“Your bravery will never be forgotten, Guardian Mika,” Celeste said.
I blinked away my tears and acknowledged my success. I’d done it. I’d saved the dormant gargoyles and healed a baetyl. I’d earned the title the gargoyles had bestowed upon me.
“My name is Mika Stillwater. I am a gargoyle guardian,” I whispered, feeling the truth of my words resonate through my spirit. Joy sang in my veins when I turned to Marcus. “And I want to get busy living.”
I leaned toward him and he met me halfway, a smile on his lips when we kissed.
Epilogue
The baetyl chased us off Reaper’s Ridge. By the time Marcus had repaired the sled, its malevolent, squeezing pressure had inflicted us both with splitting headaches. Jittery with a need to leave, I stumbled to collect our gear and shooed Oliver into the air to meet us down the mountain where it was safer. Celeste stayed only because she had to pull the sled, and she huddled in a tight knot, pain pinching her face. Marcus settled the loop of rope around Celeste’s chest as I was crawling into the back of the hovering sled, and she set off, shoulders hunched, the moment he joined me.
In terse silence, Marcus twined his fingers through mine, and we clutched the sides of the sled for balance with our free hands as Celeste galloped down the jagged slope, following the path of least resistance. I twisted to watch the tunnel entrance disappear, jaw clenched against the escalating pain hammering against the inside of my skull.
When a fold in the hillside hid the opening from view, my breath hitched at my unexpected grief. I’d never see the baetyl again—never again be a part of its awesome, terrifying power. Tears blurred my vision as I glanced down to my hand intertwined with Marcus’s. I wasn’t the same woman who had climbed Reaper’s Ridge. The sparkling amethyst scars in my pale flesh and the twin carnelian hexagons on my shoulder blades were my only visible souvenirs, but the baetyl had wrought changes in me that went far deeper. For a few brief moments, I’d been so much more than a singular person in a tiny, fragile body. I’d been linked with a truly ancient entity, privy to spectacular secrets beyond the scope of human understanding.
I mourned the loss of that connection far more than the loss of the baetyl’s power.
Marcus squeezed my hand. “Are you okay?” he shouted, the wind whipping his words away.
I nodded because it was easier than trying to explain, especially while being jounced around the back of the sled during our breakneck descent.
The faster Celeste ran, the tighter my fear ratcheted. I checked over my shoulder repeatedly, every time expecting to spot a ravenous monster barreling down on us. It was only the irrationality of my growing panic that helped me see it for what it really was: another of the baetyl’s natural defenses awakening. Knowing my escalating terror was generated by the baetyl did nothing to calm me. I’d been a part of its immense power—playing off my unconscious fears was the least of what it could do.
Marcus released my hand to pull his crossbow from his bag and lay it across his lap, eyes scanning for the enemy his brain told him would appear at any moment.
“It’s not real. It’s the baetyl.”
“I know, but this helps,” he said, and I realized he hadn’t notched an arrow.
Gradually, the agony in my temples subsided, along with the hunted feeling that had lodged between my shoulder blades. Celeste slowed to a less hazardous speed, but she didn’t stop to rest. Lulled by her steady footsteps and the cessation of pain, I closed my eyes, jolting awake when my body tilted.
“Why don’t you lie down?” Marcus suggested.
He scooted to the front of the sled to sit sideways behind the driver’s box, one arm draped over the seat so he could lean against it. Until a healer could mend the lacerations on his back, resting against his side was probably the most comfortable position he could attain. I stretched out with my head pillowed on Marcus’s pack and closed my eyes.
Without distractions, my new ability to sense the location of gargoyles pushed to the forefront of my awareness. They registered in my mind as unique bundles of energy, Celeste larger, based on her proximity, and Oliver smaller and distant as he circled in the sky. More faintly still were the six gargoyles inside the mountain behind me.
I could locate the baetyl with my eyes closed.
The thought pulled me from the edge of sleep. With this new power, I could detect any baetyl if I was close enough. I might not be able to get through its defenses, but I would be able to point right to it. It was the kind of knowledge people like Walter would kill for.
But no one would ever know. It would be my secret.
I woke at the abandoned Hidden Cache train station. The solid weight of Oliver pressed against my left side from my head to my feet, and his sunrise-orange eyes glowing less than a foot from my face were the first things I saw. I smiled and reached for him, groaning when the movement set off my body’s litany of complaints. Oliver pressed his face into my palm and closed his eyes in contentment. The sun had passed its zenith, and Celeste didn’t slow as she crossed the tracks, trotting across the quiet meadow on a narrow trail cut through the weeds by giant cerberi feet.
“Where are we going?” I asked, sitting up.
Marcus hadn’t moved from his seat at the front of the sled, and the dark hollows under his eyes told me he hadn’t gotten any rest, either.
“To see a man about a sled,” he said.
The thought of seeing Gus’s face when we showed up on his doorstep made me grin. “He’s going to be outraged that we’re not dead.”
Marcus scoffed with feigned indignation. “As if something as feeble as Reaper’s Ridge could kill us.”
He couldn’t hide his pained grimace when he shifted, but that didn’t stop him from closing the distance between us and brushing a kiss across my lips. My heart sped in my chest, and I leaned into him, savoring the contact.
“Um, I’m going to fly around a bit,” Oliver said, launching from the back of the sled. He dipped toward the earth, caught himself, and flapped upward into a long, lazy circle around us.
“We really should be headed toward a healer,” I said.
“We are. Gus lives in a town with a small FPD base. It’s how I was able to hire him on such short notice. Anyway, bases always have a healer on staff.”
“Okay, healer, then Gus.”
“Gus first. I’m not giving the scrawny bastard a chance to slip away.”
“Good point. How much farther?”
“If Celeste can keep this pace up, another three or four hours.”
I winced in sympathy. It would be faster than going back to Terra Haven, even if we had a train lined up at the abandoned station to pick us up, but it was still a long time for him to suffer.
“Do we have any greenthread left?” I asked.
I took Marcus’s grunt as a yes and rummaged through his pack, retrieving a depressingly small roll of lamb’s ear leaves and a mostly empty bottle of greenthread.
“Turn around so I can lift your shirt,” I ordered.
He obliged and bunched his shirt into his armpits. The strips of previously gray cloth holding the lamb’s ear bandages to his back were now blackened with dried blood and caked with a crusty green substance that alarmed me until I realized it was greenthread, not infection. I had to soak the bandages before I could remove them; then I dabbed on the last of the greenthread and layered the lamb’s ear leaves over his flayed back.
While I worked, Celeste loped across mile after mile. Oliver returned to the sled every time he saw something he deemed amazing—a field of bright orange poppies, a dairy farm, a flock of cockatrices—and I vowed to take him on a vacation so he could see more of the world than Terra Haven. I envisioned trips that included Marcus, our combined magic keeping Oliver healthy even in the most remote locations. Plus, the thought of having Marcus all to myself, without either of us in crisis or injured, sounded divine.
I wasn’t surprised when Marcus nodded off, his head pillowed on the driver’s seat, greenthread n
umbing what had to be the excruciating pain of his wounds. I stayed next to him, ready to catch him if he tipped toward his back in his sleep, and I watched the rounded foothills flow past and the weed-clogged trail grow into a slender dirt road, content to turn my brain off for a while.
My gaze returned frequently to Reaper’s Ridge, its white peak prominent despite the increasing distance between us. I couldn’t decide which amazed me more: its quiet, storm-free expanse or the fact that I had not only climbed the ridge and survived, but I also could claim half the credit for disbanding all the deadly storms. The presence of the hidden baetyl ensured the ridge still wasn’t safe for humans, but with its protective measures functioning correctly again, now people would be turned aside instead of killed.
Marcus jerked awake at sunset, making a quick assessment of the sled, the hills, me, and everything in between before relaxing again. Then he kissed me long and hard so I “wouldn’t forget.”
“Forget what?” I asked breathlessly.
“Me. You forgot me after Focal Park—”
“I did not!”
“And I don’t want that to happen again, so . . .”
His second kiss lasted longer than the first, and I was almost disappointed when we reached the outskirts of a town a few minutes later. Nestled in a narrow valley and flanked by a patchwork of vineyards, it appeared far too picturesque to house Gus in its midst, though Marcus assured me we were in the right place.
Oliver returned to the sled, landing gracefully on the driver’s seat. He bunched his body to fit on the narrow bench, and coils of his tail spilled to the floor, the red-orange carnelian gleaming in the final rays of the setting sun. By the time Celeste marched us through downtown, twilight had settled over the sleepy streets, but the sight of a gargoyle pulling a sled that appeared to be driven by another gargoyle drew people out to the walkways and windows to gawk as we passed. Marcus and I got as many curious stares, most likely because we looked like avalanche victims, recently freed from the rubble.
Marcus pointed out the Federal Pentagon Defense base tucked behind the main street. Its high adobe walls and towers peppered with arrow slits loomed over the graceful architecture of the rest of the town, hearkening to a more dangerous era. So long as it included a healer and a working shower, I didn’t care how militant it looked.
“Are you sure—” I started to ask, attuned to Marcus’s growing stiffness as the last of the greenthread’s numbness wore off.
“Gus first,” he growled.
“Gus first,” Oliver echoed, but his attempt at sounding menacing came out musical.
Marcus directed Celeste to a tiny, secluded cottage, where climbing roses coated the whitewashed siding, and pink and white blooms cascaded from the shingle roof to the diamond-pane windows. It even had a white picket fence wrapping the flower-filled front yard. I’d pictured Gus living in a rotting lean-to, most likely next to a stream that served as his drinking water, lavatory, and once-a-month bathwater. Or better yet, in a cave, where he slept piled atop his cerberi.
“Are you sure this is it?” I asked.
As if in response to my question, a chorus of howls emanated from behind the cottage, the harmony of three throats unmistakably a cerberus’s. More howls joined the first only to be cut off abruptly at a sharp whistle.
“This is the place,” Marcus said. He jumped down, and the tightening of his jaw was the only indication he gave that the movement hurt his back.
I wasn’t half as graceful or prideful. My body had stiffened at every joint, and I groaned my way to the ground, clutching the side of the sled as I worked blood back into my feet and convinced my thighs they needed to support me. Beneath my shirt, dried greenthread and lamb’s ear leaves crunched, and brown and green dust sifted from my cuffs and untucked hem. I ran a hand through my hair, futilely attempting to comb out the snarls, and settled for tucking dirt-coated strawberry-blond chunks behind my ears. I started to pat the dust off my pants but froze when I heard Gus’s voice.
“Damn idiot woman had that FPD fella twisted around her pinkie finger. Not that I blame him; she was a looker, but no piece of tail is worth risking your hide on Reaper’s Ridge.” His voice floated around the side of the house, and I straightened, expecting to see him saunter into sight. His next words were inaudible, but his cackle set my teeth on edge. When a few other men joined him, I realized Gus must be entertaining out back.
“I disagree,” Marcus whispered. “You’re exactly the kind of piece of tail that’s worth risking Reaper’s Ridge for.”
I snorted and rolled my eyes.
Oliver hopped from the seat, using his wings to glide to a silent landing. Even full grown, he wouldn’t reach half Celeste’s height, but his short stature didn’t preclude him from looking fierce when he bristled his orange ruff and stiffened every spike along his spine. Gus’s house should have gone up in flames from the heat of his glare alone.
Celeste’s indignation had nothing to do with Gus’s insulting conversation and everything to do with having been witnessed in her debasing role as a pack animal by half the town. The moment we stopped, she yanked free of the rope and stalked away from the sled, tail lashing. I followed her on hobbling steps.
“Thank you, Celeste. It would have taken us days to reach here without your help,” I said.
She trained her hard amethyst eyes on me, nodding fractionally. Twelve hours of almost nonstop running against the loose rope had chafed a raw line into the onyx and amethyst feathers across her chest, and I healed the wounds with her consent. Despite her stiff posture, exhaustion weighted her body. After I assured her we would be fine without her assistance, she flapped heavily toward the FPD base, her black and purple body disappearing against the darkening sky.
We left the sled and circled the house, guided by the ambient light of the rising moon and the flicker of flames around the corner. Oliver loped at my side, wings tight to his body but his expression baleful enough to remind me of the apparitional gargoyles inside the baetyl.
“So here’s this city twit with a fool notion of taming the ridge with a bunch of dud gargoyles,” Gus continued, oblivious to our approach. “All of them were frozen stiff, and you couldn’t lift a pitcher of water with the boost they gave off, but that wasn’t going to stop her.”
“No one ever accused anyone out of Terra Haven of having two thoughts to rub together to keep warm,” a different male voice chimed in.
“They ain’t got any money sense, either, praise the gods,” Gus said with a chuckle. “Between delivering them to the ridge and what I’ll earn when I pick up their corpses, I’ll be building a new kennel before winter. Bless those poor, dead idiots.”
The rumble of masculine laughter swelled. I almost felt like joining in when we rounded the corner and Gus caught sight of us. He choked on an inhalation and clutched his chest through a wracking coughing fit, never taking his round eyes off us. Or rather, never taking his eyes off me.
Oliver glowed in the firelight like liquid flame reshaped into an enraged dragon, and he hissed at Gus with undisguised animosity. On my other side, Marcus loomed, looking every inch the FPD warrior and equally as irate as Oliver. Without taking another step, he filled the empty space of the tiny patio and seemed to crowd the three men sitting around a small terra-cotta fire pit. Next to him, I should have been invisible, but Gus stared at me with the fixated disbelief of a man seeing a ghost.
The two other men jerked straight in their chairs. Both rivaled Gus in age, though the years had been kinder to them. Unlike Gus, they sized up my companions first, and the larger fellow’s hand fell away from the heavy dagger at his waist when he met Marcus’s hard eyes.
“Friends of yours, Gus?” the skinnier man asked. He clamped a cigar between his teeth and leaned back in contrived nonchalance, his eyes flicking back and forth between Oliver and Marcus.
“We’re just three corpses come back to collect our due,” Marcus said. He spoke softly, which only tightened the tension in the other men.
>
Gus finally looked at Marcus, and his breathing calmed to a wheeze. Shaking his head, he grabbed a glass bottle near his foot and took a swig of its amber contents. “You’ve got nothing to collect here.”
“We had a deal.”
Gus’s companions flinched at the ice in Marcus’s tone, but Gus waved his words aside. “You said you’d return the sled after you went up Reaper’s Ridge. Yet here you are—”
“Yes, here we are,” I said, stepping forward to draw Gus’s attention back to me. My movement played the firelight across the shimmery amethyst scars on the backs of my hands, and the skinny man’s mouth dropped open, freeing his cigar to roll down his chest to his lap. He stared, unaware, for several seconds before leaping to his feet with a curse and patting down the smoldering front of his pants.
Gus’s face had lost some color, but he continued gamely. “So you have some sense after all, girl. How far up Reaper’s did you get before you turned tail?”
“To the top. I really don’t know what all the fuss was about. After we dispersed the storms, it was a pleasant hike and a great view.”
“Dispersed the storms,” he scoffed, but his gaze shifted to look over my shoulder toward Reaper’s Ridge.
Up until yesterday, even from this distance, the wild flares of firestorms and sporadic lightning would have been visible on a clear night like this. Tonight, only the faint outlines of the dark hills against the starry sky defined the mountains, Reaper’s Ridge just one among many shadowy peaks.
“Well, I’ll be . . .” said the heavyset man, standing and squinting in disbelief.
“That’s impossible,” Gus said.
“Maybe for people around here, but not for a girl from Terra Haven.” I couldn’t resist the taunt. “Now, I believe you owe us some money.”
Gus glowered at me, and I could practically see the gears turning behind his cagey eyes. He stood, spat to the side, and clapped his stained brown cowboy hat to his head. “I’ll need to inspect that sled. If it’s damaged . . .”
Secret of the Gargoyles (Gargoyle Guardian Chronicles Book 3) Page 18