Keech hurried the remaining distance and scooped the dagger off the ground. “Duck, I’ve got the Fang,” he called out.
Her eyes brimming with rage, she shouted, “Take it to Doyle!”
Keech swiveled toward the blazing cypress boundary, but he recalled Nat’s face in Wisdom’s saloon and stopped. Nat had pleaded for Duck and Keech to keep each other safe. “No,” he said, turning back to Duck. “We go together.”
“But I have to finish him!”
“I won’t leave you alone. Not ever. We’re partners.”
Lying on the ground, Big Ben gripped his ruined nose. He tried to rise in the net but crumbled back to his stomach.
Duck’s eyes brimmed with tears. She turned away from the killer. “All right.”
Keech took her hand. Clutching the Fang in his other, he led them to the edge of the burning cypress. The emerald fire gave off no heat, but Keech’s heart still hammered at the beautiful, terrible sight of it. He looked at Duck. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
Holding hands, they vaulted through the flames.
CHAPTER 33
THE FANG
They landed hard on the wet sand of the cove, the bonfire at their backs.
Struggling up to his knees, Keech felt a torturous pinch in his side. A fog of sweet smoke clouded the cove, forcing tears into his eyes. With his free hand, he rubbed his vision clear.
Beside him, Duck coughed, spitting into the sand. “You have it?”
Keech lifted the Fang. “We need to hurry.” He pushed to his feet.
The endless ocean surf clattered over the black rocks, each foamy wave mounting higher than the last. The two elders stood over Doyle’s motionless body. Buffalo Woman held out her hand and shouted Osage words to Keech and Duck.
Holding his wounded side, Keech stumbled over—but he stopped when an inhuman roar rumbled across the land. He swiveled toward the noise. A few yards down the beach, perched atop one of the black stone pillars, was the Chamelia. The other young riders hadn’t been able to stop it. The barbed spines on the creature’s shoulders fluttered like rattling reeds. Then it bounded off the stone and charged on all fours straight for the cove.
Keech sprinted to the dying man, dropped to his knees, and yelled to the elders, “How do I use this thing?”
Doesn’t Fear Thunder mimicked a downward stabbing motion.
“You want me to stab him?”
The old man repeated the gesture more vigorously.
Tearing his eyes away from the Shifter, Keech steadied the dagger’s tip over Doyle’s heart. The motion was so easy, a simple thrust.
Yet he couldn’t act. He looked once more at the two elders. “What if this kills him?”
Duck cried, “Keech!”
A nightmarish rumble filled his ears, and Keech turned to see fangs flying straight toward his face. He tried to roll out of the way, but the Chamelia moved with unearthly speed, like a bobcat pouncing on a mouse. It smashed into him, driving him back into the sand.
The ferocious impact knocked the wind clean out of him. He tried to suck in a breath as darkness engulfed his vision, but nothing happened. He couldn’t move and realized the Chamelia’s full weight had fallen on his chest, pinning him on his back. Despite the lack of air, a feral odor—earthy and mammalian—filled his nostrils.
He pushed against the Chamelia’s body. At first, he thought his own strength was lifting it, but then he realized the creature was rising. Keech’s lungs opened. Warm air flowed in, relaxing his muscles. Then his vision returned, and he saw Duck kicking at the Shifter.
The Chamelia raised up on its hind legs and towered over the girl. At first, Keech thought it was preparing to bite into her, but then he noticed the bone handle of the Fang sticking out of the beast’s rib cage. The creature stumbled back a step and wagged its head, as if trying to clear a patch of dizziness. A clawed hand reached up, plucked the dagger out of its side, and dropped the relic onto the sand.
The Reverend’s brand evaporated from the Chamelia’s forehead, leaving an unmarred hide of black scales. The creature groaned.
“What’s happening to it?” Duck asked.
Staggering, the Chamelia shifted before their eyes. Barbed quills shrunk like melting candles across the creature’s shoulders. The murky scales faded into pink flesh, and short reddish hair sprouted from its pores. The beast’s long claws receded into stubby paws, and its body diminished till it resembled a gaunt wolf. The animal collapsed onto its side.
“Did the Fang kill it?” Duck asked.
“It’s still breathing.” Keech leaned closer. “And the Devil’s mark is gone.”
Duck grabbed the bone dagger and gave its markings a curious look.
Movement up the beach caught his eye. John Wesley emerged from a cluster of boulders, looking more grotesque than ever. Cutter rode beside him atop Chantico, while Quinn and Strong Heart marched along on Saint Peter. They looked exhausted as they entered the cove but sprang to attention when they saw the Chamelia on the ground.
“Did that thing finally die?” Cutter asked.
“Not yet,” Duck said.
The moment Quinn and Strong Heart dismounted, Saint Peter trotted over to Doyle’s side, as if the Kelpie knew the Ranger’s last moments were upon him. John Wesley peered at his father from the shadows of the cove, but he kept his distance from the group.
Doyle’s bone-white flesh teemed with purple veins, and his chest hardly moved. “I hope we’re not too late,” Keech said, holding his hand out to Duck.
Before she could hand him the relic, Big Ben Loving stepped out of the bonfire.
Duck spun to face the brute, but the man was already swinging a fist. His knuckles caught her across the chin, and she flew back, the dagger sailing from her hand.
Keech scrambled for the Fang, but Big Ben scooped up the relic.
“Now, where was I?” The outlaw straightened, his shoulders still wrapped in black netting, and waved a finger across the beach.
As Strong Heart and the other boys dashed across the cove, a shrieking wall of sand stopped them in their tracks. The blockade hovered in place, holding the kids back.
The Fang held loosely in his broken hand, Big Ben started marching back toward the bending tree, dragging his leg with each step.
Duck pushed up to one elbow and yelled, “Keech, Saint Peter!”
Keech glanced over at the Kelpie. He saw the Ranger’s coil of rope hanging from the horse’s saddle and realized what he needed to do. Grunting in pain, he stumbled to the stirrup, mounted Saint Peter, grabbed Doyle’s lariat, and tied the rope to the horn. At the other end, he quickly cinched a honda knot and began spinning the lasso. “Let’s get him!” he yelled, and Saint Peter started toward the outlaw.
Although the screaming sand barrier held back the others, the magic to sustain it appeared to require Big Ben’s full attention. He was not ready for when Keech let the lasso fly. The loop landed around the brute’s shoulders, and Keech pulled on the cord.
Big Ben’s face twisted with rage. “I’ll break you in half.”
Keech kicked Saint Peter’s sides, and the Kelpie shot like a bullet from the cove, galloping straight for the open water. The rope yanked Big Ben off his feet. A startled curse tumbled from his mouth.
“Enjoy the ride!” Keech called back.
The moment Saint Peter’s hooves reached the surf, the animal caught his wind. The Kelpie lowered his head and pinned his ears back. Then they were truly flying. A spirited wind slapped Keech in the face, thumping his hat off his head, and he cried out from pure exhilaration. He had never felt such speed—not on Hector, not even on Felix.
They bolted over the rolling waves, cutting through the sun’s rays and surf. Behind them, Big Ben writhed, trying to free himself. He bellowed curses at Keech, bouncing heavily under the water, only to spring back up, like a stunned fish captured by a line.
Once the shoreline had become a distant crease on the horizon, Keech hauled back on the reins. S
aint Peter stopped on top of the water, bobbing gently on the white foam. Keech glanced back to search for signs of the outlaw.
The rope was still stretched taut, running down into the depths.
A monstrous Ack! echoed like a scream over the water. Keech looked up to see the Reverend’s crow hovering high above.
“Big Ben’s done for!” Keech called to Rose. “We’re coming for you next!”
The crow circled, watching.
Suddenly, Keech remembered the Fang. Big Ben had been holding the dagger when the lasso had caught him. If the outlaw drowned, they would lose the relic. For an instant, Keech considered allowing the Fang to sink, forever lost, but then he remembered Doyle dying on the beach and knew he had to save the man for John Wesley.
“I have to go fetch the Fang,” Keech told Saint Peter. “Please don’t run off.”
The Kelpie blustered as though he understood.
Steeling himself, Keech took a deep breath and dived off the stallion’s back.
The moment he struck water, he reached for the rope. Holding on tightly, he moved hand over hand down the cord, pulling himself farther down into the depths. He had figured the ocean would feel like a cold casket, but the water was warm and pleasant on his face, filled with a sunshine that turned his air bubbles into jewels.
Big Ben loomed into his view. Still bound at the end of the lariat, the outlaw floated motionless in the brine, his eyes closed. Dead, at last.
One hand still holding the line, Keech kicked his feet to drive him down into the darker water, away from the sunlight. Each stroke of his arm sent sparks of pain through his body, and holding his breath made his head pound.
Big Ben still gripped the Fang in his hand, but his fingers were busted and loose. Swimming closer, Keech grabbed for the ancient relic.
In the waters’ depths, he had misjudged the trajectory, and the bone edge sliced the skin across Keech’s palm. He flinched back. He expected to see blood drift in the water, but instead he felt a strange warmth billow through his body. The spike of pain where Big Ben had struck his rib cage disappeared in a blink, and the dull ache surging through his muscles evaporated.
Even more curiously, Keech felt the old injuries from days past—the bruises and cuts endured while fighting the Chamelia, even the scars Bad Whiskey had left behind—dissolve from his body.
He felt whole.
Reinvigorated, Keech seized Big Ben’s thumb and pulled it back, releasing the dead man’s grip on the Fang. The dagger floated free, and he snatched the bone handle. Spinning around, he pushed off the outlaw’s lifeless body, aiming for the lariat to pull himself back up.
As he turned, something clutched his boot, and he jerked to a stop.
He looked back and saw that Big Ben’s eyes had shot open and that the brute had grabbed hold of his heel. He was still very much alive.
Keech kicked at the reaching arm, but the outlaw’s grip held like a vise. He looked up to the surface, his lungs screaming for air. He jerked his foot again but couldn’t break free. Panic crashed over his mind as Big Ben’s weight began dragging him down. Keech labored for the rope, but when his hand found the lariat, he discovered the line had gone slack. Saint Peter must’ve ignored Keech’s request and returned to his dying master. The waters around Keech darkened further as he sank.
The edges of Keech’s vision closed in. He recalled the dream of drowning, hearing Sam’s voice in the deep, while he was unconscious in Friendly’s prison. It’s okay, Keech, Sam had said from the darkness. Remember what Pa taught us about fear.
Keech wondered if that dream had been a premonition of this moment.
Sam’s voice called to him now. Who are you, my brother?
I am the Wolf, he wanted to answer.
Suddenly, a warm hand wrapped around his arm. Keech found himself staring into the kind face of a man, his body and eyes the color of deep emerald. Raven-black hair drifted around the fellow’s head. The stranger tugged, and Big Ben’s grip on his boot slipped free.
Together they ascended, letting Big Ben vanish below them.
The brilliant light of day engulfed Keech’s face. He sucked in mouthfuls of air, distantly aware that the man was holding him above water. The fellow didn’t speak, only watched as Keech filled his lungs.
Keech lifted his hand, relieved to see he still held the Fang. He slipped the relic into his coat pocket.
When Keech finally found enough breath to speak, he asked, “Who are you?”
The stranger smiled, his emerald eyes sparkling, then slipped back under the waves.
A mound rose beneath Keech’s feet, lifting him from the water. He glanced down and found himself seated on Saint Peter.
“That was you, wasn’t it?” he said, amazed. “You’re a shape- shifter.”
The steed simply grunted.
Then he remembered Doyle lying in the cove. Frantic, he said, “Take us back. If we hurry, we can save the Ranger.”
Saint Peter nickered and started back to shore. Soon they were galloping at full speed. As they approached the cove, Duck and Quinn ran to the edge of the water.
The moment he reached land, Duck asked, “Big Ben?”
Sliding off the Kelpie, Keech said, “He’s gone. Sunk to the bottom of the ocean.”
The look of gratitude in Duck’s eyes told a lifetime of tales—stories of her home, her family, her adventures with Nat—and months of fear and isolation drained from her soul.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s over.”
Quinn held out Keech’s bowler hat to him. “Here. You dropped this in the water. If you keep losing it, we may have to nail it down.”
“Thanks,” Keech said, and put the sea-drenched hat back on.
Nearby, Strong Heart waited beside the elders, who looked shaken but healthy. Strong Bones had returned to the cove and sat in the sand, his arm wrapped in a makeshift sling. Lying on the ground, the creature that had once been the Chamelia looked even smaller than before, more like a shaggy dog. It rested on its side, its limbs drawn together, and John Wesley crouched next to it on wolfish hind legs. Keech was surprised to see him caressing the beast’s fur, as if he were touching a docile pet, but John’s eyes were fixed on his father. Cutter lingered a few steps away, unwilling to separate from his friend.
Wishing to offer some hope, Keech held the Fang of Barachiel up for all to see.
Cutter said, “You best hurry, Blackwood.”
Keech dashed over to Doyle’s side. The man looked done for. His skin had drained of all color, and Keech feared he was too late. Taking a deep breath, he plunged the Fang into the Enforcer’s chest, then yanked it back out with a small cry.
All was still for a moment—then Doyle’s body shuddered. Violent tremors shook his arms and legs. Then the shaking faded to twinges.
“Papa?” John whispered.
Keech stepped away, clearing a path.
The bonfire cast a vermilion light on John Wesley’s grotesque face as he crept forward to crouch at Doyle’s side. As his hand touched the man’s skin, John shifted, the animal snout pulling back into a human nose, the long quills receding into short thorns. Though black scales still dappled his flesh, he looked like John Wesley again.
The boy said nothing; he merely watched his father rest. Keech and the other young riders gathered closer, and Cutter knelt and put a hand on the Ranger’s chest.
“His breathing’s stronger. I think this old vaquero’s gonna make it.”
They all looked at the Fang in Keech’s hand, their faces filled with a kind of veneration.
Buffalo Woman shuffled toward him, her long, shaggy robe trailing behind her. She reached and took the Fang from Keech and placed it carefully inside her pelt. Then, glancing up at the bonfire, she began to speak in Osage.
Strong Heart translated. “She says the Lair of the Wolf is dying.” The girl looked at the elders with concern but continued. “She wants to know what happened inside the fire.”
The bonfire was indeed dimi
nishing. The flames were collapsing, little by little, no longer fueled by the power that had given them breath. “Big Ben broke the Fang’s protection,” Keech said sadly. “He stuck his hand into the ball of light, and it melted away.”
He wanted to explain more—wanted to tell them about Saint Peter, and how the Kelpie had transformed in the water—but suddenly Doyle sat straight up, his face shimmering with sweat.
John Wesley staggered over and embraced the man. Keech heard Doyle murmur against John Wesley’s face. “My boy. Oh, John, my boy. I’m so sorry for everything.”
Across the beach, the other Protectors were gathering all the horses. Two of the men waited beside the body of Whipping Feather, who had fallen to the Chamelia.
“Keech, we’re being watched.” Quinn pointed at the sky.
The Reverend’s crow continued to circle above the cove. Sending back news, no doubt, of Big Ben’s defeat. Keech was glad that Rose had seen his disciples fail yet again. Whatever wicked plan their enemy was forging in the Palace of the Thunders, the Lost Causes had once again stood in the way and been victorious.
Keech felt confidence surge through him. The last few days had been impossibly challenging. They had lost friends, allies; worst of all, Duck had lost her brother, and the Protectors had lost their colleague. Yet they had all continued to stand together, never giving up even when all had been hopeless.
As Keech contemplated his admiration for the team, he felt a clarity of thought galvanize his mind. Each breath felt clean, purified by the Fang. At his core, a vibrational warmth bloomed to life. Around him, he could sense the rhythms of the coast, the pulse of the ocean waves. He saw the world as pure.
Except a dark blight glided through these patterns, like a tick dug into his leg, a parasite that corrupted the natural flow. With his eyes closed, Keech lifted his hand and pointed at the vermin. He sensed the crow sliding across the sky and followed it.
Though he couldn’t see it with his eyes, Keech knew he was tracking the Reverend’s crow without the slightest waver. Break the crocodile’s teeth. Then he whispered a single word.
The Fang of Bonfire Crossing Page 27
