The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 230

“Right, well, I’m not waitin’ around,” Fowlson says.

“Someone must stay and protect Lillian and the girls,” Miss McCleethy chides.

Mrs. Nightwing stands firm, adjusting her skirt. She glances at the girls huddled together. “I shall hold fast here. Mother Elena will make the mark on the doors when you leave, and then we shall not open them again until morning.”

“You’ve got a bit of protection should you need it,” I say.

Mrs. Nightwing follows my glance toward the stained-glass windows, where the warrior clutches the gorgon’s head.

“The windows?” Cecily screeches, overhearing.

“You’ll see,” I answer.

Cecily cowers on the floor, holding fast to Martha and Elizabeth. “We’ll see what? I don’t want to see anything more!” Tears stream down her face, mixing with the mucus that runs from her nose, unchecked. “This is all your fault, Gemma Doyle. If we survive, nothing will ever be the same again,” she chokes out.

“I know,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“I hate you,” she wails.

“I know that, too.”

Another shriek pierces the night, rattling the windows and sending the girls squawking like frightened geese. The battle between the gargoyles and the riders is fierce.

Mrs. Nightwing rises unsteadily to her feet. Her hymnal shakes in her hands. “Come, girls, take up your hymnals. We shall sing,” she commands.

“Oh, Mrs. Nightwing,” Elizabeth cries. “How can we sing?”

“They’ll eat us alive!” Martha joins in.

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Nightwing shouts above the din. “We are perfectly safe in here. We are English, and I expect you to behave as such. No more crying. Let us sing.”

Mrs. Nightwing’s deep voice booms out, the notes tremulous. More hideous screams echo in the woods, so she sings more loudly. Brigid joins in, and soon, the girls do as they are told, their terrified voices a temporary wedge against the horror outside.

Kartik’s expression is grim. “Are you ready?”

I nod, swallowing hard. Felicity, Ann, Fowlson, and Miss McCleethy fall in behind me. A band of six to face an army. I can’t think of it or my courage will surely fail me.

Kartik opens the door a crack and we slip as quietly as possible into the night. Mother Elena bids Kartik hold out his hand. She pricks his finger.

“Mark the door from the outside,” she advises. “I shall mark it from the inside. Do not fail.”

The chapel doors close behind us, and Kartik scrapes his finger over the door. I hope it will hold. The gray-white fog is thick; it bleaches the woods of color. We’ve not brought a lantern for fear the creatures will see our light, so we navigate by memory. The shrieks of the riders and the fierce howls of the gargoyles locked in battle float through the fog so that we cannot tell where they are—near or far, behind or ahead. For all we know, we are walking into the fray.

We clear the woods safely, but there is still the lawn to cross. My heart thumps fast and hard. Fear brings a clarity I’ve never felt before; every muscle is a spring pushed down, ready to release. Kartik holds up a finger and cocks his head, listening.

“This way,” he whispers.

Quickly, we follow him, trying not to lose each other in the dense fog. The howling screams grow closer. To my right, I see a flash of a stone wing, a glimpse of a skeletal arm. A gargoyle swoops over my head and into the fight, startling me as he descends. I turn my head only for an instant but it is enough. I have lost the others. Panic takes hold. Do I run left or right or straight ahead? Go, Gemma. Move quickly. I rush into the fog, pushing against it with frantic hands as if I can clear it away. I hear small choked noises—bitten-off sobs—and I realize they are my own, but I’m helpless to stop them.

A gargoyle is locked in fierce battle with one of the ghastly riders. The gargoyle takes the advantage, and the rider sinks to his knees. That gruesome skeletal face, with its red-black eyes, makes me gasp. The gargoyle turns to see me, and in that second, the Winterlands creature takes his chance. With one swift, cruel move, he slices through the gargoyle’s belly with his razor-sharp claws. The gargoyle staggers toward me, bloodying my cape.

“To the Winterlands,” he gasps. “Take down the Tree of All Souls. It is the only way.”

The great stone beast falls at my feet. The rider opens his mouth and screams, piercing the night with a call to arms.

I run blindly ahead. I am so drunk on fear I do not hear my own cries, my calls to the others to run. I am beyond reason.