4. Rookgate Manor #3
Miles studied him for a long moment, then nodded. He pulled something from his satchel, a chain with a cage pendant. The cage opened on tiny hinges, accepting the cold-light stone. It clicked shut, and Miles hung the chain around his neck. The light bobbed at mid-chest, freeing his hands.
Then he drew out another stone from his pack. This one pulsed with amber warmth. A combat casting stone, ready to trigger whatever spell Miles had crafted into it.
They looked at each other. Gabriel rolled his shoulders as some of the tension in them eased. Geared up, focused on practicalities. This they could do. This was familiar.
Miles smiled. “Better?”
“Better.”
Gabriel squeezed past him on the narrow landing, close enough that their chests brushed. Close enough to dart up and press a quick kiss to Miles’s nose.
Miles’s cheeks went pink.
Gabriel grinned, savoring the sputter, the blush, the brief flash of normality between them. “Come on.”
He started up the spiral.
The stairs were steeper than they looked. Stone worn smooth in the centers, rough at the edges where feet rarely trod. The walls pressed close, almost brushing his shoulders.
They’d climbed perhaps a dozen steps when the wail started.
It rose from somewhere above them, thin and wavering. Not quite human. Not quite anything identifiable. Just a sound that made the fine hairs on his forearms lift.
Then came the chains.
Dragging. Metal links scraped across stone in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
Gabriel stopped. Miles bumped into his back.
“That’s…” Gabriel frowned up into the darkness. “Theatrical.”
“Theatrical?”
“Like something out of a novel about ghosts, rather than an actual ghost.” He didn’t move forward yet. “Although I’m not ruling out a ghost.”
The wailing continued, punctuated by the chain-dragging.
“A trapped spirit?” Miles suggested, voice low. “One of Madaze’s victims? Or. Could be a magical warning system instead? Designed to frighten intruders.”
Gabriel peered up the stairs, which revealed no clues. “No way to know from here.”
“Then we keep going.”
Gabriel climbed. The wailing grew closer. The chains kept dragging in that same slow rhythm. He focused on his breathing, on the weight of the daggers, on placing each foot carefully on the worn stone.
The stone vanished beneath his feet.
Not vanished. Changed. The worn steps became smooth as glass, slick as ice, and angled wrong.
Gabriel’s boots slid. He pitched forward, twisting to keep the daggers clear, and slammed into Miles.
They tumbled.
Gabriel got his elbows in front of his face. His shoulder hit stone. Something jabbed his ribs, Miles’s elbow, maybe, or his knee. The world spun in a nauseating blur of cold light and shadow and undignified yelping—his? Miles’s? Both?
They hit the bottom in a graceless heap.
Gabriel lay there, breath knocked out of him, staring up at the coffered ceiling. The daggers were still in his hands, miraculously. His ribs hurt. His shoulder would bruise.
Miles groaned beneath him. Gabriel gasped for air.
“Are you—” Gabriel pushed up on his elbows, trying to redistribute his weight off Miles’s chest. “Are you hurt?”
“Dignity.” Miles’s voice came muffled. “Critical damage to my dignity.”
Despite everything—the cold, the wailing, the stairs that had just tried to kill them—Gabriel laughed.
Gabriel lay sprawled for a moment, catching his breath. His ribs protested with each inhale. Beneath him, Miles shifted, and Gabriel rolled sideways to let him up.
Miles sat up with a wince, then turned to examine the stairs.
They were no longer stairs. The spiral had transformed into a smooth, gleaming slide, tilted at an angle that would send anyone who attempted it tumbling right back down.
“Well.” Gabriel tested his shoulder, grimacing. “Someone doesn’t want us in the attics.”
“Or something. A spelled defense?” Miles leaned closer to the slide, not quite touching it. The cold light at his chest illuminated the slick surface .
The thought soured on Gabriel’s tongue, but he shoved it aside. “Makes it more tempting.”
“Of course it does.” Miles’s tone held equal parts exasperation and fondness. “You’re aware that’s exactly how one gets themselves killed in most cautionary tales?”
“Hm. If the trap or whatever had meant to kill us, it could have dropped us on our heads. Though maybe it escalates if you keep trying?”
Miles shrugged. “There are no visible runes or anything for me to analyze.”
“Which means there’s only one way to find out.” Gabriel hauled himself upright, testing his weight on each leg. Everything worked. Bruised, but functional. “So. Magical solution to get up there? Or should we come back with pitons and a hammer?”
The instant the words left his mouth, the slide shuddered.
Stone rippled like water. The smooth surface fractured into steps again, worn and familiar, as if the slide had never existed.
Gabriel stared at them. “No.”
“That’s...” Miles tilted his head. “Oddly responsive.”
“I don’t trust it.” Gabriel crossed his arms. “It’s baiting us.”
“Probably.” Miles was already head down, rummaging in his pack.
“Though baiting implies intelligence, intent, which implies sapience, although exactly what is sapient remains unclear. But if you’re determined to press on, we did use something in Lyonnor for infiltrations when we had to scale walls, vertical surfaces, really, any scenario where conventional climbing gear was impractical or would leave evidence contrary to the mission. Assuming I packed it...”
Gabriel watched him dig deeper into the pack, the rambling spilling out in that breathless way that meant Miles’s brain was three thoughts ahead of his mouth. The familiar, nervous rambling warmed him against the manor’s cold, clammy air.
“Ah!” Miles surfaced with a small jar. “Grip Tight. Terribly literal name, I know, but apparently the crafter who developed it wasn’t feeling inspired.
It’s a paste. You apply it to gloves or boots, and it creates a temporary bond with stone, wood, most surfaces really.
Lasts about an hour before it breaks down.
” Miles looked up at Gabriel. “Doesn’t count as casting on the house?
For the purposes of avoiding the creeps? ”
“I think not. Let’s give it a go.” Gabriel pulled his gloves from an inner pocket. Fine black leather, pliant, with subtle embroidery at the cuffs. He smoothed them over his palms. “Do we need anything else?”
Miles dug back into the pack. “The counteract serum. Should have thought of it first. Neutralizes the adhesive instantly.”
He produced a second, smaller vial and tucked it into his coat’s outer pocket instead of returning it to the pack’s depths. Then he pulled out his own gloves—brown leather, practical, unadorned—and paused.
“You know, this would all be much easier if you’d just let me wear my coat.”
“The lines,” Gabriel said, wrinkling his nose. “All those pockets make the silhouette so inelegant.”
“The lines .”
“I like showing you off.” Gabriel gestured at Miles’s current ensemble: well-tailored trousers, fitted waistcoat, deep plum coat that emphasized his shoulders instead of turning him into a lumpy rectangle of utility. “You look good. Why would I want to hide that?”
Miles gestured pointedly at the stairs. At the manor around them. At their very recent, very inelegant tumble down a magical slide.
“Yes, well.” Gabriel couldn’t quite suppress his grin. “But you looked good doing it.”
Miles stared at him for one beat. Two.
Then they both dissolved into laughter.
It echoed in the stairwell, bright and absurd and entirely inappropriate for a haunted manor.
Gabriel’s ribs hurt worse with each breath, but he couldn’t stop.
The sheer ridiculousness of it. Arguing about fashion while a ghost wailed somewhere above them.
Sitting in the ruins of his nightmare dressed like they were attending the theater.
The wailing grew louder.
Petulant now. Almost affronted.
Gabriel and Miles looked at each other. Eyebrows raised.
Miles unscrewed the Grip Tight jar. “Shall we?”
“Let’s.”
They worked in silence. Miles tucked his casting stone into one of his coat’s paltry pair of pockets, keeping his hands free.
Gabriel returned his daggers to their sleeve sheaths.
Gabriel smoothed the paste over his gloves first, then his boots, watching the substance sink into the leather and vanish.
They started up the stairs.
Three steps up, stone rippled beneath Gabriel’s feet.
But his boot held firm. He pressed a palm to either wall. The leather grip caught, anchoring him. The stairs tried to slide again, the angle steepening, but Gabriel didn’t budge.
“Ha!” He threw a grin over his shoulder at Miles. “Nice try.”
The stairs shuddered again. Changed angle. Tried to buck them off like a fractious horse.
Gabriel leaned into it, both palms on the walls now, boots immovable. Each step took effort, prying one foot free, placing it higher, letting the adhesive catch. His thighs burned. Sweat gathered at his temples, his lower back.
Behind him, Miles muttered curses.
The wailing hit a fever pitch.
The stairs twisted, spiral tightening, walls pressing close enough that Gabriel’s shoulders scraped stone. His breath came harsh. The cold-light swung from Miles’s neck, throwing manic shadows.
Gabriel reached the landing at the top on hands and knees, chest heaving. Every muscle in his arms screamed. His thighs trembled.
“Another fucking door.”
The landing was barely large enough for both of them. A single door, heavy oak, no windows. The wailing still whined from the other side.
Miles collapsed against the wall beside him, fumbling for the counteract serum. His hair had escaped its tie entirely, falling in damp waves around his flushed face. He uncorked the vial and dabbed the liquid onto his gloves, then his boots. The paste dissolved, leaving only clean leather.