Golden

by Melissa de la Cruz

  Wes was glad to see the smallman happy.

  “Mainas?” Brendon asked as he reached Wes and Nat.

  Wes nodded, yes. Nat had got her drakon back. It would be ready to fight when the time came.

  “Close by,” said Nat. “Don’t worry.”

  Wes gave Brendon a warm slap on the shoulder as Liannan and Shakes appeared in the doorway. There were both dressed in rags. They had posed as homeless marauders, hiding among the gangs that still populated the devastated city.

  After the greetings and the hugs, and a chance for everyone to shake off the snow, Shakes led them to the makeshift war room and Liannan unrolled the map.

  It was a map of the old underground railway, the subway, it was called.

  There were lines drawn on the map in various colors. Each one represented a train line and the tunnel it traveled. The green and the yellow lines ran closest to the tower.

  “They’ve blocked the green line,” said Liannan. “They’re using it to house troops and supplies, but the yellow is open. We’ll enter at the station here.” She pointed to a spot she had already circled. “We will follow the tunnel to here.” She indicated a second spot, higher up on the map. “The road collapsed at this intersection, exposing the tracks to the sky,” she said, pointing to the place where the yellow line intersected a street named Thirty-Third. “We can climb out of the underground here to avoid the checkpoint they’ve set up at the street named Thirty-Fourth.”

  “So the street names are all numbers?” asked Shakes jokingly. “Guess they weren’t too creative back then.”

  “Great input, Shakes.” Wes shook his head. “Any other little gems you can share with us?”

  “Just trying to liven things up. Life’s been a bit dreary lately.”

  “Can I continue?” Liannan asked, as she gave Shakes a glare that made the boy shut his mouth.

  “Keep going, Liannan,” Wes said. “Tell us about the army.”

  “We tracked them to here,” Liannan said, pointing to the east side of the map. She was talking about Avo’s soldiers. “They were launching missiles at Eliza as she flew toward the tower. We were sure the drakon would set the tower afire, but at the last moment, it turned away and disappeared.”

  “I called it to me,” said Nat with a smile.

  “Just in time; she was about to roast us,” Shakes said with a smile.

  “What about Avo?” asked Wes.

  “Yeah, that icehole’s here. But he can’t get inside. The mist is impenetrable. We think he’s going to nuke the place as soon as his drones get their new warheads,” said Shakes. “We saw some technicians refitting the drones for what we guessed were nukes.”

  “So while we have time, we need to hit it. Tomorrow we’ll take a team over here,” Liannan said, pointing to a place on the east side of the tower, far away from the subway line at the street called Thirty-Third. “Draw their fire, distract them while a small strike team heads up to the tower without anyone noticing. Before Avo destroys everything.”

  “Strike team?” Nat asked.

  “Me and Wes,” said Brendon proudly.

  “Seriously?” Wes looked sideways at the smallman. “I didn’t know you were ‘strike team’ material.”

  “Oh, I don’t plan on fighting, that’s your job. I’ll open the doors, but you’ll have to do the rest.” Brendon said, his fists raised in a boxer’s stance.

  Wes shrugged. He knew what Brendon meant when he said, “You’ll have to do the rest.” Wes would need to take on the tower’s magic—the mist or whatever it was—that had held back Eliza. He would need to defeat the tower’s magic. The thought made his stomach churn. He would have to succeed where she had failed. Eliza was stronger than all of them put together, but the tower had defeated her. How much hope do I have?

  “Anything else?” Nat asked.

  “There’s a few details, but we can go over those later,” Liannan said. “I think Shakes here is going to tear his hair out if we don’t give him something to eat.”

  There was a tin can, half rusted, balanced above a fire. Brendon was cooking. Warm smoke drifted up from the flames. Black beans. Not his favorite, not even close to a pizza squeezer, but at least they would eat. Shakes held Liannan. Nat sat close to Wes. Everyone was quiet at first, maybe a little nervous. The air held an edge. Would this be the last time they would all sit together? No one wanted to say it, but Wes gathered that everyone felt the same way. No one wanted to say good-bye. Couldn’t they all just stay here like this? Warm and together?

  Brendon pulled the can from the fire and everyone shared what was in it. Liannan sang a song; Shakes looked at her, dreamy. Her voice echoed in the open space, filling the air with its warmth. Shakes hummed along. In between choruses Liannan talked about their wedding, what she would wear and how they would say their vows. She spoke at length about the sylph culture and the simple vows they exchanged, the handmade rings. Shakes nodded quietly. There was pain on his face. The more she said, the more it hurt, Wes knew. It wasn’t that he didn’t want a wedding. It was that Shakes finally knew it was just a fantasy. They would never make it to that wedding. None of them would.

  Especially since Nat did not deny what he had guessed about the spell and the sacrifice. They would not survive the morrow.

  “Come on,” Nat said, taking his hand. “It’s late.”

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  She showed him.

  The building they had camped in was an old hotel, a grand one, and after the ice some of the rooms were still intact. She opened the door to a suite that rivaled New Vegas’s best high-roller palaces. The room had two levels and curtains that stretched from floor to ceiling, marble floors that were as black as night. Tall glasses and a bottle of wine waited on a table next the door, looking expectant, as if someone had anticipated their arrival.

  Maybe someone had.

  Brendon, Wes thought, it had to be.

  Wes closed the door behind him, and watched as she walked over to the bed and began to unbutton her jacket. He did the same and removed his shoes and socks, tossed them to the side. But when Nat began to hitch her shirt up he shook his head and walked over.

  He stood in front of her. “Let me,” he said. He wanted to tell her he’d been dreaming of this moment. “You know, Nat . . . it isn’t just Shakes who wants a wedding.” He had dreams for them, too. He was going to save up for a ring. He was going to ask her to be his.

  “I’m already yours,” she whispered, as if she had read his mind. “There is no need to ask.”

  He helped her out of her shirt, out of her camisole, and she did the same, unbuttoning his shirt so that they were both bare in the moonlight.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, tentatively putting a hand on her skin.

  “So are you,” she said, her hands fluttering over his chest, skimming over the muscles in his torso, making his breath catch. Fire, her touch was fire.

  “I wanted you the minute I saw you in the casino, even when you stole my chips,” he murmured, tracing a line from her neck to her chest, and growled when she trembled under his hand in response.

  They fell to the bed, and he bent over her, a hand on her belt, tugging. “Is this okay?” he asked. “Are you sure?”

  In answer, she wrapped her hand around his, helped him unbuckle and undress her some more. Then she leaned over and did the same to him, pulling off his belt with a smile. She pulled him down to her, and he followed eagerly as they kissed. When she rolled her tongue and bit his lip, teasing him, he found he couldn’t hold back any longer.

  Their bodies joined together, her hands running down his back, her legs entwined over his, and they moved in a rhythm that started sweet and slow and built steadily until they were both frantic and breathless; and when she screamed her joy, he covered his mouth with hers, every sense of his afire until he, too, was cryin
g her name and shaking in her arms.

  They would not have tomorrow, but they would have tonight, they would have this.

  Wes thanked whatever luck he had that he had lived to this day.

  31

  I DON’T WANT THIS TO END. THIS cannot be the end of us, she thought, lying in his arms, his forearm circling around so that it pressed against her chest, her back to his front, his entire body covering hers as they curled like spoons. The dark gray of night had become the cool gray of morning.

  “You’re awake,” he said, letting his hand wander over her skin, slowly stroking her side, his touch gentle, sending sparks all over.

  She turned around to smile at him, feeling the shift in his body. “Again?” she teased. They had hardly slept the night, spending the hours exploring each other, until they knew every secret sound, every source of pleasure. She was sore and fulfilled, and ached from the loss that she would soon bear.

  He was going to die today because of her.

  “Don’t think about it,” he said, noticing the change in her, the tension in her shoulders. “Don’t think.”

  Wes was right. In a few hours they would go to the Gray Tower. If she was successful, she would cast the spell, which meant saying good-bye to him forever.

  But he was here now.

  She kissed his hand and he rolled her over so that she was on top of him, looking down. As she bent over him, her long dark hair fell on his face, on his chest.

  He gazed at her through half-lidded eyes, his brown hair messy and his cheek dotted with stubble. “Nat,” he said, sighing, as she continued to torment him, letting her hair tickle his cheek, driving him to madness, until he was fully awake now, and panting. “My Nat.”

  “Good morning,” she whispered, and when she pressed her body down upon his, she was thrilled to find he was as ready and eager as she was.

  He grunted, lifted her hips with his strong hands, and when she crashed down, he was there. But he took his time, rocking her gently, his eyes locked on hers, relishing in the moment, until they were breathless.

  She dressed slowly, wanting to lengthen the time they had alone together as much as she could. He did the same and together they silently put on each item of clothing they had quickly discarded the night before. One sock after the other. Buttoning shirts. Pulling on pants. Buckling belts. Her sword. His rifle.

  She pulled his jacket lapels together, giving it a crisp once-over, brushed the lint off his shoulders.

  He smoothed her hair, tucking a stray strand behind her ear.

  Outside the door, Brendon was already waiting. The smallman would lead them through the ductwork and hidden tunnels that led to the top of the tower without Avo and his soldiers noticing.

  Shakes and Liannan would distract Avo, luring him away from the tower to fight them. If they got in trouble, she would send Mainas to help them, directing its flame.

  “You’ll do great,” said Wes. “Let’s do this.”

  Nat squared her shoulders, touched the charm around her neck for luck, and kissed him for the last time.

  32

  FOR A MOMENT WES THOUGHT THEY would make it, that the plan wouldn’t fail and that they would be lucky for once. But once things went wrong, everything went wrong, and there was no way to make it right, there was only moving forward and through, no stopping the inevitable.

  Brendon had led them, deftly unlocking doors with the same skill he’d shown when they lived in New Vegas, half a lifetime ago. He navigated the dark corridors and stairs, finding passages where Wes saw only darkness. Nat held Wes’s hand, hurrying alongside him.

  The tower had long ago been hollowed out and rebuilt from within. In places, he saw what must have once been offices: empty rooms, moldy desks, and piles of shredded paper. In the past century a new structure was built within the old. Blocks of stone concealed office walls. Wood doors bound in iron replaced the old metal ones. And granite blocks formed passages that narrowed to a width so slender Wes had to suck air through his teeth to pass. More than once he and Nat were forced to crawl on their knees. Everywhere, they found barriers, doors bound in iron and secured with heavy locks.

  Every time, Brendon figured out how to open it.

  Coming around a corner, Wes found Brendon, balancing on the tips of his toes as he fiddled with a lock.

  Wes felt a bead of sweat run down his forehead. He exchanged an anxious look with Nat.

  “He’s got this one. You’ve got it, right, Donnie?”

  Brendon grunted, and with a final push, the lock clicked into place and the door swung open. More corridors beyond, more passages and doors.

  The Gray Tower was a vertical maze; Wes wondered whether they would ever find the top.

  He stretched out both hands, touching each wall as he made his way forward. “Stay beside me,” he said, bumping against Nat, feeling her warmth, enjoying the flash of memory from that morning.

  But she slipped ahead of him, focused on her goal. He tried to follow the sound of her footsteps. “Wait up,” he said, hoping they might slow down a bit.

  Soon, he could no longer hear their footfalls.

  “I’m just ahead,” replied Brendon.

  Nat said, “Watch the turn—”

  What turn? Wes thought, trying to catch up. Then he slammed into a wall. Oh, that turn.

  He rubbed his head. Her warning came too early.

  In the darkness, he felt Nat’s fingers wrap around his. She led him forward. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were so far behind,” she whispered.

  He knew what she was doing. Letting go. Saying good-bye.

  Not yet.

  Not yet.

  They were still alive after all.

  Brendon was up ahead, his shoes clanging against what must be a metal stairway. Holes in the wall admitted dim shafts of light, allowing Wes to catch sight of the smallman.

  “This must be an old fire shaft,” Brendon said, when they’d caught up to him. The metal stairs were rotted and the concrete crumbled. At best, half the steps were usable.

  “You may want to be careful . . . ,” he said, nodding toward the steps.

  “Got that,” said Wes, his foot resting anxiously on the rusting metal. Nat was already climbing. The smallman leapt ahead, the stairway creaking each time his foot met the tread. Wes held on to the rail, trying to spread out his weight. He thought he heard a noise behind him, but he couldn’t be certain. Maybe it was nothing. He hoped it was nothing.

  He peered through one of the holes in the wall and tried to gauge their elevation. “I figure we’re past halfway up, maybe two-thirds,” he said.

  “Maybe higher,” said Nat, looking over his shoulder.

  “I guessed as much,” Brendon said, his tools pressed into a lock at the top of the next flight.

  “Maybe we should start locking these doors behind us—thought I heard footsteps . . . something.”

  Brendon paused, cocking his ear to the sky, listening.

  “This whole tower is moaning.”

  “Like it’s collapsing.”

  Wes looked around at the patchwork of construction. “From the sound of it, soon. Come on, we should hurry.” He motioned to the next passage.

  Another corridor led to a tall stairway. The wind whistled through cracks in the walls, and Wes knew they were higher now, closer to the top. The quality of the construction improved considerably on the upper floors. The walls were more smoothly carved, most likely kept intact by the magic of the Gray Tower.

  “I think we’re almost there,” Wes guessed.

  Brendon was already working on the next lock.

  The sound of hard rubber hitting concrete echoed through the shaft. Wes spun, looked around, but didn’t see anything. Brendon was still focused on the lock. Wes backtracked. Something was wrong. That noise. They weren’t alone.

  Footsteps.
Coming closer. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  They were being followed.

  Ice.

  The lock clicked open, the door at the top of the stairs swung wide. The passage beyond was different from the rest.

  They had made it to the top.

  Except they weren’t alone.

  “I’ll hold them,” said Brendon, reaching for his gun. “You and Nat go.”

  There was no time to argue, and Wes hurried back to Nat, pulling her up toward the stairs, just as the gunfire erupted. Shots ricocheted through the shaft. Sparks filled the air. A slab of concrete broke loose, striking the stairs below it, carrying down two or three treads and a piece of the rail.

  When he reached the final door, Wes’s fingers intertwined with hers and he drew her tightly against him. More shots. A bullet grazed his shoulder, tearing the fabric of his shirt but missing the flesh. It struck the wall with a mighty crack. His ears rang.

  Nat removed the gray key she wore around her neck. It trembled in her fingers. She inserted it in the final lock, but it slipped from her grip. Wes caught the key and helped her press it back into the lock.

  More shots, growing louder.

  The key clicked into place. The lock spun.

  There was a slight sucking of air as the door opened by narrow degrees.

  Past the threshold, the mist was thick as cotton, but hard as rock. Wes tried to enter, tried to force his way through the haze, but could not. The magic held. There was no way inside.

  This was what his sister had failed to do, had failed to achieve.

  The battle drew closer. A strangled cry echoed behind him, and his stomach dropped. He knew what that was. Wes looked over his shoulder, just in time to see Brendon take a bullet and fall to the ground. Blood poured from the wound, drenching the steps, puddling around the smallman’s slender form. Nat screamed, and Wes choked down a grunt, his gut groaning with anger, his body charged with anxiety.

  Wes watched the light fade from Brendon’s eyes, saw them go gray and narrow. Donnie, he thought. Brave Donnie is with Roark now. A second bullet hit his friend’s dead body, making it twitch as if it were still alive. The sound of the bullet hitting the body made him shudder. Wes felt as if he had been the one who was shot, that he, too, would soon join the ranks of the dead.