CHAPTER NINETEEN #3
Transfixed in horror, he managed to back out of its reach until he pressed flat against the cold cavern wall.
Two legs punched into the stone on either side of him, cornering him.
One of the fanged front legs reared back and its pointed tip hovered over him.
The sharp end opened, forming a knife-like tube, dripping saliva.
A drop, thick as mucus, landed on his cheek.
It was going to stab him, pierce his skull and suck it dry.
With a thwack, an arrow pierced the mimic’s skull. It stumbled forward, and he ducked under and away. In quick succession, another arrow went into its neck, then another in the fanged foot hovering over Sy’s face.
With a horrific screech, it turned on the source.
Anya shot straight through one of its milky eyes but still, it did not waver. And now it scuttled toward her.
He stepped back, rolling up his sleeve, clicking the needle into place.
He didn’t have time for a tourniquet. Hands shaking, he steadied them enough to puncture the needle into his inner elbow.
He had more blood left in his body than he thought, but still not enough to waste – he drew only a thimbleful.
It was creeping toward Anya, wobbling but taking wide, sweeping swings with its pointed feet. She backed up, shooting it again through the neck.
He pulled out his drawing board and a scrap of paper. With a sobering breath, he willed his hands to steady. Quickly, he penned the spell he’d come up with himself, the one he used on squeamish clients. Short, sweet, and effective. Still.
It likely wouldn’t work. If it did, it wouldn’t last long, but it would buy her time.
He ripped the paper free, blew onto the glyphs. Palming the dust, he heard the thwack of another arrow, followed by the tearing of flesh, and Anya’s cry of pain.
He rushed forward, until he was practically on top of the thing. Rearing his arm back with all his might, he threw the spell upon its back.
Nothing happened, except that now its attention was back on Sy. Good enough. It wheeled around, aiming both its leg-fangs for his skull. He closed his eyes, bracing for the puncture.
And with a sickening crunch, Anya’s hatchet landed squarely in the soft back of the mimic’s neck.
It hovered, leaning to and fro like a tree about to topple. Sy scrambled out of its way as it collapsed to the floor. He watched as its legs curled up like a crushed insect, twitching for a few moments before stilling completely.
Catching his breath, his eyes sought hers in the dark. She retrieved her dropped torch and lifted it high, her face coated in white panic as she looked at him. Like his, her chest heaved with exertion.
“You painted flowers from your imagination,” she said around her heavy breath.
She approached the creature and pulled her hatchet from its fleshy neck, then, with a shout and an arcing swing, hacked its head free from its shoulders.
For good measure, she kicked it. It remained deadly still. “And Goose can’t talk.”
The creature had sliced open her arm. Seeing him notice, she turned to hide it from him. She gripped the end of one of the arrows sticking out of the creature and tugged. It remained lodged in the thick carapace. “Shit. I’ll never get these loose. It’s a wonder they pierced at all.”
“The phoenix,” he said, catching his own breath.
“I thought – well.” He wiped the monster’s spit from his cheek, then felt a warm trickle inching down his left forearm.
Blood; too much of it. He hadn’t followed proper procedure at all.
He was lucky he hadn’t severed an artery. He reached into his kit for a bandage.
“Yes,” said Anya with an air of defeat.
He paused, holding the bandage in midair. “Then what you saw was the true phoenix.”
She jerked a thumb behind her. “It went through the other tunnel. I saw a bright light up ahead. Sunlight. It must be the way out.”
“The phoenix left the cavern.” He tied off the cloth. “And you came back for me.”
When he tried to catch her eye, she turned quickly away, examining the path with her torch. He counted the arrows left in her quiver. Only four. The arrow marked with an X was still in it.
“You penned a spell,” she said airily, as if she risked her life for her rivals and slayed monsters every day. Perhaps she did. “What was it?”
“I was trying to stun it. It didn’t work, obviously.” He pulled his sleeve down, buttoned the cuff. “I should have known. Our magic only works on humans, but…”
Less airy, now. He couldn’t read her tone, or her face in the dark. “But you drew your blood anyway.”
“Yes, another careless waste of resources,” he said hotly. She started to respond, but he cut her off. “You think me a fool. Selfish, careless. A shadow playing at being a light. Yes?”
Something shifted in the air between them.
He took a steadying breath. “Think what you will of me, Anya, and know that most of it’s true. But know this, too. Seeing you hurt is the last thing I ever want to see.”
He met her eyes. There was no torchlight reflected in them, now. He couldn’t begin to discern what she was thinking.
And it hit him, swift and piercing as an arrow to the chest: he wanted to know, desperately. He wanted her to think of him not as a rival, or a burden, but as someone worthy of her strength, of her softness. Of her admiration. Of her. To think of him at all.
Each desire another arrow. Each an obstacle in his path.
And that wouldn’t do at all.
He should leave her now, before those feelings overwhelmed him; before he was as full of arrows as the monster between them.
He could. He could manage on his own. He had to; that had not changed.
But then she said, softly, “The passage is this way. Come with me.”