Under Wicked Sky: Book 1

by S. G. Seabourne

  But like hell was I allowing Dylan to go by himself. Plus, I’d seen enough weird stuff over the last few weeks—my feathers were at the top of the list—that I couldn’t discount anything anymore. And if I had a chance to learn what I was facing, and why the world had turned strange...

  "How long do you think we’ll be away?" I asked as I laid pen across the paper. I didn't allow myself to look again at the note. Letting Ben know this way was for the best. If I woke him up to tell him, he would want to come along. This was my risk to take. Not my brother’s.

  Dylan didn't answer. His dark eyes were glassy, and his gaze distant. It was as if he were looking somewhere else. Something I couldn’t see.

  Biting my bottom lip between my teeth, I cast a glance outside. Still dark, but not for long. Stars twinkled in the sky—it was going to be a nice day without any haze of smoke. Perfect weather for walking into monster–infested woods. How is this my life?

  Letting out a breath, I tried to clear my head. I had made my decision.

  "I don't know," Dylan said.

  I looked at him. "What?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know how long this is going to take. Back before modern times, teenagers in different tribes—men and women would go out on vision quests before they were considered adults. For guidance and stuff. But it's a different process for everybody. Some would be gone for days, even weeks."

  Days or weeks.

  I grabbed up a backpack and shoved it into his hands, and then collected packages and a couple of bottles of water out of the pantry. I didn’t take too much. I didn't want Terry and Lilly to think that we were bailing on them.

  "Is that what this is?” I asked as I stuffed cans into the backpack he held. “A vision quest? Sounds mysterious."

  His smile was a quiet, shy thing. "You know how I told you that I spoke to my Uncle... uh, down in the basement? I think when I was sort of on the same plane as people did when they sought guidance from spirits."

  Oh no, that doesn’t sound like guesswork at all.

  "Well." I zipped up the backpack. I was going to keep a positive outlook. "That's a start, I guess.” I looked around. “Terry put the guns from the Norris's house in the pickup truck, right?"

  Everyone had been in such a hurry to get into the house, we hadn't bothered to unpack the cars.

  I spent a few minutes rustling through supplies. I added packets of beef jerky, a couple cans of tuna, and some of those plastic mini-tubs of applesauce to the backpack. Hauling all this would be heavy, but worth it.

  Three full-size rifles, a pistol, and a flare gun lay in the cab’s back seat. I considered for a moment, then took the pistol and a box of ammo I hoped would fit it. I knew nothing about guns, but the pistol was small enough to carry easily. Also, it looked like it had already been loaded. Thanks, Terry.

  "Okay. That's everything." From here, I could see the shimmering reflection of the lake through the trees. Was it already a little lighter by the horizon? We had to get moving.

  Dylan held out his hand for the backpack, leaving me free to carry the pistol.

  There was a driving shotgun joke in here, somewhere. My gut was too heavy with fear to really think about it.

  "There's a hiking trail that runs behind the subdivision," Dylan said and nodded to one of the few slopes beyond that had been untouched by the fire. "It's touristy, but has restrooms and some old-timey pioneer re-created cabins along the way that we could use for shelter. If we need it."

  I so did not want to spend the day hiding out in a restroom, but it was better than being in the open. Nodding, I cast one glance back at the dark house. All was quiet. There was going to be one helluva shit storm once everyone woke and realized we were gone.

  I had to leave before I changed my mind.

  "Lead the way," I said.

  ****

  The trail was easy enough to find. It was a well–marked path that started at the lake, ran between two neighboring yards, and curled north to the mountains beyond.

  Thanks to the wildfire, most of the mountain was black and dead. There were a few strips and patches here and there that had been saved by natural breaks in the terrain. I’d like to think it was a good omen for Dylan’s vision quest thing, but in reality, wildfire was just unpredictable. The flames jumped here and there, carried by embers on the wind.

  My shoes crunched over a soft fall of pine needles. A few weeks ago, a path like this would've been swept clean by park rangers, or maintenance. Now, I had to watch my step to avoid sugar pine cones almost two feet long, and dead-fall branches.

  I knew what had knocked all this from the trees.

  "Dylan," I said softly, "By now, your uncle’s probably a griffin. You know that, right?"

  He didn't answer. A cold, pre-morning wind blew in from the lake. I could've sworn the feathers on the back of my shoulder rose along with a wave of goose–bumps.

  "I don't think so," Dylan answered at last. That was one thing I had noticed: Dylan wasn’t a talker, like the other boys I'd known. Or Terry. He took his time with responses, as if weighing them. "It's only a feeling, but if Uncle knew what was coming, he could have... ended his life, you know, before. Or maybe even taken a cure, himself."

  "He said in the video that there was only enough for one."

  "Yeah, but that was a few years ago. What if he found more? Or what if—" He cast a glance to me and stopped.

  I tried to make my voice light. "Well, if there is more cure, I'd like to get in on that. Hope you don't mind."

  If it wasn't too late for me already.

  Dylan looked down. "I'm hoping to find out for you," he replied. “But, Clarissa, I just don't know what will happen—if I can even talk to him. Maybe it is all in my head. I don't want to get your hopes up."

  Funny. Hope had never felt like a dangerous thing before now. I wasn't sure if I should clamp down on the fluttery feeling in my chest, or not.

  It would hurt more if I kept hope alive, and then found out that I was doomed. What would I do?

  Leave, I decided, firmly. My hand tightened on the pistol. Scratch that. I'll tell Dylan to go back to the house, and I’ll just... keep walking. I can't be around Ben if I'm going to turn into a monster.

  Dylan went quiet, and so did I. Mostly, I followed him, stepping where he stepped. He was the one leading this expedition.

  The moon had set, but my eyes adjusted to the lower level of light. With no clouds, there was still enough to see by.

  The stars, just visible through overhead branches, went out one by one, and were replaced by graying dawn sky. To the east, the horizon tinged with pink.

  I froze in place as the morning’s first griffin shriek cut through the air. My hand tightened around the grip of the pistol. It was a comforting weight, but it felt like a very small weapon for some very big monsters.

  Another waking scream, further off.

  Dylan hadn’t stopped when I did, and was a least twenty feet up the trail. "Dylan! Where’s that restroom? We need to find cover!"

  He looked over his shoulder, completely unconcerned. Like it was just a stroll in the park, back in the old days. "We're not there yet."

  "Dylan!" I hissed. My voice was drowned out by another griffin. I hurried to catch up to him.

  Maybe it was my imagination, or something I'd never noticed about late spring, but daylight seemed to arrive much faster than it had before. Soon, golden light lit the crowns of the high trees, and the individual shrieks had become a chorus. Hundreds of voices raised in greeting to the new day. A new chance to hunt.

  A tree ten feet away shook all the way down to the ground as a griffin launched itself off and flapped into the sky. I hadn't even seen it roosting. If it had looked down, it would've spotted us.

  Dylan was still walking like he didn’t have a care in the world, thumbs tucked into the straps of his backpack.

  "Oh my God," I muttered. "Do you even know where you're going?" Hadn’t I said the same thing to Terry, once? What was wrong with the boys i
n this family?

  The glazed look was back in his eye. "I will know it when I get there," he said, calmly.

  I had enough. "No, we have to stop now." I grabbed his arm. "They're going to see us."

  Dylan was looking past me, totally not paying attention, and I wanted to smack him. But his eyes had lost that glazed look. He tensed.

  "What—" I started to turn.

  Suddenly, he grabbed me, and with a shove, pushed me a step back and against a tree trunk. The hard, scratchy bark bit into my shirt, except for the small patch of protective feathers.

  I tried to push him away, but he shook his head and slowly touched his finger to his own lips. Then he gestured around the tree.

  There was something very, very close by. My mouth went dry. I brought the pistol up between us. Seeing it, he shook his head.

  "No," he whispered. "It's on the ground. I think... I think there's something about this we should see.”

  That was a very bad idea. I shook my head vigorously. "If it's on the ground, it's probably hurt." Like that one which had chased me and Ben the night of the Turning. And if the griffin was injured, it was probably starving.

  Dylan shook his head again and ducked down to his hands and knees. I stayed very still as he crept around the tree.

  In fact, I couldn't make myself move. My limbs were frozen in place, my heart lodged in my throat. If I looked out from behind the tree, the monster would become real.

  Closing my eyes, I listened. There it was, not too far away. Soft shushing of feathers against pine needles. The snap of a twig. Was it coming closer? I couldn't tell.

  Dylan, still on his hands and knees, inched to the side to peer further around the trunk. A thorny huckleberry oak bush provided some cover, but he was taking a stupid risk.

  He paused for a long moment, then dropped down to his stomach and inched forward using his elbows.

  The griffin made a low, almost chuckling sound. Not like a chicken, but with a low thrumming undercurrent. It kinda sounded like a purr. Well, griffins were half lion, right? But why in the world would the thing be purring?

  My knees felt weak. If I moved my weight from the tree-trunk, I would collapse completely and give us both away. The griffin would hear. It would come crashing through the low brush, pounce, and...

  Dylan twisted and held out his hand to me.

  I didn't know why that did it. When my shaking fingers closed around his, his grip was warm and sure. My knees held my weight long enough to sink to ground-level. Tucking my legs under, I crouched so close to Dylan that our shoulders pressed together. Then, I looked out through a gap in the brush.

  The griffin was fifty feet away. Further than I’d thought, but this the first time I had seen a live one up close without also running for my life.

  Large as a horse, it sat on the ground and blinked lazily in the morning sun. All four limbs tucked under like a cat.

  It was almost pretty, I thought.

  The eagle head and most of the body was snow–white, the wings, back legs, and lion-like tail, tan. The long feathers along the head and wings transitioned to fur along its back and rump. A creature of both air and earth. It was a thing that should not be possible.

  And it didn't look hurt or injured. Just relaxed, as if content to sit there and soak up the early sun.

  I heard flapping wings before I spotted the second griffin. Solid steel gray from feet to tail, it dropped in front of the white–and-tan to deposit a limp, yellow furred body. A dead golden retriever.

  With a rasping shriek, the white-and-tan darted forward. It raised up and pointed its beak to the sky to swallow the dead dog headfirst. As the griffin stood, she revealed why she had been sitting on the ground.

  A mottled blue egg as big as a basketball lay beneath her on the bare earth.

  The griffins were breeding. Had the woman been pregnant before she Turned? What, exactly, would hatch out of the egg? A human baby? A Griffin chick or cub?

  Was I staring at my own future, sitting on a bare-earthed nest of eggs and waiting for a male griffin to bring me dead dogs and people? I couldn't take it.

  Squeezing Dylan's wrist, I jerked my head back to the tree. To my intense relief, he nodded.

  I would have gone back without him.

  I inched backward, careful over pine needles prickling my knees and palms. By the time we were safely behind the tree again, I was trembling.

  "Are you okay?” Dylan whispered.

  I started to nod, then shook my head. "It's not fair." My voice came out small. "I don't want that to be me, Dylan. What are we going to do? There are so many of them already, and now they’re breeding, and... and I don't want that to be me."

  Hot tears dribbled down to my chin. I wiped them away, not realizing I had been crying until that moment.

  Dylan looked uncomfortable. He tentatively patted me on the shoulder in a there–there gesture. “I know it’s scary, but I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you’ll be okay.”

  “What can you do?”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out.” He paused and looked down. “Uh, do you need a hug or something?”

  I hiccuped an exhausted laugh and leaned forward, pressing my forehead against his chest. “You are such a dork.”

  With painful carefulness, his arms circled around me. As if he were afraid to hold me close. I knew why.

  "It's okay. You won't touch my feathers."

  "No, sorry. It's just..." He gave a sort of a helpless shrug. "I don't know much about girls."

  He was so awkward, I believed him. Here I was, crying all over this poor guy. I wasn’t normally a crier to begin with, but I’d been doing a lot of it lately. What was wrong with me?

  A lot, I decided, but mostly it was that I was hungry, stressed, might be turning into a monster, and hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours.

  I shifted and he instantly lifted his arms.

  “We shouldn’t stay here,” I said, wiping my eyes.

  “Yeah. That silver griffin will probably be back on the hunt, soon.”

  I nodded. Using the tree trunk for balance, I stood to my feet. "Let's get going."

  Off in the distance, the female griffin purred as she resettled over her egg.

  ****

  We walked alongside the path to keep under the cover of the thickest trees.

  The mountain was practically bald from ash and blackened burned stumps of trees at the top. Here, I guess floating embers made spot-fires. We had to move around burned patches. Even areas that weren’t down to ash had trees where the leaves had become brown and curled due to heat.

  I kept one eye on the sky, the other to watch my steps in case I cracked a twig.

  My finger rested lightly on the trigger of the pistol. I had to stop every once in awhile to wipe it dry of sweat.

  We paused every time we heard a griffin’s call or wing beats above. Most sounded far away, and through the gaps in the trees, I saw the underbelly of griffins flying overhead, sometimes alone, and sometimes in V formations. Others rode thermals thousands of feet into the air.

  In other circumstances, it would've been pretty.

  It took almost two hours to cover a quarter of a mile. By then I was so tired I was ready to crawl under the nearest bush and take my chances.

  Dylan was less jumpy than me. It was like by going on this vision quest, his fear had left him and transferred into me instead.

  I was so focused on not stepping on anything that cracked, I didn't notice when he stopped. He didn't point—he never pointed—but he nodded with his chin.

  An old historical pioneer cabin sat ten yards off the trail with a bare patch of earth in front of it. It was a small, one–room building with foggy glass windows, and an old-style wood shingle roof. Large cracks ran jagged across gray, wood walls. I had no idea how it had escaped the fire. It looked like a tinderbox.

  But I’d feel a lot better with walls between me and the outside.

  With one glance to the clear sky, D
ylan and I rushed forward. The door opened with a rusty creak that rose all the hairs on the back of my neck. Quickly, we stepped inside and shut it again.

  No new griffin cries pierced the air.

  The inside had been cleanly kept, with aged wooden furniture. A wicker rocking chair sat on one side, a bed with a thin quilt on the other. Every object was tagged with a helpful metal placard to explain what it was originally used for.

  I sat on an, ‘authentic hope chest made of cedar’ and let out a long breath.

  “I am not doing that again. From now on, we’re moving at night."

  "I don't we won’t have to." Dylan did a slow turn around the cabin as if examining it for flaws. Then he removed his backpack and held it out to me. "Here. You should have something to eat."

  “Good idea.” I rifled around until I found the packet of beef jerky I’d been thinking about for hours. I took a medium sized square and then held the packet out to him.

  But he didn't take it. "I'm supposed to be fasting." He shrugged. "My uncle said it could take four days to cleanse all the impurities from your body."

  "Four days?! Dylan, that's dangerous. That could make you delirious."

  He smiled. "That's kind of the point."

  What if he went berserk and started yelling?

  He must have read the look on my face because he added, "You really don’t have to stay past tonight. Actually, it might be better, safer, if you didn't."

  "No, I'm not leaving. Not that I could," I added. "But tonight, I might go back to the house, just to check up on everybody."

  Ben would be so worried. Terry... I didn't know what Terry would think about me taking off on a ‘vision quest’ with Dylan. Would he care? Would he be furious?

  Or would he be jealous? I wondered. Does he need to be?

  Dylan, oblivious to my really deep inner thoughts, arranged himself in a corner of the room and sat cross-legged. He took a few deep breaths, and then closed his eyes.

  I wasn't sure what to do. An hour in, and I had read and reread every placard in the hokey historical cabin. (’These authentic metal spoons were based on the ones used by the original settlers.’ Wow.)