Chapter Twenty-Three Kion #3
Six. óríon and Knox are saved from doom moments before hitting the ground by their stymphs, who close their beaks around their arms. Both men scream in pain as there’s the unmistakable snap of breaking bone.
Taissa, feathers still in her head, staggers from Cronus and collapses into a pile of mud.
Face down. Isla and Jemmy hit the ground hard.
Bronte, Adriel, and Mahina emerge from the ruins of the collapsed siege tower on their stymphs.
James, dismounting Mabb, walks unsteadily for a few paces before staggering to his knees and collapsing sideways.
Seven. One of the reserve players, convinced the game is still going, commands his stymph to punch Kion in the back of his head with its curled talons.
Everything goes dark.
“Well,” says Magis Rowan Elder as he stares at the NCL Stymphs, all in varying levels of pain as they sit slumped on cots in the infirmary, “that was all very informative, thank you.”
Kion grits his teeth, his head still throbbing tortuously despite the Panacea that Edward apparently administered to him while he was out cold.
“Yeah? Got what you need? Think you can finally give us some answers?” he snarls.
He can’t take his eyes away from Taissa, on the cot across from him.
Her own eyes are squeezed shut in pain as Edward gently extracts the feathers from her head.
Something, some kind of panicked beast, scrabbles frantically at the inside of his chest.
He doesn’t like it. Seeing her in pain.
“I can, actually.” The geancánach takes out his notebook from the inside pocket of his crisp suit.
“Clearly, it’s an advanced curse. It’s indeed of the Unlucky variation, evident from the sheer unlucky coincidences displayed on the pitch.
What’s interesting is that it’s also of the high-level Deteriorating variety, meaning that the curse will grow worse over time.
It started off subtly, didn’t it? Fumbles, and nothing more? ”
“Seeing as it took us two years to realize it was a curse, yeah,” Kion replies tightly, watching Edward closely. Taissa’s gripping one of his gloved hands, eyes still squeezed shut. Kion jerks his gaze away. “We thought it was just the Blunduns.”
“Hmm.” Elder tucks away his notebook and puffs slowly on his pipe. “Yes.”
Bronte, staring at the magis in frustration, throws up her hands.
Wooden shrapnel from the siege tower is embedded in one of her wrists.
Isla, sitting in a nearby cot, looks down at her lap with red-rimmed eyes.
Whatever happened between them on the field clearly isn’t over.
“Is that seriously all you can tell us?”
“For now,” Elder replies mildly. “It’s a pending CCB investigation—”
“You are bad at this job,” says óríon, whose arm is slowly mending itself under an advanced Panacea. “Go faster. I am annoyed.”
“Do you have literally any suspects?” presses Adriel, and then, translating for Mahina,
“Have you done anything besides sit on your bum and act smart?” Wood chips cover Mahina’s hair, and there’s a cut underneath her left eye. She’s glaring at Elder like this is all his fault.
“Excuse me,” says Elder scathingly, drawing himself up with haughty importance, “but this is advanced and intricate work. A careful consideration of every detail is required.”
James, slumped in his cot, face ashen, clears his throat. “And what, pray tell, have you been doing? I’ve not seen much progress on our case, personally…”
Kion watches as Elder straightens even further, clearly miffed.
“Are you aware of how many haters your team has collected? This is akin to finding a needle in a haystack. I, and agents at base, have spent hours on online hate-forums, scouring for any indications that the curser was a part of these threads. We have also sent multiple delegates to Queen Pike and King Puck, inquiring if they know of any scrapings from the Dark Well in the last two years. Not to mention the—”
The infirmary doors abruptly slam open, and in stalks a frazzled-looking Niamh, cutting Elder off completely. As Edward pulls the very last feather from Taissa’s head, Niamh points a pink-painted nail at her, and then at Kion.
“Late!” the elf shrieks. “Both of you, late for your interview! Up, up, up!”
Taissa’s eyes snap open, wide in disbelief. “You can’t mean for us to go now,” she protests, gesturing to Edward, who’s etching a Panacea onto her skin with an almost-reverent touch. “I’m injured!”
Merlin’s sagging stomach. Niamh is basically foaming at the mouth as she totters over to Taissa and yanks her up with surprising strength.
“Now,” repeats Niamh, the word a shockingly guttural snarl. Kion blinks in surprise.
Unhinged. She’s unhinged today.
“Niamh,” Edward tries, “I need to treat her for—”
The elf stomps her feet on the ground, the flowers in her hair wilting, her lips quivering like she’s about to explode.
“I don’t care! I don’t care. These two are a publicist’s worst nightmare!
” Elder looks bewildered as Niamh drags Taissa toward the door.
“Kion!” Niamh screeches. “You’re going! Now!
I will not have you snub Wily Witch again! ”
With her holding Taissa hostage, there’s no choice but for Kion to reluctantly obey.
Twenty minutes later, he’s wishing he hadn’t.