive.
“What’s the symbol on the one you have?” she asked.
I turned the grenade around, exposing its sides until I found a symbol. I raised an eyebrow. “D’ye mean this snowflake?” I asked.
“That’s the one. That’s an ice grenade.”
I snorted and showcased our surroundings. “In case ye haven’t noticed, we have plenty of that, here.”
“True,” Othello said. “And if it were all we had, I’d be a little worried. But I have a wind grenade.” She held hers up, revealing a symbol that looked suspiciously like a tornado.
“So ye want to what, create a blizzard?”
Othello chuckled. “Blizzards are easy. These are a lot more powerful than that. We need to get behind cover if we’re going to use these.” She pointed to a wall jutting out from the others to frame a large entryway. “Let’s get behind that, and we’ll do this.”
I shrugged. “You’re the boss,” I said.
Once behind cover, Othello instructed me to throw my grenade. I yanked the pin and lobbed the explosive, letting it fly from my hand at the top of its natural arc, doing my best to gauge distance. It landed a little farther than I’d intended, right between the rings, and I cringed. But it didn’t end up making a difference; Othello had been right to put us behind the wall—the blast radius was borderline ridiculous.
I watched in fascination as ice spewed out all at once, jerking towards the sky in spires that smothered the ring’s base in its entirety. The result was impressive. Had I tossed that grenade into a horde of enemies, they’d have either ended up frozen within in a miniature glacier or cut to ribbons by the icy tips. Of course, I could think of other applications. But, before I could dwell too long on the explosive’s potential, Othello chucked her own grenade, urging me to duck behind cover. I did but couldn’t resist poking my head out beyond the curve of the wall to see what was about to happen. I mean, how often does one get to see a wind grenade go off?
Of course, that meant I was in the perfect position to have my head quite literally blown off.
Fortunately, Othello yanked me back just in time; a gust of wind so powerful it likely would have lifted me off my feet and flung me into a wall blasted by, sending massive shards of ice flying past. I watched in fascination as they shattered against the stone walls of the castle, some had even pierced the cracks in the mortar and hung in plac
e like quivering blades. “T’anks,” I whispered, once the wind finally died down.
“Death. Wish.” Othello shoved me back into the clearing.
The base of the ring, once so sturdy, had whole chunks missing, as though a giant had taken an axe or a sledgehammer to it. We walked each end of the arch, inspecting the metal. The one closest to us wasn’t beyond repair, but it was weak. If Skadi wanted, I had a feeling she could break loose all on her own by tugging with all her might. Of course, if she did that, we’d end up buried beneath the rubble. Which meant we had more work to do.
“Damn,” Othello said.
I held out my arm, thrusting her back a bit. “Don’t worry, I t’ink I’ve got this one.”
Othello looked at me sideways but did what I said.
I rolled my neck, feeling it crack a few times, and sighed. “That’s better,” I said, as I took several steps back. I eyed the ring, gauging the weakest point, the most likely to give under pressure. Once I’d found the best section, I drew in a lungful of air and dug my rear foot into the stone floor.
It was time to test my limits.
I sprinted forward, screaming, and crashed a shoulder against the ring, hugging it with both arms, letting my momentum carry me forward. The blow hurt, and I knew my shoulder would be bruised tomorrow, but I also felt the ring budge, just a hair. The metal groaned, and another small piece fell to the ground. I dropped into a low squat, keeping my arms wide, and drove my weight upwards, forcing my legs to do the majority of the work. More movement, this time, but still not enough. I released the ring and studied it once more.
I could sense it wasn’t strength I needed, but leverage. That’s the thing about moving impossibly heavy shit: you can push as hard as you like, but your body isn’t built to push. It’s built to pull. Long ago, human beings had invented tools to maximize this potential, to make it possible to build impossible structures that defied our limitations. Levers, pulleys, axles. What I needed was to combine my newfound Faeling strength with some good old-fashioned human ingenuity.
“Othello, d’ye have that rope we used to go through the blizzard?” I asked.
Othello nodded, fetched the green cord from her bag, and passed it to me. I wound it around the base of the ring, grabbed both ends, ground my heels into the castle’s stone floor, and pulled. I pulled with everything I had, and this time the metal didn’t groan, it screamed. It wailed. Soon, I did the same, groaning with my eyes shut as I fought to tear apart a metal ring meant to hold a goddess, every muscle in my back and legs burning with the effort.
After what felt like an eternity, something gave, and I flew back with a yelp.
Graceful, Quinn. Very graceful.
Once I’d made sure my fall hadn’t damaged anything, I sat up and stared at what I’d done. My mouth fell open as I marveled at the warped and twisted metal that hugged the cord. The ring appeared shredded, the way cars sometimes do after an accident, as if the pure force of the impact had driven it into a new, almost unrecognizable shape. It turned out I hadn’t torn one end of the ring loose, as I’d intended. I’d torn it from the ground itself, ripping the metal free to expose a base as wide and thick as a boxing ring, poking out from beneath the mortar. At this point, all Skadi would have to do to free herself was stand up, unhook the base of the chain, and walk away.
I swiveled my head around to find Othello staring at me, her expression tinged with something like awe, but far too close to fear for my liking. At that moment, I realized she and I weren’t all that different, these days; under the right circumstances, we could both be terrifying. We simply had different approaches. Different skill sets. Different triggers.
“So, are ye ready to blow this popsicle stand?” I asked as I clambered to my feet, wiping the dirt and grime off the back of my trench coat.
Othello recovered herself with a smirk and curtsied, one hand holding an imaginary skirt. “After you, Schwarzenegger.”
Chapter 34
Skadi spoke to us only once before we fled the castle, and only then to deliver a warning. “The Tiny God who chained me here used my power to keep this realm from falling apart,” she said. “Once I am truly free and depart, it will cave in on itself. I will wait for you to leave but would advise never trying to return.”
I’d grunted. “Ye couldn’t pay us to come back,” I assured her.
Othello had agreed.
We’d left things at that and departed, meeting Natasha outside the gates. She’d remained behind, true to her word, though from the looks of things she’d been busy pacing the snow since we left; she’d dug a small trench with the force of her tread. Part of me wondered if she was really that anxious, or if Skadi had simply frightened her more than she had us. Probably the latter, I realized; in hindsight, I doubted the poor, mortal woman Natasha had been had ever met a goddess before. Hell, for all I knew, Skadi was the real reason Natasha hadn’t wanted to return.
Nothing like meeting a deity to upset your sense of reality.
Ironically, it had hardly fazed me after everything else I’d seen, lately.
Did that make me well-adjusted, I wondered?
Or broken beyond repair?
“We got what we came for,” Othello said. “Time to go.”
“You freed it?” Natasha asked, eyes wide, staring past us as if she could see Skadi’s face beyond the castle walls. “Are you both insane?”
I shrugged, opting for the truth. “I’m not a big fan of anyone or anythin’ bein’ kept against its will for all eternity, no matter who or what they are.” Of course, what I didn’t say was that if the creature in question were truly monstrous, truly evil, I’d rather see it dead than imprisoned. Prisoners can escape. Death, more often than not, tended to be a more permanent and efficient solution.
“Why is she not escaping?” Natasha asked, breathlessly.
“Part of the deal,” I replied. “She said she’d wait until we made it out of here. Otherwise we’d all end up dead. I doubt any of us could survive the realm tearin’ itself to bits.”
Natasha’s already pale, sunscreen-laden face went a shade whiter, and I swore I could see blue veins pulsing beneath her skin. She must have fed from one of the blood bags, recently. I gave the duffel beside her a little kick. “Let’s go, Natasha. There’s nothin’ else for us to do here except leave. It’s all downhill from here.” And yet, even as I said it, I wished I hadn’t.
Because—in my experience—when it rains, it fucking pours.
Chapter 35
We heard the cries before we saw them. The three of us were perhaps thirty feet from the top of the mountain when the bellow of some fearsome creature tore through the air, followed by the yowl of what sounded like a mountain lion. A crash followed, reminiscent of dinner plates being shattered on a tile floor. Screams quickly merged with the other sounds like some awful harmony. Human screams, full of terror and rage. The three of us looked at each other in confusion, but Othello’s expression soon became one of horror.
“We freed Skadi,” she said, as if that explained what we were hearing.
“And?” I asked.
“If what she told us was true and her power was keeping this place intact, then when we freed her, all the creatures in the valley…” she trailed off, staring upwards.
My eyes widened as I realized what she was implying.
“There were hundreds of them,” she whispered.
“Ye t’ink they’ve broken free of the curse,” I said, turning it into a statement. “Shit!”
“What do we do?” Natasha asked, turning to us both. If I wasn’t already trying to figure out our next move, I might have commented on how quickly she’d picked up on the pecking order and come to rely on us for direction. But we didn’t have that kind of time. Instead, I drew the AK-9 with a flourish, gave it a quick once over, and flicked the safety off.
“There’s only one way off this mountain, right?” I asked.
Othello nodded, drawing a black metal device from a holster on her thigh,
no bigger than a brick. She flung her hand out and the crossbow expanded, looking remarkably less deadly than my rifle. Good thing looks could be deceiving. “Through the valley,” she said with a curt nod.
Natasha was looking at us like we were crazy. I couldn’t blame her; violence as one’s default response doesn’t smack of sanity. But at our core, Othello and I were practical people. Problem solvers. We’d learned long ago that the fastest way between two points was a straight line, and we intended to carve one for ourselves by any means necessary.
“I do not have weapons,” Natasha said, glancing from one to the other of us. I considered giving her one of my many guns but decided against it. Frankly, I didn’t trust her not to shoot me in the back. Not necessarily because I thought she wanted me dead, but because I didn’t trust anyone with a loaded firearm at my back who I hadn’t personally vetted. Besides, I preferred it when all the guns in the room belonged to me.
Call it an occupational hazard.
“Stay behind Othello and me,” I advised. “If one of us goes down, drag us to safety until the other can double back.”
“What if you both go down?”
“Don’t worry, we aren’t planning on going down, at all,” Othello said. “We don’t do that.”
“Ye know, Othello, that’s not what I’ve heard,” I replied, nudging her with a grin.
Othello looked at me suspiciously, then laughed, leaving poor Natasha to search our faces. Now, she knew we were crazy; only crazy people crack jokes when the shit hits the fan. But that’s the thing about stressful, potentially life-threatening situations: they give you a chance to figure out which type of person you really are. The kind who breaks down and cries, unable to cope. Or the kind who cracks a joke and charges the fucking hill.
I grinned and began marching up the mountain, gun cradled in my arms.
Othello followed, Natasha hot on her heels.
Moscow Mule: Phantom Queen Book 5 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries) Page 15