“Why? Is there something we need to know?” Trenton asked, his eyes sharp.
Shea hesitated, unsure how to answer. Many of her people’s stories held that anything taken from the Badlands was tainted, that it could change a person, turning their minds and bodies against them, eventually leading to death if they were lucky, or something else if they weren’t. That something else was never truly specified.
It was one of the few folktales she actually put stock in. She’d seen it herself during her last trip. It wasn’t until Griffin and the others had experienced continued exposure to this place—drinking the water rather than what was in their canteens, eating the strange fruit they found—that they showed the first indications their minds were warping. They became moody and argumentative, unwilling to listen to reason. Not everyone, but enough of them had displayed similar effects to be a concern.
In the back of her mind all these years, was the distinct fear she shared in their fate—that perhaps the same mental instability they’d exhibited had affected her as well. That she might just not have recognized it in herself. She’d drunk the water too during the lost span of time while she’d wandered the Badlands, dazed and slightly mad from dehydration, dying from hunger and exposure to the elements. It was a thought she deliberately avoided.
“It’s possible,” Shea finally said. “There are tales that anything taken from this place can change you. It’s best to be careful.”
Trenton and Buck exchanged a glance, neither looked happy at the revelation.
“What’s next in this cursed place?” Trenton shook his head and walked off.
*
Shea wiggled on the small ledge she’d claimed, looking down into the narrow canyon. Her father had a similar vantage point along the ridge slightly above her. The rest of their team awaited their return from a safe distance.
They’d caught a piece of good luck that morning. Their break-neck pace had put them in front of Griffin, giving them a chance to pick the best place to lie in wait and do some scouting. After some discussion—and a lot of arguing on Trenton’s part—it was decided only Patrick and Shea would go. The fewer people they had out and about, the less likelihood of being caught.
It was the perfect opportunity to gauge the enemy.
She’d spent the past hour waiting for her quarry to pass by. So far, he had been missing in action.
She fought down impatience and self-doubt. It was possible they had miscalculated and Griffin had chosen a different route. This was the one she’d have taken. It had the best line of sight to both sides and was easier and safer than the steep climb on the opposite side of the ridge, especially since she thought she’d spotted a ravena nest over there earlier.
Still, Griffin had yet to show and she was starting to wonder if taking this route was a mistake they couldn’t afford timewise. If that was the case, they’d already lost several hours.
Just as she was about ready to give up, preparing to move from her carefully selected cover, a noise from below reached her.
Shea stilled, her senses tuning to the small sound. There it was again.
It was faint, but Shea detected the unmistakable sound of something heading in her direction. After a short while, came the soft rumble of a man’s voice, sounding irritated and condescending.
Griffin. Had to be. He was the only one she knew who could project those twin emotions so well.
Keeping as flat as possible, Shea peered over the ledge. The canyon was empty, but she thought she spotted movement at the far end.
Moments later, Griffin came into view along with two beasts and what looked as if it was a mythological.
She watched as they came closer, Griffin in the middle of the pack, the other three arranged around him as if they were protecting him.
It was an interesting sight, made more so as Griffin’s movement through the canyon displayed an otherworldly grace. If possible, he appeared even less human than he had the last time Shea had seen him.
The black veins had spread, giving his face a sense of wrongness, reinforced by the almost animal-like way he moved.
Whatever he’d done to himself, so he’d be able to survive an extended time in the Badlands, was getting worse. The Griffin she’d known was disappearing, giving way to this strange creature below her.
Unsettled by his differences, Shea turned her attention to the other obstacles keeping her from her goal, most notably the mythological. The two beasts would have been difficult enough to get past on their own, but the mythological added a new, unknown layer to account for.
As she watched, the grindle strayed too close to the red back, causing it to swipe at the smaller beast, blood spraying in a wide arc. It was only a warning, the kind of blow that said get closer at your own peril, but the grindle took it as a challenge and lunged forward. Its vicious snarl echoed off the rock of the canyon.
A brutal fight ensued, each doing their best to kill or maim the other.
Shea settled back to watch. Maybe she’d get lucky and the beasts would do her the favor of eliminating each other. It would make her job considerably easier.
Their battling took them too close to Griffin, nearly colliding with him as they continued their death match.
Griffin hopped out of the way and said something, his words indistinct but his tone unmistakable. He was angry.
