After a few restarts and plenty of colorful expletives, we finally had Ethan’s large tent assembled as the sun slid behind the mountain’s peak, casting the forest in grim shade. Tristan and I had just enough time to erect our smaller, economy tent before the temperature dropped. You know, the kind of tent reserved for Prince Ethan’s stable boys. The forest was eerily dark by the time we finished and every rustle of leaves meant a skipped heartbeat.
Ethan, Tristan, and I traded nervous glances.
“Probably start a fire.”
“Yep.”
“Fire’s good.”
“Love fire.”
Since none of us were a practicing pyromagus, we had to get the fire started the old-fashioned way—with a lighter. Ethan and I gathered up some wood and kindling and Tristan used his gift to make sure all the wood was as dry as possible, coercing the logs to expunge every last bit of water. Same with the leaves. They came back to me like ancient parchment. I carefully tucked the brittle foliage into the center of the pyramid stack.
Tristan produced a lighter, but made Ethan do the honors. The Zippo popped and hiccuped a flame that immediately took. Within minutes, we had a roaring campfire.
For a long time, nobody said anything. We just stared into the flames. Ethan, laying out like he probably did every day of his life, seemed content to just stare up at the night sky, what he could see of it through the canopy anyway. Tristan just prodded an ember with a stick. He burned two complete branches and started a third before Ethan broke the silence.
“So when are we going to get this thing?”
I groaned. “For the last time, we’re not going to get anything! This is strictly a black ops get-in-get-out operation.”
“Well then, what exactly are you getting out?” Ethan asked.
With a gulp, I glanced at Tristan. He shrugged.
“None of—”
“Scales,” Tristan said. I turned on him, shocked. He gave me an apologetic shrug, then went back to Ethan across the fire. “We’re hoping this thing—the candilisk—shed some scales. We’re going to collect them.”
“They worth anything?”
“Not to you.”
Ethan laughed. “Fair enough. Not like I need it anyway.”
Fed up, I hissed into the air. “Wow.”
“What?” he asked, quirking his grin up the side of his face.
“Your life is choice—we get it.” I shot back. “You don’t have to rub our noses in it.”
“Oh, don’t get all Breakfast Club on me, Quincy,” Ethan retorted, shaking his head. “You don’t have a clue what it’s like being me.”
“Uh, yeah, I do,” I threw back at him. I sat up, turning my nose at the air in my best impersonation. “Look at me, I’m Ethan. Should I have six martinis today or seven? Emma, Emma, Emma!”
“Quinn—”
I ignored Tristan and kept going. “Check it out! I’m filthy rich and Daddy bought me a car! And a pony! And my very own sword!”
“Hey!” Ethan shouted, getting to his feet. “I told you where I got this sword!”
The blade came free of its sheath and caught the gleam from the fire. Tristan stumbled to his feet and put up his hands.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” His gravelly voice cracked. “Take it easy, guys.”
I realized my mistake. And it wasn’t just pissing off Ethan. I did remember where he got his sword.
“I’m sorry,” I squeaked, staring at him with bulbous eyes. “Really.”
Ethan snorted like an angry horse. He glared at me a few seconds longer and then planted himself on the ground. He looked almost hurt—almost human—as he tried to form words.
“This sword used to be above his fireplace,” Ethan said softly, looking at the ground. “If I could put it back up on my grandpa’s wall, I would—but my parents sold his house already.”
“That bites,” Tristan offered. “Royally.”
Ethan shook his head. “What really bites is that I was in Amsterdam when he died. Partying it up. No limits, right? Family couldn’t get a hold of me. I missed the whole damn thing—the funeral, everything.”
I pictured Ethan at Babbit’s funeral, all dressed up. He never took those sunglasses off. I was right—he wasn’t there for Babbit. But he wasn’t there just for appearances either.
He was saying goodbye to someone. Just like we all were.
I really screwed up. I didn’t even know what to say. I could apologize until I was blue in the face—or tell him that I was glad he was here. That even though he got the sword in the worst way possible, at least he was putting it to good use.
I didn’t tell him any of this, though, because just then there was a rustle of leaves and a snap of a twig. We all heard it. Our ears all pricked the same way, like a trio of hunting dogs.
It came from the ravine.
Quickly, the three of us exchanged glances, trying to communicate every possible course of action without making a sound. Darting eyes and frantic hands took the place of words.
Did you hear that?
Yes!
Should I put out the fire?
No!
Should we run?
Tristan got on his belly and began army-crawling to the edge of the ravine. I threw a nod to Ethan and we followed suit. Just like the hike, we weren’t nearly as stealthy as Tristan. He was a sleek cobra and we were carefree pups rollicking in the leaves. We might as well have had collars with bells on as we slunk to the drop-off.
My stomach churned. I knew it was the candilisk. I knew it was going to be there when I peered over the edge. Staring at me with those eyes I remembered more from my nightmares than from the day I’d actually seen it.
Almost there.
Would it remember me? Would it know what I wanted?
Another inch.
I shut my eyes and took one more swallow of air, held it in, and plunged my face over the rocky outcropping.
I could see something moving down by the river. It dipped its head down and drank from the slow-moving creek. Another one joined the first, watching the upstream while its partner sipped from the stream.
“What are those?” Ethan asked, voice a shaky whisper.
Tristan laughed; a breathy release that deflated his shoulders. “Wind elk.”
Yes. I could make them out now, eyes adjusting after staring at the fire so long. A female drank from the river, and the male kept lookout, his cauliflower-like antlers rising up from his head like a royal crown. Though I couldn’t see their coloring in the dark, I knew that wind elk—the animal from which the mountain took its name—were made in the image of the sky: blue with sporadic tufts of white.
Just then, both the animals’ heads sprang to attention. Not upstream, nor down, but back to the woods. They could hear something that we couldn’t.
The wind elk tensed. The forest said nothing. Then—
A sandpaper screech pierced the night. It was a sickly hoarse bellow. A hundred crows cawing a death rattle in unison.
Night birds flocked in any direction they could. Bats began throwing their screaming sonar calls into the dark. The wind elk were long gone. This all happened not even a mile into the forest beneath us.
When I found my voice, I said, “And that’ll be the candilisk.”
Tristan and Ethan turned towards me slowly, trembling. Ethan spoke first. “You said that thing’s nocturnal?”
“Yeah.”
“Meaning it only comes out at night, right?”
“Right.”
He swallowed loudly, dryly. “Then what the hell are we doing out here at night?”
I knew the plan—and I knew why it was a good idea. But for some reason I couldn’t give Ethan an answer. Every word in my head sounded like that creature’s cry. Its scream.
Tristan was the first to stand up. He brushed the leaves and dirt off his sweater and walked back to the camp.
“I’m turning in,” he said simply. Then to me he said, “I’m really starting to wish you made all this up.”
The tent was stuffy, even though the forest outside was cool. I suppose that’s the fate of tents. If there was a hotel out in these woods I would’ve—oh, right. There was. I’d worked there three years, remember? So no regrets about leaving it behind to camp out in the wilderness.
Suck it up, Quinn.
I could hear the breeze outside—even if I couldn’t feel it—and the trance started to set in. Just as I was dozing off, I heard Tristan’s voice. “Quinn? You still up, man?”
I thought about saying something snippy and condescending, but instead I just said, “Yeah.”
“Been thinking about something.”
“Okay?”
His sleeping bag rustled. “You said Babbit was helping you with this solistone stuff, right?”
“Yeah.”
“But he never found anything on it?”
“No.”
More rustling. “And he had the book you needed the entire time?”
“Yes,” I said hotly. “What’s your point?”
“Don’t you think that’s kind of, I don’t know—convenient?”
“Yeah, it was really convenient needing a book and not being able to get it because it was sitting in a pile at Babbit’s house,” I said sarcastically.
“That’s what I mean,” Tristan replied. I didn’t bother to look, but I could tell that Tristan sat up, a tricky maneuver considering the size of the tent. “I just find it hard to believe that you asked Babbit for help finding an alchemy book, and he didn’t bother to check the one he had. In his house. The entire time.”
Something in his tone wasn’t agreeing with me. It tasted like sand, cold and gritty. “Where are you going with this, Tristan.”
“I’m just talking, man,” Tristan answered quickly. “But—do you think maybe Babbit knew?”
“Knew what?” I said flatly.
I could almost hear Tristan chewing on his bottom lip in the dark, and rightly so. “Knew what you were looking for, what you were doing.”
Suddenly I was upright. “What planet are you on? I specifically asked him about a solistone. If he knew how to make one, or—or—” My voice caught in my throat. “I mean, why wouldn’t—if—”
“If he was a devout mage, why wouldn’t he help his prize pupil take a step towards alchemy?” Tristan finished drily. “Can’t imagine.”
I shook my head furiously. A little too furiously. “Ridiculous. Totally mental. Babbit knows you can’t, like, switch sides—I’m a mage.”
Tristan sighed. “Then why are you doing this?”
“What?”
“I mean, you said it yourself—you’re a mage—so why the interest in an alchemy stone?” he pressed. “And clearly it’s not about the money, or you wouldn’t have offered me such a sweet cut—so what is it? Why bend over backwards—recruiting me, Ethan. Even Selia, and Babbit. This whole excursion—what’s the endgame here, man?”
I waited a few seconds, as though I were processing his request. “Tristan?”
“Yeah?”
“What part of ‘no questions asked’ was unclear?”
“Sorry, man,” he sighed. “Just talking.”
“Enough talk,” I whispered, rolling over. “Sleep.”
But neither silence nor the whispering breeze outside was going to be enough to bring about sleep. Tristan had pushed a splinter into my subconscious and now it was festering.
Babbit wouldn’t have done something like that—right? My friend, my mentor. I was his prize pupil. His adopted grandson. He wouldn’t withhold information from someone like that.
Would he?
Don’t go gettin’ all alchemical on me, Quinn.
All that “pride in your kind” talk was starting to ache in my skull, a scratchy radio station that I couldn’t turn off. Babbit had worked in Alkamee Heights a long time, and was no stranger to Willow Bay. If he knew the librarian, then who else did he know? Did he talk to? How far did his magism go?
And then there was the scariest question of all, the one that kept whispering in the empty hallways of mind: how did Babbit know so much about the potential of unbridled meta? Was it common knowledge, or did he have some “firsthand experience” in channeling the Aetherios?
No. He was my friend. I trusted him.
And hopefully I still could.
Did you know, Babbit? Did you know what I was looking for?
In my head, the old mage whispered back, It knows you’re coming.