Page 32 of A Heist for Filthy Rivals (Mythic Holidays #3)
The creatures closest to us are screaming, burning, dying, but there are more behind them. The rest of the swarm will attack as soon as the heat and smoke clear.
When Ravager told me to run, I did. The explosion tossed me forward, but I wasn’t hurt beyond a couple of bruised knees. I’m sure he’d have a joke about that if he wasn’t crumpled against the wall, smoke-seared and unconscious.
I crawl toward him, choking, wheezing. Two of the fingers on his left hand are missing. Blown off. The left side of his face is pink and scalded, but it’s not a bad burn. It should heal without a scar—if he survives. If I help him.
The easiest thing would be to pick up the big weapon and leave him here. I could let the razorwings finish him off while he’s knocked out. He’ll never even know that I betrayed him. Whereas if I try to drag him to safety, it’s highly possible that we’ll both be devoured.
But I look at his stupid damn face, and I think about his sorrowful blue eyes, and I can’t do it. I can’t leave him here.
He could have run ahead on his own and left me to die in the swarm. Instead, he protected me and lost part of himself in the process. It’s the most anyone’s ever sacrificed for me.
By choosing me, claiming me as his, he left me no other option but to claim him as well.
He can’t die.
I grab both straps of his pack and haul him along, grateful for the smoothness of the hallway floor. He’s so fucking heavy. I’m going to give him hell for that later. I’d leave the pack behind to lighten the load, except I’m not sure I could manage to move him without being able to grip its straps.
Panting, straining, I jerk his body around the corner, hoping that once we’re out of the creatures’ sight, they’ll forget about us.
I keep dragging him, throwing my entire weight and every bit of strength I possess into the effort.
The swarm hasn’t come around the corner yet, but I don’t take my eyes off that spot, and I don’t quit moving until we’re in front of the room that contains the life’s work of the great inventor Drosselmeyer.
Carefully I work Ravager’s pack off him and lay his head gently against the floor. I stuffed a few of the makeshift bandages we made into my pack before we left the kitchen, and I do my best to wrap his mutilated hand with them. He lost his littlest finger and the one next to it.
Could Witch heal them if I can get him home fast enough? I seem to remember hearing a story at the Night Goose once, about how she regrew a man’s hand. If there’s even a chance she could help him, I’ll pay her any sum. He shouldn’t have to endure this loss because of me.
For a fleeting moment, I consider fetching the Doras álainn and leaving Annordun immediately with Ravager. I could take him straight to Witch and get him some help.
But I placed the Doras álainn elsewhere in the fortress, and I’ll probably need assistance to retrieve it, especially if I run into the beast with all the voices.
Even if I could fetch it now and flee with Ravager, I’d be abandoning my crew.
When the time runs out, the Javelins will likely show up here in Annordun.
I won’t leave them stranded without a way home.
Thinking about the Doras álainn stirs a suspicion in me, quiet but insistent.
What if Ravager has only stuck with me because he needs the device to get home?
Though he hasn’t mentioned it, I know that it’s one of the reasons for our alliance.
Could it be his only reason? Could he be toying with my emotions, building trust with me so I’ll reveal its location?
And once he knows where it is, will he kill me and run off on his own with as much treasure as he can carry?
If Skull were here, he’d say it’s not only possible, but likely.
And yet for once my gut doesn’t back up the suspicion.
Right before the razorwing tunnel, when we argued, I saw the look in Ravager’s eyes and heard the break in his voice.
I sensed the pain of truth in his words, and I felt it in the passionate force of his body against mine.
He cares about me. I’m sure of it.
He could still be playing a game—but until I have proof of that, I’m going to assume he’s sincere. Which means I need to get him and myself into that storage room, where we’ll be comparatively safe until my team reappears and we can pack up Drosselmeyer’s things.
The Javelins will have to deal with the fact that Ravager is coming back to the mortal realm with us. Whatever my plans originally were, I won’t double-cross him, not after he saved my life again. He’ll get a share of the treasure, even if it comes out of my portion.
If the Javelins don’t reappear, I’ll stuff my bag and Ravager’s with whatever small items I can find, then wait until he wakes up. There might be something among Drosselmeyer’s inventions that we can use against the razorwings. We’ll make our way upstairs, get the Doras álainn, and leave Faerie.
Once I’m out of this goddamned realm, I’m not coming back here, ever.
The shield protecting the door of the storage room is impenetrable, but I’ve watched Ravager use his explosive paint enough times to understand how it works. He lost his igniter back in the razorwing hallway, but I’ve got a flint of my own. I can manage this.
He wasn’t lying when he said he was almost out of the gel. At first glance, the small bucket from his pack looks empty, but when I sweep the brush around the insides, it comes out gleaming wet.
Just enough for a crawlspace, he said, so I don’t try to create a whole door through the stonework. With my knife, I mark the corners of a square just large enough for me to crawl through. I should be able to push or pull Ravager through the hole as well.
I’m tempted to paint the gel in the exact shape that I need, but instead I use Ravager’s technique of drawing lightning-shaped forks and branches. Once I’ve used every bit of paint I can scrape from the container or squeeze out of the brush, I drag Ravager farther away from the door.
My heartbeat is a terrified staccato as I approach the painted explosive and strike my flint with another stone. It takes me a few tries to make a spark that catches in the gel.
Immediately it begins to hiss, while a warning glow travels along the branches I painted. I flee the scene, running down the hall and crouching over Ravager, shielding his injured face with my arms.
The explosion shakes the hallway, generating a clatter of rubble and a cloud of dust. I wait a few minutes for the dust to settle, watching for the reappearance of the razorwings. They must have been traumatized by the damage he did to their flock, because they don’t show up to investigate.
With bruised, weary fingers, I scrape the rubble out of the aperture I made. Dragging Ravager over to the hole takes much of my remaining energy, and getting us both through the crawlspace drains me entirely.
There’s a single light-orb in the room beyond. Not much illumination, but it’ll do.
Once we’re inside, I shove a box in front of the hole and set both our packs on it. Hopefully that will keep out any razorwings who might grow bold enough to come down this hallway and probe for the source of the explosion.
I drape Ravager’s unconscious body against the wall in the semblance of a sitting position. Then I collapse beside him.
In a moment I’ll get up and look through the pile of crates and contraptions in the center of the room. I’ll poke through the clockwork devices and read the titles on the spines of each book stack.
But right now, I’m trembling too violently from the physical effort of moving Ravager around. I need a few minutes to deepen my breathing, slow my heart rate, and rest my overtaxed muscles.
Something vibrates in my pocket.
Fuck… the wishing stone. The last time I pulled it out and looked at it was in the pantry, right before I woke Ravager up.
At that point there were three dots, but there was no way to tell how much of the third hour was left.
It could have been closer to two. Which means time may have already run out.
I sit up, my fingertips sliding into my pocket—but before I can take out the stone, the Javelins appear, looking exactly as they did before they vanished.
Maven, gorgeous as ever in her custom leather corset. Boulder, his fists clenched, the light gleaming on the reinforced knuckles of his gloves. Flex, still holding his lockpicking kit in his long fingers. Scriv, hunched and wary like an animal just freed from a trap.
“What the everliving fuck?” exclaims Maven.
“You’re back! Thank the gods!” I scramble to my feet and lunge forward to hug her, but she draws back, her lip curling with suspicion. She has never looked at me that way before.
“Are you all right?” I falter. “What exactly happened? I mean, what do you remember from your side of things?”
“I remember you saying that you wished we’d go away.” Maven’s eyes narrow, her gaze void of warmth. “I remember darkness, and orange lights moving around. I could hear Scriv, Boulder, and Flex talking. We were trapped together, wherever it was. Wherever you put us.”
“It was an accident,” I protest. “I didn’t know that stone you gave me could grant wishes.”
“I warned you that it might.”
“But you weren’t sure. And even if we’d known for certain that it was a wishing stone, who would have thought that it would activate from my pocket?
Seems like it should be the kind of thing you hold in your hand when you speak a wish, or something you activate with blood or a special word.
It seems like a foolish design flaw to have it—”
“Stop!” snaps Maven. “Do you understand what we went through? We were disembodied, Devilry. We had no idea where we were trapped or how long it would last. Can you comprehend the mental agony that comes with that sort of experience?”
“I’m sorry. I made a mistake. You have to believe that I never intended—”