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Chapter 1: The Bridge
Part 2
Swinn went to the riverbank and skirted under the bridge. Frix followed Mossa and Dreff along the bridge itself, keeping to the narrow space between the edge and one of its tall, raised blockers. The purpose of the two blockers was clear: they prevented the transports and other movers from falling off the edge. It felt unwise to run along the main part of the bridge, for reasons that they had not discussed but all silently agreed upon. Whether or not the bridge could sense them—or defend itself against the rockpunch—would remain to be seen.
They reached the middle, where the red light reflected brightest in the water below. Dreff ran on, while Frix and Mossa slowed to a halt. The Tel soon became nothing but a bobbing shadow in the starlight.
“There’s a witchstone underneath,” said Mossa, her voice barely audible over the lap and splash of the lazy river.
“Why?” It was all Frix could think to say. His stomach did that rolling thing again. If it were true, then all that was between him and the supposed source of the bloodlight—all that crazy power—were the bones of a few trees.
“Maybe it keeps it up, keeps it strong? Do I look like a witch to you, dear?” she whispered.
“No. I… but you’ll have to get right by it?”
“Better. I’m strapping the ‘punch straight on it.”
“What if…” His teeth came down on his lip.
She surrounded him then, cool leather and warm skin. Her hair smelled sooty, earthy.
“I’ll be careful.” She kissed him, and he forgot professionalism for an infinite second as he grabbed the nape of her neck.
She pulled away and said, “You sit pretty up there and keep those ears open, tail-runner.” Then she hopped down over the edge, caught it with three fingers, and swooped under.
Frix stood there for a moment, drawing himself back into the reality of the night. The river gurgled. Somewhere a fish splashed. The air was flat and still. There were the softest taps and creaks as his shoot-lead picked herself along the underside of the planks. He thought he heard a light buzz too, one that crept along the edge of the senses. Had to be the stone.
He shivered and remembered that he had the easy job: the lookout. Meanwhile, the other three were arming rockpunch at one-fifth time. One of which was being strapped to a rot-worthy witchstone. That thought got him moving. He clambered up the blocker—it was flat on top, and he took a seat. Frix waited for the brothers to sound their calls, then for Mossa to confirm with her own signal. Then: jump and swim. Swim fast.
It should take about five minutes, he thought. Swinn was probably near done.
The stone’s faint vibration tickled at his brain. He tried to push away an image of Mossa frozen or turned into red dust at the touch of the thing. He sat facing the river, and considered swinging around so he wouldn’t have to look at the light.
“What are you doing up there?” someone said.
Frix almost fell off his perch. Instead, he turned with careful precision. There was a person on the bridge.
Scratch that: there was a witch floating on the bridge.
It was a stone’s lob away, hovering a half foot above the bridge floor, close to where Frix sat atop his blocker. A dark, indiscernible figure, save the dim, ruddy glow coming from inside its strange, flowing clothes. Male voice, pitched high. A boywitch.
He had come from the north side of the bridge, from the direction of the witch town. Frix pulled a slinger off his back. His chest was icy.
“And,” said the kid, “who are you? What’s that you got?”
“Just uh, getting some air,” Frix said. “You?”
“Out for a float. ‘City’s being annoying as usual.”
Frix swallowed past what felt like a rock. “Yeah,” he managed. In the near darkness, the witch must have mistaken him for another. Then he heard something else. Footfall. Moving fast, also from the north. A minute or so away.
“Oh no,” whispered Frix.
“Can I come up there?” asked the boywitch.
They were caught. Frix let loose a rapid, shrill series of calls.
“Nice, what is that, a winged hornrat imitation?” said the boy. “I’m coming up there.”
Two identical calls came from each end of the bridge. The Tels were alerted and armed.
“Oh wow, you really got ‘em going didn’t ya?” said the boy. He searched for purchase along the triangular support beams, overlooking several obvious handholds.
“Turner!” came a shout. A girl’s voice. Light, musical. “Turner, where in all of Royth are you off to now? You’re only so small and it’s only so big!”
“Oh, great. Keep quiet, yeah?” The boy made to hide in one of the triangle shapes. Frix slipped a stone into his slinger, waiting for Mossa’s sirenfly wail. If he leaned far enough forward, he could bury the stone in the boywitch’s skull, easy.
The clomping of the incoming girlwitch grew stronger, and he saw her come around a corner in the road. A bright, bobbing pink orb followed. Her shadow pointed at them like a scratchy finger. Frix pulled back on the slinger’s rubber, aiming down the sight at the girl. What was taking Mossa so long?
“The bridgestone won’t hide you, silly Turner. I’ve made a deal with it. Come out!” said the girl.
She trotted onto the bridge and stopped about a third of the way in, hands planted on her hips. From the floating light, he could tell she was wearing some kind of one-piece dress that ended in a little hood. One belt of thin rope. The clothing stopped right above her knees. Huge eyes, not glowing. Strange… but not creepy.
She looked at the nails on her left hand. “Won’t cooperate, hm? If this was a test, I’d say you’ve passed. But I’m tired and it is time to downcycle. Prepare!”
Frix could hear the boy trying to sneak over to the other side of the blocker, to the thin strip where they’d run along earlier. Then the pink orb came forward and swung through one of the triangles, stopping right in front of the boy. Frix squinted in its glare.
“Cau—whoah.” She looked right at Frix. And for the first time in his life, he felt witchcraft itself pour all over him like a scratchy, sick cloud.
“Falseparker!” The girlwitch shrieked.
He let the rock fly.
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