Zelgadis paced back and forth like a caged animal. Amelia was trapped in the darkness with Marco. She'd scampered down the hole without warning and he hadn't been able to catch her before she'd gotten out of reach. Damn her impulsiveness! She could've been hurt.
There was no telling how far the tunnel ran and they still had no idea of what was down there. His senses were more highly tuned than most and he could smell the water even from up here. There was something nasty about it, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Jillas had sensed it too; he wore an offended look on his face and his tail swished back and forth angrily.
Then there were the weird emotions he was getting from Amelia-concern when they'd discovered that Marco was down there, fear when she'd fallen, a bit of embarrassment a few moments ago—his blood boiled at the notion that Marco may have touched her—and now a general feeling of sadness.
The big question now: how was he going to get them out of there? If not for these accursed wings on his back, he'd have followed her down in a heartbeat. Ignoring a rather snarky response from Grou, he turned to Jillas, meaning to send him off to find a sturdy length of vine to pull up Amelia and Marco. He paused when he saw the frightened expression on the foxman's face.
Following his gaze, Zelgadis looked up at the sky and felt his stomach lurch; pouring over the distant mountaintops were ominous clouds, black as midnight. They roiled and churned as they approached, moving with unnatural speed. The first ominous rumblings of thunder reached his ears and he felt the blood in his veins turn to ice. Grou had just whispered a warning to him; something was stirring in the dark—some thoughtless malice.
"Mister Zelgadis, what's wrong?" Amelia called. She'd sensed his sudden panic.
Zelgadis was yelling for her to get out even before he dropped to hands and knees. He shoved himself into the opening as far as he could, his wings screaming in protest as he jammed them mercilessly against the rocks, but even as he extended his hand, he knew it was useless. She was too far down for him to reach on his own.
He pulled his head back, narrowly avoiding a nasty bump as he did so. "Jillas!" he yelled. The first fat raindrops began to fall from above as the world started to go dark. "Jillas, I need you to . . ." he trailed off. Needed him to what? There was no way he could find anything in time to save Amelia.
Jillas noted his boss's distress and practically hopped from foot to foot out of frustration. "Boss!" he yipped, "Do somethin', Boss!" His tail swooshed back and forth even more frantically than it had before.
"I'm trying to think!" Zelgadis snarled in reply, "If you don't have any ideas, just shut up and let me concentrate!" He growled in annoyance as the werefox's tail swished in his face. "Would you keep that thing under control?!"
A plan began to form in Zelgadis's head and he grinned. "Jillas, I've got an idea . . ." he said, beckoning the fox forward with a crooked finger.
Amelia squinted at the darkness, not seeing anything that would arouse such a level of panic in Zelgadis. She willed her heart to slow down a bit and tried to send to him the sense that she was all right. It wouldn't accomplish anything if they both panicked.
"I failed her, didn't I?"
Amelia frowned as she looked down at Marco. He was sprawled out in the water next to himself, looking almost as dead to the world as his corpse. She suppressed a shudder as she knelt next to him. No child should be so full of despair. Not knowing what else to do, she put a comforting hand on his shoulder and said, "You did your best. It's all you could do."
Marco scoffed at that. "I promised that I'd take care of her if anything happened—that if she ever got in trouble 'I'd come and save her'." His shoulders slumped a bit and he muttered, "It was stupid."
"I don't think it sounds stupid. And I'm sure she doesn't either."
Marco shook his head. "You didn't let her down, did you?" He fetched a sigh and muttered, "You don't know what it's like."
Amelia chewed her lip thoughtfully. Wasn't she trying to do the same thing for Mister Zelgadis? How would she feel if she'd lost him after all the effort she was making to help him?
"Anyway, your boyfriend's right. You should probably go," Marco said, nodding at the vast emptiness of the cave. "I think they're waking up now."
Behind Amelia, something hissed and shifted in the darkness. Stealing a quick glance over her shoulder, Amelia frowned. They looked human from a distance; she knew that they were anything but.
They were stirring now, shaking off years of dust and cobwebs for the second time in a thousand years. The dead had repaid the last intrusion on their slumber with murder, slaughtering everything that lived for miles around.
Amelia scowled at the wicked things, feeling angry instead of frightened. How dare they do such evil things to all these poor people? She turned, meaning to protect Marco with her life. If they couldn't escape the least she could do was try to protect him. Her hand flew to the dagger tucked into her boot and a moment later, the hilt was jutting from the forehead of the lead corpse. It didn't seem to be terribly concerned with the injury though, as it didn't even break stride.
A yelp of pain from overhead drew her attention and she was surprised to see Jillas dangling from the entrance. He didn't look the least bit pleased with his predicament; he hung precariously over the edge, held by his tail. "Miss Amelia!" he called, "Where are ye?" He yelped and whimpered, "Boss, do ye 'ave t' pull so 'ard?"
"I'm right here!" Amelia called, waving her arms. Why couldn't he see her? She was standing right under him. "Lower your hand!" she instructed. "A bit more . . . that's good, Mister Jillas! Hold it right there!"
She turned and extended a hand to Marco. "Let's go!"
Marco was sitting next to himself with his back to the wall. He watched the advancing dead with a look of detached boredom on his face as he rolled the trinkets on the bracelet between his fingers. "You'd better go," he finally said in an emotionless tone, "You're not going to be able to make it dragging me along."
"I can make it," Amelia protested. "I'm an acrobat. I do stuff like this all the time! We can both get out of here if you'll just give me your hand!" Even as she protested, she knew that it wasn't true. She didn't even know if she was going to be able to make it on her own, much less with a kid hanging around her neck. "Come on, Marco!"
"They're not after me. Why should I go?"
In her heart, Amelia knew that he was right, but he'd been alone for so long and worked so hard to find Sarah that it wasn't fair to leave him down here in the dark. She hadn't abandoned him since she met him and to turn her back on him now that they were at the end . . . well, it killed her. "But . . ." she said without much conviction. She glanced up at Jillas and back down at Marco, torn between survival and loyalty. "I'll come back for you," she said. She could do that much for him at least.
"You will?" Marco actually looked surprised. "Why?"
"You want to see her, don't you? She's out there."
Marco nodded. "Yeah." He slipped the bracelets into his pocket and stood. "You'd better hurry." He shot a look at the advancing dead. "They're almost here."
Amelia glanced over her shoulder and a shiver ran down her spine. Not more than ten feet away now. Even as slowly as they were shambling, she still only had another few seconds at the most. She crouched, preparing to leap for her life; she'd get no second chance.
"Here." Marco laced his fingers together and held his hands out to make a step for her.
There was no time to thank him—they were upon her. Amelia stepped forward ignoring the twinge of pain in her twisted ankle, mounted Marco's hands, sprung . . .
And missed.
It had been a great attempt and should have been perfect; her fingers had closed around Jillas's wrist, but his fur had been slick with moisture—it was raining outside, apparently. At the same instant, cruel fingers had snagged her bad ankle and pulled. She'd lost her grip, was falling back down onto the assembled dead below . . .
"Gotcha, Miss!" Jillas exclaimed, snagging her with his other hand. His grip was tenuous at best; he had two of her fingers clutched tightly in his grasp. "Don't let go!" he yelped. Amelia tightened her grip, although she knew he had to be hurting, and watched as he fumbled for something on his belt.
Amelia cried out as the fingers tightened their grip on her wounded ankle. She looked down and saw dozens of empty eye sockets eagerly staring back up at her. They mindlessly slammed into the wall—smashing those unlucky enough to be closest to it—receded, and did it again. It was horrible to watch. Such single-minded devotion to killing her was a little overwhelming. What had she ever done to them anyway?
And worst of all, poor Marco was nowhere to be seen; the sea of death below had swallowed him. Or had he gotten out somehow? Surely ghosts could float through walls or something, right? That's what they'd always done in the stories Uncle Christopher had told her as a child.
"Amelia!"
When she looked up again, she found herself staring down the barrel of Jillas's pistol and almost fell right there. In the same moment, the foxman actually slipped forward a bit, no doubt the result of Zelgadis sharing her surprise.
"Sorry 'bout that," he said in answer to her shocked expression. "Could ye maybe do me a fava'? Move t' th' side a bit, would ya?"
"Um, I don't know about this, Mister Jillas!" Amelia protested. The barrel of the gun was even darker than her surroundings; she wasn't very enthusiastic about having a guy with no depth perception firing a weapon so close to her face.
"Trust me! I do this all th' time!"
Amelia grimaced. If she'd had the time, she would have asked exactly how many times he'd picked a murderous dead thing off a person's ankle in the dark, but thought better of it. Saying a quick prayer, she arched her body to the side as much as possible.
"Thanks," he said, drawing a bead on a shadow amidst shadows. Then, he pulled the trigger and unleashed fire and thunder in the darkness.
She'd been shot. White-hot pain lanced through her ribs. The muzzle flash blinded her and her ears rang painfully. The grip on her leg didn't slacken a bit and she knew that it was all over. There'd be no going back for Marco now. She wondered if she'd end up a ghost as well, wandering the area in search of Marco for all eternity.
Then, the spent pistol was falling past her and Jillas was reaching out with his other hand. "Told ye, I'd get 'im!" he exclaimed, snagging her wrist. "Pull, Boss! I got 'er!" Then Amelia was moving up and away from the tide of death that waited below.
A loud creak sounded in the dark.
Lina scowled, hovering somewhere between awareness and slumber, and snuggled more closely to her protector. Interruptions be damned, she hadn't been able to sleep this well since . . . well, ever. Nothing short of the house coming down on her head was going to make her get up.
There was another ominous creak followed by the sharp sound of splintering timbers. Groaning in annoyance, she rolled onto her back and blinked at the ceiling blearily. Huh, would you look at that, she thought sleepily as she rolled back onto her side. The house is coming down.
Then she was awake. "The house is coming down!" she shrieked at the top of her lungs. She flung back the sheet and rolled off the mattress, breaking her fall with her palms. Without a moment's hesitation, she reversed direction, flinging herself under the bed. She bumped into Gourry halfway and grinned at him stupidly in spite of their situation. "Hi."
If Gourry answered her greeting it was drowned out by a sickening thud as a crossbeam struck the bed where they'd been laying a moment before. Feathers began to drift down on either side of the frame, giving the impression that a flock of geese had exploded overhead. Before Lina's eyes, the feathers began to curl and blacken; it was like they were burning.
"Feel better?" Gourry asked. He didn't look the least bit rattled that his childhood home was coming down around his ears.
Lina thought for a second. Now that he mentioned it, she did feel better. "Yeah, thanks for asking. Hey, you seem to be taking things in stride. Are you feeling a bit better?"
Gourry nodded at her and said, "You're naked again." He spoke in a lifeless monotone that made her ache with pity. He had a lot of healing to do.
And he was right. Her dress had disappeared. Forcing false cheer into her voice, Lina replied, "Well, how about that? I guess I am." She couldn't muster the ambition to be annoyed about it. She would have known that it would happen if she'd thought about it.
There was another gunshot from overhead as something else gave way. "Hey, you know what, Gourry? I think we should move."
They rolled out from under the bed just before another heavy beam fell, puncturing the mattress like a javelin and imbedding itself in the floor where Lina's head had been resting an instant before.
The room was burning without burning. Wood popped, snapped, and blackened before their eyes and the roof warped and twisted from the phantom heat; it'd be coming down on their heads at any moment.
"Lina."
Lina glanced over at her protector just in time to snatch her maroon breeches out of the air. "Where'd you get these?" she hastily asked. She ended up dancing around the room like a drunken flamingo as she simultaneously tried to don them and dodge falling debris.
Gourry wordlessly nodded towards the corner of the room. Her leggings had apparently lain where she'd discarded them the night she'd finally accepted her feelings for him. Had it really only been three nights ago? Well, if her pants were here, that meant . . .
Yep, there were her boots, stashed behind the door. She remembered kicking them off just after she and Gourry had come into the room. They hadn't moved an inch, just as her pants hadn't. Aqua had offered to wash her clothes and she'd assumed that the old woman had; they'd disappeared when Aqua had made the suggestion. And she hadn't looked since; she'd had no reason to.
It's all part of Marco's illusion, she mused as she snatched her boots up. In all her years of work, she'd never seen a more elaborate haunting. People, places, things—all created for the purpose of reinforcing one child's dream. And now it was all ending. It was—
Gourry lunged forward and seized Lina around her chest, saving her from a collapsing wall. Unfortunately, the rubble blocked their path to the door.
"Hey! Thanks, Gour . . ." Lina's words died on her lips when she looked into Gourry's eyes. He was so lost and was still hurting badly. She gave him a reassuring smile and stroked his cheek lovingly. "Let's get out of here, okay?" She made a mental note to be more careful—if not for her sake, then at least for his. What would he do if something happened to her? She didn't want to think about it.
Pained indecision marred his face and Lina instinctively knew what was bothering him. He faced a quandary: keep her in his grasp and theoretically safe, or let her go for a few seconds while he made them an exit.
"An exit" was the option he seemed to choose. He released his hold on Lina and strode over to the rubble as he drew the Sword of Light. "Light come forth," he dully intoned as he raised the weapon overhead. One quick swipe of the blade would be all they needed to get through.
When Gourry swung the Sword of Light, there was no blade. It remained quiescent, as if it were still in the sheath. He stared at the hilt uncomprehendingly for a moment before tossing it aside like so much rubbish. Then, he began to dig through the rubble with his bare hands.
Lina watched the sword fall—shuddered when it hit the floor. For Gourry to so thoughtlessly throw aside his weapon . . . well, it felt as if he was giving up. And the idea of Gourry giving up infuriated her. She felt sorry for him—really she did—but it wasn't like she was having an easy time with everything that had happened either. Besides, this was definitely not the time for him to go to pieces. He could save that for when they were safe.
"Move," she commanded in a no nonsense tone, shoving him aside before he even had a chance to comply. She snatched up the sword and one flash of light later, their path was clear. As usual, she'd only been able to maintain the blade for an instant, but it'd been enough. Not to mention far more than Gourry was capable of at the moment.
"C'mon, Jellyfish," she said gruffly, "We're getting out of here." When he didn't immediately move, she sighed irately and grabbed his wrist. "Are you deaf? I said move it!" She tugged and he followed, albeit very reluctantly. They were at the door.
Lina muttered a quick prayer that their path was clear—and she didn't mean of debris either. She pulled the bedroom door open (the wood continued to blacken and pop, but gave off no discernable heat) and breathed a sigh of relief; the kitchen was empty. The ghosts of the past were gone.
"It's okay, Gourry. Come on!" She flashed him an encouraging smile and led him out of the emotional shelter of the bedroom. "Hey, my shirt!" she exclaimed, spotting her blouse hanging from a chair. It wasn't the least bit burnt. Had even the lantern that night been false? Did she and Gourry sit in the dark when they'd had their talk? It was a little unnerving. And lying on the floor beside it was her discarded cloak.
She winked at her forlorn protector as she buttoned up her top. "Hey, things can't get much better than this, can they?" she quipped. Had he smiled at her? Maybe just a bit. She slid her foot under her cloak, flicked it up in the air, made the catch, and donned it with a flourish.
"Alright then! Time to check out!" Lina exclaimed. She nimbly sidestepped a chunk of the ceiling and extended her hand to Gourry again. He eyed her curiously for a moment before offering her his left hand. He was carrying something in his right.
Probably a keepsake, Lina thought as she led him out. She filed it away from later inquiry as she led him out of the fire and into the morning storm.
Grou had existed for a very long time. And in all the centuries of its life, never once had it considered the possibility that it would one day find itself involuntarily bound to a Maker. It was a testament to the utter beauty and perfection of chaos that a creature as ancient as itself—a creature created on a whim—couldn't even begin to predict what the new day would bring.
But, this wasn't really the best time for reflection. Zelgadis, the creature that had the perplexing role of being Grou's captor and captive, was in imminent danger. And despite its distaste for the vampire, it was obligated to protect him to ensure its own continued existence. Ah, chaos.
It saw through Zelgadis's eyes as he pulled the servant and the woman to safety. It chuckled nastily as he tended to the girl—checking the burn that ran down her side (the servant had cut his shot extremely close) and working the dead fingers from about her ankle. Then, it watched with the Maker as something shifted in the dark and the first withered arm shot out of the pit—the first of many.
We could always run, you know. It thought this "aloud" to share its thoughts with Zelgadis, even though it already knew that the answer would be a snarled "No." It was curious though. Why had he not questioned the nature of their bond as much as he'd scrutinized the one with the woman? After all, his mind was an open book to Grou. And there were so many . . . intriguing secrets hidden in that mind.
On the other hand, Zelgadis knew only what the demon told him. The sharing of knowledge was a one-way street and, if he had any sense, he'd think long and hard about what that meant. And yet, he spent so much more time focusing on this girl.
Stupid male, it thought, earning a curse from Zelgadis for its efforts. Apparently, the idea of wooing a prospective mate was far more important than preserving the integrity of one's own mind. Wave a pretty female in front of a male and they forgot all about the demon that was taking up space in their head.
Well, it was time to go to work. If Zelgadis didn't have a sense of self-preservation, it was Grou's responsibility to make sure the fool survived the upcoming conflict. It made the mental equivalent of an eye roll. Oh, would you look at this? He was telling the servant to take the girl and run. How very noble of him. From a tactical standpoint it was stupid. They were outnumbered, true, but as long as he'd had assistance he might have been able to stem the tide of death at its point of egress.
You're going about this all wrong. Now, I know your little temper tantrums and fits of violence served you well in your management duties in Sairaag—ham fisting your problems to death must have been so very satisfying—but in this case, I think it'd behoove you to consider a bit of finesse. Which means you might want to accept my help.
Zelgadis snarled in response as he drew his sword. A moment later, he'd brought it down, crushing the first unfortunate cadaver's skull to dust. Three more surged up to replace it. It wouldn't be long before he was overrun at this rate. If he'd been facing normal humans, the biggest worry he'd have to face was wearing himself out killing them; there was only space enough for one man to exit at a time.
But, these things weren't men, or at least, they weren't anymore. It was remarkable how much girth one lost when flesh had long since crumbled to dust. That, combined with the fact that the dead had no sense of self-preservation, made their exit from the pit startlingly quick. Even when Zelgadis wasn't killing them, they were crushing one another in their zeal to get to him. It was as pointless as trying to stem the flow of a geyser. There was so much pressure from below that it had to go somewhere. They couldn't be stopped, or even slowed, and soon Zelgadis found himself surrounded.
Grou clucked his mental tongue in annoyance. This one was terribly annoying. It'd spent the entirety of its existence twisting and corrupting human lives. It was usually an easy affair, but sometimes you came across the random one who was stubborn as a mule. And his host, beloved Zelgadis, was as infuriating as a dozen asses.
You're going to die. We're going to die. Is that what you want? Do you want the girl to die? The fox? Your stupid blond friend? Its voice dripped with distaste as it added, Or how about the redhead? They're next, you know. When we fall—and we will fall; I hope you don't have any illusions about that—they're next.
"Shut up!" Zelgadis bellowed as he twirled his sword around, slicing a swath in the enemy that threatened to overrun him. Unbeknownst to him, Grou flicked his wings, sending a soldier that had been approaching from behind flying. The corpse had been on the verge of splitting his skull and Zelgadis hadn't even noticed.
Why won't you accept my help? I've aided you before. Did I not keep you from killing the girl? What will it take to earn your trust? This was beginning to get terribly annoying. Although it was intelligent of Zelgadis not to take any favors from Grou—after all favors given had to be repaid in some form or another—it was growing tired of the paltry influence it had. It was time to take this stubborn mule down a peg or two.
Now, it was true that Grou was for all intents and purposes, a prisoner inside Zelgadis's mind. But, even inmates could exert some influence on their jailers over the course of time. The same was true in this situation. It had tested its control over the wings this morning, only managing a couple flaps before becoming exhausted from the exertion, but manipulating them, nonetheless. It had the same influence on the rest of his body to a far lesser extent. It had teased and whipped his hunger into a frenzy the other day when he'd almost taken the girl in her sickbed. That had been a mistake of sorts. Its goal had been to torment him, not drive him to murder; Shabranigdo knew that the girl was far too important in the grand scheme of things to lose on such a foolish test. After that, it'd scaled back its efforts briefly to assess what it was actually capable of. Now, it was time to exert its influence again.
You know that I saved that girl's life. I told you to give back what you'd taken. She'd be dead now if I hadn't stepped in. And thanks to me, she's better than she ever was. If Grou had lungs, it would have been holding its breath in that moment. Would Zelgadis react as it expected?
"What does that mean?" he demanded.
She's changed Zelgadis—for the better. She's still changing.
"What did you do to her?" Zelgadis hissed as he fended off several clumsy attacks.
I didn't do anything. I seem to recall that you were the one with your teeth buried in her jugular.
"Answer the damn question! What's wrong with her?!" Steel flew mercilessly, as if he thought that by cutting down his enemies, Grou would be more inclined to answer.
Grou feigned surprise. "Wrong?" You don't like her? I think it's perfectly wonderful what you've done to her. Sure, there's the slight aversion to sunlight and I can't really be certain that she won't develop a taste for blood somewhere down the line . . . It was unable to resist a mean little chuckle as it sensed one of the cadavers approaching Zelgadis from behind. It had his attention. Now it was a matter of keeping it. I mean, her night vision is greatly improved and her skin is even fairer than before—nasty things, tans, if you ask me—and I just think . . .
Zelgadis grunted in pain as a heavy weight slammed into his side. "What . . .?" he muttered curiously as he eyed the haft of the spear that had been driven home just beneath his ribs. "How did . . .?" His face contorted into a mask of fury as he redoubled his efforts.
Oh my, but that must sting! And to think that we could have avoided that if you'd just given me a chance to prove my loyalty to you! Zelgadis, don't you understand yet that you need me? We need to work together to ensure both our survivals! It's immensely selfish of you to want to go down fighting when I haven't even had my say in the matter. I can end this whole fiasco in a matter of moments, if you'll just give me the chance!
With the skill and subtlety of a master conductor, Grou tweaked Zelgadis's latest parry ever so slightly so that what should have been a solid block ended up barely deflecting a blow. The axe skipped along the blade of his sword with a loud clang and came to rest in his upper arm.
Whoops! How very clumsy of you, Master. Using the honorific infuriated it more than anything else. Damn Zelgadis for being so stubborn! The very idea that a mere mortal would ever hold sway over a demon was insulting. Please, let me serve you. It pains me to see you suffering needlessly when salvation is so very close. All you have to do is accept it. That was two injuries and the stupid Maker didn't even look as though he was even beginning to slow down. This was beginning to get worrisome. Grou was becoming incredibly tired from its efforts. If Zelgadis kept this up, it wouldn't have the strength to help them even if he did give himself to the demon.
This time, it was a mace that Zelgadis missed. It came whistling down in an overhand swing and would have caved in his skull if Grou hadn't jerked his head to the side ever so slightly. Fortunately—well, more fortunate than having his brain turned to paste in any case—the cast iron head succeeded only in fracturing his collarbone.
Zelgadis roared at the top of his lungs as his sword dropped from his now unwilling fingers. The ranks closed in around him as he fell to hands and knees. "Yes . . ." he hissed through clenched teeth. In many ways saying that word hurt more than his physical injuries.
Grou fought hard to keep the eagerness out of its tone. "Yes," you say? I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean, Master Zelgadis . . .
"Save us, you bastard!" Zelgadis dropped defenses that he didn't know he'd been maintaining, giving the demon totally unfettered access to his mind and body. For a moment, nothing happened and the enemy closed in around him again. The demon had been lying and he was about to die.
Cease your fretting. I'm trying to work. The sniveling tone had been abandoned in an instant with Zelgadis's acceptance. It pictured itself flowing through every inch of the Maker's being and thus, it did. For the first time since Zelgadis consumed it, Grou was in control again.
"This is the way, Zelgadis!" it joyously shrieked in a tongue that made Zelgadis sick to his stomach—the guttural speech of demons. It threw Zelgadis's—its—head back and laughed hysterically. Slowly the world came into focus for Grou and it realized that it was still surrounded by the dead.
"Pitiful things," it hissed as it reached down to pull the spear from its side, "return to the purgatory that spawned you!" Even as it knitted Zelgadis's flesh and bone together until it was new, it was studying its foes. It recognized these men. To be more accurate, it recognized their time. The style of their armor—or rather what was left of it—was quite archaic and marked them as being somewhere in the neighborhood of a thousand years old—right about the time of the purge of non-Ceiphiedians. Recalling the years of genocide made it feel a wave of nostalgia. What had happened to the good old days?
The dead men moved in despite Grou's warning. Their single-minded devotion to destruction was admirable; reason and sanity must have fled these lost souls many years ago. However exquisite their madness might be, it didn't excuse the fact that they were standing in the path of the Demon of Blood.
Grou grinned wickedly and flung Zelgadis's sword to the ground; it had no need of paltry mortal tools. It put Zelgadis's index finger in his mouth and bit down, drawing blood. Then, it pointed at the closest attacker. For a moment, nothing happened. And then there was a sound—so high pitched that it was almost beyond the reach of even Zelgadis's sensitive ears and the dead paused as if confused.
"Well now, that was fun." The demon lowered Zelgadis's hand and sighed contentedly. "I gave you fair warning." It turned and began to walk towards the trees where it sensed that The girl and the servant were still watching. Zelgadis had told them to run. Couldn't they even follow the simplest of orders?
Behind Grou, the soldiers lurched into motion again, meaning to follow the Maker and tear him to pieces. As soon as they moved, they crumbled to dust—metal, bone, and desiccated flesh all imploding in an instant.
"You may cease your cowering. The threat is gone." As if in support of Grou's claim, the first ray of sunlight broke through the roiling blackness overhead.
The storm was over.
"And let your children not . . . um . . . wander without hope, but . . . er . . . oh, goddammit . . . show them the way home so that they may rest in your loving . . . um . . . er . . . son of a bitch, what is it . . . um . . . hug . . . or something . . ."
Zelgadis's lips twitched and he came dangerously close to grinning at a funeral. He leaned forward, quietly cleared his throat, and whispered, "Lina, I think the word you want is 'embrace'."
Lina's hands were clasped in front of her and her head lowered in prayer. The only indication she gave that she'd heard Zelgadis was a slight increase in the volume of her voice. To the casual observer, it might appear that she was actually trying to scare the spirits of the dead away by yelling at them. The truth was that she wasn't irritated; she was just squirming at the idea of being uncomfortably shoehorned into a role she had precious little experience with. Ceiphied knew she'd complained about it enough.
The only experience Amelia had with the rites of Ceiphied were children's prayers said before bedtime. Gourry . . . well, even if Gourry hadn't been distraught and knew the first thing about funeral rites, it wouldn't be right to ask him to handle his own family's burial. Jillas's broken dialect disqualified him right off; they hadn't even bothered to ask him. As for Zelgadis . . . as a former government official, he was more than qualified to handle such a task. Religion and government went hand and hand, after all. However, Grou had informed him in no uncertain terms that it would have nothing to do with 'mindless Ceiphiedian drivel'. And so, that had left Lina.
And she's not doing that bad, Zelgadis thought. Well, aside from the almost frightening amount of blasphemy she's throwing out, but beggars can't be choosers, right? In the back of his mind, he sensed Grou sniggering loudly at Lina's butchered efforts, despite the fact that it had exhausted itself saving them from the dead army. There was something utterly nasty about a creature that would actually strain itself to belittle Lina's honest effort to bring comfort to the bereaved.
"Well, I guess that's about it," Lina said with a pained sigh. "I'm sorry, Gourry."
Zelgadis looked up to see Lina embracing Gourry. They rocked back and forth slowly, drawing comfort from one another. The look on Gourry's face was unnerving. He stared at the modest graves of his family, his eyes dry, as if he'd forgotten how to cry. Ironically enough, although they'd laid the dead to rest, he looked more haunted than ever.
"Why did this happen, Miss Lina?" Amelia inquired as she eyed the graves of Marco and Sarah sadly. True to her word, she'd gone back down without hesitation after the danger was over and had brought the boy's remains to the surface. He was now resting beside Sarah; they'd been reunited at long last.
"Blame it on fate, the cosmos, chance . . . whatever you want." Lina nodded at the graves of the children and said, "You said he made a promise, right? That can be a powerful thing. I've heard about stuff like that—ghosts that refuse to rest because of an unfulfilled desire or wish. That's what this looks like to me."
"An entire village of ghosts?" Zelgadis said with a snort of disbelief. "I've never heard of anything like that. Did they all have unfulfilled promises?"
Lina glared at him briefly and Zelgadis was stricken by how old she looked. Maybe it was the stress, but the hair that had seemed almost silvery before had lost some of its luster; it'd become an ugly iron gray that actually threatened to overwhelm the crimson locks atop her head.
She shook her head and sighed tiredly. "I don't know exactly why it happened the way it did." He could tell that it pained her to admit ignorance in a subject that should be her forte.
"Miss Lina, I think I know what it was." Amelia flashed them an embarrassed smile, as if she knew what she was going to say was a bit silly. "I . . . I think it was love."
"Love?!" Lina repeated, unable to hide her incredulity. "Come on, Amelia. Even if I did believe in that 'love conquers all' silliness, you've got to face facts. Sure they might have been good friends, but they were just a couple of kids."
Amelia looked slightly crestfallen. "I think it was love," she quietly protested. "You might think they were just kids, but they were . . . I don't know . . . they were on the edge . . . about to grow up." She blushed a bit and made a point of not looking at Zelgadis as she added, "I had my first crush about their age and it felt . . . strong. Almost like magic. I think that something that powerful could do just about anything, don't you?"
"Oh, gimmie a break," Lina groaned.
Amelia frowned at the redhead and said, "Seriously, Miss Lina! I think Marco could have done all this," she gestured at the burnt out husks of buildings, "for Sarah. He wanted her to be happy. And if she was wandering around alone, like he was, wouldn't it be nice for her to see some friendly faces, even if he was just making them up?"
She didn't realize she was doing it, but Zelgadis noted the way Amelia kept wiping the sweat off her brow, even though it was early autumn and somewhat chilly. It was the sun that was doing it to her. The light was causing her discomfort.
Suddenly, Zelgadis realized that he didn't want to hear anymore of the girls' debate. He was very tired and wanted nothing more than to sit down. After all, he didn't find the sun to be terribly pleasant himself. With a peremptory gesture to Jillas instructing him to follow, he turned and walked away from the bickering girls. It was only when he was out of earshot that he allowed himself to collapse in the shadow of a blackened shed.
Jillas sat down next to him and asked, "Boss, are ye okay? Ye don' look too chipper, ye know?"
"I'm fine. Just a bit tired."
"Yeah, that's about what I thought," Jillas said with a nod. "I expect ye're a bit whipped." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper and he asked, "Boss, I been meanin' to ask ye, 'ow did ye kill all th' dead guys back there?"
Zelgadis pointed his finger at Jillas's eye and said, "Imagine, if you can, a strand of hair ten feet in length, tethered to the tip of my finger. Got it? Good. Now, imagine if that hair wasn't hair. It was blood—a strand of blood, sharper than any sword and quicker than the blink of an eye." His voice quavered for just an instant before he got himself under control again. "It killed those things in a heartbeat when I let it out."
"Let . . . Let what out, Boss?" Jillas asked. He stared at Zelgadis's fingertip as if it were a coiled snake on the verge of striking.
"The demon." Zelgadis slowly lowered his had. It felt less like a part of him than a weapon that might go off at any moment. He suddenly felt curious, but quickly realized that it wasn't him; Amelia was looking for him.
He seized Jillas by the front of his worn cloak and hissed, "Listen carefully, because I don't have much time. I'm leaving and I want you to stay with Amelia."
Jillas shook his head. "No way, Boss! I swore an oath! An oath t' follow ye t' th' ends o' the . . ."
"Jillas, I release you from my service. You saved Amelia back there. You've more than repaid your debt to me. If anything were to happen to her, I don't know . . ." he sighed and shook his head in confusion, "I can't imagine what I'd do if anything happened to her."
"But, Boss . . ."
"Listen to me, Jillas! I'm asking you—not as your master, but as a friend—to look after Amelia for me."
"Boss, you can look afta' 'er! She'll be safa' with th' both of us!"
Zelgadis shook his head in irritation. "No, Jillas! I've already hurt her too much and I won't do it again. I have to go."
"Mister Zelgadis? Mister Jillas? Where'd you go?"
Zelgadis and Jillas looked up guiltily when they heard Amelia call their names. They didn't have much longer.
"Boss . . ." Jillas whispered, "Ye . . . Ye know she fancies ye, right? I don' think ye should do this . . . It ain't right . . ."
Fury welled up in Zelgadis and he shook Jillas by the front of his cloak. "I will never touch her again!" he snarled. Then he was off, running like the wind and, as much as he wanted to, he didn't look back.
Marco sighed. Here he was again at their spot. The large oak tree loomed ominously overhead. Long jagged branches that had once entertained him and Sarah for hours on end, stretched out towards him. The reflecting pool was a depressing morass of stirred up silt and was covered with scum. There'd be no skipping stones across it now.
He leaned up against the tree and shoved his hands into his pockets. Without Sarah, this place was meaningless. He'd failed her so very long ago and now it looked as if Amelia hadn't done much better. He wondered how she, Amelia, was doing. Even though she hadn't been able to help him, he hoped that she was okay. She'd done her best. It was just . . .
The chirp of the evening's first cricket coaxed a smile out of Marco and dispelled his sad thoughts as if by magic. There was a familiar sound. Now if only there were some fireflies to go with them, he'd be set for the evening.
As if on cue, a tiny blip of pale yellowish light appeared in front of his nose. It quickly disappeared and then reappeared a few feet away, as if taunting him—challenging him to give chase. In another few moments, the firefly was joined by a host of its brethren and the sound of the cricket became a symphony as the other evening creatures added their voices to the song.
Then there was the sound—a wonderful sound. Over the rest of the noises he heard a familiar series of splashes. One, two, three . . . Wow, seven of them!
And then, the sound of her laughter reached his ears.
He turned, hardly daring to believe. His breath caught in his throat. It was her. Sarah was here.
She casually tossed a small stone from hand to hand with that wonderful smile on her face. "Did you see that one, Marco? I got seven! I've been practicing." When Marco didn't immediately answer, she laughed again. "Hey, you're going to catch a fly if you don't shut your mouth, stupid."
Marco quickly snapped his mouth shut. "You're here . . ."
"Of course I'm here!" Sarah replied with a roll of her eyes. "You were supposed to meet me here a long time ago!" The beginnings of a sly grin on her face, she pointed at something across the pond, which, Marco noted, had cleared up when he wasn't looking. "Oh my gosh, look at that!"
Marco turned and squinted in the fading light. "What? I don't see any—"
That was when she pounced. Marco suddenly found his head trapped under Sarah's arm. "Stupid head!" she admonished as she mussed his hair, "what kept you?"
"Hey, cut it out!" Marco yelled as he struggled to free himself from her grasp. He didn't try too hard though and there was a big smile on his face.
All was right with the world again.
Gourry meticulously sifted through the wreckage of what had been, until a few hours ago, his parents' home. Everything was a ruin of blackened wood and broken stone. Even the chimney had fallen over, leaving behind a depressing pile of rubble. The really sad thing was that it wasn't even new wreckage. The greenery poking through the floorboards told him that this had happened a long time ago. The forest was reclaiming the land.
That thought angered Gourry. This house belonged to his family, not to the past! Scowling, he made his way through the area, compulsively pulling weeds as if he could turn back time. He blinked back tears as he did so, understanding that in the end, the forest would have its prize and the memories would disappear. What was the point then?
He suddenly felt tired and lurched over to the charred pile of lumber that had once been his parents' bed. Halfheartedly clearing a spot on the ground, he sat down and leaned back against scorched frame. And then, he cried. He cried because of what he'd lost, true. But mostly, he wept out of shame. He'd hurt his parents so much when he'd refused to look at them. He'd needed Lina—sick Lina, who should have been resting—to save him from his own family.
Gourry looked up, blinking through his tears at the door, or rather what was left of the frame, which marked what had once been the kitchen. He didn't remember moving, but he found himself standing in the doorway, his hand resting on a doorknob that wasn't there anymore. He gripped the memory, turned, and pulled . . . the door swung open . . . and he remembered.
He'd laid in bed, cradling his beloved Lina in his arms for five agonizing minutes. Her breaths had come in weak shaky gasps and every time she'd stopped, trying to decide whether or not to go on, he'd hold his breath too and will her to continue.
A trembling hand slid down from where it was draped over her shoulder, traced the gentle swell of her breast as it traveled, and finally came to rest on her stomach. This was where it would happen. He spread his fingers, anticipating the feeling of skin ripping beneath his hand as a spectral weapon pierced her and laid her open. He didn't know why he did it—he couldn't save her if it happened, after all—but . . . he just wanted to bring her as much comfort as possible. He'd never been so frightened in his life and he was sure that she was going to leave him. He was going to be alone in whatever nightmare he'd been trapped in.
Then, Lina giggled and the fear drained out of him as if by magic. "S-Stop it," she whispered, halfheartedly slapping at the offending hand resting on her stomach. "Tickles . . ." Then her breathing finally smoothed out and she began to take long deep breaths—began to snore, to be quite honest, although she'd almost certainly protest that a beautiful girl like herself was incapable of doing such an unladylike thing. The important thing was that she'd be fine.
Gourry had stayed with her a few moments longer, trying to draw courage from the fact that she was alive and still with him. He intertwined his fingers with hers, every so gently drew her hand up to his face, and kissed it. Once wasn't enough and he kissed the back of her wrist. It still didn't slacken his need to be with her, but it would be enough to sustain him for the moment.
He took a deep breath, held it as he struggled to choose between two very different forms of love, and finally—painfully—relinquished his hold on Lina. She'd rescued him from danger a few moments ago, but that didn't change the fact that he still had to face it. He'd never be able to live with himself if he didn't.
So, draping the bed sheet over Lina in what he hoped was a fair exchange for taking away his body heat (he could have sworn that he heard her grumble irritably as he did so) he turned away from the bed and walked purposefully over to the door. If he stopped moving, he'd never be able to start again, so he turned the knob and flung the door open without even breaking stride and entered the kitchen.
The kitchen, it looked like an abattoir; ugly patches of red were smeared all over the floor that his mother kept meticulously clean. He could trace his parents' progress through the house by their bloody footprints. His mother had started to follow him to the bedroom, most likely to eavesdrop, but had been headed off by the much larger prints of his father. He followed their path as it led back to the table. He was unable to suppress a gasp when he finally laid eyes on them.
"M-Mom . . . Dad," he whispered. His throat had become dry all of a sudden. Here they were: his family. They'd been sitting around the table talking in hushed tones. No doubt, they had been discussing his strange behavior. From Lina's violence, to his shameful and cowardly behavior, it was probably too much for them to comprehend at the moment.
"Hey," the bloody corpse that had once been his father said in a cheerful tone, "there's the boy now. Doing all right, Gourry?" The swordsman could detect the strain in his voice; this was an act—a show for his benefit.
Gourry nodded and forced a smile. "Sure, Dad. I'm fine. She—Lina I mean—she was just . . . sick. She's been sick for awhile . . . at least, I think she has . . ."
"Gourry," his mother interjected, "what was wrong with you, dear?" She was tapping her cheek, which was a good indication that she was upset. That was bad enough, but what was really disconcerting was the fact that she wasn't really tapping her cheek so much as she was tapping her cheekbone. The hollow rhythmic sound was unnerving.
"I . . ." Gourry swallowed hard and approached the table. He pulled his chair out and sunk into it resignedly. "I don't know . . . I'm tired—Lina's tough to keep up with even when she's not at her best—and when I saw that you and Dad . . ." He glanced up at his mother as he spoke, but couldn't maintain eye contact. It was too painful. ". . . saw that you were home, I mean, it was just . . . just . . ." He swallowed hard, trying to get the words past the lump in his throat. "It was just too much."
Gourry leaned on the table tiredly. He felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It was the truth, for the most part. Finding out that his family was gone on top of worrying that Lina was going to die at any moment, had been a lot to handle. He picked up his fork and began to work on his pancakes, more out of a desire to have something to do with his hands than hunger. If he didn't do something, they'd see him trembling.
"Well, I can understand that," Mom said kindly. The scraping of her chair on the floor indicated that she'd moved closer to him. Gourry felt her hand pat his shoulder. "It sounds like you've had a rough day, Gourry."
"Mmm," Gourry said through a mouthful of pancakes. He nodded his head enthusiastically, but still refused to look at her. He wanted to remember her as she had been before.
"S'funny though," Dad said from across the table. "Your gal, she didn't look sick. Had a lotta spirit for someone knockin' on death's door." He laughed heartily. "She actually looked pretty feisty if you ask me! Kind of like your mum! Sorry, love."
Gourry imagined that his mother must have shot Dad one of her withering looks. As he fished the last of a pancake out of a puddle of syrup, he mused that Lina and his mom would probably get along pretty well. They were both smart, strong willed, and killed vampires. Well, maybe not the last one, but still . . .
"Would you like some more breakfast, Gourry?" Grandma inquired.
"No . . . no thanks, Grandma," Gourry replied with a quick shake of his head. He held his breath and wished that Grandma would move away a bit. Apparently, she'd finished burning, but the smell lingered. The idea of eating anything else was . . . ugh.
"So," Dad said in a slightly quieter voice, "this gal . . . she important to you?"
Setting his fork down, Gourry took a deep breath and forced himself to look up. Dad was a mess, to be sure, but he was still Dad, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face. He found himself matching that smile.
"Yeah," Gourry said after a moment of consideration, "she's kinda important." That was an understatement; Lina was the first thing he thought of when he woke up and the last thing he saw before drifting off to sleep. He had the notion that he might have actually dreamed of her a few times, although his dreams tended to be vague and he rarely remembered them upon waking. You couldn't touch a dream, so they weren't worth pondering anyway, right?
"And . . . she needs me. I think I'll get back to her and see if she's any better." Gourry pushed his plate away and stood, forcing himself to look at each of them in turn. It hurt to do it, but he loved them too much to snub them.
Mom was smiling at him. It was beautiful and horrible at the same time. The left side of her face had gone completely slack, but the other side . . . that was the mother he remembered. "Okay then. Take care of her, Gourry."
Gourry nodded. "I will. Well . . . bye." He felt like an idiot, waving to his family just because he was about to leave the room. He paused in the doorway and turned back to look at them one last time. "Just so you know, I'm gonna marry her."
He didn't know why he'd said it. He'd never even considered the idea of marriage before that moment, but it made sense, didn't it? He'd protect her for the rest of his life if she would let him. And the best place to be to do that was by her side—on the road, in their bed, in battle, through happiness and hardship.
Apparently, his proclamation made everyone in the room happy, judging from their smiles. That brought him an amazing amount of relief and satisfaction; if they were happy, it made him happy.
"Well, Gourry, don't just stand there," Grandma said cheerfully. She shoved a warm cup containing a green liquid into his hands—Lina's medicine. "Get the young lady healthy so we can celebrate!"
The corners of Gourry's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. Apparently, they thought that it was a done deal? But, he hadn't even asked her yet! This could be bad. If Lina woke up and heard his intentions from a third party . . . things could get ugly.
He frowned sensing some change in the room. There was something very wrong here. That's when he noticed that the cup he held was cold. He didn't have to look down to know that it was empty. Grandma had never brewed the medicine; she couldn't touch it because she wasn't there. Mom and Dad embracing one another and smiling at him—they weren't there either. Everything that he was seeing was a lie.
"I . . . I've got to check on Lina," he hastily explained. He stepped through the door and closed it behind him. As soon as he heard the click of the latch—the horribly finality of it—he knew that they were gone. He could open the door again and the kitchen would be empty. His family was dead.
The cold useless cup dropped from his nerveless fingers and shattered on the floor. He stepped over it and made his way over to the bed where Lina was still asleep. He felt dead inside and couldn't even muster up any tears. He wanted to—knew that he should—but couldn't.
Instead, he'd crawled into bed, wrapped his Lina in his arms, and just existed.
Until now. Gourry blinked through his tears, feeling a moment of confusion. Then he remembered where he was and why he was here. He reached into a pocket and produced an envelope. It'd been sitting on the table right where he'd left it. Grandma hadn't even touched it, because she'd never been there to begin with.
But, that didn't change the fact that Lina needed her medicine.
Lina sat in the shade of a large oak tree and pondered the events of the last few hours. They'd all gained and lost so much these past few days. The bad thing was, what they'd lost was valuable and what they'd gained was of dubious worth.
Amelia and Zel had gotten . . . something. She hadn't quite figured it out yet. He'd bitten Amelia and Lina had been sure that the younger girl wouldn't survive the night, but here she was, a little more sullen than usual, but just as full of life as ever. It'd been more of a relief than she was willing to admit—she was getting pretty attached to Amelia—and she'd made a point of slapping her medallion around the thickheaded idiot's neck as soon as she'd shown up. "Take this off again and Zel won't have a chance to kill you!" she'd said, although her threat was empty. At most, she'd probably break Amelia's legs for removing it again.
And hey, she'd gotten her sister back, so that was pretty cool, right? She grimaced. Granted, Luna was a pissed off and homicidal version of her old self, but when she thought about it, it wasn't that big a change from when she was a kid, right? She chuckled a bit at that. Always put things in perspective—that was the way to go. Things that looked bad were rarely as dire as they first appeared.
Then, of course, there was Gourry. He'd lost his family, the poor guy, and she wondered how he was even functioning now. It was scary how quiet he'd gotten lately, as if he didn't know how to cope with what he'd been through. She couldn't blame him. She'd lost her parents when she was very young and didn't really remember them, but it'd hurt her horribly when Luna had been taken from her a few years ago. There was a place in her heart that would never really heal.
"Speaking of Gourry, where'd Jellyfish get to?" Lina stood and stretched. He'd wandered off a while ago and she'd sensed that he needed to be alone for a bit. Now, she was starting to regret that decision.
"Gourry?" she called as she scanned the ruins. This was nice. Amelia and the others were gone too. A playful grin crossed her face. If she could find him, maybe they'd find a nice secluded place where she could show him just how lucky he was to be alive. It might even help shake him out of his daze. She was willing to bet that nothing warded off the sadness of dealing with death like a wild bout of . . .
"Sex!" Lina shouted at the top of her lungs when she turned around and found herself standing face to face with her protector. "Dammit, Gourry! Don't do that! I thought I was going to have a heart attack and ooh, what's that smell?" Anger segued seamlessly into curiosity. It was a familiar scent, one she could almost put her finger on . . .
"Medicine," Gourry said tonelessly. Apparently he was totally unfazed by the fact that Lina had gone from screaming about sex, to insults, to inquiries in the span of five seconds. He was used to such eccentricities in her personality; or maybe, he just couldn't bring himself to care at the moment.
"Medicine," Lina repeated dubiously as she took the bowl he was offering. She swished the contents around and scrutinized them. An opaque, greenish, thick liquid stared right back at her. Ugh, she knew where she'd seen this before.
"Did Auntie make this? Because, as good as this stuff smells, it tastes disgusting. I used to drink this when I was a kid and I'm not gonna. . ." Her protests died on her lips as she looked into his sad eyes. They were red and puffy from tears. Despite all he'd been through, he was still thinking about her. And here she was acting like a child again. "Sorry," she whispered as she raised the bowl to her lips.
When the first draught of the gunk hit her throat, she realized that Aqua couldn't have made it; it was still warm. That meant that Gourry had whipped it up. But how . . .? Questions were quickly forgotten when something lodged in her throat. Her eyes bugged out and she dropped the bowl, spilling the remaining contents. "Ack!" she gasped, clawing at her neck. Thankfully, Gourry was at her side in a flash and one stiff blow to her back later, the murderous obstruction flew free.
Lina shot Gourry a dirty look as she crawled around on hands and knees looking for the foreign object. "Gourry, if you're gonna mix something up, make sure you don't get . . . any . . . oh, Ceiphied . . ." Her hand trembling, she picked the gold out of the grass. That was why she'd seen it. It glinted in the sunlight.
It was a small broach bearing the image of the Flare Dragon—the insignia of the High Priest. And judging by the bit of white cloth attached to it, it had until recently adorned a familiar cloak. But, what was Luna doing in the service of the High Priest?
Notes: And we're done with Marco's story! Is Lina going back to Sairaag? Will Gourry ever be the same? Where's Zel gone and are Amelia and Jillas going to chase him down? All very good questions that I'll do my best to answer as soon as I figure them out. Don't hold your breath for the next chapter, okay? Seriously, it's not going to be that long, but I do need to do a bit of plotting to get the next arc going.
Reviewer Response:
Hurray for me, Stara! I think I actually answered all your questions about the last chapter in this one before you even asked them! And that's saying something. You really keep me on my toes.
Otaku Girl, it's been 5 years since Gourry's family died. Thanks for the comments!
Muffles, thanks for the squealing! That's such a compliment. Seriously! The big problem is keeping the comedy from overwhelming the more serious stuff. Humor is to horror what garlic is to a vampire.
Hey, Lina doesn't use magic in all the 'Slayers in high school' Aus, does she Setra Prince? And who says that Xellos isn't evil? He's a trickster and there's a lot more to him than has been revealed so far . . .
Crap. Wesley, you have no idea of how disappointed I am that I missed the opportunity to do something with the smoke. There could have been so many cool images there. Well, maybe next time, huh?
Grrr, Kaitrin, you need to be more specific in your suggestions! I thought you wanted more of a 1st personish thing in the Mom/Dad comments . . . Well, live and learn, right?
Miss Gabriev, I hope that it's not all confusing anymore. Ask any questions you like and I'll try to answer them if they won't spoil anything. The body Marco found down in the cave was his own. They found Sarah before.
Thanks for reading everyone! Until next time!