City of Dust

Chapter Twenty-Six

We camp for the rest of the night in an old cockatrice cave in the hills. It's so old that the smell has aged out of the den—and for that, I'm grateful. While I watch over Kayleigh, the Striker goes about camouflaging the entrance to the den. There wasn't that much he had to do with it, but a few extra branches and rocks didn't hurt. Then he seals the entrance with his own type of ward—one that glows demon yellow, before fading into the ether.

"So, where exactly in Alaska are we headed?" Glaris asks, settling down on a thin blanket. He's given up his bedroll to the kid and lent me an extra sheet to ward off the chill of the cave floor. Although I've slept on nearly every surface, I've always done so with padding between me and the ground. Privately, I'm thankful because I didn't relish the prospect of lying on bare stone.

"Deer Mountain," I tell him, spreading out the blanket and sitting cross-legged on it. Behind us, the stallion and pony stand quietly together, dozing, while Ego is curled around Kayleigh. "Have you been there before?"

"No. I spent most of my time in the Midwest before coming out here two years ago." He pauses then asks, "Have you been there?"

"No." I didn't even know such a place existed until I deciphered Mom's coordinates. The only thing is that my initial plan to get there involved, well, planning. Routes, rest-stops, how much food and other provisions I'd need to pack, etc. Now I'm headed up there blind.

Glaris studies me as if he expects me to say more. You'd think he'd know better by now.

"You know, if we're going to be traveling together, I need you to work on elaborating," he says.

I glare at him. "I've been honest," I tell him. "What more do you want from me?"

The Striker folds his arms over his bent knees. "Well, you can give me more than one-word answers for starters."

As if. I roll my eyes and snort. "Yeah, no." Look, two words!

Glaris groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm not asking for us to be friends by the end of this trip, but you've got to help me out here."

I make a sound of irritation deep in my throat and grumble, "Fine. What do you want to know?"

He studies me for a moment, and then asks, "What's at Deer Mountain?"

I shrug. "I don't know what's in it, exactly, but I know that it holds a top-secret research facility."

Glaris is quiet a moment. He stares at the tops of his dusty boots and fiddles with the cuff of his black pants. "What do you think your parents are doing there?"

"No clue. I have no idea what their real jobs were." I have a hard time picturing either Mom or Dad chanting over runes on the floor or sacrificing goats in order to summon demons. My father was the type to rescue cats from trees or put baby birds back in their nests. My mom used to bake cookies every year for the neighborhood cookie swap.

You could call them nice, wholesome—if those words existed anymore.

"Say that we get to Deer Mountain—what then? Do you even have a layout of the facility? Do you know where they're being held?"

And there it is—the giant, gaping hole in my plan. "No," I reply through grit teeth.

"Well, we had better come up with a plan—or two—on the way there, don't you think?"

"Do you have experience breaching demonic strongholds?"

Glaris leans forward and arches an eyebrow. "I got into Dust, didn't I?"

Shit. He did.

I need to stop talking. The Striker is making me feel more and more inferior by the moment and I don't like it one bit. I've always prided myself on my independence and practicality, but Glaris has made it clear that I don't know a goddamn thing.