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As I scooteda few more inches down the cliff, I came to the end of my rope. And swore. Vehemently and virulently, as appropriate for someone hanging from damp, gritty,verticalrock a hundred feet above crashing oceanwaves.
Then I made the mistake of looking down and swore a little more. Heights don’t usually faze me. What gets me is the thought of falling from them, landing on sharp pointy rocks, being pulverized like flank steak in a meat grinder, and then being sucked out to sea, never to be seenagain.
But the mouth of the cave was less than twenty feet below. I gritted my teeth in determination. I could dothis.
“Besides,” I muttered to the rock, “you’re the idiot who chose not to drive an hour back to a town with a hardware store for morerope.”
After finding a suitable handhold, I scooted lower. Climbing back up would be easier, assuming I wasn’t injured then. I had to trust that my magical weapons, my magical charms, and the agility that my half-elven blood granted me would see me throughthis.
Halfway to the cave entrance, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I ignored it, like any sane person would, and continued carefullydownward.
But then I paused. It was Friday and almost closing time for people who worked office jobs. If this was the call I was expecting and I ignored it, I’d have to wait until Monday to get the testresults.
Making sure I had three points of contact, and one foot wedged so far into a crevice that falling would be impossible, I eased my phone out of my pocket. Yes, it was the doctor’s office. I had one bar of reception and the roar of the surf behindme.
“This is Val,” I answered, waiting to impress the receptionist with myconnection.
“Hello, this is Mandy in Dr. Brightman’s office. Is this… Val… mey…jar?”
“Just Val.” I didn’t correct the pronunciation or explain that my Norwegian mother had thought it would be fun to name me after aValkyrie.
“We got your test results back, andev—”
“And what?” The tightness in my chest that had grown familiar these last few months intensified, and I rolled my eyes as I envisioned having to dig into my other pocket for the inhaler Dr. Brightman had given me. What kind of monster-slaying warrior woman developed asthma? “I’m sorry, uh, Mandy. Can you repeatthat?”
I glanced at the phone, worried the call haddropped.
“Valmeyjar?” Mandy asked, clearly hearing me as well as I was hearing her. “I’m sorry. I think the connection isn’t verygood.”
A seagull squawked as it flew by, either commenting on the stupidity of my position or wondering if I had French fries in mypocket.
“I noticed. Theresults?”
“I said everything is normal on your bloodwork. Are you at thecoast?”
“Normal?” I used my eyes to burn a laser of skepticism into the face of the phone. “What?”
“Everything isnormal.”
“Are you sure? I have… issues. New issues.” I barely slept, I had a ridiculous urge to take siestas, and now this new betrayal from mylungs.
“Well, your inflammatory markers are a little high, but it’s nothing to worry about at this point. Your hormone levels were all good, especially for a woman of yourage.”
My eyes bored more lasers into the phone. “Myage? I’m barely pastforty.”
“Hormones can get a little persnickety in your forties.” Persnickety? Who in this century saidpersnickety? “Oh, here’s Dr. Brightman.” Mandy sounded relieved to pass meoff.
“Everything is normal, Val,” he said. “It’s not uncommon to develop asthma and allergies later inlife.”
“I am not later in life. Mymomisn’t even later in life. She’s seventy-one and hikes the Pacific Crest Trail forkicks.”
“If you find yourself using the rescue inhaler more than a couple of times a month, we’ll want to get you on a dailycorticosteroid.”
“I don’t takedrugs.”
Dr. Brightman was diplomatic enough not to point out that my new dependence on the “rescue inhaler” counted as using adrug.
