Two Satyrs. They were surprisingly adroit, on the steep, ice-and-snow laden roof. But then again, they were goat men. They wore only sweaters and gloves, despite the cold, no jackets, one with a scarf, the other with a hat. All despite the fact that the weather really demanded a hat, scarf, gloves, and coat.
One prowled forward, crouching at the apex of the roof.
“You need more allies like this,” Green Eyes murmured, looking down at him.
“Hm?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“She said-” Evan started. Green Eyes swatted at him, and he managed a brief flight before landing on my shoulder again.
“I see the Ritchie brothers,” she said, pointing.
The Duchamps were gathering at the house where snow had fallen, blocking the front of the house. Some were moving around to the back. Others were facing Sandra, where she was talking to a group of ten individuals that was about eighty-percent male.
The husbands. Maybe one or two of the people in the group might have been female family members or allies of husbands.
The Ritchie Brothers were there. At this distance, given the circumstances, I couldn’t quite judge color, as the gloom turned everything into shades of gray. But they were standing side by side, and I thought I saw the book.
“Red-blond beards?” I asked.
“Yes,” Green Eyes and the Satyr to our right said, at the same time.
She leaned forward, hugging me more, chin over one of my shoulders, my head effectively blocking her view of the Satyr, but I did catch a glimpse of her face, a suppressed smile.
“Your eyes suck, Blake,” Evan said “You need animal eyes. Or monster eyes.”
“Diagrams on the ground,” Green Eyes said, pointing. “There, there, and there. Like the one before, kind of.”
“Thank you,” I said. I could almost make them out. Spaced out at even intervals.
That made the approach harder.
“Maybe if you plucked out your eyes and let them regrow?” Evan asked. As if the question wasn’t horrifying enough, he managed to ask it in a way that sounded innocent. As if this was the most normal thing in the world.
“I think tampering with my perceptions is a bad idea,” I said. “And I kind of want to keep whatever I’ve got left, fleshwise.”
“You don’t got much,” he said.
“Hey, yeah,” Green Eyes said. “How much do you have, even?”
I declined to comment.
Just by being here, not even talking, the Satyrs were bad influences.
Still, it was manpower.
And, I thought, it was symbolism.
A more experienced practitioner like Jeremy wouldn’t have missed that.
I crossed the roof, and hopped down. The landing was harder than I might have liked, with the added weight of Green Eyes on my back, but I still landed on two feet, and managed to avoid falling.
The Satyrs landed almost gracefully.
We hadn’t been noticed.
What did it mean for practitioners like the Enchantresses, so used to being aware, to tracking connections and more, to have to deal with an enemy they couldn’t track?
If I was targeting them, I imagined, it might have been entirely different.
I was aware of the Ritchie brothers. Standing off to one side, talking with another bearded guy. The diagram-drawer.
Mason the Benevolent was talking to Sandra.
I saw her check her watch. Her stoat perched on her shoulder, leaning forward to look as well.
Tense, ready to act.
We’d spent a couple minutes talking. In less than a minute, the troll would be loosed again.
“Attack?” Green Eyes whispered.
I could hear the toll of the bell. Faint, but there.
“No,” I said. “Attacking is suicide.”
Especially with Mason the Benevolent there.
I glanced at the Satyrs.
Both were staring at me. Glaring.
Because I’d killed the Maenad? Or because we’d been enemies only minutes ago?
I pointed.
They nodded, small gestures.
I led them around.
Avoiding the diagrams. Avoiding the route the troll was most likely to take.
Off to one side.
“Diagrams?” I asked.
Green Eyes craned her neck, twisting her body, scanning.
“There.”
Damn it.
“For trapping the living curse,” one Satyr said. His hooves were making a steady chipping sound against the ice and snow, as he ran alongside me. He was close enough to a mortal in how he operated that he did get tired, it seemed, as he was breathing harder, but I was guessing he had more stamina.
“Would they work against me?” I asked.
Shrug.
Right.
“Diagrams?” I asked again, after passing a house.
“No,” Green Eyes replied.
I pointed, then led the way.
Between two houses. The Satyrs, like me, were fairly quick, and adroit enough to land atop one section of fence, where the back yard was walled off.
I pointed again.
Taking the long way around. Half a block to the right, forward, and now half a block to the left.
“Thing,” Green Eyes hissed.
I saw it a half-second later, as I came to a halt.
A gargoyle.
More animal than person, it had a jutting jaw and hair that was carved out of stone. Its eyes glowed. It had horns, claws, and wings, with spikes down its spine.
It was perched on the edge of the roof, above the back door where Duchamps were filing into the house. Its head swept from one side to another, moving like a security camera might. Except this security camera was attached to something the size of a small car.
The men had been airing grievances with Sandra, or asking for more information.
With luck, they were reacting to the loss of the High Priest. The Drunk had been, going by what I’d seen earlier, a representative of their side, in the Duchamp contingent. Powerful, somehow a leadership figure, and someone with Sandra’s ear.
I drew closer, using mounds of snow that had accumulated over a tarp-covered air conditioner and barbecue as cover.
“It smells like bad meat,” Green Eyes said.
The thing’s ear twitched. Its head turned, quicker eliciting a grinding noise, like the roll of a tire over gravel, yet audible from two hundred feet or so away.
I let myself drop to my knees, closer to the ground, harder to see behind the lump of snow.
When I looked again, the thing’s head was roving, scanning the surroundings. A share of its attention was pointed our way. Diagrams to cover from one angle, gargoyle from another. If I’d circled the other way around, would I be running into a another form of defense?
“It-” Green Eyes tried, testing, her voice even quieter. When it didn’t react, she whispered, “Smells like the little things back at the house.”
Homunculus?
I looked again. This time, I saw the first of the men heading around to the back door.
Any second now, the brothers or Mason the Benevolent would disappear through the doorway.
“Evan,” I said. “With me.”
“Yeah.”
“Satyrs, distract?”
I’d looked at them as I asked the question, and I saw the glances they exchanged, the dark looks on their faces.
“Nevermind,” I said. “Just stay quiet.”
There was no time to waste, no room for planning or biding time.
I peeked, checked it was looking, then moved the second its head turned away, a full run. In the doing, I underestimated how deep the snow was in the one yard, and my progress slowed.
I wasn’t going to make it to the shed that was supposed to be my next bit of cover before the thing looked my way again.