by DM Fike
Darby noticed the gesture and smirked. “Go ahead. I’ll gladly take you down if you make the first move.”
I relaxed both hands to my sides. “I’m not the one who likes to start fights.”
“No, you just wait until our backs are turned before you stab us.”
I sighed. “Look, I don’t wish you any ill will. We might have to work together in the future. We’re both shepherds of Nasci now.”
A fierce scowl, similar to Tabitha’s, crossed her face, but it disappeared before I could react to it. “I guess we are,” she said, way too sweetly.
Darby wasn’t a bad person, just dealing with the unfairness of grief. We hadn’t been friends before, exactly, but we’d learned to treat each other as colleagues. More than anything, I wished to return to that time.
I decided to throw her a peace offering. “Just let me know if I can do anything for you.”
Darby stood, the lantern light casting odd shadows on her face. “You could denounce being a shepherd and agree to be bound.”
Fire pith flashed up in my cheeks. While an eyas risked having their pithways sealed for not being considered worthy of full-shepherd rank, as far as I knew, that did not happen with established followers of Nasci. Once you gained access to the VIP club, you could stay. The goddess herself had considered you worthy. Only a handful of truly atrocious acts could get you kicked out.
I narrowed my eyes at her, all politeness gone. “You know I won’t do that.”
“So much for your magnanimous offer then.” Darby circled around one end of the table, heading for the door. I gave her a wide berth, not wanting to provoke her, or me for that matter. If she pushed me aside, I had no idea how I would react.
I decided to try one last time. “We can’t bicker forever. You’ll need to bury the hatchet at some point. I’m not going to stay silent if you try to merc me again.” I felt reasonably sure that murdering a coworker counted as a bindable atrocity.
Darby’s upper lip curled at me. “I’m not going to risk my ties to Nasci for the likes of you. But don’t worry, Ina.” She walked outside, her curvy frame thrown into shadow. “I’ll find a way to—how did you put it—‘bury the hatchet.’”
Then she blended quietly into the dark.
Well, that was appropriately creepy. I’d gathered pith to my hands out of instinct and forced it to flow back into my pithways. I may have a slight edge with lightning over Darby, but in all other forms of magic, she could whip me up sideways, and we both knew it.
Curious, I headed over to the table to see what she’d been reading. A familiar title jumped out at me. A New Shepherd’s Guide. Guntram had referred to it often while training me, its pages dog-eared and worn in many places. It was impossible to tell exactly why Darby had taken it off the shelf, but it did lead to one other puzzling question.
Why did Darby care about eyas training?
CHAPTER 4
A HIGH-PITCHED screech jolted me awake.
I nearly fell out of the chair I’d dozed off in, a warm splotch of drool trickling from the corner of my mouth. It took me a bewildered second to realize I was still in the library, musty books on shelves all around me. After the confrontation with Darby, I’d decided not to risk sleeping in the lodge. At least here, if anyone tried to unlock the door, it would give me an advanced warning. The lantern light next to my elbow had long since faded, only a few slashes of weak light streaking in from the windows. Dawn.
The screech repeated itself. More awake, I recognized it as the mewling cry of a mountain lion.
Riding the fine line between groggy and panicked, I inched the library door open. On the other side I found Kam, Sipho’s other mountain lion, pawing at the doorframe. We made eye contact.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Sipho sent you.”
Kam mewed, her voice softer now, more like the nagging dinner cries of a housecat.
I should have known. Most shepherds have sleep schedules that put the earliest birds to shame.
“Let me have some tea, and I’ll join her down by the orchard in a few minutes.”
Kam’s throat rumbled in affirmative response, then she bounded away. She couldn’t communicate directly with humans, but her presence would let Sipho know she’d done her job.
I yawned, stretching the kinks out of my shoulders after sleeping hunched over the library desk. I had stayed up late, but I did manage to identify my vaettur. The jackal bat was a mulruka, not a super common creature, but not very tough either. Shepherds of old who’d fought one wrote it tended to put its prey to sleep and then steal a frail victim to suck pith in private. Sealing its breach was about as easy as it got. Everything lined up with what I’d encountered, except not a single account mentioned the mulruka ever striking back, not even when backed into a corner.
Still, all signs indicated that I’d finished the job. Maybe this one had rage issues related to owls? In any case, Sova would linger in the area, and would alert a shepherd if things got out of hand again. I considered the issue closed.
Besides, I had other things to worry about. I opened the lodge’s front door slowly so its creaky hinges wouldn’t wake anyone inside. No one lingered in the open kitchen, living room, or indoor pool area. I crept down the hallway, expecting to find someone occupying a bedroom, but all the doors were flung wide open, the straw beds all neatly made.
Darby wasn’t here. She might not have even spent the night.
“Wonder where she got off to,” I muttered, irritated that I might have a crick in my neck for nothing. I stalked back to the kitchen, indulging in extra honey in my bitter tea to make up for a lousy night’s sleep. As caffeine warmed my insides, I decided to soak in my good fortune. With any luck, Darby was long gone and I could not think about her for a while.
With something in my stomach, I was ready to assist Sipho with her chores. Guntram used to assign me homestead duty as punishment, but honestly, I found solace in occasional monotonous physical labor. It gave me a stronger connection to this place I considered home, where I could rest when tired, eat when hungry, and learn when stupid. That Sipho herself had built this with her bare hands only sweetened the deal.
I found the forger stacking large waist-high baskets beneath the apple trees. Not all the trees were ready to harvest, although others had pockets of fruit already scattered down on the ground. Sipho once told me she grafted both wild trees and ones from remote farms to grow her own collection. She also etched sigils directly into the bark of the trunks, which discouraged but did not completely eradicate the trees’ natural pests.
I counted the number of baskets she’d drug out. “Feeding an army?”
“For the year, yes,” Sipho answered honestly, missing my sarcasm. “There’s raw fruit now, which can be baked directly into pies, but I’ve got preservation to do. There’s direct apple preserves, dried apples, apple butter, applesauce, apple cider for the winter solstice, apple brandy—”
“Okay, I got it, Johnny Appleseed,” I interrupted before I lost interest. “I get it. I need to pick apples. Which ones?”
Sipho told me to skip any apples on the ground, allowing the insects a go at them. She went around several trees, yanking and twisting off apples here and there. She told me when a tree passed her inspection and I could pick off it, and when it failed and to steer clear. In all, she marked a dozen or so trees for me to harvest. She offered to get me a ladder, but I told her not to bother. I wouldn’t need one.
After Sipho left to work on the vegetable garden, I rolled up my hoodie sleeves, letting the early morning breeze caress my arms. I released most of my water, earth, and fire pith, letting air whistle through the empty spaces in my pithways. Once filled to my satisfaction, I placed a basket next to each tree so I wouldn’t forget which ones to pick. Then I grabbed a low-hanging branch of the nearest apple tree and pulled myself upward.
The thing about menial tasks is finding a rhythm for maximum efficiency. I gingerly plucked one apple and tossed it down into the basket. I used air
gusts to aim it toward my target but failed to account for gravity’s harsh pull. The fruit bruised as it slammed against the hard bottom. The next throw, I made sure to give the apple an upward draft so it wouldn’t land so hard. After a while, I figured out how to yank the fruit from the branches in one swift thrust and throw it gently below.
I took a much-needed break around noon, covered in sweat despite the fact that I absorbed pith from the humidity to drink water and cool off. I met Sipho at the forge. She led me past the workshop entrance, holding open a fur-lined curtain to her private living quarters. I’d only been back there a handful of times. Sipho had a studio-type bedroom, complete with simple log furniture and a small kitchen built around a chimney stove. She kept the space as immaculately clean as the workshop, the only thing not tucked away a pot of soup simmering over a magically fueled flame.
Sipho withdrew wooden bowls and spoons and served wild mushroom soup, a reward for our hard work.
Taking one of two seats at the tiny dining table, I sipped a mouthful. It tasted wonderful after hours of physical exertion. “This is great, Sipho.”
She joined me with her own lunch. “It could use more flavor.”
I slurped up the bowl. “You could’ve fooled me.”
She ate much slower than me, savoring her food longer. “I really wish there were more hours in the day. I have the ingredients for a strawberry rhubarb pie but no energy to bake it.”
“What you really need is some time to relax,” I said as I finished off my portion. “Can I have seconds?”
“Help yourself.”
After a second round, I pushed the bowl away from me. “You made a mistake. Now I’m too stuffed to move.”
“It’s just as well,” Sipho said as she polished off her own serving. “You’re making great progress. You could probably take the next hour or so off and still finish before supper.”
Supper. That reminded me of my dinner date with Vincent. I excused myself for a nap, but before catching some Zs, I texted with Vincent and ironed out when and where we were going to meet. Then, I snoozed in one of the lodge rooms.
After an hour nap, I returned to apple harvesting. I zipped through it all in a happy haze, the summer sun soaking into my skin. Sometimes, life offers little blips of peace, the promise that productive, honest work will be its own reward.
That’s usually right before life smacked you in the face.
With my work finished and my dinner deadline looming, I caught up to Sipho bent over rows of green leaves to tell her I was leaving. “You are now the proud owner of way too many apples!”
She had wrapped a handkerchief around her head, tied at the chin. Her teeth gleamed in a smile. “Thank you, Ina. It is even more appreciated since Guntram did not order you to do it.”
I turned on my heels to leave, but then paused. “Just out of curiosity, have you seen Jichan lately?”
Sipho clucked her tongue. “You know he does not like it when you call him that. And no, now that you mention it, I have not seen him for at least a fortnight.”
“Huh.” When Guntram oversaw my shepherd education, we checked in at Sipho’s homestead at least once a week. But I guessed now that he was no longer tethered to an eyas, I had no idea how often he might return.
Sipho seemed to share my concern, though. “Indeed. I would have expected him to jot down some notes in his journal at the library. He informed me he wanted to keep a proper record of his experiences, now that he had more free time. I suppose I did see a blue jay come for him last I saw of him, though. He was requested up north. Perhaps the work required his full attention.”
“Yeah.” There were those pesky Oracle birds again. Then I shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll catch up to him later. Take care, Sipho.”
“Stay out of trouble,” she called back in return.
CHAPTER 5
VINCENT AND I had agreed to meet at a gingerbread-themed restaurant off the highway outside of the blink-and-you-miss-it town of Mapleton, Oregon. The location was convenient because Vincent could drive there quickly from Florence, and I only had to walk a few minutes from a nearby wisp channel. The restaurant changed hands every few years, usually getting a new coat of paint, but they always boasted tasty gingerbread-themed desserts. I hadn’t tasted their gingerbread cake in a while, and my stomach rumbled on the trek over.
Vincent had already parked his police SUV, a hulking mass wedged between two smaller sedans in the packed lot. I walked around the striped pastel outer walls and entered via the stiff door, then scanned the crowd for my date.
I’m sure it was just early-relationship hormones, but my heart skipped a beat when I found him, his face in profile as he studied a plastic-coated menu. He wore his more official police uniform today, the dark fabric matching his ebony hair. The way his body leaned forward, relaxed and yet alert, hinted at the athletic frame underneath. He must have sensed me watching because he raised his head, eyes softening. He gestured to the empty seat across from him.
I navigated the series of tables full of young hikers, families, and elderly friends. There were just a few more weeks of summer left, and although it wasn’t quite the dinner hour, most chairs held people. Our table lay in the direct center of the maze, meaning we’d have to be careful not to bump into the others around us. If I had come here to eat alone, I probably would have left.
But I was happy to stay for Vincent.
He assessed me from head to toe as I slid into place across from him. “Rolled around in the dirt today, did you?”
I blushed. “Whoops. Sipho had me harvesting apples all day. I probably should have drawn a sigil to cast the dirt off.”
A wicked grin flicked around his face. “You still could.”
“Right here in the restaurant?” I rolled my eyes. “Pretty sure casting magic in front of a crowd goes against shepherd code.”
“Just trying to help.” He closed his menu and leaned back casually, one arm draped over the back of the neighboring chair. A contented sigh escaped his lips. “It’s so good to finally meet up.”
“I know.” It had definitely been a while. Both my mulruka and his deer poaching investigation had canceled our last two attempts, a hazard of our respective occupations. “You ever figure out who killed the herd?”
“Nah, and I doubt I will. There was an illegal campsite not far away. We took pictures for social media asking if anyone knew anything, but it’s like rolling the dice at a casino. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.”
“That sucks.” And I meant it too. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in the circle of life. Hunters don’t bother me as long as they play fair, but poachers are the worst. They trash the wilderness, kill more than is sustainable, and I generally wouldn’t mind burying them neck-deep in the dirt.
“I just wish I knew why they killed so many at once. It’s so frustrating.” He shook his head. “But enough about me. What crazy stories do you have for me?”
I gave him a more detailed description of my jackal bat adventure. He smiled at the mention of Sova. “Ah, yes, the purple-tipped monster owl.”
I nodded in agreement, but then stopped. “Wait, how do you know what Sova looks like?”
“I met her before. You were there. She insisted on escorting me while I rescued the northern spotted owls, remember?”
A few months ago, Vincent and I had run into each other helping animals escape from a forest fire. I’d never forget that day. Guntram had nearly snapped Vincent in two.
“Yeah, I remember, but I thought you couldn’t see Sova.” In fact, I distinctly remembered he couldn’t see her flapping frantically around the northern spotted owl nest. Vanilla humans didn’t see dryants.
“Oh.” Vincent rubbed the back of his head. “Did I never tell you what happened afterward? Once I got the owls to safety, I caught a brief glimpse of her flying off. At least, I’m pretty sure it was your friendly bird monster. No normal owl I’ve ever seen gets that big or has huge silver eyes.”
“Yeah, that
’s Sova, but that doesn’t make any sense. How—?”
The middle-aged waitress, sensing an important conversation about to take place, came over at that moment to take our orders. I had barely glanced at the menu, so I picked something in a hurry while Vincent ordered. My body needed a recharge after all that apple picking. I went with an old favorite, a bacon cheeseburger with thick steak fries and a pop.
As the waitress bustled away, I rounded back on Vincent. “Something is wrong with you.”
He gave me that in-the-headlights look guys get when cornered by females. “How so?”
“You keep sensing things you shouldn’t, like Sova.”
He folded his arms. “Maybe that was just a one-time deal.”
I planted my elbows firmly on the chipped table surface. “Except it’s not. You heard the cockatrice clicks way back when you and I first met.”
“Did I?” Vincent asked.
“You said you did at the time.”
“Maybe I was just imagining sounds based on how you were reacting.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Did you also imagine seeing Rafe’s fire golem?” Vincent had nearly wet himself when he’d noticed that towering demon clambering toward us last month.
He knew I had him there. “No, but why does it matter? I’m not a shepherd, like you.”
I tried to explain it more to myself than to him. “You could have had ken as a kid.”
“‘Ken?’” he repeated.
“The magical sight that allows us to see vaetturs and dryants. If you weren’t trained properly, maybe it would have faded naturally over time.”
Vincent glowered at my theory. “I’m not a wizard. Not even a little.”
I matched his irritated posture. “Got something against magic?”
Vincent shuffled his stiff shoulders. “Not when you’re doing it. I came to terms pretty early on that you’re the real deal.”