Strange Attractors - Kim Falconer [48]
The horizon was blue, turning mauve near the mountain peaks behind him. What range was it? The north side of the Prietas? Oldosia? Surely not with this sticky climate. It was too moist here, too tropical—like Rahana Iti only there were no mountains there. He studied the trees next to the portal, two tall cypresses warped by the wind, a stand of ironbarks and beyond them groves of bananas and papaya. Convinced he would recognise this entrance from any direction, he headed towards the valley.
He knew the building would be abandoned. There was no path leading to it and the grass grew thick right up the walls. Grayson pulled the corrugated door open, scraping dirt back with it. Inside was a vast open space with a set of double doors at the far end. There were several high windows; the glass was broken, but little breeze came through. The rafters were lined with bats, an entire colony hanging like bits of charred meat from a grill. The stench made him screw up his face. ‘Sorry to disturb,’ he said, though the occupants didn’t make a sound to complain or reply.
He checked the other side of the building, finding a tyre pump and an empty tool box but nothing else. A sign hung at a slant, the large painted letters weathered and chipped. He walked around to stand square in front of it, and read the words: ‘Flight Centre.’ He swatted his neck, flattening a tiny mosquito against his skin, his fingertips coming back with a drop of blood. ‘Definitely not Gaela.’
A road led out of the valley, overgrown in a tangle of vegetation. He followed it, trusting the Entity had sent him exactly where he needed to go. It was a risk, he knew. The Entity may or may not have his best intentions in mind. He had been cautioned not to travel the corridors alone under any circumstances even with his coded DNA. They hadn’t solved the puzzle of the shifting destinations. He was meant to stay in Dumarka until Kreshkali, or Nell, or Rosette for that matter, returned.
He’d become restless. Travelling the corridors was better than sitting out the winter in Dumarka. His intuition told him Rosette needed help and he listened to that voice. He took action. ‘Lead on, old road,’ he said, shooing the flies. ‘Show me what I’ve come here to see.’
Behind him a gust of wind blew the sign and it rocked on its old hinges. He turned around and caught a glimpse of eyes watching from deep in the foliage. They were following his progress down the track. He prickled, straining to catch them again, but they were gone. Did I imagine it? They didn’t look human.
Rosette charged up the stairs on the temple cats’ heels. Stealth was no longer required or even wise. They’d been found out and speed would be the only chance of escape. They were near the top of the tower. Bells were clanging below and the heat of the fire warmed the stones, smoke choking the air. An’ Lawrence had his sword drawn and they were both cutting down the sentries, blazing the trail to the highest room. When they reached it, Rosette blasted the door with a single thought. There was no time for hesitation or intricate conjuring. They still had to get out and though she could morph and fly away, the others could not. The only way to safety was back down those stairs, littered with corpses and slick with blood.
‘A little warning would have been nice,’ An’ Lawrence said, brushing splinters off his cloak.
‘No time.’ She whisked into the room and scanned it top to bottom, sword in the guard position. What she saw stopped her in her tracks. ‘Which one’s Makee?’ she asked, staring at the iron cages.
An’ Lawrence came to a halt next to his daughter and rubbed his neck. The captive ravens were identical.
‘Drayco?’
Rosette’s familiar stepped forward, extending his nose towards the nearest cage. They smell the same, Maudi. Curious.
‘What does Scylla say?’ Rosette asked, turning to An’ Lawrence.