But they all hesitated on the way past the makeshift arch, looking up with pride. Already they used it for fluttering prayer tags and community notes.
Nevahn bent back to his ongoing task. Each day, he painted mud glyphs on the rock of the communal stronghold, endlessly circling it with protections of strength, persistence, and vigor. Before Ghehera had shattered his village wards, he could have accomplished the glyphing with one pass. But it didn’t seem he’d ever truly recover from that day.
Rogher emerged from the stronghold, stretching, his hair glittering with water from morning ablutions and a bucket in hand. He stopped beside Nevahn, standing hipshot with the bucket bumping his leg.
“Was it well?” Nevahn asked, waiting for an unofficial report on Rogher’s most recent foray down the mountain to barter for lightweight supplies. No one seemed yet to have accepted Nevahn’s diminished role in their community, in spite of the revised village tribunal and Ardac’s rising status.
Ardac didn’t seem to mind. Anything that gave people comfort. He moved away from the arch, slapping the gloves lightly against his thigh as he joined Nevahn beside the stronghold.
Rogher grinned at them both. “I found another merchant willing to deal with us.”
That was good news. They would not survive if the shunning continued.
“And I heard,” Rogher said, all too casually, “that the woman still searches for Trevarr around the old forest.”
Nevahn truly didn’t know where his son hid. But unlike Anjhela, he did not imagine Trevarr to be on this world.
“I heard,” Rogher said, something of scorn on his imprecise features, “that she had feelings for him, and now the only way to prove herself to Ghehera is—”
“Enough!” Nevahn’s voice rang with its old authority for the first time since their move. Even Ardac looked at him with surprise.
Nevahn had stepped back from leadership, yes. But he would not hear his son’s circumstances mocked. And he would not let his people forget — ever — that Ghehera was not to be taken lightly, not even in an attempt to make themselves feel bigger.
Rogher scowled at him, a resentful cast to the expression. “Ease back, Nevahn. She deserves our scorn.”
“She well might.” Nevahn spoke grimly, steadily. “But we dare not scorn her.”
“She is only one half-breed—”
Nevahn stood, his crude oxtail brush dripping slick mud. “She is all of them, when she comes here. She bears the mendihar!” Rogher and Ardac both recoiled, but Nevahn had no mercy for them. “Do you know what it feels like, the touch of that gauntlet? Do you care to find out for yourself?”
In horror, Ardac demanded, “Has she touched you?”
Nevahn didn’t answer. Not directly. “You want nothing of it, Rogher. Nothing. She is a dangerous tool of Ghehera, never to be taken lightly. And if you’re right, and she did have feelings for my son, then such circumstances are all the more dangerous to us.”
Ardac grew alarmed with understanding. “Klysar’s blood, far more dangerous. She’s doing more than proving herself to Ghehera. She’s proving herself—”
“To herself,” Nevahn finished for him, and glared at Rogher. “To herself.”
And she would do anything to accomplish that, because in the end it was the only thing that would save her from Ghehera.
Chapter 13
Heading Back to That Arch
“Prepare for optimal response in minimal time.”
— Rhonda Rose
“Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.”
— Lisa McGarrity
Oh joy. Oh glory. Oh chaos!
— Sklayne
Lucia lay on the cabin’s double bed in a post-pizza haze, allowing herself to feel relaxed and flat in soft comfort, pondering changes to the family torrijas recipe. She’d cranked up the air conditioning, again washed her face clean of the day’s grit, and spritzed herself lightly with a nice coconut and melon hydrating body splash.
She pretended not to hear a small feline sneeze from some mysterious location within the room.
She’d left Quinn on the guy side, setting up his laptop and little portable printer, already working on research. It would rejuvenate him as much as anything, the still, cool room silent but for his fingers tapping away at the keys. Robin lay on his bed, exhausted and resting before she returned to check on her ghost-torn shop before the evening’s excursion.
And then there was Garrie.
Lucia knew that look. The one where the energies were getting to Garrie but she’d already pushed her body as far as possible toward working them off. She needed rest, and yet whatever assailed her here wouldn’t let go long enough for her to get it.
Although Lucia was beginning to wonder if there wasn’t something else to Garrie’s discomfit. Those flashes of temper she’d seen, for instance. They were so very unlike Garrie, leaving her struggling visibly with restraint.
Rhonda Rose had brought her up better than that. Different than that. And Garrie just plain wasn’t that sort.
In fact, it had never been said, but Lucia suspected that if Rhonda Rose had felt Garrie to be of that sort, she would, somehow, have failed to make it through her teens.
Lucia cracked her eyes open to peek. Garrie had stolen the quilt and draped it not over her own shoulders, but — there, where they sat together on the little sofa — over the distinctly broad shoulders of the man that had so suddenly become part of their lives. Trevarr stretched out long legs as if relaxed, but every bit of him still radiated an inexplicable awareness. A readiness.
Lucia wouldn’t be the one to come up on him too fast. Ever.
But Garrie no longer hesitated when it came to Trevarr. Lucia raked a savvy girlfriend gaze over the two, seeing just how Garrie settled in against him, head on his shoulder, his arm tucking her in close and his hand touching her hair, her cheek... a reverent touch, mixed with patience and contentment. And Garrie, her fingers splayed across the half-open laces of his dark indigo shirt, twitching now and then. Not asleep, but dozing deeply.
The snap of his gaze to hers came suddenly — unpredictably. It caught her out, pinning her with the eerie silver awareness and something not quite right about the pupils. For an instant, she held her breath — waiting for annoyance, or censure, or a frown.
Instead she saw acknowledgment. Understanding. A common bond.
Lucia smiled slightly, and closed her eyes, and fell into sleep.
~~~~~
Well, sleep would have been too much to hope for, and Garrie knew it. But deep rest had been good, too, for as long as it had lasted.
But Garrie was damn sure awake now, jarring along the dirt road to Vultee Arch Trail. And her teeth would rattle for a month after the pure rock and roll, bounce and slam of the journey.
Of course, the road wasn’t meant to be taken in the dark.
Nor was the trail, for that matter. With nightfall had come the desert chill; Garrie had thrown on pants and an old army surplus jacket, and Robin had gone home long enough to phase from her daytime uniform to a nubby flowered thermal, jeans, and hoodie. And they had more than halogen flashlights to guide their way.
They had Trevarr.
And Trevarr had Sklayne. And if it had never been more obvious that Trevarr’s eyes purely loved the darkness filling the corners of his world, it had also rarely been more obvious that Sklayne, too, came from another place.
Garrie grinned wide when they disembarked, one of several cars at the trail access and none of them particularly supposed to be there at all. Because Sklayne climbed out behind her, stretching hugely and yawning with a great display of whisker and teeth — but he didn’t stay cat long.
And, okay, maybe Garrie should have warned Robin.
Probably.
But Robin had only hyperventilated a little, and not for long. Now — a couple miles down the trail, with Trevarr casting out ahead as scout — she seemed fairly well adjusted to this particular alternate form. Sklayne drifted before
them like a soft blanket of localized moonlight, casting the trail into a distinct pattern of rock and shadow that made Garrie feel foolish for carrying a flashlight.
But you never knew. And she wasn’t a reckoner prone to exploration of dark basements, attics, or cisterns unless she could farking well see what she faced.
She’d watched too many movies for that.
Behind her, Robin fell into shadow, stumbled. “Hey,” she told Sklayne, apparently completely over any concern about his current appearance. “Pay attention.”
Sklayne instantly dimmed into a more sullen radiance. ::Sptt!::
“Be nice to the light source,” Garrie muttered, keeping an eye out for Trevarr’s return. Sklayne slowed, the edges of his blanket rippling in a fluttery, appreciative backstroke.
Robin didn’t have time to respond to Garrie’s admonition; she startled when Trevarr moved in out of the darkness, silent but for the faint sweep of the duster.
“They are there,” he said. “Arguing about last night. One claiming accident, some believing and some not. Some think things have ‘gone far enough.’ Others think not far enough.” He moved closer, past Robin and closer yet, until Garrie had to look up into the faint gleam of his eyes. Wood smoke and leather. “We do not engage,” he told her. “You do not go close.”
It took her a moment, but she got it. “Damn,” she said. “This is you being protective, isn’t it?”
He made a noise in his throat. It might have been a growl. “Do not push me on this, atreya. There are too many of them.” She took that with some surprise — until he added, “Unless you want more to die. I cannot hold them all if I hold back.”
Okay then.
Robin broke the silence. “Oh. My. God. Do you two even listen to yourselves?”
Sklayne extinguished himself into abrupt darkness with a pfft.
“Right,” Robin said after a moment. “Point taken.”
“It is not far,” Trevarr told them. “Use your flashlights. Keep them pointed down. And walk in my steps. There sleeps a snake I believe to be dangerous.”
“Oh God,” Robin muttered, an entirely different tone of voice.
Garrie thumbed her light on. “Just don’t step on it.”
Robin didn’t. And after only a few moments of careful progress, they could hear the Sin Nombres arguing, words of tension and raised voices and strife.
They went dark, flashlights off and moving more slowly yet, and the trees, rocks, and twisty trail unfolded to reveal a cluster of LED camping lanterns. Backpacks lay scattered around; a dozen figures of all sizes grouped together in disagreeable discourse. Voices mingled, male and female. “Not worth it — dead — didn’t you feel — it’s really there — accident — don’t let it go to waste!”
Too many cooks in that kitchen, for sure.
The tallest figure stepped aside, his light clothing taking an odd cast in the LED lanterns and his voice taking a no-nonsense tone. “Brethren,” he started.
Oh, that couldn’t be a good sign. Far too cultish.
“We’ve come too far for second thoughts now. You all felt the startling accomplishment in the wake of that tragic accident—”
“Used me!” snarled Ghost Bob Jim Dandy, right in Garrie’s ear. She stiffened, muffling her surprise; Trevarr’s hand drifted to her shoulder.
“Greg Huntington,” Robin murmured, completely unaware. “You great big fat fibber. You killed him!”
Out in the gathering, Huntington said, “We’ve learned so much!” He added an extra lick of earnestness that made Garrie uneasy. “Did you feel it last night? Do you feel it now?”
“Shields up,” Garrie muttered. But not very far up — just gathered enough so she could slap them into place if necessary. Trevarr crouched beside her among the rocks, as graceful as ever; his hand on her arm signaled his intent.
She heard just enough rustling to know he’d reached into one of those mystery pockets, and then every bit of her attention jerked back to the arch gathering.
The faint remaining breezes gave a sudden twist, a sudden pained spiral, crying out in a way Garrie had never heard before. Huntington took up a dramatic stance, his head tipped back, the muscles of his neck corded and tense, arms raising rising from his side with fists clenched, forearms taut.
Garrie was in mid-skeptical squint when the energies hit, sending a gasp of delight through the assembly, a hard grunt of impact through Trevarr, and even a faint noise of surprise from Robin. Pain and pleasure and pleasure and pain —
Sedona’s pain, Jim-Bob Dandy’s pain, the pain of breezes contorted in ways they had never been meant to sustain, their inner essences drawn without...
Just as fast, the breezes washed back in an overpowering gush of pleasure, ready to be gulped down by those who could otherwise barely perceive such things. Not an effect nearly profound enough to knock Garrie off her feet, or even to knock her off balance. Not normally.
Not when she didn’t have her own internal storm battling for freedom.
But she did.
And the thing she’d come to think of as her inner dragon leaped to greet such bounty, lashing out from within — making the hair on her arms stand up as she lurched forward. Trevarr caught her arm, breath hissing through his teeth.
“Shields,” Garrie told herself, the word riding a gasp. “Shields!” She slammed them up into place, not the least surprised by the strong gleam of Trevarr’s eyes or the strong scent of him or the extra strength of his touch.
“Control it,” he said, growling the word. He held up the ekhevia — a thing of platinum and unearthly stone, and the device that imprisoned his ethereal bounty — and worked the mechanism. “Be ready.”
Because it would be her job to provide the fireworks, directing the energies to spark the lerkhet into a spectacular display. For like the Krevata they’d fought in San Jose, the lerkhet was semi-ethereal. And like Sklayne, its size and shape were mutable. But unlike either type of being, it had little choice in those matters. Domesticated and cultivated, it responded to energies without conscious thought.
And after the Sin Nombres had had the shit scared out of them by its display, they’d either think twice about what they’d been doing, or they’d eagerly try to do it again. Either way, they’d be completely distracted from their current activities — one man dead, ghosts riled, the area drained of its natural ethereal resources.
Maybe not distracted forever. But long enough.
“I’m ready,” she told Trevarr. “More than. Poised. Teetering. Pre-pouncing. How about you?”
“Hey,” Robin said, doubt in the darkness. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this plan—”
Of course she wasn’t. “If you’d trusted Quinn to trust the team, you would have been prepared for this... for us.” Garrie shook her head, already reaching for the breezes. “Two minds like yours, sharper than sharp. I can see why you were together... and I can see why Quinn broke it off. Pretty sure you just lost him again.”
“Hey,” Robin said again, her tone going sharp.
“Busy now,” Garrie murmured. The breezes were as turbulent as Jim-Bob Dandy’s, just as twisted and tortured and ugly. She smoothed them with a gentle touch — brushing the tangled strands into order, easing the rollercoaster twists into smooth curves.
Greg Huntington staggered slightly, losing his hold on the energies and instantly grappling for a new one — no more than a clumsy child trying to impale marbles with a fork. Garrie’s soothed and cultured breezes slipped out from beneath his grasp.
His followers lost their frozen, enthralled postures — no longer emitting sighs of pleasure and exultation, no longer fondling themselves in the darkness. The couple that had drifted close now broke apart, somewhat befuddled.
Huntington rallied quickly enough — damned clever, too. “You see?” he said. “You all want more — no, you crave it! So who still thinks we should withdraw from our efforts?”
“The real question is,” said another man, zealously enough t
o make Garrie shudder, “do we see if a sheep suffices, or do we pull one of the summer transients from the forest outside Flagstaff?”
Robin gasped quietly at that casual suggestion of murder, and Garrie shoved the breezes into a gust, shielding Trevarr as best she could. Instantly, the dragon reared up, firing her blood and fighting for control — she cursed silently, grappling it into submission as the Sin Nombres reacted to her interference, stiffening and murmuring and looking around. Huntington snarled words not quite spoken, standing hard and strong, eyes narrowed, scouring his followers for the source.
“Not even close,” Garrie said under her breath, and aimed another gust straight at him. She gave it a little spiral twist — smooth and steady and clean — and he startled, stepping back.
As if putting his back to the big smooth sandstone outcrop behind him might actually do some good.
“What’s going on?” one of the others asked. “That’s not — you’re not doing that.”
“It’s different,” agreed another, and when Garrie pulled in skillful gusts from opposing directions, the fearful babble broke out large — until someone demanded, “Huntington, what have you done? Who’s in control? Have you taken this too far?”
“We,” Huntington responded, his voice as harsh as the rock around them, “are in this together. And this is a learning process. We can—”
Garrie whispered, “Be very, very surprised in three... two... one...”
The ekhevia snicked, emitting a faint vibration of air and energy. Trevarr’s posture changed; his focus changed. Working it.
Whispers of energy, gathering energy, a deep, distant hiss of wind... a faint and undefinable whining —
And in the distance there came a subtle bass groan, felt more than heard and bringing with it the sudden sense of black fog creeping across the land, invading fingers of cloying demand, reaching and searching and —
Storm of Reckoning Page 14
