by Cory Barclay
“You’ve already met Kaiko,” Geddon said, then threw his hands out in a grand gesture toward the girl. “And this is Selestria.”
“Elf?” Steve asked.
Geddon scoffed and smacked Steve across the back of the head. “Have you no manners, man?”
Steve scowled at Geddon, rubbing the pain away. “Ow,” he said, his brows narrowing. His face softened and he stuck his hand out. “My apologies, Miss Selestria.”
The girl—who could have been fifteen or fifty—gave Steve a wry smile. It was almost flirtatious, in Steve’s eyes. She didn’t seem to mind his affront.
“Pleasure, Steven Remington. Please, call me Sela.”
“You can call me Steve.”
After a pause, she said, “Nymph.”
“Huh?”
“You thought I was an elf? You were close, in a way, but I’m a nymph.” She smiled again, her mouth curving in a way that made Steve want to kiss it. He could tell this wasn’t from some inner power, like the seductiveness of Scarlet the succubus. Rather, she was simply a beautiful, alluring woman. She didn’t need special powers to seduce Steve. He was easily seduce-able.
Steve heard a purr he thought came from inside him, then saw the black cat saunter in through the doorway. It perched against a wall, licking itself. It had a white spot on its belly.
“That is our resident feline friend, Misty,” Geddon said.
Steve ignored the cat, his eyes still stuck on Selestria. He would have to ask Geddon what nymphs could do—he thought they were pixies of some kind. Before he could ask, he noticed a big map splayed on the table, from edge to edge.
Walking up to it, Steve said, “Ooh, what have we here? Battle plans?”
It was a map of the landscape of Southern California, but with the name Soreltris stamped across the top. Lines sectioned off the northern section—above Los Angeles—the southern side—below Tijuana—and further east, into Mexico.
There were dots and little rocks placed at points on the map: one rock signified their base of operation. Another was next to the bay. Another was on the thin strip of land on the other side of the bay. There was a small pebble placed in the heart of Downtown San Diego.
“Something like that,” Geddon said. He swiped the rocks off the map. “You don’t need to worry about it.”
He’s not one of us. Constantin’s stinging words rushed through Steve’s mind, his self-pity starting anew. “Aww, come on,” he whined, “can’t someone freaking tell me what’s going on here?”
“What’s going on?” Geddon echoed. He took the map by the edges and rolled it up. He was playing dumb, clearly, and Steve didn’t like it.
Steve waved his arms around the building. “Yeah, why are the three of you standing over a map with strategically placed rocks on it? Why do you have a bodyguard out front? And what the hell were you looking for at the art gallery today?”
Geddon frowned. If he had hoped Steve had forgotten about that little incident, he was sorely mistaken.
“What do you mean, ‘what were we looking for’?” Geddon asked, continuing his play of ignorance.
Steve sighed. “Don’t play stupid with me, Geddy.” He thrust his finger toward Kaiko. “This little dude said, ‘It’s not here,’ and I don’t think he was talking about his pet rock.”
“Hey, braddah, don’t call me that—I’m standing right here,” Kaiko said in his Hawaiian accent.
“Call you what?”
“Little dude.”
Steve held out his hand in front of Kaiko, as if presenting him at a car show. “You’re a dude . . . and you’re little. I’m sorry. Jesus, I never expected Mythics to be so PC.”
Kaiko growled, clenched his fists, and took a step forward. Geddon put his hand on Kaiko’s chest, stopping him. Even Misty, in the corner, jumped to her four feet and hissed at Steve, her fur going on end.
“What’s gotten into you, Steve? Quit acting like such a child,” Geddon said. “Kaiko might be compact, but he could kick your ass—so apologize to him, before I let him.”
Steve had been ready to bump chests with Kaiko, even though he was sure Geddon wasn’t lying—the little dude was short but wiry. Steve hadn’t worked out a single muscle in his body during his entire stay on Mythicus. And now that his rush of adrenaline had passed, his whole body seemed to deflate. “I’m sorry,” he said, weakly, “I’m upset about the situation with Annabel.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Geddon said in a sympathetic tone. He moved his hand from Kaiko’s chest to Steve’s shoulder. “For now, why don’t you get some rest? There’s an empty room in the back.”
Steve looked up with sad eyes. “So, you won’t tell me what you were trying to find and steal at the gallery?”
“It’s best you don’t know, my friend.”
Steve frowned.
Tree-Trunk Barns appeared under the archway. He stood still for a long while, staring blankly at the quartet, like he’d forgotten why he’d stepped into the room.
“Yes, Barns?” Geddon finally asked.
“Messenger’s arrived, with a letter.”
“Did you see him in?”
Barns shook his head. “He took off as quick as he gave me the letter.”
“What does it say?” There was a bit of irritation in Geddon’s voice.
Barns had seemingly memorized the letter. He stood straight, like a soldier giving a report to a field marshal, and said, “Bayfog Cliffs, when the moon is at its peak.”
Geddon caressed his chin in a thoughtful pose. “Hmm, very good, Barns. You may return to your post.”
“Are we going to go?” Barns asked.
Geddon glanced out the corner of his eye at Steve, in a quick way, as if he hoped Steve wouldn’t see it. But it backfired. Steve noticed the glance, while Barns remained dumbfounded. Clearly, Geddon did not want Steve to be privy to whatever was going on here.
Which made Steve want to know even more.
“Come on,” Steve said. “Do you not trust me?”
“Should I?”
Steve was taken aback. “You’re my Myth Maker, Geddy! I sure hope so. That practically makes us kin!”
Everyone in the room gasped—Kaiko’s eyes went wide, mouth ajar; Sela’s hands covered her lips; Barns growled. All eyes turned to Steve.
His face reddened. Somehow, what he’d said offended, apparently, everyone.
Geddon’s usually jolly face twisted in a grimace. “It doesn’t make us kin, Steve Remington. Just because I brought you to this plane doesn’t mean you’re my brother.”
“Then why did you bring me?”
Geddon hesitated. “To help you.”
“Out of pity?” Steve asked. He was flustered and frustrated. Geddon hesitated again. Before he could answer, Steve said, “Come on, Geddy, you have no reason not to trust me—”
“I have no reason to trust you, either.”
“Let me prove my worth.” Steve tried to speak with finality, putting as much hopefulness in his voice as he could muster.
It must have worked, because Geddon stopped and turned to his friends to gauge their opinions. He received a nod from Sela, a shrug from Barns, a snort from Kaiko, and a hiss from Misty.
The nod-shrug-snort-hiss must have been enough. “Fine,” Geddon said at last, “but don’t speak out of hand, don’t wander around by yourself, and don’t make a fool of us.”
“I think I can do all that.”
“In fact, just be a shadow—don’t do anything unless told.”
“Deal.” After a moment of quiet, Steve said, “Where are we going?”
It wasn’t until the five of them were outside the mission and around the back, untying the reins from their horses, that Geddon answered the question. When they were clomping down the road, south and away from the mission, Geddon pointed toward the San Diego Bay in the distance. He pointed at the high cliffs on the other side of the bay.
“That’s where we’re going. The Bayfog Cliffs.”
Steve knew t
he area by a different name: the Point Loma peninsula.
“And what’s there?” Steve asked.
“A gathering. Or rather, The Gathering.”
“What’s there?” Steve repeated.
“A dealer of artifacts and ancient antiquities,” Geddon said.
Steve chuckled and shook his head.
“I know,” Geddon said with a sly smile. “How ominous.”
Steve’s chuckle finally had some happiness in it—at least Geddon was playfully mocking him now. Steve felt like he’d found friends again—real, human friends. Or at least the closest thing to humans that he could find in a place like this.
He wasn’t sure any of these four people—with their secrets and powers and stares—could be considered friends. They weren’t Dale. But they’d have to make do, for now.
Until he found a way to get Annabel back . . .
Geddon snapped him out of his reverie. “Come on, call your horse to gallop. We have a fair distance to travel in a short time.” To clarify, Geddon pointed at the dark sky. The moon was halfway to its peak, and they needed to be where they needed to be by the time it was full in the sky.
But Steve had a problem.
“I don’t know the horse’s name . . .”
Barns snorted. “A warrior is useless without his steed—and yours doesn’t even have a name? Pitiful.”
“I borrowed him,” Steve said. “In fact, I was hoping to talk to you about that, Geddy . . . about paying for the rental.”
“We’ll discuss that later. For now, think of a name and let us move with haste.” Geddon was clearly antsy.
“Hmm.” Steve put his finger to his chin, contemplating. “I shall call him . . . Frank.”
“It’s a mare,” Geddon pointed out.
“Oh.”
Another pause, then Steve’s face lit up. He extended his arm like he was throwing an axe, or leading an army of troops into a perilous battlefield.
“Tally ho, Francesca the Third! The Bayfog Cliffs await us!”
CHAPTER SIX
THE FOUR HORSEMEN—AND one horsewoman—rode in silence for quite a while. They traveled south along the bay’s edge. Steve marveled at the eerie reflection of white moonlight rippling off the calm waters. He rode at the tail of the group, with Geddon at the front.
Eventually, Geddon let Kaiko take the lead, and he stayed back with Steve. He asked, “Why Francesca . . . the Third?” out of the blue.
Steve shrugged. “It sounded more regal . . . more royal.”
“Your horse is part of the nobility now?”
“I guess I’m trying to play along with the whole medieval aspect of this place.”
Geddon chuckled. “I’m sure Mythicus must be strange to you, someone used to technology and modern amenities.”
“That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one.”
“As long as you aren’t mocking us—people won’t take kindly to your jibes, Steve. This is our home. We don’t need foreigners patronizing us. Life is already hard enough here.”
Steve frowned. He felt a twinge of guilt. “I’m trying to take this all seriously, Geddy. Really, I am. But it’s difficult.”
Geddon patted Steve on the shoulder. “I know, my friend. You’re a stranger in a strange land.”
“Who said that, Iron Maiden?”
Geddon tilted his head. “Stranger in a strange land? It was Robert Heinlein . . . an author I thought you might recognize.”
Steve shrugged. “I’m not much of a reader.”
After a short pause, Geddon’s hand disappeared into his jacket. He came out holding a gold coin. “Are you fond of Francesca the Third?”
Steve nodded, petting the horse’s fine, soft mane.
Geddon handed the gold coin to Steve. “That should be enough to buy the horse, much less rent her.”
Steve was thankful but apprehensive. “Does this mean I’m in your debt now?”
With another chuckle, Geddon shook his head. “It’s on the house.”
Steve smiled. He stared at the coin for a moment. It seemed familiar to him. He didn’t have time to reminisce, though, because Kaiko called out from the front of the pack: “We’re arriving, Geddon.”
Steve put the gold coin in his back pocket, next to his faithful dollar bill, and glanced up at the cliffs in front of him. Geddon retook the lead. They followed a narrow trail that wound through the heart of the rocky hillside. Steve could smell the familiar, salty stench of the Pacific Ocean on the wind, not far from where they were.
The air became thinner as they trucked upward, toward the summit of the cliff. About halfway up the trail, a thick fog began to swirl around them, making visibility poor.
Steve suddenly understood why the Mythics called the cliffs the “Bayfog.”
How unoriginal, he thought, glancing over his shoulder at the bay below them.
Steve had to stay close to the swishing tail of Barns’ mighty steed, so he wouldn’t get lost. The Mythics didn’t seem like they had a problem traveling through it. They were experienced riders and journeyers. He was not.
Near the top of the summit, he could hear voices through the fog. He wondered if this was a magical, fake fog, put on by some Mythical power. Then they crested the apex of the cliff, and the fog gave way in an instant. It was like they were in an airplane that had reached its cruising altitude, pushing through the clouds. Steve thought the analogy might be lost on his friends if he tried to explain it.
It was an odd sensation being so high above the ocean floor, surrounded by fog on all sides. Steve felt they were on a rocky island in the sky. Near the center of the flat summit was a stocky, white building with a huge, domed light on top of it.
Steve recognized it as the Old Point Loma Lighthouse. He knew from a history tour he’d taken when he was younger that the lighthouse was over 400 feet above sea level. Because of the pervasive and frequent fog, it shut down in the late 1800s. Close to the tip of the peninsula, further south, was the New Point Loma Lighthouse. Located where the Pacific Ocean and San Diego Bay converged, it was only about 80 feet above sea level.
There were lots of people congregated on the summit of the hill, next to and around the lighthouse. Tents and makeshift stalls dotted the summit, creating a sort of nighttime bazaar.
Steve felt excited, like he was part of a cult that no one—except the privileged few—knew existed. Secretive people shopped and perused wares, making back-alley deals with each other. Or, rather, top-hill deals.
At first, no one paid any attention to Geddon and his crew. It seemed everyone was used to random strangers appearing through the fog.
Then someone recognized Geddon and came running up to him as he jump from his horse. The rest of the crew took Geddon’s lead and dismounted. At the side of the lighthouse was a hastily put-together stable. The group headed toward it, leading their steeds by their bridles.
While they walked, the gray-bearded man who’d recognized Geddon talked in a flurry. “It’s so good to see you here, Geddon! I trust you’ll take a look at my wares? I have some great things this season I’m sure will interest you . . . for the cause, of course.”
Steve had no idea what the man was babbling about, so he studied Geddon’s reaction. Geddon was offhanded with the old man, practically shooing him away while his eyes scanned the crowded bazaar.
“Yes, yes, Old Mars, I’ll be around shortly. Now, you must return to your stall before someone attempts a thieving!”
The old man’s eyes widened in fear. He went running off, disappearing into the crowd.
Steve stood alongside Geddon as they neared the lighthouse. “So, this is The Gathering . . .”
Geddon nodded, eyes still searching around the hilltop, not focusing on Steve. “It is.”
“And it’s seasonal?”
Geddon nodded again.
“Why is it here, so high up in the mountains?”
Geddon finally turned his gaze on Steve. His voice was low as he spoke. “Everyone here is a cri
minal of some sort, Steve, in the eyes of the nobility. They’re caught in a pickle, for they must sell their wares to scrape by, but are unable to do so in normal, public places. So, they come here, once a season.”
Steve was nodding along. It made sense. Then he remembered something Annabel had said . . . about power and royalty. “When you say ‘the nobility,’ do you mean the Brethren of Soreltris?”
Geddon was taken aback. “How have you heard that name?”
“From Annabel. Her parents are trying to join the ranks, I believe.”
Geddon frowned and turned away from Steve, presumably to hide the anger splayed on his face. Steve could tell Geddon wouldn’t speak more on the subject. Not now, at least, while Geddon was still gauging whether to trust him or not.
They came to the stables. The five of them tethered their horses to poles, then set out as a single unit, wading into the crowded market.
“Who are we looking for, Geddon?” Selestria asked from the back of the group, as she pushed through two smelly men arguing over a payment. It was shocking to Steve that this place ran entirely without security or a police presence. It seemed more like a rebel encampment than a trading outpost.
“Unfee the Appraiser,” Geddon said, as if everyone knew him. Still lost in his search, he went on his tiptoes to stare over stalls and people, and around corners and between tent-flaps. He showed no shame in his observations.
Steve got the feeling Geddon was a bit desperate. How valuable could this art piece be to them? And what the hell did it even look like? He’d be able to help much better if he knew any of the details.
“He’s a tall, lanky, tricky-looking man. Wears bifocals and has stringy gray hair. Always wears a hat,” Geddon said.
With a face to fit the name, somewhat, the gang split up and Steve went venturing on his own. He meandered through two shabby stalls, where a woman sold apples—or a fruit that looked like apples—and another sold clothes. Steve ignored the women and doubled back toward the lighthouse. There had been a great crowd of people around there.