Reap the Wind (Cassandra Palmer 7)

I already felt like that a little, grabbing a new mug somebody had put in my hand, somebody with bright eyes and lots of face fuzz and grinning sharp teeth that didn’t look so scary anymore. And watching Pritkin, who was sitting cross-legged, prying the stopper out of a bottle somebody had given him. That held something a lot stronger than beer, by the smell of it.

A lot stronger. He offered it to me, but merely the fumes were enough to singe my eyebrows. But the beer was good and the trees were bright with lights and laughter and songs I didn’t know but that had my toes tapping anyway.

And then I was being pulled to my feet, beer in hand.

And swung off the platform onto a speeding circle of wood already filled with revelers. That deposited us a heart-stopping moment later onto the next tree in line, amid a crowd of laughing faces and grasping hands. And then we were laughing, too, and running across the boards, ducking and dodging and in some cases leaping over the crowd, to catch another passing swing by the skin of our teeth.

“What are we doing?” I asked breathlessly as the trees and the bonfire and the crowd of faces swirled around me.

“Troll dancing!”

“Troll dancing?”

Pritkin nodded, gleeful.

“What the heck is that?”

He didn’t answer. But the next second, I was being pulled from our swing onto the edge of a larger one that had been passing us in midair as we whooshed the other way, only now we were going its way, held on by the grasping hands of a lot of grinning people. And then deposited onto a platform a story or so higher up, after a heart-stopping leap—

Into the middle of a line of revelers on a race around and through and in some cases over the trees.

I just went with it. Rope bridges swayed under my feet, platforms appeared in front of me, above me, on every side, giving glimpses through the foliage of parties taking place everywhere. Swings were caught before I even noticed them being there, stairs appeared out of nowhere, barrels and boxes and in some cases reaching hands substituted for stairs when there weren’t any, and eating, drinking, singing people kept my mug full as we ran past, doing whatever we were doing.

And then Pritkin stopped and pulled me out of the mad stampede into a

corner of a platform.

A blond eyebrow raised. I usually couldn’t see his at any distance at all, but the slight tan made them stand out more. Made him look different, strange. Of course, the easy smiles and casual nudity were already doing that. It was like the guy I knew had been replaced by a happy satyr with leaves in his hair and a glint in his eye and wickedly curving lips.

Which lowered to my ear to say: “Race you.”

And then he was off before I’d even registered what he’d said, catching a passing swing one-handed and zipping away, almost before I could blink. I looked around, a little frantic, and spied a rope ladder going up. I took it to the next platform built onto the tree, a small one with just a couple very drunk guys sitting on it, swinging their legs over the side.

I ran over and knelt beside them, and pulled some branches out of the way so I could see. I didn’t have to ask where Pritkin was headed. There was a tiny platform, like the crow’s nest on a ship, near the top of a huge tree, the tallest in the area. He was looking up at it as he hit a platform on the other side of the open space, and then he paused to look back over his shoulder at me. And grin.

And, oh, it was on.

I grabbed the shoulder of the nearest troll. “I have to get to the top.” I pointed up. “Fast!”

He appeared to be pretty drunk, but the second, who had been draining his mug, finished a few moments later. And let out an appreciative belch that threatened to rupture an eardrum. And pointed.

I followed the unsteady finger upward, to a rope nailed to the trunk above my head. A rope with a loop on the end, like for the size of one foot. And that was it; no platform, not even one of the individual models like the beer fairy had been using. No handhold other than the rope itself. No anything but a noose for the foot of a crazy person, because that was the only kind who would even consider using such an obvious death trap and—

And he was almost there.

I looked out over the clearing and saw Pritkin rapidly ascending a rope ladder, the only thing left between him and his goal. He had less than a couple stories to go, and if there was another way up, I didn’t have time to find it. So, obviously, he was going to win. I should just sit down and drink my beer and wait for him to get back and brag about it, and why was I reaching for the noose?

Which I belatedly realized had been tied down due to tension, and once released—

Was basically a slingshot.

Or maybe a bungee in reverse would be better, because I was jerked up and then across the big open space, before I’d even had a chance to get a good handhold, slipping and floundering and grabbing the rope in front of me with both arms as I tore through a shower of sparks and a haze of wood smoke and ash from the spectacle, which was still fluttering down everywhere, including into my mouth as I kept going up, up, up. And then I caught on something above the crow’s nest, something I couldn’t see but that must have been high, so high, because it jerked me up again and over the edge of the platform and into Pritkin, who was about to step off the ladder. And sent us both falling and rolling and grabbing for the rope balustrade on the far edge, which was the only thing between us and a whole lot of air.

“Are you crazy?” Pritkin was asking, shaking me. “Are you crazy?”

Yes, I thought but couldn’t say because I was laughing too hard. I’d ended up on the bottom, and I stared up into his face and laughed and laughed, I don’t know why. But I couldn’t seem to stop, and I frankly didn’t try too hard.

“You are crazy,” he told me, shaking his head.