Descendant (Secrets of the Makai) (17 page)

20

-
P
LAYING WITH
F
IRE -

TRISTAN LANDED ON HIS RIGHT HIP, starting an avalanche of loose gravel that carried him farther down the mountain in a cloud of dust. A root, much like a withered hand at first glance, reached for him. He grabbed on and eyed the top of the hill where he'd leapt through a wall of flames. So much for landing safely on the trail.

He shifted to his knees and crawled up the embankment, pulling himself with exposed roots until the ground leveled out.

Limping toward the shack, Tristan stopped to lean against the rock wall. His tongue and throat practically crackled with thirst. The water jug was still at the lake. Was that the brilliant plan when he jumped through flames? To race down to the lake for a gallon of water to put out a forest fire? Tiny, bitter-smelling stubs of hair on his arms itched like crazy. He examined his leg, glad scrapes and bruises weren't broken bones.

He trudged up the hill after a shaky breath, apprehensive about the monster he'd unleashed. The wind probably kept the fire and smoke from this side of the mountain, but if the winds changed…. Maybe time was more precious than he knew. Maybe he should pack up his things while he could.

Rounding the bend near the top, the forest of thick green foliage shifted to blackened trees and sticks. Tristan held his hand over the scorched ground, not wanting to blister the soles of his only shoes. The black ash was cool to the touch. At least he wouldn't have to outrun flames anytime soon.

He rolled logs and overturned black clumps of branches in search of embers. Anything that might transfer and relight in the woodstove with a bit of coaxing, just to save matches.

It didn't make sense.

The fire was a roaring beast a few minutes ago. He dropped to his knees and dug at the base of a burnt tree, hoping for smoldering roots. Nothing.

Confusion outweighed the logical facts. A black, dead forest surrounded him. No smoke, no steam, no wind. Didn't fires usually smolder for days? They certainly didn't burn out this fast.

Tristan sat on his heels and rubbed his face, sticky with sweat, dirt, and ash. A bump on the side of his head stung, but the sun seemed to be in the right place, so he was pretty sure he hadn't hit his head hard enough to be knocked out for a full day. He buried his hands in the coals and shut his eyes. How could he keep track of the days when half of them were a blur?

Birds sang in the distance, a strange cheerful sound for the misery he was in. He'd have to hike all the way down to the lake for a drink of water and went to the shack instead.

Smoke lingered in the structure, decidedly better than the moldy smell of decaying wood. He pulled the remaining matches from his pocket and tossed them to the table. Matches were for more than heat—he needed them for cooking, too. Bright sunlight poured in from gaps between planks, showing repairs he should make before winter.

A fishing pole he hadn't noticed leaned in the corner, rust camouflaging its existence. Metal bubbled at the joints, but the reel seemed to be in solid working order, with plenty of line included. He scraped the crud from the guides with a shard of wood from the nearest floorboard, then set it aside.

Rest or food? His head pounded in time with his right hip. How easy it would be to curl up with the quilt and sleep. Besides, fishing would cost him another match. Stupid survival. He'd have to stick around to make sure the woodstove never went out. Ever.

Thirst finally won.

Tristan carried the rod down to the lake, not wanting to waste the trip, half surfing on the round pebbles of the trail. At least fishing should be easier with a real pole. It took a few times to get the casting, but his spirits soared when he reeled in a large trout.

Something behind him screeched. Tristan turned to see the falcon perched on a low limb of a nearby tree. He unhooked the fish and tossed it toward the bird as an offering of thanks. The falcon dropped like a rock, talons spread, then snared the flopping fish. It flew along the shoreline, with its reflection mirrored in the glassy surface.

Full of pride, yet sad that the bird didn't want to stay, Tristan watched him fly—straight toward a column of white smoke on the far side of the lake. He squinted to be sure, wondering if ash or embers could drift and reignite that far away. Not a chance.

He threw on a shirt, left the pole, and made his way along the lake, keeping his eyes glued to the smoke. He raked his fingers through his hair, skirting the boggy areas of the shoreline, and quickened his pace to a lopsided jog. He couldn't bear it if whoever it was got away without him.

The column of smoke had vanished, but he knew exactly where to go.

Studying the distant tree line along the water's edge, a million things fought in his mind. He should've cleaned the fish mess in the shack, should've returned the pole to where he found it, should've brushed his teeth. Maybe having the bowl would've identified him to the natives?

He left the shore to circle around, afraid he might be talking himself out of finding the natives, when a brilliant thought struck, cheering him significantly—he could use the magnifier from the spyglass to save matches.

A sense of foreboding choked out his moment of excitement. The birds he'd been hearing all morning fell silent. It seemed like he'd wandered too far when a whispered thought stopped him cold. After a few moments of silence, he continued up a slight incline until a distant hum vibrated through the trees. Birds took flight. Tristan held his breath as the sound drew closer. A plane? Now? Tristan scowled.

At the top of the incline, he overlooked a circle of rooftops and dropped to his knees to hide in the brush, shocked by the sight of a relatively modern civilization.

A variety of buildings surrounded a stone courtyard. Structures varied from Hawaiian style grass huts to brick and stucco. The entire village appeared deserted. He risked getting closer when a few straggling thoughts had him hiding again.

What's taking him so long?

Several other whispers overlapped. Were they expecting him?

For Pete's sake, what a bunch of cowards.
The last thought came from a woman in the cottage made of round river stone.

But there's no one here
, came a male reply.
We don't have the numbers.

That much was obvious. Where were the people? Tristan looked for roads or paths that might lead in or out of the village and saw nothing. In a blink, five men suddenly stood in the center courtyard.

Tristan rubbed his eyes, concluding they must have come from one of the buildings. A log cabin with polished wood furniture on the front porch was the best logical choice, though he didn't believe they could cross that much distance without him noticing.

"Marvelous. My reputation precedes me." The largest man in the center of the group ran a hand over his disheveled hair, which hung in frazzled coils. He spoke to no one in particular, surveying the area. "Quaint. Tynan?"

Another man extended a bony finger toward the river-stone cottage. The three remaining men stood with their backs to each other, studying the other structures.

About time,
the same woman thought.

Tristan liked this woman—she would be his first contact. He crawled backward until he could stand and snuck around the perimeter to get within earshot, surprised he'd circled enough to see the lake again. Maybe they'd seen him walking the shoreline?

The hum of the plane drew closer, much closer than the first time. Tristan stretched to see it through the canopy of trees, tempted to rush out and wave his arms. Not that it mattered at this point.

The screen door on the backside of the cottage was propped open with a brightly painted frog. Tristan smiled at the lack of 'tribal' and tiptoed into the room.

"I can't remember the last time I've been so insulted," said a man's voice.

"Even the best of us—"

"You're an old, old woman. Surely your ancient brain can fathom what you and your Dorian have cost me beyond the materials? I expect you to make it right today or, so help me, for the rest of your life you will never say another word, nor see a living soul."

Tristan watched the scene through a gap between wooden planks of a dividing wall. He could see the midsection of a man who was using something like a laser pen for a pointer. Without warning, a small portion of each row of shelves burst into flame, in a straight line from the pen to a hole the size of a basketball on the outside wall.

Tristan turned and held his breath, never expecting to see such technology here of all places. Still, he couldn't resist watching. The woman had to be the one he'd decided to make contact with.

"I'm sure you are aware," the woman said, sounding amazingly unruffled, "that even the smallest particles have incalculable effects. Why, even cleaning residue—"

"I told you that's absurd!" The man's foot shot up and kicked at the nearest row of shelves, tipping the entire case onto the next. Bags and wooden boxes crashed to the floor, glass containers shattered. "I demand to speak with your caretaker."

Tristan saw most of the man standing in a far corner by the door. He'd been the one who pointed out the cottage in the first place. He looked ill with some deadly disease, pale and skeletal. His skin was practically blue. Tristan could see the three men talking amongst themselves in the center courtyard through a window, paying no attention to the commotion.

"Dorian
is
the caretaker and as I have already stated…she cannot be reached. You may take anything you wish, but I cannot guarantee better results."

The woman gasped as she slammed against the shelves, diagonally from where Tristan stood, sending more boxes and glass to the floor. Her hands clutched at her throat.

Tiny and fragile, the woman wasn't at all what he'd expected. Ringlet wisps of silver hair hung loose around her face and a long thick braid, intertwined with a dark green ribbon, hung to the small of her back. Her eyes squeezed shut. If she looked to her left, she would have seen his horrified expression not more than four feet away.

"I could break you and nobody would do a thing about it." The man squashed a bundle of dried stems, making a fatal crunching sound. "I doubt anyone on this pathetic island would care if you suddenly went missing." The man turned to yell out the front door. "Will no one help an old woman?" He cocked his head and pointed the laser pen at the sky. The engine of the plane sputtered into silence.

The woman struggled with more force while the sickly looking man stood silent, cowering against a far wall.

Tristan had taken a lot of beatings in his life, but he couldn't stand by and watch someone take advantage of an old woman. What if she ended up murdered like Gwenna?

He stepped forward without planning what he would say. "I would care if—" Tristan stopped abruptly, recognizing the man who whirled to face him. In the same instant, air consolidated into a dense wall around him.

21

-
B
LAST FROM THE
P
AST -

TRISTAN HELD UP HIS HAND and stretched out his fingers, expecting the thick waves of rippling air between him and the intruder to feel like Jell-O. But it felt like nothing. No temperature change, no gooeyness, no resistance that he could detect.

The woman beside him fell to the floor while the jars from the shelf above toppled beside her. Tristan didn't dare take his eyes from the man to see if she was okay, afraid the intruder would make his move if he did. He fought to bring the man's features into focus through the distortion, determined to be ready for anything.

The man stared at Tristan, yet seemed to be looking right through him. "I could have sworn I saw…." He paled slightly, shook his head, and turned toward the front door. "Tynan! Take what you need." The intruder left without speaking another word.

The sickly man in the corner appeared too stunned to react, then eyed the woman on the floor for a split second before glancing in Tristan's direction. Finally, he set to work. His knobby, spiderlike legs maneuvered over the obstacles in his path as he sniffed and searched through the piles of wreckage. His long limbs made the mess seem easy to navigate. At the doorway, arms loaded, he turned and bowed to the woman. "Good day."

When the sickly man left, the woman took a sudden deep breath, pulling at the lace collar around her neck. The air around Tristan shifted back to normal.

He'd have to think on that later. He knelt beside the woman while keeping an eye at the front door, expecting the group to come back at any minute.

Copper-colored smoke hovered above the mess. Wooden boxes still teetering on edges crashed to the ground and more glass shattered. A blackish purple fog hissed from beneath the hole in the wall, seeping its way through every available gap.

"We should go." Tristan hated to move the woman, but the color of smoke didn't look friendly. She nodded and let him help her through the doorway to the back part of the cottage. She pointed to the rocking chair in a corner.

"If you would be so kind, bring me some tea?"

"Tea?" He'd been thinking along the lines of baseball bats and guns if she had any. The men were probably surrounding the building. "That's it? Tea? Shouldn't we get out before…?"