Duck pulled out her own shard. “Mine’s quiet, too.”
“Everyone, listen!” Nat said.
The swirling high winds shrieked around the church. Beyond the door, the brass bell jangled wildly under the arch.
The sound at the front entrance came again: thud thud thud. The brass candelabrum that Nat had wedged against the entry rattled a bit but remained firmly secured.
Duck held her lantern toward the door. The dull orange light gave Mercy Mission the appearance of a catacomb. “Maybe someone’s trying to get out of the storm.”
“I bet it’s that Sunrise Albert out looking for revenge!” John Wesley said.
“We oughta set an ambush,” Cutter said. “Open the door and surprise whoever’s out there.” He made a long slashing motion with his blade.
Quinn had retrieved his wooden rod during their sprint across the mission and now gripped it like a warrior’s club. “Don’t y’all open that door,” Quinn said. “Just let whoever’s out there move on. Ain’t no way I’m letting those slavers capture me.”
The frantic knocking abruptly ceased. The bell jangled one more time, then a loud ripping noise sounded behind the door, as if the person outside had grown tired of the bell and yanked it straight out of the arch.
“What happened?” Duck asked.
The pounding kicked up again—thudthudthud. This time, the door rattled so hard that the candelabrum slid an inch or two across the floor. Nat moved to secure the barricade—but a second later, the portal stopped shaking. Silence overtook the mission.
“Maybe he gave up,” Cutter suggested.
“Shhh!” hissed Nat.
The group listened.
Something slammed against the roof of Mercy Mission above their heads. Dust rained down on their hats as savage knuckles smashed against the building’s clay tiles, opening a jagged hole in the roof. An icy torrent of sleet rained down into the chamber.
Through the wound in the rooftop, the leering face of a scaly creature stared down at them. Ranks of cruel, dripping fangs filled its wolf-like maw, and long ears jutted from each side of its head.
“It’s the monster!” Quinn screamed.
The hole in Mercy Mission’s roof splintered and gave way, and the Chamelia dropped into their midst.
CHAPTER 7
THE RAMPAGE
The creature was unlike any animal Keech had ever seen. It was as large as a man, yet it hunkered on all fours like one of the ugly hyenas pictured in Pa’s nature books. Across its shoulders and back, sharp porcupine barbs coated the beast’s hide, while scales enveloped its stomach and neck. The beast’s long snout and limbs looked hairy with thin spikes.
Keech spotted a seared mark in the exact center of the monster’s forehead. It was the same spiral-like brand that Bad Whiskey’s stallion had worn beneath its forelock.
The Devil’s mark.
“Rose’s spawn,” Keech muttered, but oddly, no supernatural cold flared from Pa Abner’s pendant. Back in Missouri, Bad Whiskey had only to take a step and Pa’s charm would wildly spark and stab Keech’s heart with ice. Yet now, for some reason, it lay quiet on his palm.
Rearing on its muscled hind legs, the monster rose to a terrifying height of more than six feet. The beast straightened its spiny back. A long shudder ran down its body, and white sleet shook off its head. Crimson eyes that promised death glared at Keech and each of the kids. Its snout sniffed in the direction of John Wesley and Cutter, who were backing toward the horses. The creature’s pink tongue wriggled out and sampled the mission’s cold air. Then it roared.
“Everyone, steady,” Nat murmured.
Panicked, all five ponies bolted from the wall and raced across the mission, battering church pews out of their way as they galloped for distance from the creature. Quinn lifted his oak rod.
“It’s a demon!” Cutter turned and scampered after the mounts. John Wesley followed close on his heels.
Snorting and licking the air, the Chamelia pivoted after the two boys. As it whirled, Keech thought he saw the creature’s scaly flesh ripple, the quills along its spine and shoulder blades ruffling and loosening to become a wild mane of impossible hair.
“What should we do?” Duck called out.
Nat dropped to his knee and set to priming the Hawken. “I just need a few seconds.”
Keech considered a mad dash to slam into the creature, but Pa Abner’s voice sounded in his mind. See your opponent clearly. Keech blinked, followed the turn of the beast’s shoulders, and saw viper-quick speed in the creature’s movements. Every attack he could imagine would be like trying to wrestle a mountain lion—sure to get him killed.
Let your team contribute to your strength.
Keech saw the lantern in Duck’s hand. “Duck, the flame!”
She understood at once and tossed the lamp. It shattered against the Chamelia’s shoulder, splashing kerosene and flames down its bristled back. The sulfurous smell of singed flesh filled the chamber. The beast howled. It tumbled to the floor, but flames continued to roll madly across its spikes.
Keech held his shard in front of him like a small shield. Encountering this devil hadn’t turned his fragment cold, but he prayed it might work its magic if the silver touched flesh.
Rising on all fours, the creature shook itself like a wet dog, throwing a shower of embers up into the air. The ribbons of flame lashing its hide were a powerful distraction but not enough to stop the beast. Its scarlet eyes locked on Duck, and a deep growl rumbled from its throat.
Nat yelled, “I’m firing!”
But before he could fire the Hawken, Quinn Revels spoiled his aim by charging the creature with his wooden rod. The boy screamed, “Take this, you mangy dog!”
The beast’s jaws snapped down on the club in midswipe, shattering the rod into splinters. Flames continued to dance across the Chamelia’s shoulders, casting frantic shadows across Mercy Mission’s walls.
Sputtering fragments of wood, the Chamelia swiped the back of a hand across Quinn’s shoulder. The kid tumbled over a pew and landed hard on the stone floor.
Gunfire thundered through the mission, and a cloud of blue smoke coughed out of Nat’s Hawken. The rifle’s lead ball slammed the creature squarely in its scaled hide.
The beast barely flinched.
“Duck, toss your shard!” Keech shouted, and he whipped his own pendant at the beast, letting the quarter-moon fragment sail. Duck timed the toss of her pendant perfectly with his. Her shard crashed into the Chamelia’s chest, while Keech’s struck its forehead, the exact place where the Reverend Rose’s brand had charred its flesh.
Both bounced off with no effect.
The smoldering creature hesitated, as if realizing what Keech and Duck had just attempted, and glanced down at the amulet shards on the floor. Amid the smoldering flames, the creature took a tottering step backward. Lantern flames rolled across the Chamelia’s back and flared brightly up its neck. A horrible howl escaped its maw, and the beast rattled its head, grinding its fangs.
A battle cry sounded from across the chamber. Keech caught a glimpse of a red sash as Cutter sprang from one of the church pews, leaping at the Chamelia’s burning back. His long blade gleamed orange in the flames.
The Chamelia spun to mark Cutter’s scream, just as the boy landed and slashed his knife across the creature’s back. The beast reared up on its hind legs again and clobbered Cutter’s shoulder, sending him spinning toward the eastern wall. Cutter slammed into the stone and collapsed. His knife skittered across the dark floor.
Nearby, John Wesley had plucked up a flaming board from the makeshift campfire. He stepped toward the Chamelia, waving the hot stick back and forth. His legs weren’t set well for balance, and his pale face brimmed panic, but the boy held his ground.
“Careful, John!” Keech called. He doubted the boy could frighten the beast, which had endured being on fire for almost a full minute and had shrugged off a lead ball to the gut.
Nat bellowed, “Keech! Over here!”<
br />
The rancher had dropped his Hawken and was running with his sister toward the mission’s barricaded entrance. “We’re sitting ducks in here. We have to get this door open.”
The siblings pulled at the five-pointed candelabrum braced against the door, but the pole refused to budge. “It’s wedged in,” Nat grunted.
“We need help!” Duck cried.
Keech darted over to assist. He grabbed the candlestick, and the trio worked together to tug it loose. The pole’s brass foot screeched as it grated across the floor and ripped free.
Nat reached for the door and tried to pull it open.
The candlestick still in hand, Keech turned back to John Wesley just in time to see the creature spring for the boy. John whipped the flaming plank at the thing’s head, but the burning Chamelia lunged and knocked him backward. The back of John’s head smacked against stone, and he shook his head in a daze.
A turmoil of hoofbeats reached Keech’s ears. The ponies were crowding the far corner of the western wall, kicking at the stones in wild fear. Felix was shuffling back and forth in front of the others, darting left and right, as though giving them cover.
Another great roar thundered from the Chamelia.
John Wesley backtracked on his elbows, his face contorted in terror, but the creature had cornered him as a coyote might trap a hen. It reached for him with long claws, grabbing for his leg but seizing a handful of trousers instead. The beast pulled him closer. John Wesley lunged aside. When he did, the claws of the creature raked down John Wesley’s hip. A spray of blood splashed across the mission floor, and the boy wailed in frenzied agony.
Keech’s stomach twisted. “John!”
Quinn Revels emerged from the secret cellar. Keech was shocked the kid was standing again after taking the Chamelia’s blow, but now he clutched two of the black whistle bombs, one in each hand.
Behind him, Duck cried, “We can’t budge the door!”
“Get into the cellar!” Keech yelled at Nat and Duck. He spun the candelabrum so that the five-pointed head faced the creature. He touched two fingers to his lips and whistled.
The Chamelia turned away from the bleeding John Wesley and loosed a violent hiss. Embers showered from its shoulders, making it look as if it were dripping fire.
“Over here, you mangy mongrel!” Keech hollered.
As Nat and Duck hurried toward the back end of the mission, Cutter stumbled toward the cellar to meet them, his knife retrieved and back in his scabbard.
The Chamelia leaped for Keech, its dagger claws leading the way. Keech jammed the bottom end of the candlestick against the seat of a pew, anchoring it with the head aimed upward like a pike, then tucked himself low. The creature smashed into the prongs, the metallic points puncturing the thick hide of its chest, and it released a pained bark.
Keech rolled aside as the beast dropped sideways, the metal rod still pinned to its torso. On his feet in a flash, he dashed forward, catching up to Cutter. He threw an arm around the boy’s shoulder. “C’mon.” They stumbled toward the cellar door.
Just ahead, Nat and Duck hurried down into the underground room. Keech and Cutter passed Quinn, who squatted next to John Wesley. Setting down one of the whistle bombs, Quinn reached for the boy with his free hand. “Get up!”
“I’m trying,” John Wesley said, struggling to crawl.
Cutter stumbled just as Keech made the platform. “Almost there, Cut. A couple more steps.”
“Help John,” Cutter said, then staggered a few more feet to the trapdoor, where Nat and Duck waited to help him down.
Keech glanced at John Wesley’s hip. Dark crimson had stained his torn trousers. “Can you stand?”
“I-I don’t think so.”
A ravenous howl echoed through the mission.
Keech looked desperately at Quinn. “If you’re gonna squeeze your whistle bombs, now would be a good time.”
“I tried to squeeze them, but they’re broke! So I tossed them there instead.” Quinn gestured behind him to the place where their small campfire crackled. He had rolled his bombs across the floor, and now they rested in the heart of the flames.
“Oh boy,” Keech muttered.
Working fast, they reached under John Wesley’s arms and tried to haul him to his feet, but as they lifted, the boy shrieked. “I can’t!” John said. “It hurts!”
Two high-pitched whistles suddenly ripped across the mission, sending white-hot spikes through Keech’s ears. They sounded slightly different in pitch, like two manic wood thrushes competing to see who could screech the loudest, till both reached the same unbearable timbre.
“You two go first,” John Wesley said. “Help me down.”
Quinn started down the steps.
Releasing John Wesley, Keech began to descend. “Hurry, John. C’mon.”
John Wesley gripped the edge of the hole and stretched his arms down so Keech could grab them. Keech gripped his friend’s hands and hauled John headfirst, leading him down the stairwell as he tugged. Standing alongside him, Quinn grabbed the rope handle on the pine door and pulled it over so it could close as soon as John’s body cleared.
“You’re almost there, amigo!” Cutter called up from the cellar. The frenzied trilling of the bombs almost drowned out his words.
John Wesley gripped a step and dragged himself forward. “I made it!” His yellow straw hat sagged on his head.
Suddenly, John stopped moving, as if he had forgotten how to crawl. His jaw unhinged in a look of terror.
Two clawed hands had wrapped around John Wesley’s booted ankles.
“No!” Keech yelled. Leaping for John, he pulled as hard as he could, but the boy’s arm dragged through his palms.
The Chamelia yanked John Wesley away from the hole. There was a loud squeal of surprise, then the pine trapdoor slammed shut over their heads. John’s hat tumbled down the steps.
Cutter launched himself forward, trying to shove past Keech. “John! No! John!” He struggled on the stairs, trying to crawl back out of the cellar, but Keech held him fast.
From the other side of the closed door, the sound of a terrified scream mounted over the furious whistling and tore through Keech’s soul.
Then two explosions boomed through Mercy Mission.
CHAPTER 8
THE BROKEN GUN
The Lost Causes sat breathlessly in the dark cellar, staring up at the trapdoor.
For a time, no one spoke. To Keech, the explosive clamor had sounded like an entire mountain had dropped on the platform. He wondered if they had been buried alive beneath timber and stone.
Duck’s small voice broke the silence. “Do you think it’s dead?”
“I’d be surprised if it weren’t crushed,” Nat said. “Nothing could’ve survived that.”
A low sob hitched out of Cutter, like an unexpected hiccup. Keech heard him try to muffle any further sounds with his hand, but Cut couldn’t hold them back. He began to mumble in Spanish. Keech reached out blindly in the dark, found Cutter’s shoulder pressed against a wall, and squeezed. Soon the boy’s body took to shaking, the way Keech had trembled when he realized he had sent Sam to his doom inside the burning Home.
At last, Cutter moaned, “We never should’ve come here! I told y’all we should’ve kept going. I told you we needed to put miles between us and the Shifter.”
The gang looked at one another, but no one responded.
Quinn revived his lantern, and a yellow glow illuminated the chamber. They were all coated in thick dust, their faces gray and dreary. Wiping his eyes, Cutter pushed away from the wall and made his way to the bottom of the stairs, where John Wesley’s straw hat sat in the grime. He picked it up and brushed off the brim, then he stuffed it inside his coat.
“We can’t just sit here forever,” Nat said after a moment. He climbed the steps and pushed at the trapdoor. It lifted a foot before hitting some obstruction. “I think I can fit,” he said, then shimmied through the breach. Once he was outside, he said with a low voice, “
Half the mission’s collapsed. I don’t see the ponies. I’m gonna scout. Wait for my knock.”
Through the gap, Keech watched Nat’s boots climb a pile of wet rubble and disappear. Then Keech lowered the trapdoor. He looked at the others and read devastation on their faces. He wanted to offer reassurances about John Wesley—perhaps he’d survived, perhaps Nat would return in a minute with good news—but he held his tongue. Not long before, Keech had been reveling in the idea that fate was guiding them toward victory. But the haggard look on Cutter’s face could no longer abide such optimism. Even Duck, usually the first to offer a sunny outlook, kept quiet.
Quinn finally spoke. “I can’t believe I blew it up.”
“What do you mean?” Duck asked.
“This mission. It was the only sanctuary for miles.” Quinn clutched his forage cap in one hand. “I was gonna bring Auntie Ruth here. But I blew it up.”
Keech pulled off his bowler hat and turned it around in his hands, searching for comforting words. “Sanctuaries can be rebuilt,” he said, immediately feeling foolish for his feeble attempt at consolation.
“I suppose,” Quinn said, but he didn’t sound convinced in the least. He slipped his cap back on and looked at each of them with tired eyes. “I’m awful sorry about your friend. Here I am, going on about a building, when your trailmate just died.”
“Maybe John got away,” Keech said. “We shouldn’t lose hope.”
A swift triple knock on the pine door above made him almost leap out of his boots. Recognizing Nat’s signal, Keech scuttled up the stairwell and raised the panel. Nat’s dusty face appeared in front of him.
“It’s clear. Everyone out.”
“What about John Wesley?” Keech asked. “Any sign of him?”
The rancher looked distraught in the lamplight. “No trace.”
Immediate and terrible silence overtook the cellar. Keech glanced down at the others. Cutter brought a pair of knuckles up to his eyes and made those small hiccuping sounds again. “You’re sure?” asked Keech.
“I couldn’t lift all the rubble,” Nat said, “but I gave it the best search I could. He ain’t there.”
The Fang of Bonfire Crossing Page 5
