Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
“Holy shit,” I say at the same time that Wesley says, “What the fuck?”
Arthur and Hana’s cabin sits at the very top of a winding driveway, and it’s maybe the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
It’s a certified Bob Ross special: an honest-to-god log cabin with a red roof and a wraparound deck, a large lawn dotted with clusters of fallen leaves and happy little trees, and a mountainous landscape sprawling behind the house itself.
The sky is so blue today it makes every other color bleed until the whole damn view looks like a painting.
Arthur and Colin are nursing beers on the deck while Mona and Shay unpack their stuff from Shay’s car.
“Took you long enough,” Mona calls, though they can’t have beaten us by more than ten minutes.
“We picked up cider and rum to make up for it,” I say with a laugh.
“Hm.” Mona considers. “Forgiven, then.”
We follow them into the lodge, and behind me, Wesley releases a low, impressed whistle through his teeth.
“Whatever he’s paying you at that hardware store,” I tease under my breath, “it’s not enough.”
According to Arthur, his entire extended family shares this cabin, which was a passion project between him and his two brothers.
Throughout the year, they trade off who gets it when, except during Christmastime, when they all stay here together with their families.
So it makes sense that the interior is a cozy mismatch of different style preferences, from the antlers mounted above the fireplace to the shield hung from the wall.
There’s a warm ruggedness to the space, especially in its log beams and woodsy smell.
“Ladies on the second floor,” Shay instructs before bouncing her eyebrows at Wesley. “You’re downstairs next to Colin’s room.”
“You know how to make me feel right at home,” he says.
After I drop my stuff on the bed in my tiny room, I head out to the backyard. It’s only midafternoon, but the sun sets fast nowadays; better to get the fire going now.
Arthur involves everyone in dinner, assigning us each a different task: Colin stays close to Arthur’s side as he walks him through grilling the steaks, Wesley and I are tasked with cutting the vegetables, and Shay and Mona are left to prep the apple pies Hana baked before she left to spend the long weekend visiting New York City with her sister.
It quickly becomes clear that Wesley’s much more skilled with a knife than I am—okay, hot—and given the chill of the crisp mountain air, I head back inside to start making hot cider.
The kitchen and backyard are full of music and laughter, and we leave the windows open so we can still shout to one another while we work.
It’s bitingly cold once the sun sets, but in some unspoken agreement, we bundle up in hoodies, jackets, and beanies and crowd around the fire, food carefully balanced on our laps.
When our plates are licked clean and it gets too cold to stay outside any longer, we relocate to the massive dining room table, and Arthur excuses himself to go to bed, muttering, “Can’t keep up with you kids. ”
I make sure the cider stays flowing as we settle in, and Colin runs his palm along the smooth wooden table. “What do you think, Wesley? Is it as good of a setup as Game Knight?”
“Maybe not, but I’ll make do,” he teases.
He’ll more than make do. The hardest part of the ride up here had been trying to pack up his elaborate battle map without crushing it.
Colin nods. “I like this whole D we should plan more of them. I had a bud who rented out a whole castle somewhere in the UK.”
“If you want to LARP so bad, Colin, you know my dad will take you with him,” Shay says.
He shakes his head. “Hell no. I just want to sit in cabins all weekend and play.” Colin looks to Shay and grins. “Maybe they’ve got one out near the Three Sisters we could try?”
Shay’s eyes go wide, and Mona busies herself with heading into the kitchen to get us more cider. I hear a thump under the table, followed by Colin’s immediate “Ow!”
I blink uncertainly, confused. “What are the Three Sisters?”
Shay and Wesley exchange a quick glance before Wesley returns his attention curiously to Colin.
“Just some mountains I heard were cool,” Colin grumbles after a moment. “Always wanted to visit.”
Eventually, Shay leads a giggling and tipsy Mona up the stairs and into their shared room. Wesley and I watch them together, my hand curled against his thigh underneath the table. After a moment, I squeeze his knee regretfully, stand, and ascend the stairs in their wake.
Perhaps if I’d been more honest with the others—or more honest with myself first—about what’s unfolding between us, we might have shared a room, too, and my bed would feel a little less cold. Instead, I don’t see Wesley again for the rest of the night.
Not until I arrive ready for battle the next morning.
It’s easier to fight off Vadrien’s bite the second time.
Before the same dangerous languor can settle into Sindra’s limbs, making her numb and pliable, she wrenches herself backward and out of the vampire’s grasp.
He runs his tongue along his lower lip, still wet and shining with her blood. His eyes are very bright. “That’s two now, my darling.”
“You won’t get another.”
“We’ll see.”
He lunges forward but freezes at the sound of frantic footfalls approaching the armory doors. Sindra doesn’t waste a moment of his hesitation—she lunges for Brightmorn and curls her fingers around its hilt.
In the hallway, someone shouts, “Stand back!” and Sindra’s heart seizes with hope as she recognizes Moss’s voice.
The door to the armory explodes.
The thick planks of wood burst apart in a shower of flame and splinters, and on the other side, Mortimer stands with sparks still licking at his palms.
His grin stretches even wider than his extravagant mustache. “Gods, I’ve always wanted to do that.”
A squad of purple-eyed undead rushes into the room on his command, quickly followed by Vera, Lord Gullet, and Moss, back in her orcish form.
As the skeletons swarm toward Vadrien, the druid hurries to Antoni’s side.
One touch of her vine-wrapped staff and the captain sucks in a great breath of air, looking healthier already.
Moss flashes him a bright smile as he sits straight up and wastes no time in arming himself.
“Don’t you recall the last time we met?” Vadrien pants, studying the party as they form a loose ring around him. His fingers flex at his sides, silver rings sparkling. “You’ve only made this easier for me, gathering in one place.”
“We’ll see,” Sindra growls.
Antoni steps forward until he’s shoulder to shoulder with her, and together, they race forward with blades held high.
Time seems to stretch, and Sindra loses track of it, instead measuring how many times her blade comes into contact with Vadrien’s marble-like skin, and how many times his clawlike nails gouge burning trails down her arms and ribs, through her dress.
Antoni’s own sword glows with a dim holy light that he channels from his hands, and every time it connects with Vadrien, the vampire hisses in anger and pain.
Together, paladin and fighter keep the prince fenced in, distracting him and trading blows while Vera fires burning arrows into his suit and Mortimer’s skeletons charge forward.
Moss flits where she can, knitting wounds with small sprouting vines as quickly as she’s able.
For the first time, the party members fight in perfect harmony with one another—but as the battle rages on, Sindra sees that their efforts will not be enough.
Even as they chip away at Vadrien’s defenses, scoring wounds into his skin that don’t bleed, he’s still faster.
He dodges between attacks, ducking under her defenses and taking her apart with each new strike.
Blood and sweat run into her eyes, but even so, she can see that she’s losing. They all are.
I do not quit, she reminds herself.
But there’s more at stake than this fight alone—a battle that still needs to be fought. Sindra feels her strength flagging as she shoves Vadrien backward, giving her enough time to turn to Moss. “Go. Find help. Go back to the chapel, or the enclave. Find whatever allies you can.”
Moss’s tusks jut forward as she bares her teeth. “I won’t leave you, Sindra.”
“Someone has to warn them, Moss.” Sindra swallows. “Please.”
The druid stumbles back and looks to the others.
Mortimer flips frantically through his spellbook, his magic reserves low.
Antoni’s shield has nearly broken in two, but still he holds it before himself and Sindra in a stalwart defense.
Vera kneels on the ground, still firing arrows despite the deep wound Vadrien managed to tear into her thigh.
“No,” Moss mutters. “No, I can—just let me try—”
She extends an open hand toward Vadrien.
“Please work,” she gasps. “Please—”
Sunlight floods the room.
It bursts from Moss’s outstretched palm in a great sparkling beam, bubbling outward into a glowing sphere. Sindra has grown so used to the darkness that she has to briefly shield her eyes from the blinding light. Still she presses forward, Brightmorn held shakily before her.
But the scream torn from Vadrien’s mouth is enough to make her hesitate.
Pain thrums along whatever cursed bond they share, and Sindra feels echoes of agony rippling across her skin.
Seizing on Sindra’s pause, Vadrien lashes out with a clawed hand, and Brightmorn clatters to the floor; sunlight dances sparkling arcs over the blade as it slides to the other side of the room.
Antoni races after it, but as Vadrien looms over her with a snarl, Sindra knows there’s no way the captain will get it back to her in time.
Vadrien lunges forward, and Sindra raises her arm to protect herself as bloodshot red eyes and long fangs fill her vision.
A second pulse of sunlight fills the room—but it’s a thousand times more brilliant than the first, and Sindra doesn’t have a chance to close her eyes.