Rebel

by Zoë Archer

  His golden canine eyes closed, and the mists collected around him. This time, when they dissolved, Nathan hunkered in the enormous form of his bear.

  He growled again, a sound so enraged that Astrid almost believed he would charge her and Catullus. Yet he retained the man within, and changed back into his human shape. He made use of this form by swearing long and viciously. Even Catullus, who had heard some of the coarsest language imaginable, started.

  She went to Nathan, seeing the anger overtaking him. Anger for himself, because he refused to let her or Catullus or anyone down, but was met with the iron of his own resistance. His scowl was for himself alone.

  “Nathan,” she said softly. She placed her hands upon his face, gently forcing him to meet her gaze. The fury blazing in his dark eyes left her breathless, that he could turn such anger upon himself. “Stop.”

  “I won’t fail you,” he snarled.

  “You will not,” she said, grave. “Nothing you do is a failure.”

  Catullus, bless him, had moved away to give them some privacy.

  Finally, Nathan dropped his gaze and said, so low his words were a rumble, “I don’t know what to do.”

  Her chest constricted. She could not imagine what it cost him to admit his fallibility, this proud man who was a born fighter. Yet he revealed the gap in his armor—to her, and only her.

  She took one hand and laid it against his chest, feeling the hard throb of his heart within the enclosure of his ribs. He was hot satin beneath her palm.

  “Here,” she murmured. “The answer is here. It took anger to release the wolf and the bear, but I think you need to find something else within you to free the hawk.”

  “I don’t know what that is,” he grumbled.

  She pondered. “What is a hawk? What does it mean to fly?”

  At first, more frustration crossed his face. Then he subdued himself and listened, quieting. “Freedom,” he said, after a moment. “The open sky. Lightness.” The storm clouds in his expression began to dissolve, giving way to stillness, and the beauty of him allowing himself peace was a sight beyond magnificent.

  “Yes.” She kept her words soft but intent. “Find that in yourself. Whatever gives you that freedom.”

  His breathing slowed, the fast pounding of his heart eased, and a slow, wondering smile illuminated him as he looked at her. He stepped nearer, then leaned close and kissed her with an aching sweetness.

  “You,” he whispered against her lips. “You free me.”

  The bright pennant of happiness unfurled within her. And then Nathan disappeared, enveloped in the mists of his transformation.

  She felt the beat of wings, the lofting upward, and stepped back with a smile.

  A handsome hawk hovered just above her—its wings a lustrous mosaic of russet and brown, tipped with black, its breast spotted tawny and umber, and the vivid red of its tail. She held out her arm, and the hawk alit, regarding her with its nobly shaped head and clear golden eyes. It held her carefully in its talons, though she knew the sharp claws could tear with no effort. The solid weight of the hawk surprised her a little, yet it was marvelous that such a relatively small body held all of Nathan.

  “I knew you could,” she said softly. She stroked the front of its chest with the back of her fingers, finding him as soft as a lullaby.

  The hawk ducked its head, then gave a short cry. She could have sworn he smiled at her.

  “That’s Lesperance?” Catullus asked, coming nearer.

  The hawk flapped its wings in response before settling itself.

  Catullus chuckled, shaking his head. “Think of all the money you will save on train fare.” Then, more seriously, he added, “Nicely done, Lesperance.”

  Nathan made a small chirp of acknowledgment, then ruffled his wings as a signal. She understood. Stepping away from Catullus, she gave her outstretched arm a slight push. A brief grip from his talons, the force of his body urging upward, and then—

  He flew. Nathan soared upward. His wings beat powerfully, lifting him higher. First, in expanding curves, learning what it meant to fly. And then he grew confident, forceful, taming the invisible territory of the air and making it his. He let out a cry, wild and limitless. She had never seen or heard anything as beautiful.

  Her eyes heated, blurred.

  You, he had said. You free me.

  Ah, if only she could be up there with him, enjoying the liberty of flying. But she wouldn’t begrudge him his own flight. She watched him as he grew smaller, wheeling upward, her own feet firmly upon the ground. Love, she began to understand, also meant letting go.

  A dream. This had to be a dream. Countless times, he’d dreamt of exactly this: soaring, released from the earth, the whole of the world beneath him in a patchwork of green and gray, all around him infinite air, wind and cloud and sun. Boundaries dissolved, he was completely free.

  He hadn’t the fledgling’s fear. The sky was his. He knew instinctively how to use his wings, when to push against tides of air, when to glide. Drunk with possibility, he wheeled and dove, making the earth small and large and small again. He laughed, and the sound was a hawk’s cry.

  Astrid should see this. She should feel it. To share the sky with her was exactly right. But impossible. He was the rarest of the Earth Spirits, able to take the shape of not one but three animals. And she was only human.

  He saw her beneath him, watching him, the precision of his sight allowing him to see the golden strands of her hair loosening from her braid and trailing across her cheek. She seemed so tiny, so vulnerable, and the world so gigantic. He had killed for her. Would do it again without a second’s hesitation. But her smallness was an illusion. No one stronger than Astrid, not in the whole of the earth.

  In this new form, he could fight beside and above her, wherever the battle took them. And he would. First, he had to get the totem.

  Within his hawk’s form, he felt the totem’s power as surely as he felt the sun upon his back. It called out to him with the strength of a hawk’s cry.

  Nathan turned to the single, defiant pine, growing proudly from the side of the cliff. He saw the totem at once, carefully nestled in the branches. The talon of an enormous hawk, nearly the size of an entire ordinary bird, a leather thong attached to it as with the others. God, would he have to battle a giant hawk, as he had the wolf and the bear? Didn’t matter. He’d face whatever he must to get the totem and keep it out of the Heirs’ hands.

  He brought himself close to the tree, then perched upon the branch holding the totem. Using his own talons, he edged closer, cautious. At any moment, some supernatural hawk could come screeching to life, and he had to be wary. He glanced down, seeing Astrid and Graves far below, watching attentively.

  Astrid gave him a slight nod and smile, encouraging.

  He moved forward, then stretched out a grasping foot toward the totem. When he touched the totem, surges of soaring power flooded him, the sensation of flying hundreds of thousands of miles above the earth, the hunt and the kill, rising and falling through the air. Literally in his grasp was the might to command every hawk Earth Spirit, to tame their will and make their wings his own.

  Another temptation, one he would fight just as he had fought and mastered the temptations offered by the wolf and bear totems.

  He waited, grasping the enormous talon with his own, but no colossal hawk appeared. It might truly be this simple—if turning into a hawk and flying up the side of a towering, sheer cliff could be called simple.

  The totem’s size made it too unwieldy to hold in one of his talons. So he gripped it with both and prepared to take flight, bringing it to earth and ensuring its safety.

  A familiar falcon’s scream tore the air, and suddenly, it was upon him.

  The falcon dove at him, screaming. Razor-sharp beak, slashing talons. It hacked at him everywhere—his face, his chest. A swarm of knifelike wounds, swathing him with burning pain. Wings slapped the air, a blur, as Nathan fought against the attack, balancing precariously on th
e branch.

  He remembered this falcon—its shrill alert at the trading post had caused the Heirs to abduct him, and later, it had circled overhead, tracking and reporting their progress to the Heirs. Now, in his own avian form, he knew the falcon’s thoughts, its pleasure in bloodshed, carefully cultivated by its masters. He saw in its mind its hunting without purpose, without the need to feed, but only for the amusement of killing. A specially bred monster. It wanted him dead, wanted the prize he clutched in his talons.

  It launched itself at him, a frenzy of bites and tearing. In Nathan’s talons was the totem. He had only his beak and wings to counterattack. Changing into his other forms wasn’t possible. The branches of the tree were too slender to support anything other than a bird’s weight. He had only the shape of his hawk with which to defend himself.

  And so he did. He lunged and struck, aiming for the falcon’s talons—the worst of its weapons. A satisfying scream of outrage when he hit home, tasting blood. Angry and surprised that its prey had the gall to fight back, the falcon charged, only to be forced back by Nathan’s assault.

  The falcon didn’t give him much room as it flapped backward, but it was all he needed to take to the air. Better to fly than be cornered within the branches.

  With a beat of his wings, he shot into the sky, the falcon in close pursuit.

  “Jävlar,” Astrid hissed. She stared down the sight of her rifle, following Nathan and the Heirs’ falcon as the two birds of prey wheeled in the air. The damn falcon had come from nowhere. Astrid had been careful to watch the skies and saw nothing. Yet here it was, attacking a hindered Nathan. She had to help.

  Whatever distance Nathan was able to put between himself and the falcon never lasted long enough for Astrid to take a decent shot. Even if there was enough room between the two birds, not even an experienced riflewoman like Astrid could hit such a small moving target.

  “Can you take a shot?” she asked Catullus, whose shotgun was also trained on the aerial battle.

  “Too far up,” growled Catullus. “And they’re spinning like trick kites up there.”

  Astrid cursed again, burning with rage. Short of growing her own pair of wings, there was nothing she could do to help Nathan. Only watch as he fought for his life.

  The falcon clung to him, a mass of feathers, beak, and talons, all ripping, scratching, thirsty for his blood. Without his own talons, he was at a loss to retaliate, to take the initiative. And that infuriated him. He could only dodge and defend as he clung to the oversize totem.

  The totem threw his balance. Holding it hampered his maneuverability. The falcon, unencumbered, was a hell of a lot more agile, and that cost him.

  He could lead it down. If he got close enough to the ground, he could shift either into human form or even wolf or bear. That gave him more options. And Astrid and Graves could protect the totem as he fought.

  He banked and readied for descent. But the falcon saw what he meant to do, and its attack grew fiercer. It slashed at his wings, his talons. Scorching trails of cuts crisscrossed him, and he struggled to clasp the totem.

  A better purchase was needed. He moved slightly to readjust his hold—the opening the falcon needed. Its knifelike beak stabbed at his talons. Reflexively, his grip opened.

  The totem fell.

  Damn it to hell. He and the falcon plunged down, racing to catch it. But his injuries—including those from the day before, not fully healed—slowed him no matter how hard he pushed himself. He and the falcon sped downward, the ground growing closer, the falcon edging ahead.

  It grabbed the totem. And continued its dive. Nathan urged himself nearer. Talons free now, he tore at the falcon, felt the satisfying rip of feather and flesh.

  Then it surged onward. Shook itself. And suddenly a wave of energy pulsed from it, pushing him back.

  Engulfed in bright light, the falcon shrank, then expanded. Nathan dove forward and was thrashed back by the beat of enormous wings. He spun away. Stunned, he hovered for a moment, trying to gain his balance. Then mentally swore at what he saw.

  The falcon was no longer an ordinary animal. Now it was a creature of legend, grown to the size of a carriage, wings broad as sails. Clutched in one of its massive talons, the totem looked no bigger than an infant’s rattle. That alone sent a bolt of cold fury through Nathan. But true rage, blinding in its intensity, slammed into him when he saw that the falcon headed straight down. Right toward Astrid.

  Words sputtered and died in Astrid’s mouth. It could not be. Yet it was. Before her eyes, the Heirs’ falcon abruptly grew. To monstrous size.

  “Good Christ,” Catullus swore. Aptly put. But it seemed that the will of heaven had nothing to do with what they faced now.

  She’d battled giant creatures before, but never witnessed an ordinary animal transform into an enormous beast.

  “Bracebridge’s work, surely,” Astrid mused, grim. And now it clasped the totem in one massive talon.

  Nathan looked so small beside the falcon, and when the huge bird’s wings knocked him away like a gnat, anger and fear gelled within her.

  She raised up her rifle. She had a bigger target now. “Get closer, you parakeet,” she snarled. “I’ll blast you to pulp.”

  “I believe the parakeet heard that,” Catullus said, voice flinty. “It’s headed straight for us.”

  The falcon indeed sped down. Racing directly toward where she and Catullus stood. And the closer it got, the more Astrid realized how bloody big that bird was. Its beak could slice her in two. She suddenly felt like a defenseless rabbit in a field, seeing the huge shadow over her.

  Like hell would she flee. She braced herself and took aim. In the corner of her eye, she saw Catullus do the same. They both inhaled, steadying themselves. Then fired.

  The falcon swerved, avoiding Catullus’s shot. But Astrid’s bullet clipped the tip of one wing. It squawked as giant feathers scattered, large as fronds.

  “I think we made it cross,” muttered Astrid.

  They reloaded, fired again, yet the creature dodged the bullets.

  “Astrid,” Catullus warned. “It’s heading for you.”

  She glanced up. And saw he was right. The falcon was diving straight toward her. Wings outstretched, eyes glittering with avarice, talons glinting like swords. A vision from the depths of hell.

  She fumbled to reload with fingers that felt far too stiff.

  Catullus bellowed, “No time—run!”

  There wasn’t a choice. The shadow overhead grew. The falcon was almost on her.

  Astrid ran, heading for the cover of the trees. She heard Catullus shouting behind her, the blast of his shotgun, and Nathan’s hawk screams of rage.

  Almost to the trees. The pines grew too close together for the falcon to follow. She sprinted, nearly at the boundary of the protecting woods. Then felt herself wrenched backward. Hot pain shot through her shoulders and back. Her arms were pinned at her sides.

  She lifted up, the ground disappearing beneath her feet. Her rifle fell and became a tiny toy as it hit the ground below her. The falcon gave a triumphant shriek, piercing and loud.

  The damned winged beast had her.

  Thought fled. He flew forward, propelled by rage and horror. No. Astrid struggled, writhing and twisting, to free herself or at least reach the knife in her boot or her pistol.

  But the falcon held her tight and nothing she did could set her loose. Didn’t stop her from trying, though. He would have admired her spirit but was too choked with fury to do anything but reach her.

  Nathan pursued. He no longer felt the pain of his wounds. There was only forward. Yet it didn’t matter how hard he pushed himself, the falcon’s wings were bigger, its speed faster.

  He would reach her. Had to.

  Another surge of strength rolled through him and he managed to draw close enough so that he flew beside her. His vision clouded when he saw the blood on her back where the falcon’s talons clutched her.

  He shot forward, intending to slash at the huge ta
lons, then pulled back. A glance down revealed they were hundreds of feet in the air. If the bird dropped Astrid from this height, she’d never survive the fall. Goddamn it.

  Astrid saw him, and alarm flared in her eyes. She snarled her frustration at her capture, hair whipping around her face.

  “In my pockets,” she shouted above the wind and deafening flap of the falcon’s wings. “I put the totems there when you shifted into a hawk. Take them.”

  He didn’t care about the damned totems. He wanted her.

  At his hesitation, she growled, “Do it. Quickly.”

  Nathan flew closer, then plucked from her pockets the wolf and bear totems. He clutched them in his talons. And continued to fly alongside, keeping pace with the falcon. The giant bird paid him no heed as it soared over the forest. It had its prize, and Nathan was less valuable. But Nathan would fight the beast for Astrid.

  “You have to change form,” Astrid yelled.

  Like hell, his gaze told her. The falcon had to land at some point, and when it did, he’d be there, ready. His best chance to follow was in hawk form.

  She saw his refusal and clenched her teeth in frustration. “With the totem, they can control you as a hawk,” she shouted. “Be anything. Wolf. Bear. Man. But not a hawk.”

  With a foul mental oath, Nathan realized she was right. With the hawk totem in the possession of the Heirs’ familiar, he would have no free will in his hawk form. The Heirs could make him do anything. Including hurt Astrid.

  It infuriated him that he couldn’t speak. So he let his eyes say what he could not, holding Astrid’s gaze. I’m coming for you. I will not stop until you’re safe.

  “I know,” she said, quieting, her silver eyes warm. She held his gaze and tried to memorize him, as though—and this he couldn’t allow—saying good-bye. “I love you.”

  He hated his animal forms. They took words from him, the multitude of things he had to tell her. That she was the breath in his lungs and the gleam of his soul. That he loved her beyond reason, beyond self. And would do so until the fabric of the world dissolved.