Sevala braces her whole body against the massive door, trying with all her might to close it, and failing. This thing must weigh a literal ton. No chance she and Grole can move it alone. Her heart begins to rise in her throat, her breaths puff faster into the cool air, her muscles strain and blaze.
She hears it making chase in the courtyard. Maybe only 50 meters away? 40? The rasp of talon and claw on flagstone is lazy, unconcerned. Dragging and stopping, dragging and stopping. No rush, nowhere to be, there will be blue. There will be food.
“Ses griffes, elles sonnent.” Aimee gasps next to her. Sev yelps in surprise. Where had she come from? She certainly wasn’t with Ethan and Grole on the sprint from the cafeteria.
God, Ethan. Sweet, hot Ethan… What’s that smell?
The exchange student quivers in terror next to her. Did Aimee wet herself? Sevala hopes not. Maybe the lizard just smells of fear and sweat and piss.
“The door, Aimee.” Sevala grunts. Aimee does not move. She’s frozen.
“La door, Aimee” Sevala throws her body up against the Cathedral door again. It won’t budge. Grole sweats and groans next to her.
“We’re fucked Sev, we are so fucked.” He sobs. Lord, why couldn’t it have been him instead of Ethan? Ethan could close a thousand of these doors with a single butt cheek. Ethan is the strong one, not her, not Grole, definitely not Aimee.
Was. Ethan *was *the strong one. The lizard moves again, the scrape of its claws faster now. Headed to them.
“What’s the french word for door Grole?”
The word “port” comes out of Grole’s mouth and he seems surprised, like he didn’t know he knew the word. Had his ends started to go teal while they were running? Sev can’t tell in the scant light the moon pushes through stain glass above.
“Aimee, la port.” Sev shrieks, flecks of spittle flying into the tiny French girl’s elegant features.
Aimee snaps out of it. Her eyes focus, her pupils narrow to a point. Her cheeks flush, She stops shaking. Aimee hurls the little weight she has at the oak door, and it slides an inch forward.
Aimee grunts, “encore,” and the sound fills the cavernous room as if uttered by a giant.
Manic, mad, possessed, little Aimee hurls her body at the door next to Sevala. Again and again and again and again; each time grunting to herself with the voice that shakes the world; devilborn from shaking waif. With each impact, the massive door draws further closed.
The lizard must see the door closing. The dragging of talons hastens to a clatter of bones as it begins to sprint across the cobbles; finding it *is *in a hurry after all. Aimee is too fast, though. The monster won’t make it in time.
“YES AIMEE, YES, YES!!!!!” Cheers Grole from beside her, now drenched in sweat. They might survive this yet. If Kash is watching, he better be cheering too. Sev knows he’d be sweating.
The crack in the door narrows to a slit as Aimee winds up for a last shove, her final bellow accompanied by dust and debris crumbling from the ceiling 10 stories above. The waif, the devil pushes off just as something long, elastic, and mottled brown-pink darts through the opening.
The gromst-tongue.
“No!” Sev and Grole cry in unison as the dull brown body of the gem embedded in the tongue’s tip grazes Aimee’s cheek and flares blinding amber-gold.
Aimee’s body hits the door, and it closes. The latch clicks, and the gromst-tongue falls slack against the wood. Tail pinned on donkey. Take that, you scaly ass.
Aimee sinks to her knees, and keels over into Grole’s arms. She is staring at her hands and sobbing in big gulping breaths as the tips of her fingers begin to sublimate into a mauve smog.
“Ses griffes, elles sonnent.” She bleats, delicate eyes forced wide with panic and pain. The Cathedral around them shakes so violently in response Sev worries it might collapse.
The Gromst is sparing only in its speed, and her arms are largely gone by the time the words have left her mouth. The fog vomits forth, dissolving any boundary that separated Aimee from the outside world. Sev clamps shut her eyes and mouth and holds her breath, the terrible fumes that were her friend saccharine-sweet in her nostrils.
Aimee begins to convulse. Her eyes unfocus, her cheeks drain of color. She wets herself again. Sev wants to hold her, to do something, anything to comfort her, *anything *to help. But she is frozen, helpless; too afraid the fog will take her too.
When the line of spewing smoke reaches her torso, Aimee stills. A whisper escapes her mouth; a voice so tiny that Sevala is shocked as the air around them stirs, beaten by a giant invisible wing.
“Ses griffes, elles sonnent.”
And then she is gone.