Dylan didn't make any noise, other than shift his weight once or twice, but I got the feeling that my pacing was distracting him from communing with the spirits. Or whatever.
I felt kinda awkward eating in front of him, too, when he couldn't.
The sun was hitting the roof of the cabin and warming up the air inside. There was an old pallet by a fake wood stove. (The settlers used one just like it for cooking and eating!)
With a glance to Dylan, I shook out the musty quilt on top of the pallet. Several earwigs skidded away, so I threw the quilt to the side. The bare pallet creaked, but held my weight. I lay down, my back to him, and closed my eyes.
****
I woke as a rough hand shook my shoulder. Dylan's voice was urgent. "Get up, Clarissa!"
The silent clock in my head told me I'd only been asleep for a couple hours. The cabin was bright with sunlight streaming in through the small windows. I had buried my head under my arm to block it out.
"What?" I asked, muzzily. "Did it happen? Your vision?"
A sharp crack of noise shot through the trees, echoing off the mountains to the north and the lake to the south.
I sat up so fast I nearly cracked Dylan on the nose. "Is that—?"
"Gunfire," he said grimly. "That's the third one."
"Is it coming from...?" I didn't have to finish. I saw the answer in his eyes.
The gunfire had come from the direction of the house.
It had been about three weeks since the Turning. All this time, we’d had no sign of other survivors aside from those doomed cars on the mountainside. It was one thing to make noise at night, but during the day when the griffins were on the hunt? Something must have happened.
Ben.
"We have to go back." I cast a look outside. The bright afternoon sunlight hid nothing. My voice raised in panic. "We have to go, now!"
I didn't know why I expected Dylan to say no. To my surprise, he shoved a water bottle into my hands. "Drink half," he said, his voice calm. "Too much, you'll cramp up. Too little, you will be dehydrated and that will slow you, too."
I opened the tepid water and gulped it down. At the halfway point, I pulled the bottle away and tried to hand it to him. He shook his head.
"What, are you serious? You're still fasting?"
His answer was interrupted by another gunshot. We didn't have time to argue. My brother, Terry, Merlot, and the others were in trouble.
I tossed the water bottle away and bent to pick up the pistol I had laid by my feet. Dylan joined me at the door.
This was pretty much the very definition of a suicide run. But I didn't care. I had left Ben alone, and now he was in very real danger. Everything was fine when we left last night. What could have gone wrong? Whatever it was, my brother wasn’t going to face it alone.
Something in me hardened. "Once we get outside," I said, "we're not stopping for anything. Okay?"
Sorry, Dylan. You’re a great guy, but my brother comes first.
Dylan hesitated, catching on. Then he nodded. "Okay."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
- Dylan -
I’m a hefty guy, and PE was easily my worst class. Last year, I had to run a mile in under ten minutes to pass. By the end, I thought I was going to die. That had been on a flat, bouncy running track. Not a hiking trail with hills and rocks.
Not to mention the death from above.
Clarissa easily outpaced me. She turned back, an anguished look on her face.
I motioned her on. "Go!"
What was the saying? You didn't have to outrun a hungry bear. You just needed to outrun your buddy? Well, a griffin in flight could outpace us both.
Their excited shrieks filled the warm, mid-afternoon air. I didn't know if they were riled up because of the gunshots, or if we had been spotted.
I had known something bad was on the horizon. That was the reason I’d left the house last night to try a vision quest. But no way did I think it would happen the next day.
Now, the griffins were on the hunt.
You can't see us, I thought, putting all my concentration into it, just like when they’d been after me and Merlot. I didn’t know if I was crazy, but I had to try something. You can’t see us. We’re not here. You can't...
My thoughts became a rhythm to go along with my running feet. I was so focused that, if not for the flash of a yellow beak as it caught the sun, I wouldn’t have spotted the griffin in time.
Dappled black and mud–brown, its plumage blended perfectly with the shadowed tree that it perched on.
Clarissa, who was further down the trail, was nearly under it.
"Clarissa! Stop!" I shouted.
She skidded to a halt. Twisting, she looked right, left, and up. But I could tell she didn’t see it.
“There! Above you!” I yelled.
The griffin spread its wings, breaking the illusion of camouflage. Clarissa took a step back, raising the pistol. One foot caught on a fallen branch and she fell backward to her butt. She raised the pistol again, but it didn't go off. I didn't know if it was jammed, or if the safety was on and she was too panicked to think clearly.
I ran faster, but was still yards away. Helpless to watch as the griffin shifted to dropped down on her.
"No!" I yelled. "You can't!" I reached out as if I could stop it.
It felt like I'd thrown something. Something that rebounded right back on to me, evil, sick, and wrong. I staggered, sharp pain flashing through my head that made me see stars.
The griffin hesitated over Clarissa, focus shifting to me. The ring of feathers around its neck mantled like a lion's mane.
Clarissa, scrambling, grabbed onto a railroad tie bordering the side of the path. The parks department re-purposed them to shore up walking trails from erosion. It was basically a mini-log, pounded into the earth. She lifted it, clods of dirt falling away. Swinging, she smacked the griffin so hard it fell to the side.
The griffin was as big as a horse, and she’d used a railroad tie easily half her weight. She’d done it with one hand.
Screaming, Clarissa leaped up and brought the tie down on the griffins head in a death blow.
Reaching her at last, I grabbed her arm and hauled her back. And in that moment I felt, again, the imbalance. It emanated from her shoulder like the representations of black holes I’d seen in science class.
The railroad tie fell from her hand and landed with a thud I felt through the ground. Her eyes were wild. I thought she was going to attack me next.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
Then, she blinked. “Dylan?” She looked at the tie by her feet and stepped back. “Oh, my God. How—?”
“Same way you tossed me across the basement,” I said. “Where’s the pistol?”
“I dropped it. A bullet wasn’t in the chamber. I should have checked,” she babbled. “Why didn’t I check? Oh man, did I really just do that?”
I barely heard her over the shrieking pain in my head. Whatever I had tried to do to stall the griffin had been a bad idea.
The pistol was a couple feet away. I scooped it up and turned to her. “We need to get out of here.”
Visibly pulling herself together, she nodded. “Yeah, no time. Got it.”
We both fell into a jog back down the path. This time, Clarissa kept closer to my side.
I turned back in time to see a silver griffin—the same silver griffin that had fed his nesting mate—swoop down on the dead camouflaged one. Had it been watching us the entire time?
We kept going, though it was more of a fast walk. My head pounded and Clarissa limped.
"What's wrong?" I asked, puffing.
"I think I twisted my knee. It’s not a big deal." But she winced at every jarring step.
To my surprise, we were nearly to the end of the dirt path. I could tell because it turned to gravel as it reached the subdivision. It had taken us half the night to travel this far at night. Less than twenty minutes during the day.
As we recrossed the fire break
, another gunshot sounded in the air.
Clarissa pulled up short and ducked behind a thick stand of bushes.
"What?" I puffed.
Clarissa shook her head. "That last stretch is open space."
She was right. The end of the trail was well kept, and ran between two large houses. A few lots away was the winding driveway to my house. There were a few ornamental trees along each side of the road; short and hearty things meant for Alpine weather. They would provide almost no cover at all.
And worse, much worse, were the two griffins sitting perched on the top of each roof of the two nearest houses. They looked like gargoyles up there. Their attention was turned away from us for now, but that wouldn’t last. As soon as they saw us, they’d attack.
Clarissa pointed to one of the nearby garages not far from the end of the trail. "See that Mini-Cooper in the driveway? Do you think there are keys inside?"
I shook my head. "Doubt it. Plus, the griffins will go for the car the moment it moves." I would never forget what happened to those kids on the mountainside, or being inside the Hummer while they tried to crawl in.
"I'd rather have steel and glass between us and them," she said.
“They can still break in. Trust me.” I looked back the way we had come. I couldn't see the silver griffin. It hadn't bothered to follow us because it was busy eating already dead prey. I’d known they were cannibalistic before, but it was like they preferred to eat each other.
Even after everything I’d been through, a part of me rebelled at the idea forming in my head. There was a difference between self-defense and murder, and I was about to toe that line.
I turned to Clarissa. "Where’s that extra box of bullets?"
She paled. "I left it back in the pioneer cabin."
Crap. Well, no help for it. I looked at the pistol. I think this was the type that held eight bullets in the magazine. Should be plenty.
She watched me carefully. "Have you shot before?"
"On a range." My father thought it would make a man out of me to shoot at paper cut-outs. I was no marksman, but griffins were a big target. And I would only have to wound one.
Luckily, the two perched griffins were faced away from us. One was a dark red, maroon color. Not too far off from the shade of Clarissa's feathers. The other was a nondescript gray.
Blood would show up better against that one.
I took careful aim, standing with one arm supporting the other. My head pounded. Dehydration, exhaustion, or weird magic-kickback, I wasn't sure. But if I wanted to shoot straight I had to ignore it. Breathing out, I forced the pain aside.
The gray griffin lowered its head to nibble at its razor-sharp talons.
I pulled the trigger.
I wasn't sure where the griffin was hit, only that it reared up with an sharp cry of pain. The maroon griffin turned toward it, wings opening.
Clarissa and I didn't wait to see what happened next. We jogged/limped past the houses. Behind us, I heard a squeal from the gray griffin. The maroon had taken the bait.
What did it say about me that I felt a pang of grief?
Sorry, I thought, knowing the griffin—or the person it had been—would never know, or care how I felt. But it was you or me, and... I’m sorry.
****
We kept under the cover of trees as best we could. Once we reached the driveway to my house, the hedges helped hide us a little more.
“If I live long enough and get a home of my own,” Clarissa puffed as we staggered up the incline driveway. “It’s going to be at the bottom of a hill. Not the top. So help me, God.”
Despite everything, I grinned.
Then my house came into view. Clarissa and I stopped in shock. There was no doubt in my mind: We had only managed to get as far as we had because the other local griffins were distracted.
Dozens of griffins in a rainbow of colors surrounded the house. At least seven perched on the roof alone, another few on the garage. The ones that couldn’t fight their way down to a landing spot wheeled, dived, and shrieked at each other.
As I stood, frozen, another gunshot boomed out from within the house. There was someone still alive in there.
Clarissa grabbed my hand. This time, I didn’t feel that black-hole imbalance.
“C’mon!”
My legs screamed at me as I forced myself back into a jog. Breathing hard, it was all I could manage. Clarissa, with her twisted knee, was doing no better.
I stumbled on an uneven rut in the driveway. It only took a second to catch myself, but I’d been noticed. Above, a black and white griffin, patterned like a magpie, cried out excitedly and dove.
Clarissa grabbed the pistol from me and fired. The black and white banked away. I wasn't sure if they understood the concept of bullets, or if the loud bang had startled it just in time. Maybe her aim was just bad.
Others echoed the call and launched themselves from the crowns of cedar trees to join the chase. We had seconds.
Fear gave me new strength. Clarissa, too. We dashed over the last rise of the incline driveway and to the front door.
Locked.
I pounded a fist against it. "Let us in! Terry! Merlot! Anyone!"
Clarissa screamed. I turned.
The black-and-white landed about twenty feet away. It charged at us, beak open to display a raspy tongue.
The door opened behind us. I fell in, pulling Clarissa along, and scrambled back.
"Shut the door! Shut the door!" we yelled.
Ben slammed it shut and fumbled at the bolt. No sooner had the latch turned than an impact shook the door as the griffin crashed against the other side. The heavy wood door jumped within its frame, but held.
Ben stepped away, then turned.
"Clarissa!" He fell onto his sister, who was still on the floor beside me. "I thought you were dead!"
Clarissa struggled to get up. For one moment we were a tangle of awkward, flailing limbs.
I managed to stagger to my feet, and a bolt of pain shot straight through to the back of my head. I leaned against the wall for balance.
Another gunshot boomed through the house. This close, it was shockingly loud—almost louder than the renewed shrieking from outside.
The wooden oak front door rattled again with a cracking sound of splintering wood. The black and white griffin knew we were in here and it wasn't giving up.
Clarissa and I looked at each other.
"Get away from the door," she said.
"Yep."
Clarissa grabbed Ben. Together, we hurried out of the entranceway, through the short hall, and into the formal living room.
"Ben, what's going on?” Clarissa asked.
“It’s Terry! They were on the porch,” Ben said, with little kid logic, “And he said it was us or them. And I didn’t know where you were!”
“Clarissa?” Terry called, probably overhearing. “Is that you?”
He stood in the middle of the formal living room, a long rifle in hand. He turned as we came in. "Where the hell were you two?”
“We left a note," Clarissa said and pointed a finger to the kitchen counter. "It’s right there."
I’m glad she spoke first, because I’d been at a complete loss for words. The place where the sliding glass door that used to go out to the porch was gone. Broken by gunshot. Glass littered the thick carpet. Beyond that were the bodies of at least five griffins. Their still forms contorted, and their blood splattered over the stained deck.
No wonder the griffins were gathering. All that dead, available meat just for the taking.
"What's going on?" I somehow kept my voice level. “Why are you shooting?"
An ugly expression crossed my cousin’s face. "You were gone," he said to Clarissa, ignoring me completely. "And then those things started roosting on our porch. I thought they’d killed you two. What else was I supposed to do?"
“Nothing,” I said. “They didn’t know you were in here.” But they did now.
Finally, Terry looked at me. “Thi
s is our territory. I'm teaching them a lesson: You come here, and you die."
“Yeah, I'm sure they’re really impressed," Lilly said. She stood off to the side, and there were streaks down her cheeks. If I didn't know better, I would've thought she was crying. But not Lilly.
Terry ignored her. “You left with him. What was I supposed to think? I had to take care of the kids somehow.”
I stared. Was he... jealous? Of me?
“Terry, it’s not like that,” I said.
I wish it was.
Another thud came from the direction of the front door, hard enough to rattle the house. The black and white griffin was still on the hunt.
"What's that?” Merlot asked, whirling in that direction. As usual, Jane watched us from the safety of her arms.
Terry turned to us both. "You led them right to the front door, didn't you? What the hell were you thinking?”
"What were we thinking? Clarissa's voice raised to a shriek. "You just set out a buffet for those monsters.”
"Good! I'll shoot them, too!" Terry said. “They’re animals, every single one of them. And they need to know our house is off limits."
This was all falling apart. "Terry, stop. Think,” I said. “They were just sunning outside. They didn't even know we were in here!"
"Well you've changed that, haven't you? I was showing them that if they landed here, they died. You—" He broke off at the sound of splintering wood. The black and white griffin must have given up on the front door. It came crawling up the back porch, instead.
All of us stepped back, except Terry. He calmly raised the rifle. "They eat their own. Isn't that right, Lilly?"
For once, Lilly had nothing to say. Her eyes were wide, her lips white around the edges. Scared. Brash, cold, Lilly was actually frightened.
The black and white pounced on one of the mangled bodies. Hooking its talons into a brown griffin, it started tugging it away. Not to save the other dead bird, I was sure, but to eat in peace. It had forgotten about us completely.
Under Wicked Sky: Book 1 Page 12