A rival most vial, p.27
A Rival Most Vial, page 27
“Not following the steps, I see,” Ambrose mumbled.
“I recall someone not teaching me the steps,” Eli whispered into his ear, then spun away. Ambrose twisted his neck to watch him go, then reluctantly focused on his new partner—Dawn, her eyes sparkling mischievously.
“Have you talked to him yet?” she asked. Ambrose sighed.
“No.”
“You know,” she pressed as Ambrose went round her, “I hear festivals can be pretty great places for love confessions.”
“Dawn.”
“All the lanterns, the flowers, the dark alleyways…”
“Dawn.”
“I’m just saying!”
She twirled away and sent him to Sherry, who reached up and adjusted his flower crown.
“My dear,” she said gently. “How is everything going?”
“With what?” He frowned. She nodded over to Eli, who was laughing at something Banneker had said. Heat flared across Ambrose’s face. “Oh, not you, too!”
“If you have a problem, you should talk it through with him—”
The words came out as a knee-jerk response. “I’m fine, I don’t have a problem!”
Ambrose looped back and found his hands in Eli’s again.
“Purple looks good on you, Ames.” Eli plucked a tiny flower out of Ambrose’s hair, then let his hand trail down his temple. Ambrose’s heart stumbled, and he quickly spun back to Sherry. Her eyes glinted, and he slouched.
“I have a problem.”
“It’ll be all right—”
“Sherry, he’s about to leave.” He twirled her despondently. “What do I do?”
“Just what I said,” she replied. “Talk it through with him.”
After another circle, Sherry deposited him with Grim. Ambrose let out a breath. Grim surely wasn’t one for talking during dancing, particularly not about something so personal as love. “Hello, Grim.”
“You should tell him, you know,” Grim said gruffly. Ambrose fought the urge to pull his own hair out.
“I hate this—”
“You wait too long, you’re going to miss your chance,” they pressed. Ambrose groaned.
“I…” He reluctantly held out a hand as the orc moved around him. “What if I don’t know what to say?”
“You’re a smart man,” Grim said. “You’ll think of something.”
Ambrose glared as he linked with the other dancers. “Helpful, thanks.”
Banneker was last, dancing as if attuned to a slightly different beat.
“Dude, your aura is all over the place,” he said immediately, now wearing three flower crowns where there once was one. “What’s up?”
Ambrose bit his lip. “Banneker, you’ve never once second-guessed a word you’ve said.”
“Nah.”
“So, if you had to say something difficult, how would you do it?”
Banneker paused as he twirled, then shrugged. “I analyze my dreams first. Then I know what to say.”
Ambrose dragged a hand over his face. “Why did I ask?”
Banneker released him, and he landed back in Eli’s arms at the end of the song, far more exhausted than when he had started. Eli, on the other hand, was as bright-eyed as ever.
“You having fun?” he asked. Ambrose nodded miserably. Eli laughed and looped an arm around his shoulders. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”
Eli waved to his family, then to the rest of the group. As the merchants watched them walk away, a mixture of hope and expectation on their faces, Ambrose’s stomach flipped.
They gradually left behind the swaths of purple and reentered the normal earth tones of the chasm, muted and comforting in the evening shadows. But the closer they got to The Griffin’s Claw, the more Ambrose’s insides churned, love and nerves swirling in equal measure. Once they reached the shop, Eli released him with a frown. “Hey, you all right? You were pretty quiet on the walk back.”
“Just tired.” The words were instinctual—and far too quick to be believable. He pressed on anyway. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.” Eli hesitated when Ambrose opened the door. “You…you know you can talk to me about anything, right?”
Ambrose paused with his hand on the doorknob. “I know.”
He could tell Eli right now. He could say he loved him, right there on the doorstep, with no preamble or pretense. He loved him, and he was afraid he’d never see him again. It would be so easy.
In theory.
In practice, he pushed open the door, already ashamed of himself. “You should get back to your family.”
“Okay,” Eli said. Ambrose winced—he could hear the disappointment in Eli’s voice. “Have a good night.”
Ambrose nodded and slipped into the shadows of the store.
STEP 37:
DETONATE
Ambrose
The Valenz family all piled into a wagon the next morning, destined for the griffin takeoff site at the south end of the Scar.
“I left some food in the pantry,” June said as she fixed Eli’s collar. “And there’s money on the counter so you and Ambrose can go out for a nice dinner.”
“Ma…” Eli flushed. Ambrose smiled; seeing Eli embarrassed was a rare treat. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I did.” His mother kissed him on the forehead, then stepped into the wagon alongside her husband. “Lily?”
Lily stood in front of Ambrose, staring him down. Or, well, up, given her diminutive stature. But the intention was crystal clear.
Ambrose straightened, met her gaze, and waited for her to speak.
“You’ll look out for him?” she finally asked.
“Of course.”
“And Tom?”
“With my life.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And if you mess up, I’ll—”
“I’ll hand you Sherry’s hammer myself.”
She relaxed her stance and glanced back at his shop. “Hey, before I go, can I get one of those floating potions—?”
“All right, in you go.” Eli grabbed Lily and plunked her into the wagon, deftly dodging her attempts to kick him. “Hugs to everyone for me, yeah?” Lily stuck out her tongue. He returned the gesture, then clapped a hand on his father’s shoulder and nodded to the wagon driver. In moments, the Valenzes were off, waves of dust clouding their departure.
“Thanks again for spending time with them,” Eli said, his voice tight as the wagon creaked away. “Really meant a lot.”
Ambrose set a hand on his back. It meant a lot simply seeing Eli’s family around him. “I’m glad I got to meet them.”
Once the wagon turned the corner, Eli pulled himself together and looked back at his shop. “Guess I have to get back to brewing my own stuff, huh?”
Ambrose gave a hum; he had to do the same. “Small batches this time, please?”
Eli snorted. “Not when I’ve got days of brewing to fit into, uh…” He glanced at the sun. “Eight hours.”
Ambrose sighed. “Eli…”
The man grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.” He gave Ambrose a quick kiss and jogged into his shop. Ambrose opened his mouth, then shook his head and retreated as well.
By the time night fell, Ambrose wished he could invent a cloning potion just to kick himself in the shins.
The word should rattled uselessly in his brain as he paced in circles around the shop. He should have said something to Eli last night, or even that morning. Or days ago, or weeks ago…
He hung up his robes and ran a hand through his hair. He couldn’t change the past, but he had time now, and Eli was likely wrapping up his work for the evening. He could simply…go over there and say it.
Did he know what to say? No, of course not. But Grim was right. He would think of something. He rolled his shoulders back and turned for the door.
Then a thunderstorm struck Rosemond Street.
The light blinded him first, barreling through the windows in a molten burst of white. Ambrose threw up an arm, but could do nothing against the thunder at its heels. Its roar rattled the ground, his bones, every vial on the shelf.
When the window glass struck him, he was both blind and deaf to it.
The broken shards slit lines across his cheeks, over his arms and shoulders, into his chest. He screamed and twisted, but his feet were no longer on the floor, his body thrown backward by the wall of light and pain.
Then the floor slammed hard into his back. He lost his breath and lay there, eyes half-open, ears ringing. Dozens of blurry shards skidded past him across the wood, the last of the lightning captured in their edges.
Ambrose stared at the broken glass in a haze. His healing potions were steps away, but he couldn’t bring himself to move, much less stand. If he waited for the pain to subside, if he closed his eyes for a few moments—
The glass caught the reflection of orange flames, and smoke burned his nose.
“Fire!” someone yelled outside. Ambrose clenched his jaw and forced himself up.
It wasn’t a thunderstorm. Not even an errant lightning strike. It was a blast, and through the shattered grid of the bay window, Eli’s shop was a wall of flames.
Ambrose scrambled to his feet, his pain gone. His bloody hand slipped on the door handle; he kicked the door open instead and staggered out into the smoke-filled street. Down the road and along the walkways, others did the same.
“What the—?”
“Call for help!”
Ambrose shut them out and sprinted toward the one moving thing in front of him—Tom, her wheeled legs pinned under a piece of burning wood.
“Tom!” He shoved away the plank, embers spiraling as it struck the ground. “You all right?”
As soon as Tom pushed herself to her wheels, she whipped back toward Eli’s shop. Ambrose grabbed her with shaking hands.
“Tom, no.” He had to give her something to do, send her elsewhere. “Go get Dawn. Go!”
He let her go, and off she flew, weaving around onlookers in the direction of Dawn’s shop. As he staggered back to his feet and looked breathlessly into the flames, Sherry rushed into the road.
“Ambrose!” she yelled. “Ambrose, don’t you dare—”
He ran headlong into the shop.
It was easy to get inside—the door had been blown off its hinges, the counters and tables thrown to the edges of the store. Off to his right, the rose statue lay shattered on the ground, its pieces flashing a frantic red. And flames in every color clung all around him. To the cabinets, the floating shelves, the hanging plants. Without his robes, the heat seared him, and he rushed into the middle of the room.
“Eli?” he shouted. “Where are you?”
No response.
He stumbled toward the workroom, choking on smoke, tears streaking his face. Surely there was no point to all this. He’d be dragging out a charred—a charred—
He sank to his knees when he saw him.
Eli lay at the edge of the workroom, a shimmering net of white lines forming a protective dome around his body. Though blood pooled around his head, nothing else in the room could touch him. Smoke swirled harmlessly over the dome, and flames hissed away from it. Eli’s destabilized potion, still oozing from its broken, twisted cauldron, slithered away from the dome like a snake. And all the while, the white shield pulsed steadily, pulling its power from the amulet at Eli’s neck.
Ambrose pressed a hand to his heart and looked back at the door. Eli was safe for now. He could run out, get someone to—
Then the shield flickered. He leaned forward and squinted at the amulet. Several of its fine gold lines were cracked, leaking wispy vapors. As he watched, the shield flickered once, twice, then disappeared.
Eli was out of time.
“Come on, Eli, let’s go…” Heart bashing against his throat, Ambrose slid his arms under Eli and picked him up. Under the new weight, he immediately blundered into the charred doorway. The heat from the blackened wood bit angrily through his shirt—he cursed and staggered back into the middle of the store.
His path back was murky now, blurred by smoke and shimmering flames. As he heaved forward, the potions to his right began to rattle in the heat. He gasped and tried to spin away.
“No, no—”
The bottles exploded. Burning acid and glass knives leapt out, tearing holes in his shirt and skin. He bit back a scream and stumbled toward the door.
But he wasn’t fast enough. All around him, bottles shattered and potions destabilized in the heat. Portals opened and closed like maws behind the front counter. Tendrils of foam whipped around the broken tables, latching onto his ankles. His legs went numb, and he stumbled backward, past puddles and flames and spheres of snapping light. He could no longer see the door nor breathe in the hazy air. Gasping, he fell to the floor, clutching Eli’s body to his chest with violently shaking arms. Smoke tore at his eyes, and he screwed them shut.
“Help!” he shouted. His voice died at his lips. “Help!”
“Ames!” someone yelled. Bright light seared his eyelids, and he opened them to find nothing but pink. A wall of fierce, crackling pink light dragged the smoke from his throat and evaporated the puddles around him. Through it, he could barely make out Dawn’s silhouette in the doorway.
“This way!” she called. Ambrose dragged himself to his feet. She was only a few steps away, just a few steps. His body shook, his knees faltered—then he collapsed into the cool air at her feet, Eli’s weight pinning down his arms.
“Gods, Ames.” Dawn gestured with the staff, and the pink light disappeared. “What were you thinking—?”
As soon as the shield vanished, ice water pelted his shoulder, hissing and spitting against his burns. He screamed and doubled over against the pain.
“Get the flames over there, that’s it!” Sherry called. She and Grim were pointing staffs at the burning shop, dousing the flames with water and foam. Down the street, Banneker waved down a white-striped wagon with both arms.
“This way, they’re over here!” he shouted, then twisted to look at Ambrose. He went pale immediately. “They need help!”
Ambrose gritted his teeth and checked Eli’s pulse. It was there—weak, but there.
“Hey.” Dawn knelt next to Ambrose, her staff clattering to the ground. She tried to keep her eyes on him but couldn’t. “You stay still, I’ll—I’ll get a healer for you.”
Ambrose looked at his hand. That wasn’t Eli’s blood on his fingers.
“I need him to wake up first.” He touched Eli’s cheek with his knuckles. “Eli? Eli, please wake up.” Nothing. Ambrose held his breath and took hold of the man’s shoulders, leaving bloody prints on his shirt. “Please—”
Then Dawn moved away, and new figures and shadows crowded around him. Voices he didn’t recognize, hands he didn’t recognize, dragging him away from Eli and Eli away from him.
“No,” Ambrose tried to yell, but his attempt dissolved into wracking coughs. “No, don’t take him away—”
“Don’t worry, son, the healers have him.”
Ambrose’s heart stumbled as shapes and silhouettes dragged Eli up into the wagon. What if they couldn’t wake him? What if he didn’t come back?
What if he didn’t come back—
“Eli!” He fought against the hands, and they slipped and slid against the blood on his skin. In his struggle, he tried to get to his feet, only to crash back to his knees, his arms pinned behind him by the stranger’s grip. “Eli, don’t go—please, don’t leave me, I’ll do anything—I’ll dance with you hundreds more times, thousands, I promise, please just come back to me!”
“The boy’s in shock,” someone grunted behind him.
“We can’t heal him like this. Knock him out.”
“No—”
Ambrose kicked behind him, but he was too late. Someone held a cloth up to his mouth, as acrid as the smoke in the air, and the last thing he saw was his own blood blooming across the fabric.
STEP 38:
DAMAGE CONTROL
Ambrose
Ambrose woke several times—though when or where, he could hardly say at first.
The first time was nothing but pain and black spots in his vision. His shoulder screamed, and he couldn’t move his face or arms. A sudden, sweeping fear gripped him. He didn’t recognize the walls, nor the scents, nor even the bed underneath him.
In his panic, he must have made some kind of sound, for someone spoke off to his left.
“It’s all right. Keep sleeping, dear,” they said—Sherry said—and despite his fear, he obliged, sinking back into the pain.
The second time he woke, he could vaguely make out his bedroom ceiling. Sherry was a shape now, hunched by his bed, smiling down at him.
“How do you feel?” she asked. Ambrose winced. The pain had dulled into a low throb, but the bandages across his arms made him feel stiff, and the paste on his cheeks was uncomfortably warm. Sherry’s smile faltered.
“I think you should have some broth and rest a little more,” she murmured. “Just another day or so.”
“Another day?” he tried to repeat—but his throat burned, and his dry lips cracked. “How long—what about—”
“Don’t worry about him,” Sherry said, lifting a bowl to his mouth. “Drink this, then rest.”
He got a brief taste of chicken and onion, and the salt stung his lips. Sherry took the bowl away, then sprayed a mist over his head, floral and cool. He was asleep again in an instant.
The third time he woke, he was alone.
A bowl of cold broth sat on the nightstand. His parched throat screamed for it, but he remained hesitant in his motions, testing out his pain. His shoulder still ached but could move. He had lost most of the bandages on his arm, and someone had wiped the healing paste off his face. But as his fingers wrapped around the bowl, his half-healed cuts limited his hand motion. He glanced up at the window—similar wounds streaked across his face in his reflection.
He tried the broth first. Despite the salt still pricking his lips, his stomach felt like it had shriveled in the days he was asleep. After a few clumsy mouthfuls, he set down the bowl to inspect the various bottles and salves littering the bedside.
