The Changeling's Ghost (Thirteen Gates #1)

Found

     For a while, Bain's cigarette is the only light in the ashy, murky dusk of the library, which did nothing to quell the fear quickly rising in me. Yeah. Fear. Long time no see, buddy. Well, I did almost died to a wraith about an hour prior (please kill me, I sound just like Asher), but besides that I can't remember any time in most of my professional career things had gone this haywire. I take a deep breath. You'd think in a place like the Academy, they'd tell you that fear was for cowards or something equally stereotypical, but the most valuable thing I've learned there (from Sheryl, specifically) is that bravery isn't the absence of fear, but the act of overcoming it.

     There is an utter absence of noise in the deepest heart of the library.

     Something moves behind us.

    I swing around with the integral, causing the rod to light up and illuminate the area, but there's nothing there but books. "Bain. Three shots at the exit, now," I command.

     I hear a grunt, but she does what I say. Nothing falls over in the dark, dead, which is disappointing, but she was firing blind and I was securing an exit. "Care to explain?" she asks.

    "Just a wild guess. You have a lot of bullets?" I ask.

    "Not enough to start wasting them with poppycock, just in case you're about to ask," she says, the gun clenched tight to her side. Agitation is etched into her brow, in the dying light of my little stunt. Soon we're back to the cigarette, and then to total blackness. Through it sounds a soft, heavy heaving, which lights up my vision red with electric fear.

     "Asher," I whisper. I run forwards, hitting a wall, jump off it and hit the wheelies. Bain falls far into the background, breaking the first rule of adventuring (don't split the party) and I pull up to a door. I can smell, faintly, blood and the sick scent of broken foliage. My hand hits the wall, almost numb, and I feel my whole body tremble as I finally click the switch.

     The lights flicker on, like two unwilling eyes opening. The room is filled with scattered books, many of which have been knocked off the shelves, a bloated, decayed human body that makes the entire air fearsomely rancid, and curled up by its side, in the center of the room, is Asher beside a massive sprout, which is soaked in blood. The sharp edges of it taper off to his still body.

     I run to him, my hands hitting bloodsoaked cashmere and my stomach twisting like I've swallowed glass. I take in a deep breath and yell, "Sheryl!" before remembering that she's not with me. "Bain, get Sheryl," I try.

     Bain watches like an ornery cat, her face slowly caving in from coolness to desperation. "Someone tried to rip the tree out of him. We need to stop the bleeding."

     I nod, rip off my shirt, and begin bandaging his abdomen. Bain takes off her own jacket, takes off her undershirt, and ties that around mine. She then seals the jacket around it. I raise a hand to make a comment, but without the Academy here, without even Sheryl, all the jokes I could make seem hollow. I lower my hand, crunched over the body, and say, "Dryad?"

     "Looks like it's gnome or sylph allegiance, so I'd reckon. Asher's fought dryads, though. With..."

     "Conway," I finish. "I know. I get it."

     "Aye," Bain says. "Go get adults."

     I take off into the darkness. The sound of my wheelies on the wood makes a scraping noise that follows me down the hallways, through the tunnel of the library's interiors into the gray light of the English countryside, and the town flies past me with the click of stone beneath my wheels. Sheryl is the first to respond when I burst the doors down, accompanied by Ms. and Mr. Northcott, both of whose defeated, placid expressions slowly morph into terror, just like Bain's. It's amazing how quickly it slaps the apathy out of their faces. It's amazing how raw my throat is right now. I hear fae bells, a distant, shrill, ringing, and I put a hand to my ears.

     "Shock," Sheryl says. "It's shock. You should stay here."

     "Stop talking to me. I'm not the one who's hurt," I say, frustrated. "Hurry."

     "They're gone already," Sheryl grabs my hand. I clutch it, my integral hot in my other, clammy hand, and as I'm pulled up I glimpse her eyes to see a cold, distant darkness peering back into me. "This might be our chance to finally corner the will-o-wisp, or this... 'brother' Asher speaks of. I wouldn't hesitate to place either of them as the perpetrator."

     "Civilians out of the way first," I say. "Civilian casualties averted, civilian damage minimized."

    "He's not a civilian," Sheryl says. "If you run into Fenrir's jaws, you get bitten. If you harpoon a dragon at sea, your ship ends up at the bottom of the ocean."

     In my mind, Asher, clueless, angry, Asher, might as well be. I release myself from Sheryl's grip and begin winding my way back into the town, feeling the air buffet my chest. The winds rush over me as I skate back towards him, turning into the library, and meandering back down the dark halls. The air goes from fresh and alive to damp and musty, its stagnancy heavy as if the shelves had fallen in on me, and I keep going deeper.