by J. S. Miller
“Please, Westley,” he said. “Stop them. The pain is unbearable. Please, son.”
“Who?” I asked. “Stop who?”
“They are everywhere. Look around. Our enemies surround us.”
My periphery filled with tall figures, but when I turned, there was nothing but cold, wet grass whispering in the wind. I was alone. In the middle of the night. Talking to a chair.
I turned back to the throne and saw yet another set of eyes. They were still the warmest thing I’d ever seen, but the sight of her, trapped in that dark place, shoveled ice into my chest.
“You always were too hard on yourself,” Abigail said.
A reply tried to claw its way up and out, but it slipped and plunged back into the freezing well water.
“Why won’t you come back to me?” she asked.
Come back to me. The words rattled in my skull, but in a different voice — was it my own? Whoever it was wanted to lead me away. I gazed at Abigail for one more second, which both lasted an eternity and was over in an instant, and then I followed the voice. It dragged me up through the waters of unconsciousness, and I gasped as I broke the surface.
Pain tore through my right side as I sat up on a bed covered in clean, white sheets. Claire was standing over me, a startled look on her face. She recovered quickly and put a hand on my shoulder to ease me back down.
“You’re all right,” she said. “You took a beating, but you’re all right.”
“Where are we?”
“The Astor’s office. I think it’s a title, like mayor. She’s quite fond of you after … after what you did.”
I looked around the room, enjoying the way nothing large and terrifying was currently trying to kill me. This Astor, whoever he was, had decorated the space with an array of upscale furniture, all carved from that peculiar purple wood. On the walls hung photos, the type you’d find in any politician's office — handshakes, ribbon cuttings, and the like. Yet nearly every person in these pictures was not quite human. And one face showed up again and again: It was covered in brown-flecked feathers, had a curved beak, and glared through the picture glass at me with shiny black eyes.
“I trashed the Astor’s house, didn’t I?” I asked.
“Oh yeah,” Claire said. “Big time.”
“Great.”
“You also saved her family. So there’s that.”
“I take it I’m not under arrest, then.”
“That’s not my call,” she said, smiling. It was one of those smiles that makes you realize with sudden, unexpected clarity that a person you thought of as a platonic friend is, in fact, a member of the opposite sex. “If it were up to me, however …”
“Very funny, but I need to get going.”
She put a hand on my chest.
“Slow down,” she said. “You’re not a superhero, no matter what the people of this city are saying.”
“I don’t care about any of that. What’s your prognosis, Doc?”
Her smile narrowed into a frustrated line.
“Good news,” she said with more than a touch of sarcasm. “You were only out for a few hours, but you have a concussion, two broken ribs, a few sprains, and about a thousand cuts and bruises. You do seem to be healing at a rate I can only describe as Loganesque, but I still recommend at least a week’s bed rest.”
“That’s the good news?” I asked.
“Yes. All of that proves you’re somehow still alive.”
“I can’t just lie here for a week,” I said, standing.
“Ah, yes, your damsel in distress,” she said, rolling her eyes. “The highly trained operative whom only you can save! Oh, don’t look so surprised. The big metal guy told me all about your hero complex.”
“Hey, that’s not really any of your—”
“I suppose I should be grateful,” she interrupted. “Considering it saved my life earlier. Huh, I actually needed a white knight. How embarrassing.”
I glared at her. She continued staring off into space, as if pondering how life could have possibly brought her to a point where she might need my help.
“Where are my clothes?” I asked.
Out in the lobby, Cagney and Brando were guarding the door to my room, and Coppersworth was standing in the reception area, looking extremely uncomfortable. Behind the desk sat a woman with long black hair and dark blue skin. She was smiling at him. Glynda sat on the floor nearby, looking as though she were barely suppressing a giggle fit.
“I assure you, Madam,” Coppersworth said. “I do not run on batteries, nor have I ever been to one of these ‘radio shacks,’ as you call them.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?” the woman said. “I’m not nearly old enough to be a madam … I’m not even married.”
“You’re not … what?” Coppersworth said, his anger faltering.
She batted her blue eyelids at him, and his jaw clanked open. The citizens of Astoria sure were an open-minded bunch.
“All right,” I said. “Time to go.”
“Apparently we are departing,” Coppersworth explained hastily. “Goodbye, Miss.”
I opened the door, stepped outside, and stopped. Cobblestone Road still glittered in the moonlight, but only small sections of it were visible. Word of my whereabouts had spread, and Astoria’s strange residents filled the street. All their eyes were on me.
“Stay!” someone shouted. “Help us!”
“You really want an alchemist’s help?” I yelled back.
The crowd went awkwardly silent.
“That’s what I thought,” I said, descending the steps.
I started walking in the direction I hoped was north. The gargoyles fell in behind me like miniature bodyguards, but I caught them throwing each other uneasy looks. They hadn’t spoken much since arriving in Astoria, but I’d chalked that up to the loss of Hanks. Was it possible they were simply questioning my decisions? Whatever the reason for their reticence, I was grateful. I had enough adversity to deal with.
“Wait,” Glynda barked. “You’re just gonna leave? What kind of hero are you?”
“The kind who isn’t one,” I said. “You’ll be fine. You have each other. My friend is on her own.”
“Well, I’m stayin’ here,” she said. “I’m gonna look for Gert and help these people.”
“And I respect your decision.”
“I know Agent Volkova,” said a familiar voice. “And she is more than capable of taking care of herself, my friend.”
Max Fen limped out of the crowd and into my path.
“Get out of my way, Max.”
“I know I can’t stop you, brother,” he said. “But please, just listen. These people need you. Even if we never see those creatures again … the citizens of Astoria need hope. Imagine it. Your work here … it could redeem your order. Make alchemist synonymous with angel again. Plus, you look like you could use an extra friend or two. It’d be better for everyone if you stayed.”
Those looking on murmured in agreement.
“Even for Elena?” I asked. “Is it better for her?”
“Do you even know where she is?” he asked. “Or if she’s even still in trouble? Heck, you might have better luck staying here and using our resources to find her.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, shouldering past him. “I know you’re trying to do what’s right, but it’s time for me to move on.”
“Sir Alchemist!” a shrill voice called out.
I stopped again and glanced back at a large, humanoid hawk exiting the Astor’s office. It wore a vest and pocket watch, and had the same piercing black eyes I’d seen in the pictures. The bird walked toward me with a small object clasped between its wings.
“I am Astor Sylvana,” it said. “Leader of Astoria.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t stay.”
“I would not ask it,” Sylvana said. “You have saved my husband, my children, and my city. We owe you too much already.”
“Your husband?” I asked, then simultaneously remembered my manne
rs and all the feminine pronouns Claire had been using. “I apologize. I … I didn’t realize you were female.”
She let out a warbling laugh.
“Your kind seldom does. But it does not matter. Here, take this.”
She held out her wings. Resting in them was a small, unlit paper lantern with symbols drawn upon it in black sumi ink.
“They mean courage. And family. May its light guide you on your path.”
I accepted the lantern, folding it flat and sliding it into a pocket. Then I continued north on Cobblestone Road.
Cagney and Brando kept up their silent pursuit, and after a few more seconds, the sound of clanking metal came up behind me. I smiled but didn’t need to turn around. With a hundred pairs of eyes pressing against our backs and the weight of the task ahead resting firmly on our shoulders, Coppersworth, the gargoyles, and I left Astoria behind.
Chapter 19
“Now, Westley, I do hope you won’t take my asking as any manner of insult, but why on Earth did we leave all those lovely men, women and children to die?”
We’d been walking on Cobblestone Road for quite a while. To my surprise, it extended far beyond Astoria’s city limits, transitioning back onto the main planet by way of a sloping corkscrew bridge that was thoroughly disorienting. Before Coppersworth’s question, the only sounds for hours had been our feet shuffling, the gargoyles’ wings flapping, and the roadside torches crackling. I was sore, exhausted, and grouchy as hell.
“Because we’re not on Earth,” I said. “And no one’s going to die. It was a bluff. Why would he attack Astoria if I’m not there? I’m chasing him. He’ll focus on me.”
“Ah, so we are the ones in mortal peril. Perhaps I should have remained in Astoria as well.”
“Feel free to head back if you're scared. I'm used to being on my own.”
“Yes,” Coppersworth said after a pause. “I imagine you are. If that is true, however, I must ask … why are we doing this? Who exactly is this woman to you?”
“I told you. She’s a friend.”
“You’ve known each other for quite some time, then?”
“You ask too many questions, C-Dub.”
“What I have done is stand by you when no one else would,” he said, raising his voice. “Or nearly no one else; I beg your pardons, Sir Statues.”
“None taken, C-Dub,” the gargoyles said in unison.
“I have stood by you,” Coppersworth continued, turning back to me. “And you offer little else than insults as recompense. I have a right to know why I should allow myself to be led by the nose into battle.”
“You want to know why?” I shouted, spinning to face him. “Because a long time ago, I didn’t do anything … and everyone else paid for it. Elena could already be dead, for all I know. But I can’t do nothing. Not again.”
For another few seconds, the silence returned. Coppersworth’s eyelights flicked between me and the ground before he finally decided to break it.
“I am terribly sorry for your losses, West. But loss is a demon we all must face. My question remains. Who is she to you? Why is her life more valuable than all those in Astoria?”
“I gotta admit, Boss,” Cagney said reluctantly. “Me and Brando been wonderin’ the same thing.”
I was struggling to think of an explanation that would make sense even to me when all four of us stopped, staring at the horizon. Flickering orange light touched the sky just above the next hill. The glow was too broad and intense to be from torches. Something else was burning. Something big.
“Oh my word …” Coppersworth murmured.
I was already running, Chemslinger in hand. Cresting the hill, I saw a small farmhouse, its roof and walls ablaze. Behind it, fields of crops were burning. A bonfire raged in front of the house, its logs piled high, crackling, popping, splitting apart like … like skin. Oh, no. A human hand fell from the pyre and landed on the blackened earth. Oh, God, no.
I ran to the bonfire, but it was too late for the farmhouse’s former residents. Then a wordless cry echoed in my own ears, even above the din of the bonfire, and I briefly wondered if I were the one doing the screaming. But no. It was coming from the second story window of the burning house.
Without thinking, I sprinted toward the building, barely hearing Coppersworth’s cries of protest. By the time it dawned on me that my friend was flame retardant, I was already inside.
I sprinted through fire until I glimpsed a stairway. It looked damaged and rickety, but this was the only way up I’d spotted during my search of the first floor. Someone up there needed my help. And I couldn’t do nothing. Not again.
The first step creaked underfoot, but I urged myself onto the second. It snapped, throwing smoke and stinging embers into my eyes, blinding and choking me as I fell toward the flames.
An iron grip caught my arm and pulled me back from the abyss. Coppersworth’s monocle focused on me as he hauled me up, and then it scanned the new 10-foot gap between us and the upstairs landing.
“I cannot make such a leap,” he said. “Could the gargoyles?”
“Doubtful. They’ve been terrified of fire ever since I let them watch Backdraft.”
“Let them watch what?”
“Never mind.”
“All right, then. Are you ready, old sport?”
“Ready?”
“That’s the spirit!”
He tossed me. As I went airborne for the 87th time that week, I briefly considered inventing a portable hang glider. But I miraculously landed on my feet on the second floor, turned back to Coppersworth, and grinned like a maniac.
“Go save someone already!” he shouted. “I shall prepare for your inevitable leap from the highest window in the bloody house!”
The second floor appeared to serve as a large communal bedroom. Something scurried under one of the beds, whimpering. I didn’t have time for gentle coaxing, so I marched over to the bed and flipped the damn thing over. A cloud of fur and claws hurtled out from under it, flying straight for my face. I ducked, and it sailed screeching over my head. Then the floorboards made the same sound I’d heard on the stairs. Fantastic.
The wood buckled, and the howling creature and I crashed onto the floor below. Fire raged all around us, but my coat — which was damn warm, by the way — seemed to be protecting most of me. I glanced around and came eye to yellow eye with one of those six-legged cat things, like the one I’d seen back in Arthur Rundale’s mansion.
I grabbed it, and long claws buried themselves in my sleeve. Reminding myself to never remove this article of clothing again, I stood, stumbled toward the door, and fell out onto the dirt. Coppersworth, who was piling unburned flora below a prominent second story window, threw down his current armload in disgust.
“Typical!”
He and the gargoyles rushed over and dragged us away from the burning building. Once we were clear, I let the animal go, and it scurried off into the darkness.
“That’s all what needed savin’?” Brando asked. “The freakin’ cat?”
“A life’s a life,” I said between coughs.
“Yes, well, I do hope it was at the very least a talking cat,” Coppersworth said.
The smell of roasting flesh made me want to retch, a feeling I expressed by doing exactly that. They helped me around the house, away from the bonfire. Coppersworth pulled me to my feet near a small hand pump and splashed water into my face. I sputtered incoherently.
“Breathe, man. You inhaled quite a lot of smoke.”
We stood there, staring at the farmhouse and the funeral pyre, while I struggled not to cough up one of my lungs. Coppersworth kept glancing around uncomfortably as if looking for something to do.
“I suppose we should make camp and build a fire,” he said. “But that doesn’t feel quite right, does it?”
As if in response, a mournful cry rang out across the hilltop. Circling the bonfire, the animal I’d saved snapped and growled at the flames. The sight stoked my own anger, but fatigue almost immediate
ly smothered it, weighing down my limbs like lead-filled ballast bags. In the last 48 hours, I'd been beaten, burned and left for dead, and now the only indication I was on the right track was this horrifying inferno. Had my adversary left this here to taunt me? The harder I tried to find him, the worse things seemed to get. The animal wailed again, but I was too tired to watch anymore. I lay down on the grass, warm in the glow of those terrible flames, and closed my eyes.
What seemed like about five seconds later, Coppersworth shook me awake. Double sunlight stung my eyes, and my back ached as though I’d been trying to hold up a planet.
“I'm awake, I'm awake,” I said. “Lay off.”
“My sincerest apologies, chum, but there is something I believe you may wish to see.”
He started off toward the farmhouse, and I grudgingly followed. What was left of the structure reminded me of pictures painted on cathedral ceilings, the old ones, back when they dished out extra generous helpings of brimstone. Blackened boards clawed at the heavens, and pillars of smoke rose from the fields.
I must have let out a noise at the sight because Coppersworth flashed me the universal hand signal for “shut the hell up” as we approached the area where the bonfire had been. I followed orders, moving carefully and readying myself for anything. Based on the way he was acting, I nearly expected to find The Laughing Man himself leaning against the pile of burnt bones, waiting to confront us at the scene of his crime.
Instead, we found the animal from the night before. It had climbed atop the pile of wood and limbs and clamped its jaws around the arm of one of the bodies. The little guy was covered in ash. Aside from that, it looked very much like the animal I'd seen before, about the size and shape of a lynx, with pointed tufts at the tops of its ears and tabby striped fur — but, of course, it also had two extra legs and flying-squirrel webbing between them. It sneezed and coughed as it tugged at the remains of its masters, devoting all its strength to removing them from the pyre.
“That’s the saddest damn thing I ever seen, Boss,” Cagney said. He and Brando had walked up behind us, and they were holding their fedoras in their hands.
“Your reasons for leaving the city may be sound,” Coppersworth said. “But this is not a land of logic, and your foe treats reason as but a minor obstacle. Do you still believe the people of Astoria are safe?”
