Drynn

by Steve Vera

  Tarsidion flung his AK-47 on the pavement and howled. Gavin closed his eyes.

  “Where’s Cirena?” Noah asked.

  Gavin pointed to the back of the GMC with his head, fists clenched in anguish. Tarsidion dropped to a knee, dipped his head and shook it back and forth while praying fervently. Skip couldn’t help but cringe. A swath of blistering skin ran from the base of Tarsidion’s neck to his chest and branched out to his shoulders. He was lucky his motorcycle jacket hadn’t fused to his skin. How is it that you’re not screaming in pain? Skip could take fractures, lacerations or even internal bleeding, but burns were the worst. He hated burns.

  “We have maybe a couple of hours until nightfall,” Noah said. “Then he will return, though hopefully with less strength.”

  An army of sirens caterwauled the distance, and Skip could hear the distinct air-beating sound of an approaching helicopter. Helicopters.

  Gavin walked quickly to the limousine and peered inside. Ray, Max and Amanda stared back like three shell-shocked kittens afraid to come out of their box. Raymond’s blood was everywhere; he was going to need surgery if he wanted to keep that arm.

  “Come on,” Gavin said in a toneless, quiet voice. “We have to run.”

  Skip stood back as Gavin helped them out of the limousine and into the Suburban, his eyes darting around them at the approach of the sirens. Skip noticed a lone black Charger idling roughly two hundred yards away. He couldn’t remember if it had been there before or if it had just arrived, but in the one minute and thirty-seven second stretch it had taken from the moment of his stopping his car to the present two car motorcade of Audi and Suburban, not one other car had passed them.

  Except for the Challenger.

  He could see a figure sitting inside, but the distance and sun glare forbade details, though Skip thought he might have seen a glint of sun on red, like…sunglasses.

  The sirens and thumping helicopter rotors were growing in octave. For just a second, Skip was tempted to just say, “All right guys, I’m all set, lemme know how it turns out,” but then he was bowing into the GMC after Raymond. Inside, the anguish was thick, as were Raymond’s moans. Seatbelts clicked, smeared with blood, the ignition roared and then they were speeding off.

  Behind them, sirens wailed.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  They drove in silence. The pall that had hung over them for the last hour was finally beginning to dissipate, though a thick residue remained over their hearts and thoughts. Lost in separate universes, each of them stared out the Escalade windows into the gray world beyond.

  With numb interest, Gavin listened to the deejay comment on the alert put out by the Emergency Broadcast System, warning citizens that an unknown “animal” was on the loose, to stay off the roads and to call the police of anything even remotely suspicious. According to the deejay, some civilian had gotten a chunk of their highway fight on a cell phone and had uploaded it to YouTube. Five hundred thousand hits and rising. Gavin shut off the radio.

  The scene at his house had been a symphony of controlled chaos and efficiency. In thirteen minutes they’d packed all they could, rearmed and were out. Gone. He’d imagined his last day in his home more thoughtful, with time to neatly fold his memories and put them in the drawers of his mind, but that concept, just like all the others, had been flung to the wayside.

  There were only six of them now. In the midst of the flurry, Gavin had had to make a decision: to split up the group or not. The police were looking for Max. His name was plastered all over the news because the limousine belonged to the “senior vice president of Dexcom,” and Gavin was as afraid of the authorities of this world catching scent of Theia as he was Asmodeous making it back home. Well, almost. Images of African slave trips blew through his mind. The other reason was that Ray was hurt so badly. The tendons in his rotator cuff were shredded, his ulna and radius absolutely shattered; if he ever wanted to use that arm again, he was going to need a hospital and a bag full of pins. So Gavin had decided to use Max as a diversion while at the same time saving his employer’s ass. And Ray’s too.

  “Tell me again where we’re going,” Skip said from the back seat.

  Gavin hadn’t said in the first place. He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Fall-back position,” he answered.

  “There you go, being vague again.”

  Their eyes met in the mirror. “Just sit back and enjoy the foliage. We’ll be there soon enough.”

  Gavin sensed a retort but it fizzled away. With a sigh through his nostrils, Skip sat back and joined the others in silent tumult.

  Cirena was still unconscious. They’d pulled down the left side seat of the Escalade so she could lay down, her long legs bent in the trunk of the SUV. There was a watery fricativeness around each of her breaths that worried Gavin, as if a fistful of phlegm was playing Ping-Pong in her throat, as well as the blistering burns that beaded her normally porcelain skin. Every once in a while Tarsidion would stroke her hair, eyes still closed, and murmur old incantations from their Apprentice days, the most basic of healing spells. And for a moment, a single wisp of light would trickle from his fingers into her cheek. Her eyes would flutter, the slightest tremor of a smile would pull at her lips and then she would sink back to sleep. Skip seemed impressed even with this token amount of magic.

  Gavin glanced to his right. Even though Amanda was turned away from him, the glimpse of the back of her jawline told him all he needed to know. She was in shock. Listless. Her face was a swollen, mottled bruise. She hadn’t said a single thing since the highway. A tremor of fear, not of horror, but of shame and failure wormed its way into Gavin’s guts.

  She will never be the same.

  Gavin shook it off. He couldn’t afford to get sidetracked now—there was too much at stake. Forward. Victory. Now there were two worlds to take into account.

  The gray sky faded ingloriously to a bleak twilight. It lingered there for twelve miles or so and then drifted into a windy, starless night that just continued to get darker. At seven-thirty it felt like midnight at the end of the world. Once they turned off Interstate 87, all the roads were winding and quiet. The already light traffic plummeted. Perhaps it was because of the EBS warning, or maybe it was just because people knew that the world was not safe tonight—either way, it was desolate out.

  They approached a signal light swinging lifelessly in the night air. The three dark circles within the soft, angled, rectangular contraption looked like the eye sockets of some extinct race’s skull, a totem pole warning trespassers, Abandon hope all ye who enter here…Looking to his left, he noticed no light coming from a solitary streetlight either. Like a single flag mounted on Neptune, it stood alone and forgotten, claiming the pavement in which it penetrated in the name of “why bother?”

  “Power’s out here, too,” Noah observed, voicing the unspoken.

  Gavin drove slowly under the dead light, could hear it groan above them as it fought and pushed against the wind. Driving and watching at the same time, he peered out at the darkness, chest tight as he scanned for a trace of their enemy. Could he be here already?

  He looked out at the barren night. All Gavin saw were dark windows and swirling leaves. The few homes they did pass looked like relics of times past, no longer mundane but extraordinary in their brooding mystery.

  Gavin slapped at a tentacle of fear squirming up from his belly.

  Now is not the time to get superstitious.

  *

  A feeling o
f déjà vu settled around Skip’s sphincter. Those little reflectors on the sides of the road winked at him as the Escalade wound deeper into the hills.

  At least it wasn’t snowing.

  Accustomed to the majesty of the Rocky Mountains, Skip was surprised to be intimidated by these dwarf cousins, these bumps in the ground, as they were called in the West. The round, wooded hills seemed to lean over the road, frowning down on the Escalade traversing their moonless shadows and windblown leaves.

  The narrow road branched off one last time onto a street without a signpost. It was then that Skip realized it wasn’t a street at all, but a very long driveway. At least a quarter mile. As they hugged one final turn, their destination came into view.

  It was a castle.

  Proud, somber and dignified, the Bastion (he’d heard them talking about it) awaited like a great, faithful guard dog, rearing its head as the masters returned. The moment the Escalade crossed onto the grounds through an automatic gateway, the light posts on both sides of the driveway came to life slowly. Even Amanda perked up upon entry.

  “I keep thinking I’ve seen it all,” Skip murmured, sitting up in his seat. It felt like they’d just entered a long-lost section of Bruges, Belgium. The thick barricaded gates shut slowly behind them as they coasted to a stop in the U-shaped driveway.

  Nobody moved.

  On top of the middle turret, watching like a spire was a gargoyle.

  “No, Skip,” Tarsidion said and opened his door, his leather jacket creaking through the smell of blistered skin. “You have definitely not seen it all. Welcome to the Bastion.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  On any other day, seeing a gargoyle up close and personal would be something worth writing about. It still was, Skip supposed, but after smelling a Drynn lord’s spit, Skip wasn’t all that impressed. In fact, now that Skip’s wow factor was immunized, there was something almost noble about the grotesque creature. It was big, but not huge, about as tall as Gavin or Skip, leanly muscled with wings that wrapped around its shoulders like a kind of cape. It even had a tuft of hair dangling from its snout that looked very much like a beard. Had it not been for the two horns curling over its head from its temples, it might have appeared civilized. Almost.

  All right, maybe a little wow factor.

  “Well met, masters,” the creature said in English with a deep bow. “All is ready at the Bastion.” It had a very throaty, rumbling voice, which made Skip think of a sepulcher. At their arrival it had swooped down from the center turret over the main part of the structure, a keep, if you will, and had let them in through a huge pair of arched, metal doors made to look wooden by well-crafted panels of cherrybark oak. They were actually steel.

  Inside those double doors was an inner courtyard topped by a high, vaulted ceiling and long, narrow skylights. A great, elegant chandelier hung over them, comprised of supple bronze branches, each ending in sculpted cups of crystal willow leaves. Tongues of flame danced within each cup and cast a light that was warm and welcoming.

  “Well met, Sikomi,” Gavin responded and placed his right hand on the creature’s left shoulder.

  The gargoyle returned the gesture just as naturally as Mr. Jones down the street. Of course, Mr. Jones didn’t have such sharp-looking claws and teeth, but hey, it was a brave new world.

  As for Amanda…she took it well. Too well. There was something diminished about her reaction altogether. Instead of wonder or even fear, a dull glaze hung over her face like a gray cloud that separated her from reality. She looked like she was about to fall over, her eyes unfocused and faraway.

  “Where is Sur Juekovelin?” it asked.

  “Taken,” Tarsidion said, barreling past them, Cirena in his arms. He strode deeper into the castle. “But we shall soon retrieve him,” his voice announced, floating back to them.

  The three others looked at each other anxiously.

  “Your presence here can mean only one thing, Sur Stavengre,” the gargoyle said. Not bad pronunciation for a monster, if Skip didn’t say so himself.

  “Yes, our worst nightmares are realized,” Gavin said as Tarsidion pushed open a set of double doors with his booted foot. “Asmodeous is free.”

  A shudder ran through the creature, right up to its eyes, but then dissipated. “Ainima?” it asked. He asked. Whatever asked.

  Gavin shook his head.

  The stony skin between its eyes bunched and creased then smoothed. “We will be prepared. I will see to the defenses.” It turned its attention to the visitors. “Who are your guests?”

  “Sikomi, this is Amanda and Skip. Amanda and Skip, this is Sikomi. The last gargoyle on Earth.”

  As introductions went, that one went on Skip’s all-time strange list. Hoping that offering a hand wasn’t the equivalent of flipping the bird in gargoylian, Skip extended his hand.

  Sikomi stared at it, once again the skin between his eyes creasing, and then extended its own clawed hand to grasp Skip’s.

  “Not too hard,” Skip warned as the creature’s power poured into its grip. Its fingers were hard and coarse like rocks, and Skip was thankful it didn’t push its talons into the top of his hand. It quickly released and then turned to Amanda. This time it was Sikomi who offered the hand.

  “He’s a friend,” Gavin said softly.

  A flicker of life pierced the haze in her eyes as she accepted the clawed hand in hers. He was gentle.

  “There may be another intruder,” Gavin continued when they disengaged.

  The gargoyle turned questioningly.

  Gavin showed him the same picture he’d been using all day. “If you see this man, bring him to me. If he resists…” Gavin’s eyes turned to steel. “Kill him.”

  “As you wish, Sur Stavengre.” After a thoughtful nod, Sikomi launched into the air with a fwoosh of his wings.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and suddenly they were speed-walking after Tarsidion.

  “Who’s Sir Juekovelin?” Skip asked, matching Gavin stride for stride. “Jack?”

  Gavin nodded.

  “You guys are knights?”

  Another nod.

  “Like Sir Lancelot?”

  “Part,” Noah said from his left. “But we are Magi, Skip. Shardyn. We fight with both steel and magic.”

  Ah, the deluxe version.

  Skip followed him through a maze of gray stone corridors that intertwined elegant beauty and functionality seamlessly. On his left were long portraits of mystical landscapes. On his right, vertical tapestries hung between sconces masterfully sculpted to look like willow trees. Within the crystal, foliated cups danced naked, smokeless flames. Skip was in a real, live castle.

  The doors at the end of the hallway opened up by themselves, and even before they stepped into the room, warm light greeted them. Skip heard running water. “Now this is how you do it.”

  It wasn’t a room; it was a frickin’ chamber—it could have held an entire symphony. The ceiling had to be at least twenty feet high, domed not square, and though the stone used was a deep purple-gray, somehow Skip was reminded of a planetarium. Dominating the back wall was a tasteful fusion of east and west—a dojo enclosed in shōji walls, preceded by a large basin and fountain that was grand enough to not be swallowed by the vastness of the room. It murmured a soothing, endless cycle of splashing water. Above, three great, ornate chandeliers poured down golden light like honey.

  It was a fusion of medieval elegance, Japanese serenity and some other culture Skip couldn’t identify—probably Theian.

  Tarsidion didn’t even pause. He strode right through to the other side, the heels of his boots audible even throug
h the thick carpet that adorned the floor, and right out a massive oak door on the western wall.

  When they finally arrived at what had to be the Bastion’s medical room, Tarsidion went for the first of eight beds and lay Cirena down on it as gently as if she were a child. This room, just like everything else here, was big. The walls were a soft chocolate-brown, painted to resemble quartz, and the room smelled of incense. Warm firelight dancing from sconces placed around the room, complemented by brown recessed lighting fixtures. At the head of the room was a big black desk with trays brimming with medical equipment on both sides.

  Gavin unzipped Cirena’s boots while Noah carefully unbuttoned her shirt, carefully peeling her out of it.

  Skip had to fight the urge to jump in. As a PJ, he’d been trained to hunt and heal. He went to check on Amanda instead. She stood alone, staring at them, her jaw slightly open.

  “Hanging in there?” he asked in a gentle baritone.

  She gave a slight nod.

  “Why don’t you sit down and let me have a look at you.”

  There was still some life left in those hazel eyes, and after a moment’s deliberation she acquiesced and sat.

  “He sure did a number on you, huh?” Skip asked, delicately moving her face from side to side, aghast. How could somebody hit a face like this? She had a square jawline that was strong and smooth, a full mouth that was split in two places and high cheekbones marred by broken blood vessels and internal bruising. She still had all her teeth, which was always a good thing, and though she looked terrible, she was battered but not damaged. Physically, at least. “Anything else hurt besides your face?”

  “Back of my head,” she said softly.