Chapter 49 #2
“Deacon?” I call again. The roar bellows once more, and this time it’s followed by a thud and Deacon’s wounded grunt.
Ward takes off, shifting in midair, his wide werewolf shoulders grazing both sides of the narrow tunnel. He moves so quickly he dislodges a body from the tombs. Old bones clatter to the ground, and Sophia, Peter, and I leap over the remains as we bolt toward the sounds of the struggle.
The corridor opens up to a wider, taller brick chamber dimly lit by a series of flickering silver sconces encrusted with red stones that dot the walls.
They must be spelled to never run out of oil.
There are multiple entrances to and exits from the chamber—hallways leading in and out in every direction.
We’re in the nucleus of this web of tunnels.
And at its center, a roaring ogre is tossing Deacon around like a rag doll.
Often the size of two grizzly bears standing on top of each other and always just as fierce, ogres dwell in damp forests and rocky outcroppings, waiting for foragers—or hikers and campers, in this day and age—to fill their bellies.
They’re a pretty rotten fate for a hunter to come upon, let alone a human.
I’ve only fought one—on a father-daughter trip to the mountains upstate, where we were unable to best the thing and narrowly escaped with our lives.
In fact, it was one of the only times I saw my father abandon a fight.
The ogre who’s dragging Deacon across the dirt-caked floor has Neanderthal features and a thick, brownish-green, wart-covered hide. He wastes no time swiping a fist at Ward’s wolfen head, but Ward ducks before I can scream for him to. And I thought I had animal instincts.
Sophia shoots two bolts into the ogre’s hand before he notices her and releases Deacon, who’s got a bloody nose and dirt along the right side of his face but is somehow still grinning.
The ogre swipes at Deacon again, and he dodges nimbly.
He has a way of doing that—moving smoothly and with such little effort that he makes the most impressive maneuvers look like second nature.
Like he’s water and the world’s a current, taking him wherever he needs to be.
I charge toward the creature with my daggers raised and narrowly avoid another swat of his meaty, boil-covered hand.
I don’t land the hit, but I do trip over my gown and careen to the floor, like the talented hunter that I am.
I’m about to stand, pounding heart calling for beastly blood, when I see it.
Behind the creature, caked in centuries of dirt, is a treasure box. A literal, pirate-era, kids’-toy-looking treasure box.
I lunge between his thudding legs without thinking. The ogre spots me before I can make it, though, swiping a fat hand into my cheekbone and knocking me out of his way. My head rings like a bell.
“Over here, motherfucker!” Deacon roars. In his loosened, scuffed tux, and with his busted nose and feral winter eyes, he looks as good as he ever has. Or maybe that’s the aeon in me talking.
With a stomach-twisting growl, the ogre turns in Deacon’s direction.
“Come on, bubba,” he coos. “Right this way.”
I watch through blurred vision as the ogre swings in fury, taunted, but can’t land a hit. For a mammoth hulk of muscle, Deacon’s swift on his feet.
I back up slowly, moving around the ogre’s legs.
With every gruesome roar and strike from the bellowing beast—swatting Ward into a wall like a housefly, catching Sophia’s arrows in midair and snapping them in half—I dodge and weave, learning the creature’s rhythms. I am an adaptable machine with aeon strength and hunter instincts.
I move toward that box as if I know exactly where the creature will strike next.
And that next strike is Deacon. The ogre charges and lifts his calloused foot to squash him. I’m spitting distance from the treasure box when a scream catches in my throat.
But Sophia shoots her crossbow right into the ogre’s ankle before he flattens anyone. Ward is there too, leaping onto the ogre’s legs on all fours and taking a bite out of the rubbery flesh of its knee. The creature howls in pain, spittle flying, veins bulging in his shortened forehead.
“Sophia,” Deacon calls. “Think you can get up there?”
Sophia doesn’t have to be asked twice. She sprints toward the creature, and I know I need to take my shot. I stand, waiting for the right moment, though my skin thrums and my heart hammers, waiting, waiting—
Sophia shoots another arrow into the beast’s upper back, and this time, it’s one that comes with a thin, retractable rope.
The arrowhead lodges between the ogre’s shoulder blades and it cries out again, furious, swiping at Deacon, spinning—slowly, due to its size—in hopes of grabbing the small arrow and removing it.
But Sophia’s perfect aim means the weapon’s parked like an itch he can’t scratch, and Ward’s holding down one leg as best he can while Peter—
I scan the dim room for Peter, frozen with fear.
Be alive, be alive—
Then I spot him. Sword raised, determination on his face…six feet away. He hasn’t moved. He’s just watching Sophia as she climbs the rope onto the ogre.
But Sophia ignores him as she makes it to the ogre’s shoulders. The creature bellows until strands of spit land at Deacon’s feet and the stench of digested flesh fills the air.
Now’s my shot. I dive through the ogre’s spread legs once more. This time, he’s so distracted by Sophia and Ward’s assault, he doesn’t notice me slip by. I yank on the ancient lock on the chest as hard as I can—full-blown hunter strength.
And…nothing.
As Sophia climbs, the ogre yowls, yellowed teeth bared, round pustules and boils swelling on its nose and hairline. Across the room, Deacon’s hawk eyes stay on Sophia. “I’m right here,” he murmurs to the furious, bloodthirsty beast. “Don’t worry about her.”
I hammer my daggers into the lock.
The ogre bats a hand that nearly sends Sophia flying. I hit the ancient metal with my blades harder and harder until I hear the tiniest crack.
“Come and get me!” Deacon shouts.
Ward roars as he loses his hold on the ogre’s foot. The thing takes off toward Deacon with a guttural howl. The ogre is so much faster than I expect from something of its size.
All air flees my lungs. Lock forgotten.
Come on, Deacon, come on—
But right before the ogre reaches him, Sophia makes it to the creature’s head—lit by dappled flames from the sconces, bangs fluttering, like Fay Wray with King Kong. She stabs an arrow into one of the creature’s eyes and then the other, avoiding his swipes like a gnat.
The creature bellows as it loses sight, and on its next step, Deacon slides to the ground and uses his outstretched claw to send the ogre careening down to the ground.
Sophia dives off the beast’s head, tumbling into Peter’s arms. The ogre comes crashing down to brick and earth, splattering all of us with dust and debris.
I waste no time being thankful that my friends are alive. I can be sentimental tomorrow, from the comfort of Cobwebs, where I’ll buy a milkshake for anyone who wants one. The whole city, if they’d like. I yank the lock free and wrench open the creaking treasure box lid and pray for a damn ring.