Chapter 34
Gravity rips me down.
Time stretches as a deep familiarity washes over me. Sinking realization that I’ve done this before.
Fallen.
With it comes a choking surge of emotion that turns my tongue thick and heavy. Makes it hard to breathe or even consider shaping Clode’s language when I finally slap to my senses, open my internal sound snare, snatch a lungful of air, and gasp a blustery appeal for her to buffer my fall.
“Lui te—nalí vei—shuil, Clode. Lui te—nalí!”
The words whip from my lips so fast I barely hear them, though I gather Clode comprehends my broken, breathless request by her immediate squeal of protest. Like she’s about done with my shit.
Justified, given this is the second time in two daes I’ve put her between my life and death.
That’s a lot of responsibility for someone who prefers to flit around, occasionally slapping folk or mulching lungs. Murdering the odd fuckwit.
I’d be pissed, too.
I plunge free of the clouds as a barricade of wind smacks me from beneath. Like Clode just perched below, tipped her head, and blew her most violent breath.
My body flails, tossed skyward for a few gut-churning beats before I drop again, gathering speed.
Flipping around, I see Líri carried us far from the village; the mountain range pried wide, the river an azure strike through a broad gully of fluffy-looking snow that would be perfect for catching my fall …
Except I’m plummeting toward a cluster of jagged peaks, destined to be skewered.
“Eil ahn—lamathinta! Ahna! Learue—Clode. Learue!”
This time when she blows, the blast punches my gut with such force I gag, buckling like a folded piece of parchment. Again, I plunge—even farther east. Even farther from the inviting stretch of fluffy-looking snow.
Fuck me, this was ill planned. Guess I’ll have to ask Clode to slap me west and hope for the best.
“Lui te—nahh vei—aishah lu!”
My body wobbles as a boisterous blow strikes me from the side, clipping me in the chest so hard my lungs seize. I flip diagonally downward, catching glimpses of snow, sky, deathly mountain peaks … snow, sky, deathly mountain peaks … all while choking on my inability to draw breath.
Clode shrieks in frustration, like she’s waiting for me to tell her how to fix this. Something I’d love to do if my lungs weren’t slapped flat.
I feel the pressurized squeeze of her trying to grab me, only to fall straight through her intangible hands.
This is not going to end well.
Another shrill scream of wind warns me I’m about to slam into the mountainside, probably skewer onto a shard of stone. Morbidly poetic, given the number of folk I’ve stuck with a blade over the phases.
Karma, it seems, has a real twisted sense of humor.
Not wanting to witness the moment I split against the rocks or feed the flare of panic writhing beneath my ribs, I squeeze my eyes shut—
I’m snatched, breath punched from my lungs as I’m crushed against an icy chest for a few hurried beats, then tossed. I have a split moment to register the ferocious pound of Líri’s wings before I collide with the snow, tumbling over and over.
I finally come to a halt—face down, arms and legs splayed. My body one giant ache, head spinning like the world just got rolled through the sky. Something that would feel less shocking than this strange reality where Líri just saved my life. Or maybe she just likes playing with her food?
Seems more likely.
I groan and push to my knees, clamber to my feet, batting the snow from my face when a throaty rumble rattles me to the core. Too deep and graveled to be Líri.
More like—
I glance left, seeing Líri perched in the snow, knee-deep, hackles up. Her wings are poised to clap the air, teeth bared, tail arched as if about to whip around and snap a spine. Mine, I’d assume … except she’s not looking at me.
Slowly, I turn my head toward the origin of the rumbly sound.
My heart stills as I take in the largest Moltenmaw I’ve ever seen—deep blue and shimmering in a spear of golden sunlight. Male, based on his sheer size and broad, stubby beak.
He’s hunched over something fluffy and dead, a large gash in its thick neck that’s gushing blood into the snow. But the Moltenmaw’s not looking at his fresh meal. He’s looking at me like I’ve just rolled in here with the intention to steal it.
“Give me a Creators-damn break,” I mutter, dropping to my knees. Adopting a submissive stance to show I have zero interest in claiming his kill.
Zero.
A deeper rumble boils in the beast’s throat as he puffs his crest feathers, wings high. His beady eyes bounce between myself and Líri at my back before he prowls forward. Two thunderous steps that rattle the ground.
Sensing movement behind me, I turn my head the slightest amount, seeing Líri burst into action.
Galloping toward me, snow exploding with each elegant pounce.
She’s probably about to snatch me up before the Moltenmaw has a chance to add me to his own banquet, but something …
within plies me with the urge to stay still and silent.
To trust.
In one smooth motion, Líri curls around me and sweeps her tail across my chest like a protective shield, releasing a low growl that vibrates through my bones.
The Moltenmaw continues to prowl forward—almost half the size of Rygun and absolutely big enough to overpower Líri. He opens his maw, sabers gleaming, red eyes narrowed.
Líri coils tighter, drops her left shoulder, and pushes against me. Like she’s got an itch.
Terrible timing.
My suspicions are somewhat confirmed when she does it again, and again. I’m about to reach up and scratch her hide when the Moltenmaw growls—thick and robust.
A shiver scuttles through him, feathers lifting down his spine, tail, all the way to the poisonous prong now poking free of the tuft.
My breath stills.
A mature Moonplume might survive being stabbed by … that. Their hides are thicker. Bodies larger. Líri wouldn’t. She’d be his main food source for the next few daes, and I’d be a crunchy garnish.
I don’t like hurting creatures, but desperate times and all that.
I open my mouth to call on Clode to pull the air from his lungs—just enough to scare him away—when the Moltenmaw punches his head forward and snaps at us.
Too close.
Líri snarls, then whips her head around and growls at me, blasting my face with her icy breath.
I realize I’m missing something. Regard her posture, her left wing pushed back to make way for me to—
Understanding hits like a smack to the heart.
She wants me to mount her back.
No time to hesitate, I turn to grasp a handful of the tendrils dangling from her neck, place my foot on her folded leg, and lunge up, perching between her shoulder blades, my pulse pounding hard and fast.
Líri straightens. Her wings slash forward like luminous fans, as though she’s trying to appear bigger, stronger, posturing into a more dominant stance.
The Moltenmaw stretches toward us, drawing a deep scenting breath that drones through the twin holes crowning his beak. Another.
Another.
He tosses his head and snuffs, retreats a few steps, halts, releasing a low rumble that morphs into an open-mawed screech to the sky. The sound tapers into severed blasts of sound, and the distant whomp-whomp-whomp of beating wings draws my attention up.
Two Moltenmaws cut through the clouds—one, a hundred pastel hues of pink; the other, less than half the size of Líri. Perhaps not long fledged, bearing shades of pink and blue.
The buck’s family …
I’d believe it a call to arms, except Líri doesn’t balk. Not as they land in a blast of snow beside the fluffy kill. Not as they, too, sniff the air, red eyes pinned on us as the buck releases another deep warning rumble.
The dam tucks her head and tears a hole in the animal’s bulging belly, exposing the fleshy insides. She rocks back and drops to her haunches, blood dripping from her beak, tail flicking side to side.
Tucked low, the fledgling prowls forward, trills at the dam, then gnashes at the open wound and begins ripping out the soft entrails, eagerly feasting. All while the buck watches Líri, his plumage fluffed, posturing before his family in such a protective stance that my chest aches.
Líri backsteps.
She makes a soft keening sound that resonates through me; a pained lament as she edges farther and farther away. Like she’s more rattled now—in the face of this beautiful family—than she was when the buck was threatening to charge us both and stab her with his prong.
Like she’s hurting.
She whips around with such force my breath catches, beats her wings, and lurches from the snow … charging from the scene with such violent gusto I can only assume she’s forgotten one important, rather problematic thing:
I’m still here, perched between her shoulder blades.
Being carried into the sky.