Engines and werewolves

Chapter 61

Ready?” I ask her.

“Probably not,” she says.

“If you can’t hold it, just fall,” I tell her. “You can try again.”

“And again, and again. Until we starve to death.” Marvel grins and lifts the pole. “Just don’t drop me.”

The pole is long enough that when she raises her arms I can grab the end. I haul it upward, hand over hand, and Marvel uses it to pull herself to a standing position, her good leg underneath her.

Step two: get Marvel up to the bottom stair.

Step two is going to hurt.

Marvel grips the pole, squares her shoulders, and then reaches upward and starts to climb. As soon as she puts her weight on it, I know this was a bad idea. I struggle to maintain my grip, the edge of the stair digging into my arms, and try hard not to scream.

Marvel climbs, hand over hand. One of her legs kicks free, the other secured by the splint. It’s only a couple of feet between us, but it feels like the gulf between worlds. A few seconds stretch into an eternity of pain.

Her fingers brush the back of my hand. I don’t dare let go of the pole, not yet.

“Grab my wrist.” The breath required for speech is almost too much. Marvel nods, pulls herself up one more hand’s width, and her fingers close around my wrist.

I let go of the pole, which falls to the sand below, and grab her hands. Now she’s dangling from my grip, with nothing to brace her legs against, and my arms are already screaming in agony. All I’ve got to do is unwedge my feet, sit up, and lift her up over the edge. No problem.

When I finally pull her up, I collapse backward, and she falls on top of me, dead weight. We lie there for what seems like hours, damp with sweat, gasping for breath. My arms are trembling, with all the strength of wet noodles.

Marvel’s head is on my shoulder. I can feel her body pressed against me, the swell of her breasts, the triple-time slam of her heart. Beads of sweat roll from her hairline down the dark skin of her cheek.

“You’re pretty strong,” I murmur. “For a princess.”

“Told you … I wasn’t … useless.” She rolls off of me, flopping on the step with her arms spread. “I also bake a mean quiche.”

“What in the Rot is a quiche?”

“You Imperials are barbarians.” She sucks in a breath. “Have I said thank you yet? For, you know, not leaving me to die when you probably should have.”

“You haven’t.” I sit up. “And don’t. We’re not finished yet.”

* * *

To climb the stairs, I lift Marvel onto my back, her arms around my neck, splinted leg sticking out awkwardly in front of me. Fortunately, the steps aren’t very steep, winding around and around the pillar in a lazy spiral. The gray thread points straight up, as though it were a fishing line descending to snare me through the sternum.

We climb, and climb, and eventually we reach one of the circular platforms, with bridges extending out into the darkness in several directions. The gray thread points to one, taut and certain, but I set Marvel down and collapse against the pillar.

“Rest,” she says, looking at me worriedly.

I take a long drink from the canteen, then heft it thoughtfully.

“I know,” Marvel says. “We’re going to have to make it last.”

I offer it to her, and she takes a single sparing swallow. I’m too tired to argue. I lean against the pillar, head resting on Marvel’s shoulder. The strange voices are there, almost comfortingly familiar in their unintelligible babble.

When I wake up, I’ve slumped over farther, so my head is in Marvel’s lap. She’s asleep, too, mouth wide open and drooling a little. Not very princess-like at all. I sit up, my abdominal muscles aching, a dull pounding in my skull. The gray thread is still there, still pointing in the same direction. I poke Marvel.

“We need to go.” I still feel exhausted, but I’m not sure I’m going to get any stronger sitting here. Not once we run out of water.

“Mmm.” Marvel blinks and sits up. “You’re sure you’re ready for this?” She yawns. “You don’t want to sleep for another, you know, six days?”

I find myself grinning. “I don’t want to hear any complaining. You can sleep on the way.”

“I offer moral support,” Marvel says. “Moral support can be surprisingly tiring.”

In truth, she doesn’t look great. There are bags under her eyes, and the flesh around her broken bone is distinctly puffy. She wraps her arms around my neck, chin on my shoulder, breathing hard.

In fairly short order my thighs are a mass of pain, my shoulders ache abominably, and each step drives knives into my lower back. We stop when I can’t take it anymore, resting against a railing and chewing the strips of crab. I take another careful swallow from the canteen, and pass it to Marvel.

I can’t see more than the next few steps. The Center is an enormous, three-dimensional maze, hanging in open space, but I can make out none of it. All I have to go on is the gray thread, unreeling steadily in front of me. I can feel Marvel’s curiosity when we come to an intersection, but she never asks how I know which way to go.

She’s gotten very quiet, in fact. When we stop, I deposit her against the rusted railing and kneel in front of her. Sweat beads on her forehead, and her hair is soaked. I press my hand to her skin, and it’s hot to the touch. I ruck up her skirt to get a look at the wound, and the flesh of her thigh is dark and swollen.