Chapter 37
What a fucking joke.
We blow up the Windward compound, rescue the kids, and put down any stray guard that managed to stagger out of the inferno.
But now we are stuck on the side of the road because the truck is out of gas.
Out of gas.
At least it’s not the fault of poor planning—a stray bullet put a hole in the tank—but the consequences are the same.
The truck is fucked.
Drakeward kicks the tire in frustration. “What a fucking joke.”
Huh. We agree on something.
“You realize there’s only one solution,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow.
I look up into the darkening sky. “We’ve got to fly.”
The dragon reaches out a hand, catching a swirling snowflake. “Lovely afternoon for it.”
Whatever. “Help me push this off the road, then wipe down for fingerprints.”
“I’ll just incinerate it,” he scoffs. “Much easier.”
“And that will also leave a trail of magical fire for the Conclave to follow. No, we do this the old-fashioned way. At the moment, no one has any idea who we are and which way we’re headed. I want to keep it like that.”
“Fine.”
The truck must weigh ten thousand pounds, but the two of us wrangle it easily across the ferns and mud, then deep into the dark forest. Cleaning it completely takes longer, but it’s necessary.
“You think we’ll retain our guns after shifting?” Drakeward asks.
“I don’t see why not. If a phone can dematerialize then reappear, why not a weapon?” I’ve spent the last couple of weeks trying to wrap my brain around the physics of a shift.
I still have zero answers. It shouldn’t work.
Biology is one thing, but cotton, steel, and lithium-ion batteries?
"If I had to guess," I mutter, mostly to myself. “When the cellular density changes to accommodate the shift, the non-biological matter is likely pulled into a sub-dermal stasis field. We aren’t just changing shape; we’re essentially folding reality around ourselves."
Cosmo grunts, his scales already starting to shimmer on his cheekbones. “I’m just glad I don’t end up naked on the other end, especially in this weather.”
Holstering my sidearm, I feel the first ripples of gryphon tugging at my bones. Then I let the shift take me fully.
The world expands into a rush of scents and sharp colors.
With a roar that shakes the remaining snow from the pines, Drakeward launches himself into the air.
I take off with much less machismo.
Beating my eagle wings, I catch a thermal rising off the mountain. The cold air is like a slap to the face, but up here, above the treeline, the world is silent.
Below us, there are tiny pinpoints of light scattered around the range. We’re a long way from a city, or even a small town.
Into the darkness we push ourselves, and time ceases to have any meaning; there’s just me, my gryphon and the wide, wild sky.
Incredible.
We fly for hours, our forms hidden in the night. Eventually, I pull myself from being fully absorbed in the experience, and focus on the land below us. My eagle eyes have no problem seeing in the dark.
The mountains are becoming low hills that lead into pasture land.
Dotted collections of houses and farm buildings are becoming more frequent.
Then in the distance, the skyline of Ashgrave appears.
It’s an ugly, industrial silhouette—smoke stacks and cooling towers rising like dark fingers from the land.
I alter my course and speed, so I can dart in front of the dragon to get his attention.
He immediately slows, and we fly in tandem, maintaining eye contact for a minute. I hope he understands that we are close now, and I need to survey the land.
Pitching right, Drakeward follows. We have the GPS coordinates to get to our destination, but that doesn’t help us up here.
Or does it?
My brain in this form is a high-performance computer, easily wired for navigation. I’ve got the data—the gryphon has a photographic memory—so the latitude and longitude numbers are right there in the front of my brain.
I can feel the magnetic pull of the earth. It’s like a grid is overlaid across the darkness. If I orient myself to north, then calculate our distance from the last known waypoint—the facility—I can triangulate our exact position.
I start to do the math and come up with a destination.
Amazing.
Adjusting my glide, I look down for a specific intersection of ley-lines and topography.
There.
I tilt my left wing, banking hard to the east. Drakeward follows as I hone in on the coordinates. And then I see the Range Rover and box truck.
They’ve just pulled up outside a farmhouse.
The tiny figures of Max and Donovan exit the vehicle cabs and run around to open the back of the van.
I let out an eagle shriek to signal the dragon, then lead us into a dive.
We slam into the frozen earth. The impact kicks up a wall of snow and it takes a second to get both my bearings, and the understanding of what I’m hearing.
Shrill screaming.
I shift back instantly, lungs burning, but Cosmo lingers in his dragon form for a second longer.
The farmhouse door is wide open, and standing in the frame is a woman who screeches like a Valkyrie, while dressed in a nightgown and slippers.
She’s also carrying a shotgun. She fires once, thankfully over our heads.
“Aunt Opal! No! It's okay!" Willow screams, tumbling out of the van.
She runs toward the woman, waving her arms frantically. "They're with me! They’re with me!”
Aunt Opal stops dead, turning slowly to her niece. “Willow Bloomhower, you have some explaining to do…what in the name of the ancestors are they?”
She doesn’t lower her gun.
“All in good time, but first, we desperately need your help, look.” Willow tugs on her aunt’s sleeve, forcing her towards the vehicles. Max and Theo are already unloading the first of the dazed children.
“Oh my Gods, what happened to these poor babies?” she gasps. “Wait, don’t tell me yet, get them inside, into the warm. What were you thinking? Having them in that cold truck?”
She turns and glares at me and Cosmo. “I don’t know what you are, but help get those babies inside,” she commands, pointing to the house. "And Willow, run in and stoke the fire…and tell your uncle we’ve company.”
Theo hands me a child. “Take her in then hurry back. Ludo is hurt, we’ll have to carry him.”
I glance at the slumped form of the janitor and sprint off with the child, depositing her in a warm kitchen then running back. Max is already maneuvering Ludo to the lowered tailgate. “Get his legs,” he grunts.
Willow waves from the farmhouse porch. “Bring him in, this way.”
Ludo is a heavy, dead weight between us, his breathing shallow. Sticky, congealed blood soaks his pants and coat.
We haul him inside; the kitchen is a chaos of movement. Theo and Donovan are draping blankets around tiny tear-stained children, while Willow is talking to an older man leaning heavily on a walker.
I guess this is her uncle.
He has a kind but extremely confused face. “Put the kettle on, Willow. Warm drinks for everyone.”
“Take the children to the living room,” Aunt Opal barks. “Then put the giant on the table.” The tiny woman then sweeps a basket of yarn and a half-eaten loaf of bread onto the floor with one movement.
We hoist Ludo onto the scarred oak surface.
“Everyone out apart from Willow,” Opal snaps.
“Theo needs to be here too, Aunty. She’ll help.”
“As long as she’s quiet,” Opal says, snapping on a pair of latex gloves and reaching for a jar of thick, pungent salve. "I need to focus on this cast."
Max nudges me toward the living room. "Come on, cuz. Let the healer work."
I pause in the hallway. Yes, she has it in hand.
Looking out the still open front door, I think about everything else there is to be done. Someone should scout the perimeter. Also hide the van and SUV somewhere, just in case we were spotted.
“You," the uncle is shuffling himself toward me. “Are you the leader of this merry band? Because if so, I need to know what trouble you’ve brought to my door. And how do we combat it.”
I don’t miss the ‘we’ and I very much appreciate it.
“Sir, my name is Alexis Feniks. And I can’t tell you how much we appreciate you opening the door and not calling the authorities.”
His face darkens at the word ‘authorities’. “Don’t insult me, son.”
“Apologies. Your niece told us you’d be sympathetic to our…cause. These children were taken, abducted, by the Conclave. They’ve been experimented on and when their use is over, they’re slated to be sold…to sex traffickers.”
He looks me in the eye, trying to see the truth. When he does, the older man growls, knuckles whitening as he grips his walker rail, then he holds out his hand. “Gareth Bevan.”
Gareth looks into the living room, where the seven children are huddled together on a massive rug in front of a roaring fire. Donovan is sitting with them, performing some kind of ridiculous card trick with a deck he must have swiped from somewhere.
For a second, the kids are just children watching wide-eyed as he drops the entire deck, scattering cards everywhere.
“Thank you, young man. You did the right thing coming here.”
“With your permission, sir, can I get our vehicles undercover somewhere?”
He nods. “The back barn. It’s not locked and should have enough space.”
“Thank you. And how big is your property?”
Gareth frowns for a moment. “We’ve sold everything off apart from seventy acres. The nearest neighbor is two miles away. Logistically, it’s one road in, one road out to get here.”
Hmm, that’s a potential chokepoint.
I raise my voice slightly. “Cosmo, move your car into the barn behind the house.” Cosmo is leaning against the wall looking uncomfortable.
I don’t think children are his thing.
"On it," he replies, without any attitude. This Drakeward is very different to the one I met a few months ago.
“Can you do the same with the van, Max? Have the vehicles parked and ready to peel out.”
Max pushes himself off the floor, depositing the child that had been on his lap onto Donovan’s. As he passes me, I touch his arm. “And run the perimeter, keep your nose out for anything that smells off.”
He gives me a tired grin. “Will do.”
Maximus heads onto the porch then out into the dark.
I turn and watch what’s happening in the kitchen.
Theo is standing by Ludo’s head, her hands on his face. Opal is working on his leg, her hands moving in a blur of stitching and poultices, as her lips recite an ancient healing chant.
“Your friend is in good hands,” Gareth tells me. “He doesn’t need your help, but these children do.”
He’s right. They need to be cleaned up and then tucked somewhere safe to sleep.
I walk into the living room, my boots leaving damp prints on the hardwood. "Donovan?”
He looks up from his pile of scattered cards. “Let’s get the kids cleaned and fed.” I turn back to Willow’s uncle. “Have you any spare beds?"
Gareth nods. "Upstairs. Three bedrooms. They'll have to share, but there’s a linen closet in the hall with extra quilts."
The kids are filthy. “And a bathroom with a tub?"
"End of the hall, left side," Gareth says. "I’ll get the water heater boosted."
Donovan gathers two of the smaller kids, and I scoop up the oldest boy. He’s incredibly light—malnourished even. How long had he been in those cells? Was there a background of trauma and abuse before that as well?
As I head for the bathroom, the sound of chanting from the kitchen grows louder. I catch Theo's eye through the doorway. She looks exhausted.
“OK?” she mouths.
Thinking about what we need to do, I have a moment of doubt. My experience with children is nil. I push the door open and explain about the bathing situation.
Willow immediately steps forward. “I’ll help, Theo needs to stay here.”
The next hour is a blur of domestic triage. Donovan and I act as an assembly line. Once the tub is full, we hand them to Willow. She’s unsurprisingly efficient, scrubbing away the layers of facility dirt with a mother-hen fierceness.
I find myself standing in a small bedroom under the eaves, tucking a thick woolen blanket around a boy who hasn't stopped shivering since we left the Jeep. His eyes track me, wide and unblinking.
“You're safe now," I tell him, praying it’s the truth. The farmhouse, with its homely smells and clutter feels like a haven, but the real world is still out there.
When I finally get downstairs, Max and Cosmo are warming themselves by the fire.
“Vehicles are all safely tucked away," Max reports while yawning. "I did a three-mile loop. The wind is picking up, but I didn’t scent anything untoward. Nothing but deer and coyotes. How’s Lu?”
“I’ll find out.”
As I walk into the kitchen, it’s obvious the 'surgery' is winding down.
Ludo is still on the table, unconscious, but his breathing deep and steady, and his face has lost that gray, deathly pallor.
Opal and Theo both look thoroughly drained. “He'll be better by the morning,” Opal tells me. “The bullet nicked an artery, and with that amount of blood loss…he was lucky.”
She turns to Theo. “And I don’t know what your story is, missy, but whatever you were channeling into him saved his life. He was slipping away for a moment.”
Theo gives the woman a tired smile. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”
“Shall I lay him out on the sofa?” That’s got to be better than the hard table.
“Please,” Opal replies. “And then I want us all to sit and talk. I’ve been able to pick up snippets, but Gareth and I are owed a full explanation.”
“Max, Cosmo, come move Ludo.” I’m going to let those two do the heavy lifting, but Opal stops me. “You!’ She points at Drakeward. “You’re also injured.”
“It’s nothing, just my ribs,” he mutters. Willow’s aunt shakes her head and tells him to pull up his shirt.
His right side is mottled with purple and black.
“Cosmo!”
“I’m fine, Theodora.”
As Opal insists on applying balm to his ribs, I pull Theo into my arms. She leans against me, body shaking with fatigue.
I look at the clock on the wall, five in the morning. Soon the sun will be up.
Gareth settles at the table, with a groan. “Any more hot water in that kettle?”
Willow comes in at that moment and starts brewing more tea. “Kids are all asleep,” she tells us.
“Thankfully,” Donovan adds, “because I am completely out of stories.” He slumps down onto a wooden stool. “They got my entire catalogue.”
A comforting smell of herbs rises from the steaming mugs Willow hands out.
Once everyone is settled, Opal fixes me with a beady eye.
“So, Mr. Mystery Man, what in Hades have you got my niece involved with?”