Golden (17 page)

I
DON'T WANT THIS TO END.
T
HIS
cannot be the end of us,
she thought, lying in his arms, his forearm circling around so that it pressed against her chest, her back to his front, his entire body covering hers as they curled like spoons. The dark gray of night had become the cool gray of morning.

“You're awake,” he said, letting his hand wander over her skin, slowly stroking her side, his touch gentle, sending sparks all over.

She turned around to smile at him, feeling the shift in his body. “Again?” she teased. They had hardly slept the night, spending the hours exploring each other, until they knew every secret sound, every source of pleasure. She was sore and fulfilled, and ached from the loss that she would soon bear.

He was going to die today because of her.

“Don't think about it,” he said, noticing the change in her, the tension in her shoulders. “Don't think.”

Wes was right. In a few hours they would go to the Gray Tower. If she was successful, she would cast the spell, which meant saying good-bye to him forever.

But he was here now.

She kissed his hand and he rolled her over so that she was on top of him, looking down. As she bent over him, her long dark hair fell on his face, on his chest.

He gazed at her through half-lidded eyes, his brown hair messy and his cheek dotted with stubble. “Nat,” he said, sighing, as she continued to torment him, letting her hair tickle his cheek, driving him to madness, until he was fully awake now, and panting. “My Nat.”

“Good morning,” she whispered, and when she pressed her body down upon his, she was thrilled to find he was as ready and eager as she was.

He grunted, lifted her hips with his strong hands, and when she crashed down, he was there. But he took his time, rocking her gently, his eyes locked on hers, relishing in the moment, until they were breathless.

She dressed slowly, wanting to lengthen the time they had alone together as much as she could. He did the same and together they silently put on each item of clothing they had quickly discarded the night before. One sock after the other. Buttoning shirts. Pulling on pants. Buckling belts. Her sword. His rifle.

She pulled his jacket lapels together, giving it a crisp once-over, brushed the lint off his shoulders.

He smoothed her hair, tucking a stray strand behind her ear.

Outside the door, Brendon was already waiting. The smallman would lead them through the ductwork and hidden tunnels that led to the top of the tower without Avo and his soldiers noticing.

Shakes and Liannan would distract Avo, luring him away from the tower to fight them. If they got in trouble, she would send Mainas to help them, directing its flame.

“You'll do great,” said Wes. “Let's do this.”

Nat squared her shoulders, touched the charm around her neck for luck, and kissed him for the last time.

F
OR
A
MOMENT
W
ES
T
HOUGHT
THEY
would make it, that the plan wouldn't fail and that they would be lucky for once. But once things went wrong, everything went wrong, and there was no way to make it right, there was only moving forward and through, no stopping the inevitable.

Brendon had led them, deftly unlocking doors with the same skill he'd shown when they lived in New Vegas, half a lifetime ago. He navigated the dark corridors and stairs, finding passages where Wes saw only darkness. Nat held Wes's hand, hurrying alongside him.

The tower had long ago been hollowed out and rebuilt from within. In places, he saw what must have once been offices: empty rooms, moldy desks, and piles of shredded paper. In the past century a new structure was built within the old. Blocks of stone concealed office walls. Wood doors bound in iron replaced the old metal ones. And granite blocks formed passages that narrowed to a width so slender Wes had to suck air through his teeth to pass. More than once he and Nat were forced to crawl on their knees. Everywhere, they found barriers, doors bound in iron and secured with heavy locks.

Every time, Brendon figured out how to open it.

Coming around a corner, Wes found Brendon, balancing on the tips of his toes as he fiddled with a lock.

Wes felt a bead of sweat run down his forehead. He exchanged an anxious look with Nat.

“He's got this one. You've got it, right, Donnie?”

Brendon grunted, and with a final push, the lock clicked into place and the door swung open. More corridors beyond, more passages and doors.

The Gray Tower was a vertical maze; Wes wondered whether they would ever find the top.

He stretched out both hands, touching each wall as he made his way forward. “Stay beside me,” he said, bumping against Nat, feeling her warmth, enjoying the flash of memory from that morning.

But she slipped ahead of him, focused on her goal. He tried to follow the sound of her footsteps. “Wait up,” he said, hoping they might slow down a bit.

Soon, he could no longer hear their footfalls.

“I'm just ahead,” replied Brendon.

Nat said, “Watch the turn—”

What turn?
Wes thought, trying to catch up. Then he slammed into a wall.
Oh, that turn.

He rubbed his head. Her warning came too early.

In the darkness, he felt Nat's fingers wrap around his. She led him forward. “Sorry, I didn't realize you were so far behind,” she whispered.

He knew what she was doing. Letting go. Saying good-bye.

Not yet.

Not yet.

They were still alive after all.

Brendon was up ahead, his shoes clanging against what must be a metal stairway. Holes in the wall admitted dim shafts of light, allowing Wes to catch sight of the smallman.

“This must be an old fire shaft,” Brendon said, when they'd caught up to him. The metal stairs were rotted and the concrete crumbled. At best, half the steps were usable.

“You may want to be careful . . . ,” he said, nodding toward the steps.

“Got that,” said Wes, his foot resting anxiously on the rusting metal. Nat was already climbing. The smallman leapt ahead, the stairway creaking each time his foot met the tread. Wes held on to the rail, trying to spread out his weight. He thought he heard a noise behind him, but he couldn't be certain. Maybe it was nothing. He hoped it was nothing.

He peered through one of the holes in the wall and tried to gauge their elevation. “I figure we're past halfway up, maybe two-thirds,” he said.

“Maybe higher,” said Nat, looking over his shoulder.

“I guessed as much,” Brendon said, his tools pressed into a lock at the top of the next flight.

“Maybe we should start locking these doors behind us—thought I heard footsteps . . . something.”

Brendon paused, cocking his ear to the sky, listening.

“This whole tower is moaning.”

“Like it's collapsing.”

Wes looked around at the patchwork of construction. “From the sound of it, soon. Come on, we should hurry.” He motioned to the next passage.

Another corridor led to a tall stairway. The wind whistled through cracks in the walls, and Wes knew they were higher now, closer to the top. The quality of the construction improved considerably on the upper floors. The walls were more smoothly carved, most likely kept intact by the magic of the Gray Tower.

“I think we're almost there,” Wes guessed.

Brendon was already working on the next lock.

The sound of hard rubber hitting concrete echoed through the shaft. Wes spun, looked around, but didn't see anything. Brendon was still focused on the lock. Wes backtracked. Something was wrong. That noise. They weren't alone.

Footsteps. Coming closer.
Tap. Tap. Tap.

They were being followed.

Ice.

The lock clicked open, the door at the top of the stairs swung wide. The passage beyond was different from the rest.

They had made it to the top.

Except they weren't alone.

“I'll hold them,” said Brendon, reaching for his gun. “You and Nat go.”

There was no time to argue, and Wes hurried back to Nat, pulling her up toward the stairs, just as the gunfire erupted. Shots ricocheted through the shaft. Sparks filled the air. A slab of concrete broke loose, striking the stairs below it, carrying down two or three treads and a piece of the rail.

When he reached the final door, Wes's fingers intertwined with hers and he drew her tightly against him. More shots. A bullet grazed his shoulder, tearing the fabric of his shirt but missing the flesh. It struck the wall with a mighty crack. His ears rang.

Nat removed the gray key she wore around her neck. It trembled in her fingers. She inserted it in the final lock, but it slipped from her grip. Wes caught the key and helped her press it back into the lock.

More shots, growing louder.

The key clicked into place. The lock spun.

There was a slight sucking of air as the door opened by narrow degrees.

Past the threshold, the mist was thick as cotton, but hard as rock. Wes tried to enter, tried to force his way through the haze, but could not. The magic held. There was no way inside.

This was what his sister had failed to do, had failed to achieve.

The battle drew closer. A strangled cry echoed behind him, and his stomach dropped. He knew what that was. Wes looked over his shoulder, just in time to see Brendon take a bullet and fall to the ground. Blood poured from the wound, drenching the steps, puddling around the smallman's slender form. Nat screamed, and Wes choked down a grunt, his gut groaning with anger, his body charged with anxiety.

Wes watched the light fade from Brendon's eyes, saw them go gray and narrow.
Donnie,
he thought.
Brave Donnie is with Roark now.
A second bullet hit his friend's dead body, making it twitch as if it were still alive. The sound of the bullet hitting the body made him shudder. Wes felt as if he had been the one who was shot, that he, too, would soon join the ranks of the dead.

The clank of boots on steel echoed from the stairs. A figure stopped alongside Brendon's body. His face was in shadow, until he looked up.

Avo Hubik.

He waved from the platform below with a demonic smile.

Wes turned to run down the steps, to protect Brendon's body, to take his revenge. Even if it meant losing his life, he'd risk it for the chance to strike back.

“No,” Nat said. She must've known what was in his thoughts. “Wes, it's—”

“Too late. I don't care,” he said and once more moved toward Avo. That heavy feeling in his stomach was growing, weighing him down. Sorrow hung above him like a great cloud, threatening to obscure everything around him. He needed to do something, now.

“Yes, you do care,” she said. Nat put herself between Wes and the stairs. “You know this isn't the way, this isn't how we win.”

He listened, and somehow he knew she was right. There was another way, another path. Avo would have his time, but this was not it. He'd come back for the drau. For now, he had to get Nat inside the tower.

Without saying anything, Wes relented; he turned and faced the open doorway and the mist. This was his task. He was meant to do this so Nat could cast the spell.

Wes pressed his hands against the mist. It was like brick, it was immovable.

“Can you hold back Avo?” he asked Nat, his words heavy with grief.

“I'll do my best,” Nat said. Her voice was quiet, and she faced Avo boldly.

A moment later, a great crunching sound shot through the stairway, the sound of steel ripping and concrete shattering. It made his ears ring and he nearly lost balance when the building trembled. He glanced back at Nat and saw her silhouette bathed in flame. She must have poured all of her grief into a single attack, a white-hot rush of flame that had torn through the side of the building, rending steel and stone. She'd bought Wes the time he needed.

Turning to face the open door, he stabbed his fingers into the mist and pushed against it. He forced both arms into the gray cloud and entered. Immediately, the toxic haze assaulted his senses. The vapor reeked of copper and aluminum, a sickly tang that made his eyes water and his throat burn. The mist was more than a barrier—it was poison. Linger too long and it would consume him, burning him from within as he inhaled it. He took one step, then another. Soon the gray haze was all around him.

Hurry,
he thought.
Hurry, before something happens to Nat, hurry before you're too weak to fight the magic.
Eliza had once come to this place. She had stood at this door and tried to dispel the magic within. She'd come here and failed. The significance was not lost on him. Eliza had always been the one with the gifts, the kid with all the power. If she had failed, how could he succeed?

Shut up,
he told himself.
Shut up and focus.
There was no time to worry.

While he'd deliberated, the sickly haze had curled around his fingers and arms, drifting into his mouth and nose. He felt something warm at his back. Nat.

“Avo?” he asked.

“I've bought us some time,” she said, her back pressing against his. He felt her shudder when the mist enveloped her.

“What's happening?” she asked.

“I don't know,” he said. “Just hold on. I'm dealing with it.”

He hoped he could deal with it. Wes again focused on the mist. Eliza must have fled; she must have run down the steps to avoid the poison, to keep it from saturating her every pore. Wes would not run—it was too late for that. He pressed deeper into the gray haze, pulling Nat alongside him.

You are nothing.
He inhaled.

An illusion.

A trick of the light.

A test.

You will bend to me.

And open to my will.

The mist burned in his lungs. He felt it in his eyes.

Would it blind him?

“Wes!” Nat called through the gray. Her back pressed a little harder against his, the dull beating of her heart thudding against his skin. For a moment he worried the beat was slowing.

Bend. Begone.

I am the master here.

He breathed in the mist and understood that it was only an illusion. A trick. Like the ones Eliza had made as a child.

Wes had always known how to dispel illusions.

He yelled curses as he threw his strength against the mist.

They quarreled. His magic against the tower's.

The contest was a rout.

The haze shattered into pieces.

In one great exhalation it flew from the chamber, vanishing like a breath of steam.

It was done, the barrier shattered. They were in.

Wes pushed Nat inside the room.

“Wait!” she cried.

He shook his head. This was it. This was good-bye. This was the last time they would see each other. He knew it in his heart.

“Wes!”

“Good-bye, Nat,” he said, and slammed the door behind her. When he turned around, he was ready to face his enemy and meet his death.