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Dammit all to the Spires!
3
Beth
We pass through the side streets and avoid most of the fray. I hold onto Gareth’s fur, keeping low against him as Parnon leads us. I’m weak, my body worn out, but Gareth’s strength is undeniable. His feral form is powerful, each muscle honed in his enormous, lethal body. He’s fluffy to me. Deadly to all others.
Parnon stops and grunts as a slave leads a handful of high fae children from the back of a stately home.
The elderly changeling drops to her knees in front of us. “Please. They’re all I have. They’re innocents.” She wraps her arms around the children, keeping them huddled against her. They’re dressed in finery, silver and gold thread running through every bit of cloth on them, but their eyes are hollow and terrified.
“Parnon, we have to help them.” I move to slide off Gareth, but the great cat shifts, keeping me on his back.
Parnon harrumphs, his eyebrows almost touching.
“Come on.” I point at the young ones. “You think Silmaran would want them to get hurt?”
He grumbles some more, then mutters, “Fine. Go.” He points down the smoke-darkened lane. “The house of Chastain will keep all of you safe. Tell others. Innocents will never be harmed. Silmaran sees all.”
“Thank you.” She dips her chin in gratitude, then ushers the children through the side street and away.
“Parnon’s a softy.” I relax against Gareth’s soft fur. “Thank the Ancestors.”
The sand man grunts and gives me a hard look. “I’m covered in blood, changeling. None of it is mine.”
I swallow hard. “Point made. Let’s go.”
Gareth picks up his pace, urgency in his steps as he takes the lead toward Chastain’s villa. Parnon stomps along behind us. I press my cheek to Gareth’s warm fur. Something in me resonates to the rhythm of his walk, his paws soft on the cobblestones as we leave the pandemonium of the slavers’ mansions. The streets are still filled with shocked faces, but the screams are fading, the smoke no longer a choking haze.
We turn a corner, and Gareth freezes, a low growl rising from him as his entire body tenses.
Parnon raises his fists. “Come out.”
“I’m looking for Gareth,” a male voice calls down from one of the low rooftops along the narrow lane.
Gareth inhales, then lets out a long breath and trots ahead, his big, golden eyes locked on one rooftop in particular.
“Who is it?” I can’t see anyone.
Gareth stops, his nose pointed at the spot where two smaller homes have overlapping roofs.
“Changeling, we’ve met.” A fae materializes from the shadowy cleft and drops down to the street, though he keeps a wary eye on the enormous cat beneath me.
I tense, the hair on my arms standing on end. The Catcher. Oh, yes, this is perfect. I’m going to enjoy watching Gareth rip his throat out.
“Oh, we’ve met all right.” I squeeze Gareth’s ruff. “Tear him apart, Fluffy!”
Gareth moves closer to the bastard, then swats at him. The move is … playful?
The Catcher holds his hands up in surrender. “Nice kitty.”
“Hey.” I pull on Gareth’s velvety ear. “Kill him. Eat him up. Come on.”
Gareth chuffs.
Parnon stomps ahead, his fists like boulders. “I’ll handle it if the kitten is too scared.”
“No, it’s me!” The Catcher pulls down his face covering. “Phin.”
Parnon rears back.
“Wait!” I peer at Phin. “He’s one of us.”
Gareth mews and circles around Phin.
The sand man keeps his fist cocked. “He’s the Catcher.”
“No. He’s not. He pretends to be the Catcher, but he actually frees slaves.”
Parnon looks at me, his brow wrinkled. “The Catcher isn’t real?”
“Well, yes, there’s a Catcher, but Phin impersonates him.”
“She’s telling the truth.” Phin circles away from Parnon’s looming fist. “I’m here for Gareth. Leander sent me. And now it seems I’m embroiled in some sort of slave rebellion.” He grins. “Perfect timing.”
“Should I pound him or what?” Parnon’s frown doesn’t abate.
“No.” I scratch behind Gareth’s ear. “He’s a friend.”
“The Catcher!” someone behind us yells, and the thundering sound of dozens of feet echoes off the buildings.
“By the Spires, they’ll tear me apart.” Phin stares down the alley.
“We have to move.” Parnon lowers his fist and takes off at a clipped pace, his heavy footfalls shaking dust from the eaves overhead.
Phin falls in beside us and peers down at the magnificent beast between my thighs. His eyes widen as we dart across a bigger road, then melt back into the shadowy alleys.
“Gareth. It’s you. Your feral.” Phin slows, almost forgetting the mob at our back. When a blade whizzes past his head and embeds in a sandy wall, he picks back up.
Gareth pants and eyes an abandoned fountain as we pass.
“It’s him.” I pat his head. “Isn’t he the cutest?”
Gareth growls and lopes ahead. I hold on as we hurry into Chastain’s villa. The front door is wide open, the door still a mess of splinters from where Gareth burst through it. That wasn’t so long ago, but it feels like ages.
Inside, slaves are laid out while others tend to their wounds. Toward the back, the fae from the Ocean of Storms lounges in the fountain as Chastain works on an unconscious Silmaran.
“Oh no.” I slide off Gareth’s silky side. He steps in front of me.
“You!” Something sparkles at the back of the room—its light brighter than the blinding day. “You took everything from me!”
Gareth hisses and presses against me.
“You will pay!” The sparkling materializes into Raywen. Her hair floats on a phantom wind, and her eyes glow a brilliant turquoise, but she’s not looking at me. Her gaze is fixed on Phin as she conjures a magical storm between her palms. “Dartinian. Liar. Deceiver. Foul pig!”
Oh, shit. “No!” I hold up a hand, but Gareth backs me away, his large body pressing against my legs. “Raywen, it’s not the Catcher. It’s—”
The blast from her hands lights up the villa, blinding me even as I turn away from the glare. Thunder crackles, and the ground shakes. When I open my eyes, the tall, dark fae is gone.
In his place, a pink pig stands and snorts indignantly.
“Are you sure it isn’t Dartinian?” Raywen’s sparkle is dim now, just a dusting of the glow she had earlier.
We sit around the dining table, though there’s no food on it. Silmaran is laid out, poultices all over her wounded body. She’s breathing. But she won’t wake.
“I’m sure. Like I told you, Phin frees slaves. Sort of like Silmaran. He makes a mockery of the Catcher every chance he gets.”
She presses her palms to her cheeks. “Oh, dear.”
“You sure you can’t reverse the spell?” I shoot a glance at Phin, his piggy tail bouncing jauntily as he paces back and forth between some of the injured slaves.
“I’ve never done that sort of magic. I mean, I’ve done glamours. Changed hair colors, granted beauty, things of that nature. But I’ve never transformed someone. Not like that.” She bites her lip. “What if I can’t change him back?”
“The spell will wear off.” Parnon uses his enormous mitt to gently wipe a bit of blood-crusted hair from Silmaran’s forehead. He’s almost as doting as Chastain. To make matters worse, Eldra and Nemar never returned from the fight. I silently send my pleas for their safety to the Ancestors.
“I don’t know if the spell will dissipate.” Raywen clenches her eyes shut. “Maybe that’s right. Maybe it’ll go away.”
“Is he ready yet?” Chastain hovers at Parnon’s elbow. The high fae hasn’t left Silmaran’s side. “She shouted down the streets, rallying everyone until she finally gave out.” He strokes her hair, pride in his eyes, but sadness, too. “My fighter. What have they
done to you?”
I lean back and blink away the threatening tears, then scratch under Gareth’s chin. He purrs. I can’t tell if he can’t change back, or won’t. Maybe it’s easier to stay in his feral form. “I think Gareth used all he had to save me. I was almost gone. So it took a lot.” I hate to say it out loud. It sounds selfish.
Thunderous booms sound from somewhere nearby, and a wild cheer goes up into the falling night.
“If we don’t get her fixed up and out in the streets, we may not survive until tomorrow.” Parnon rocks back and forth on his feet. “They’re attacking the alchemist shops. Those explosions are just the beginning. If they unleash—”
“She’ll wake up.” Chastain’s voice cracks, but he clears his throat and continues, “She’s going to wake up. We need her. She knows how bad we need her, and she’s so much tougher than anyone else I know.”
“Is there no one else? No healers?” I survey the slaves tending to each other, several high fae children huddled in the back of the room—all of them feeling the same unease growing inside the city. So much anger and pain was bottled up for too long. Now the cork is gone.
