Storm of Locusts

Chapter 18

Clive is off his bike in seconds. He rushes forward, eyes riven to the scene above him. His hands clutch ineffectually at the Wall, searching for holds.

I turn off the engine and wait. Take a deep breath and try to ease the tightness in my chest. I’ve killed more people than I care to count, no doubt inadvertently caused pain to their friends and family. But whoever did this wanted to be deliberately cruel. Caleb was tortured, meant as a message for whoever found him. For us, most likely. I have no doubt that whoever did this is a monster.

Clive’s efforts to scale the Wall are getting more frantic, his hands turning bloody as his fingernails scratch uselessly at the hard turquoise. A fine sheen of blue dust rains to the earth around his feet, but he’s not making any progress unless he intends to tear down the Wall molecule by molecule with his bare hands. Which no doubt he would attempt if he thought it would help his little brother.

“Stay put,” I murmur to Ben. “Keep your eyes open for trouble.”

She swallows, her face scared, her back rigid.

My steps are steady and hushed as I approach Clive. He’s finally found a small shallow foothold in the Wall, and he’s trying to dig his toe in and push himself up through will alone. But the man is built like a wall himself. Six four and two hundred and twenty pounds on a bad day. He’s just not going to get up. His foot slips, and he crashes to his knees, his palms scraping raw against the uneven rock. He doesn’t cry out, doesn’t make a noise, but his whole body is trembling.

I reach out and touch the Wall. The turquoise is cold and rough, jagged stone under my palm. I don’t know how the White Locust got Caleb up there, but we’re not climbing this without a ladder or a rope or something. At least Clive and I aren’t.

“Ben,” I call calmly over my shoulder. “Come here.”

I hear her approach, her footsteps dragging uncertainly.

“Can you climb this?” I ask, my eyes still studying the Wall, looking for some kind of weakness, something that will help us.

She comes up beside me and presses her own small hand to the Wall. She gulps nervously, blinks too quickly. “Maybe?”

“I saw how you handled the trails as Lake Asááyi,” I say, willing her confidence.

But she shakes her head, looking overcome and out of her league. Something falls from above us, blood like a raindrop. It strikes Ben on the cheek. Her hand flies to her face in horror. “It’s him!” she whispers before she turns, stumbling back to the bikes. I hear her gagging and then the sound of vomit striking the ground.

“I can climb it,” comes another voice from behind me. Mósí.

“Will you?” I ask, not hiding my surprise that she’s offering. “I didn’t think you were the helping kind.”

“After your convincing lecture at the pawn shop? How could I not be? Who is this unfortunate soul?” she asks, her voice soft with wonder.

Clive’s voice cracks as he says, “It’s Caleb, my brother.” His shoulders heave, and for the first time since we got here, he lets out a sob. Struggles to hold in more, but they escape in strangled cries.

Mósí tilts her head, yellow eyes studying Clive, feline inscrutable.

I think of Clive as the guy who clapped Kai on the back, laughing after we killed the monsters in Rock Springs. Teasing me about Kai dancing with him instead of me. Tormenting me with a tube of mascara. But now he is in pain, and I know I should help him. But the only way I know to help him is to hurt whoever did this to his brother. And since he’s not here, I’m useless.

“Why did they kill him?” Ben asks quietly, coming up beside me. Tears run freely down her cheeks.

I start to answer that I don’t know why, when Mósí says, “But he’s not dead.”

I jerk my head around. “What did you say?”

Clive looks up, the hope in his face frightening.

Mósí blinks rapidly, her vertical pupils dilating, clearly startled at our response. She takes a moment to straighten her scarf and smooth her hands over her clothes before she says, “Can you not smell the blood moving through his veins? His heartbeat is sluggish, but it is there.”

“Get him down,” Clive says, pleading. “Please. Can you get him down?”

The Cat looks at him a long moment and nods once. We all move back a few feet to give her space. She removes her flowered scarf from her head and hands it to me absently. For once I don’t mind the implicit order. She slips her flat shoes off her feet and stretches her back, arching, and then her hands, fingers interlaced. Finally, she approaches the Wall. Bows her head, and when she raises it again, I can see the feline in her, almost like it’s interposed across her human features. Vibrissae, a button nose, and almost soft fur-like texture to her skin. And her fingers have sprouted curved claws. I expect her to scale the Wall like I’ve seen cats do to trees, but instead she crouches low, coiling like a spring, and launches herself skyward thirty feet. She lands just parallel to Caleb’s head, scrambling to some ledge we can’t see. Balancing on clawed toes, she leans in over his face. She opens her mouth and lowers her chin, panting. Like she’s breathing him in.

“What is she doing?” Ben asks.

“I have no idea,” I murmur.

“Please,” Clive begs urgently. “Can you hurry?”

Mósí looks down at him, unbothered by his pleas. “He smells . . . sweet,” she murmurs. With her small pink tongue, she leans in to lick his cheek.

“Mósí!” I shout, worried that the Cat is losing focus. “Get the boy down.”

Her shoulders stiffen. If she had a tail, it would be twitching. “I am only assessing his health. Your ignorance is irritating, to say the least.” But she does reach over and, with supernatural strength, rip the first stake from Caleb’s shoulder. She lets it drop, clattering to the ground, catching his body against her own and cradling him with one arm while the other holds the Wall. Caleb moans and shudders, his weight sagging.

“Caleb!” Clive screams, relieved. “We’re here, brother. I’m here. We’re getting you down. Just hold on!”

Shifting his weight so her hand is free, Mósí stretches across his body and grips the remaining stake. “I suspect he’ll fall when I release him, despite the lovely wings. Do be ready to catch him.”

“Wings?” I look closer, and she is right. Just like the archer at Lake Asááyi, Caleb has delicately veined wings—two sprouting from the joints of his shoulders like shortened angel wings and two shorter ones at the top of his rib cage. Both made of some kind of shimmering gossamer.

Mósí wrenches the other spike free, and Caleb unceremoniously drops. Clive catches his brother in his arms, taking his weight with a small grunt. He lowers him gently to the ground, murmuring insensible words of comfort.

Mósí turns, ready to jump down. And freezes, eyes sharpening on something in the distance. My adrenaline spikes. I turn toward the road, shotgun raised.

“Someone’s coming,” the Cat says as she drops soundlessly on bare feet. She slips on her flats and comes forward. “I can hear a motorbike.”

“How many?”

I assess our situation. Clive is no good right now, lost in grief and trying to care for his brother. Ben’s brought him her canteen, and he’s washing Caleb’s face and chest reverently. A quick glance reveals Caleb’s bleeding only from the places the spikes pierced his skin, and the blood loss has trickled to almost nothing now. I don’t see any other obvious wounds, if you don’t count the wings grafted to his back. I remember the archer at Lake Asááyi had them too, and they were functional. Which suggests to me that, as wild as it sounds, the wings weren’t meant to kill Caleb, but to make him fly. No severe bleeding, no wounds, so he’s most likely in shock. Dehydrated. Starved. I wonder how long he’s been up there.

Ben’s hands are shaking slightly, and she still looks unwell. She might be in shock too. I thought maybe she’d seen this kind of bad before, but it’s starting to seem like maybe Hastiin kept her from the ugly stuff. Which might have seemed kind back then but won’t be of service to her now.

So, it’s me and the Cat, and I’m not sure Mósí’s willing to fight. But maybe she doesn’t have to be.

“Only one,” she says, straightening, and I relax as well. One I can take no problem.

We wait as the bike comes over the hill and pulls into camp. Winds its way slowly through the tattered tents and past the guard station. Pulls up short not twenty feet away. The rider rolls gracefully off the bike and pulls off a black mirrored helmet, shaking out two long red braids.

“Caleb?” Rissa’s voice is shaky with disbelief. “Caleb!”

Caleb opens his eyes just in time to greet his sister. And screams.