Chapter 15
Fifteen
Grayson
I drifted, this song calling me unlike the others I’d heard.
It was difficult to place or perhaps describe.
The best I could say was that it was covetous but more heartfelt than many of the others.
Martin hadn’t followed me this time. He was speaking with Keir regarding the wyvern eggs.
I’d been restless and decided to do more searching and gotten lost in the numerous halls.
Thankfully, where I was, the strongest song held no malice.
I might be wrong, but I didn’t think whatever was on the other end had anything directly to do with Tenzen Huxley.
If it turned out I was wrong, I’d contact Martin.
As it currently stood, I was on my own with this one.
Most likely this treasure would turn out to be one of the Magical Usage Council’s residents. Chances were, it was one of the many deceased members. If that were the case, I’d try to be as respectful as I could.
As was typical when I was in my wisp form, I had little concept of where I was within the compound itself. As the music grew in cadence, I came to a stop in a hallway. Hovering low to the ground, I knew well enough where the music emanated from to transform back into my humanoid form.
Crouching low, I stared at the vent close to the floor. I’d seen enough of them scattered around the compound to recognize it as an air exchange. This deep underground, the ambient temperature was warm enough, but the heat helped take away a bit of the chill and dampness.
I didn’t have any tools with me. Thankfully the screws holding in the grate were loose and I could manage them with my fingers alone. The grate fell away with an earsplitting clang, making me cringe and whisper, “Shit,” into the empty air.
Peaking inside, I really wished I could take my phone with me in wisp form.
The flashlight app would be very useful right about now.
I had to lie down on my side on the floor, head tilted as I stared into the blackened space.
My eyebrows shot skyward. There wasn’t just one object.
The air shaft was filled with a myriad of small items crammed together, and yet there seemed to be a semblance of order to it.
Raising my hand, I reached up, ready to tug out the nearest parcel. I didn’t get very far. Pain lanced my outstretched finger causing me to yank it back and utter an even louder “shit!”
“Keep your wispy fingers off my stuff,” Henry scolded as he clambered up the short wall and into the vent opening.
Fingers splayed, Henry’s claws were on full display as his lips pulled back in a snarl.
Henry’s dandelion tuft of hair was even more dust-covered than typical and his face was covered in a gray/black substance the source of which I could only hazard a guess at.
Pushing myself up, I crossed my legs and cradled my bleeding finger. “You didn’t have to scratch me. Words work just as well as violence you know.” I blew on the stinging wound. The scratches were minor but stung all the same.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Henry huffed. “As if you wouldn’t have done the same if someone came after your things.”
“I—” I wasn’t sure Henry was wrong. Not that I had claws, but there were other weapons I wouldn’t hesitate to utilize if I felt my treasure was threatened.
Eyes slipping closed, I took a few moments to calm my racing heart and gather my thoughts. When I opened my eyes again, it was to find Henry hadn’t calmed much. Head cocked to the side and arms still defensively crossed, Henry’s chin was jutted out as he stared up at me.
“I’m sorry, Henry. I didn’t mean any harm. You know I’m here looking for things that Huxley hid and—”
“This ain’t nothin’ of his,” Henry defended. “It’s mine.”
And if it was singing to me, that meant it was very special to Henry.
This was Henry’s treasure, or at least part of it.
Now that I knew what the song was connected to, or perhaps who it was connected to, I realized I’d heard its quiet melody several times before.
Much softer than the sound this hoard made, but there all the same.
Most likely the compound walls were packed with Henry’s treasures. House dwellers were notorious hoarders.
“I can see that,” I finally managed. “I didn’t mean to intrude. Had I known it was yours, I wouldn’t have done so.” In that moment, I realized I truly meant those words. It was an odd notion. My very nature as a will-o’-the-wisp made me insatiably curious and covetous.
Henry’s ire deflated a notch or three. Shoulders rounding until they sagged, Henry ran his fingers through his dusty hair. Looking off to the side, he appeared chagrined. “I probably shouldn’t have clawed ya. Sorry about that.”
I glanced down at my reddened finger. The bleeding had stopped. The sting remained. “It’s okay. I’m sure it’ll heal soon enough.”
Henry gave an acknowledging nod. “I probably overreacted,” he continued.
I shrugged. “It’s yours. I understand. You wanted to protect it.”
Another nod. “It’s important. More important than it used to be.”
I’d been ready to stand and leave, but Henry’s words halted my actions, and instead I asked, “How so?”
Not answering right away, Henry walked deeper into the air shaft. I heard a bit of rustling before he dragged out what appeared to be a paper crane. It was rumpled and had obviously seen better days, but it was an origami paper crane all the same.
Henry’s fingers traced over its edges, his head bent and voice so low I had to lean forward to hear.
“Alethia made this. She loved origami. She must’ve made hundreds, probably thousands in her lifetime before Huxley…
” Henry’s voice trailed off before he sucked in a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and continued.
“She made a lot of ’em for me. I’d climb on top and Alethia would do her wind thing”—Henry wiggled his fingers—“and there I’d go, up into the air. Alethia gave me wings.”
I grasped the fabric covering my heart, clutching it tight as pain lanced through me.
“This was the last one she made for me.” Henry turned back toward the darkened air shaft.
“That’s what all this is. Little bits and pieces of those we lost, of my friends.
Peter was a troll. You wouldn’t think a troll would like poetry, but Peter did.
He even wrote the stuff. Don’t know if he was any good, but I liked it.
I picked my favorite one, ripped it out, and brought it down here. ”
I don’t know how, but I managed to remain quiet as I listened to Henry go on.
“Kiera was a banshee. She was gorgeous but dangerous as fuck. Everyone was afraid to listen to her, but she could sing like one of those angel’s humans are always goin’ on about.
She liked to write songs too. I took a couple of those also. ”
Oh, Henry. I kept my silence, feeling like this was something Henry needed to say, that he needed someone to hear about his lost friends, about how they’d been more than their species and supposed usefulness.
The list went on and on. The objects Henry had taken, that he’d collected, were nothing short of a deeply considerate memorial.
It was a treasure hoard created from love, affection, and deep loss.
It was a sobering reminder why I was here and a reminder that I needed to respect the endless halls, corridors, and rooms making up the compound.
In some ways, the Magical Usage Compound was akin to a tomb.
The dead weren’t necessarily buried within, but their memories were.
“I’m sorry, Henry.” I wasn’t certain if I was apologizing for his tremendous loss or for finding his hoard.
“Ain’t nothin’ no one can do about it.” Henry shrugged his wee shoulders. “It’s probably silly, keepin’ all this stuff.”
“I don’t think it’s silly at all.”
Henry’s lips tilted into a smirk. “’Course not. You’re a will-o’-the-wisp. Hoardin’s in your nature.”
I wouldn’t exactly call it hoarding, but it was close enough, and I didn’t think now was the time to argue. “Do you want some company?” I asked, unsure if I should leave Henry alone with his memories or not.
A few seconds passed before Henry shook his head and answered, “I think I’d like to be alone.”
“I can do that.” Standing, I could no longer see Henry or his memorial hoard.
Heart heavy, I turned on my heel and left Henry alone with his grief.
Martin’s spark of magic flared, as if asking me what was wrong.
Feelings a jumbled mess, all I could think was that I wanted to get back to my anchor.
Maybe Henry wanted to be alone, but I didn’t.
With that thought in mind, I concentrated on Martin’s magic and allowed it to lead me back to my dryad.
Next time I went searching, I wanted Martin by my side.
What in all the seven hells is this? I stared at the object, as if looking at it long enough would suddenly impart all its secrets. At this point in time, I’d settle for a smidgen of a secret—like what it was.
I wasn’t the only one staring. Martin was beside me.
Neither one of us wanted to touch the thing.
He’d transformed a finger into a single branch and gotten within an inch before the end of Martin’s branched finger sizzled, a small line of smoke trailing skyward as his wood burned.
Thankfully the fire went out as soon as Martin pulled his appendage back.
Needless to say, neither one of us had been brave or stupid enough to try that again.
“We should take a picture of it,” I said before looking at Martin. “Do you have your phone?”
In answer, Martin pulled out his phone and snapped a few pictures.
The object was small, no bigger than a single dice, but it was irregular.
I couldn’t count how many sides it had—an amazing feat given how small it truly was.
If it were a little flatter and not so creepy, it would have made a good foot stool for Henry.