Silvertongue by Charlie Fletcher Page B

exposing the gargoyle. The Gunner stepped sideways and rested his gun hand against a tree, steadying his aim.
    BLAM .
    The gargoyle flew on.
    “Too far for a pistol . . .” the Gunner growled, squinting along the gun’s sights.
    BLAM .
    He shook his head in frustration.
    “What I need is a bloody—”
    CRACK. CRACK .
    The sound of two distant shots smacked flatly across the snow. The gargoyle suddenly tipped in midair and cartwheeled into the very solid sidewall of the Ritz hotel in an impact they felt as much as heard, even at this great distance.
    For an instant it stayed there, as if embedded in the masonry, then it plummeted straight down out of sight, unmistakeably dead.
    “. . . rifle,” finished the Gunner wonderingly. And he raised his head from his point of aim and squinted across the snow toward the sound of the other gunshots.
    “Who the hell was that, then?”
    As if in answer to his question, the Old and the Young Soldiers broke out of the distant trees, waving and running toward them.
    George relaxed a fraction, which was a mistake, because just as he did so, something hopped toward the still figure of the Bow Boy and leaped on him, sinking its teeth into his ribs and starting to shake him from side to side. It was the now wingless gargoyle.
    George didn’t think, he just leaped, throwing his arms around the barrel-chested creature and wrenching it off the boy. The gargoyle kicked at George with its feet, winding him enough so that he loosened his grip. The thing twisted and reared its head back to strike: George had a sickening impression of stone fangs and angry eyes blurring at him, and just managed to jerk his head sideways so that the rough granite skin of the creature painfully grazed his cheekbone as it struck, instead of pulverizing his skull.
    He latched on to the taint with an even tighter grip, to prevent it being able to head butt him again, keeping his own head buried in its shoulder, like a boxer riding out a flurry of blows while he figures out what to do next.
    “Shoot it!” yelled Edie.
    The Gunner spun to see what was happening behind him.
    “Might hit George!” he spat in frustration. He dropped his gun on its lanyard and ran back toward George and the snarling gargoyle. He was too far away. The gargoyle was forcing its head back, ready for another blow, and George’s grip was weakening.
    “GIRL!” shouted the Queen. She was running toward them, also too far away to be able to help in time.
    And then she stopped.
    Edie stared in shock.
    The Queen cocked her arm and threw her spear. It flew through the air and landed a yard in front of her.
    “GIRL!” roared the Queen. “You . . . !”
    Edie understood and was moving before the Queen got to the next word. She ripped the spear from the ground and reversed her grip as she spun on her heels. As the gargoyle broke George’s grasp and snarled in victory before slamming his head to pulp and oblivion . . .
    Edie struck.
    The bronze spear entered under the monster’s jaw and came out the back of its head, effectively stapling its mouth shut as Edie continued her forward momentum, vaulting over the creature, snapping its neck backward, and ripping it off George. It lashed out a savage back kick with a sickle-sharp talon, but Edie twisted out of the way without letting go of the spear. She gritted her teeth and used all her strength to jerk it even farther backward.
    The taint’s head snapped off with a sharp cracking noise, and its body twitched and was still.
    Edie looked down into George’s eyes, still wide with surprise.
    “That,” she said with a dark and somehow terrible smile, “felt good.”
    Inside herself, the ache of hoping against hope was suddenly a little less painful.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Anteros
    T he Old Soldier and the Young Soldier wasted no time in telling the other spits what had happened to them and all about the ice murk within the City. There was a shocked silence at the fate of the Duke. Then the silence was