Come, Seeling Night

by Daniel Humphreys

  Val read the entry. “Book, leather-bound, Sumerian cuneiform, unknown origin.” He was about to ask what the big deal was, but he cocked his head to one side. When she’d used a Division M agent to communicate with Director Newquist, Helen had told them she was trying to recover a grimoire from her son. “You think this is what she’s been after all along?”

  “I do, but not only that—it’s not a grimoire, it’s the grimoire. She got it on loan from the Pergamon Museum in Berlin. They have an extensive Mesopotamian collection, but this was never exhibited to the public. I sent out a few feelers but didn’t get much on the record. Off the record, the museum doesn’t care all that much, because they always regarded the book as a curiosity and possible late forgery.”

  “Why?”

  “Sumerian only existed as a common written language until the first century. Paper was invented in China, thousands of miles away and two hundred years later.”

  “So, they transcribed it?”

  “On paper that remains flexible, with a leather binding that remains intact, almost two thousand years later?”

  “Shit,” Val said. “Okay—so the grimoire made it to Berlin, then into Helen’s hands. She hasn’t made any blitz soldat, thankfully. And she used the familiar spell before getting the book back, so that’s just standard-issue nasty work. What are you worried about?”

  “Before, I was going to say that the only way for the tracker to react in the way you describe would be if the target was no longer in this dimension. Even if they’re dead, it’ll point you to the body. That sort of reaction means that she’s not here.”

  “Beaver Dunes is a nexus,” Val said slowly. “But anyone unlucky enough to get caught up in it has no control over where they’re going—right?”

  “While you were gone, I did my rounds with the detainees. The San Diego guys are a bunch of hard-asses, but I think Detective Sikora was a little loopy on pain medicine in the hospital. He couldn’t talk much before he started coughing, but I got enough.”

  “Smoke inhalation is tough,” Val agreed. “What did he have to say?”

  “Helen left them a message to pass along to her son. She wanted him to know when and where she’d be.”

  “So they are working together,” Val said. “Ha!”

  “I very much got the impression that this was not a friendly invitation. She wants Paxton to confront her in Randolph Forest during the Ides of March. Randolph, Maine, makes the nexus in Oklahoma look like a pinhole. It is, without exaggeration, the most malleable point on this continent. Maybe even the world.”

  “Why is this the first I’ve heard of it?” Val frowned. “I’ve been around as long as you have.”

  “No offense, but it’s not exactly your department. But Division M thaumaturgy has it warded six ways from Sunday. Tighter than the White House. You haven’t heard of it because we locked it down hard enough that we don’t have to nuke the entire state. And even that builds on top of the work started by the Penobscot tribe and continued by the Pilgrims.”

  “You’re not exaggerating.”

  “If those safeguards fell, the eastern half of the United States could be sucked into another dimension. Worse—something might come through.”

  “‘In his house at R’lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming,’” Val quoted.

  “Lovecraft was an optimist,” Morgan replied with a shake of her head. “I’m not sure what the timing signifies, but at least we’ve got—”

  A shout from outside cut her off, and a few moments later George wheeled frantically into the conference room. “I just got a call from headquarters,” he gasped. “Someone just bombed the Menagerie.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Paxton—Monday morning

  Leesburg, Virginia

  Finding a place to hole up was easier said than done.

  When I reached the crest of the hill, I turned to look back. The building over the underground prison was rectangular and utilitarian. From this vantage point, I could make out no identifying marks to give me a clue about how Division M presented themselves to the world at large.

  The plume of smoke and the number of emergency vehicles in the parking lot were both large enough that I’d likely be able to find some mention of it on the Internet, at least. I moved on.

  The holding facility lay in a hollow, surrounded by hills and trees. Looking out, I’d initially suspected that I was stuck in the middle of nowhere. To my surprise, I found that a subdivision of ostentatious-looking homes surrounded the building. All things considered, it was about the worst place to put a clandestine magical prison, but from Puck’s attitude, I guessed my mysterious enemies didn’t have to worry much about escapes.

  At mid-morning, most of the homeowners were at work. Those who weren’t crowded the edges of their property, gawking at the plume of smoke and gossiping with the other rare neighbor. That, at least, made it easy to ignore the occupied houses. Wrapped in invisibility, I moved on, with the gawking onlookers none the wiser.

  Of the first four empty houses I checked, three had conspicuously-placed security monitoring services signs and the other had a doghouse. Maintaining the cloaking spell was starting to wear on me, and I grew more and more frantic with every passing moment.

  I jogged across a suburban street after I waited for a slowly-moving car to pass in front of me. Yielding the right of way gave me the opportunity to check the license plate, at least. It seemed that I was in Virginia if the car was local. I tried to consider how long I’d been in the plane, but the drugs had thrown off my judgment of time. It didn’t feel like I’d been in the air all that long, but then again, I’d been unconscious for most of it.

  Three streets over, I struck pay dirt. The house was the same design as every other home in the area, but the grass was a little bit too long, and two rolled-up newspapers lay on the front porch. Forcing myself to be patient, I did a slow circuit of the home. Seeing no visible signs of an alarm system or dog doors, I went for broke. I walked up onto the porch, did a quick scan behind me to make sure there was no one in sight, and dropped the cloak. Just as suddenly, I went out of phase and stepped inside.

  It’s a pain, not being able to use two spells at the same time. But in the grand scheme of things, it’s a minor issue. Even if someone had seen me, would they raise an alarm? Or pass it off as a figment of their imagination? In my experience, people are more than willing to lie themselves into acceptance of any number of weird things.

  In the daytime, at least. Once the sun goes down, the lies are harder to swallow.

  Back in phase, I kept my footsteps light as I advanced through the foyer. The drapes throughout open throughout, providing a good bit of light, but also creating a concern. I’d need to be careful moving through the house, lest some neighborhood busybody spot me.

  Someone had arranged newspapers and a pile of mail on a side table. I flipped through the envelopes and noted that the mailing address was in Leesburg, Virginia. Score one for license plate poker. There was also a week’s worth of postmarks. Jack and Nora Davis, who I assumed were the homeowners, had been gone for a while, and it had been a few days since anyone had checked their mail for them.

  It would be my luck that their house sitter might stop by at any moment, but that just lent more of a sense of urgency to my movements. I did a quick walk-through of the house to make sure I was alone, though I didn’t bother with the second floor. If anyone moved up there, I’d hear it long before they’d be in a position to see me. The stairs descended into the foyer in view of the living room, and there was little of interest to me in either place.

  The kitchen was at the back of the house. I told myself before I opened the refrigerator that they’d probably cleaned it out before leaving, but I couldn’t help but feel disappointment at the empty shelves. A couple twenty-ounce bottles of Mountain Dew hung out in with the ketchup, mustard, and mayo on the inside of the door. I pulled them out and toasted the air after guzzling a good bit of the first bottle. “You’re a true connoisseu
r, Jack.”

  The cabinets were more promising, and I assembled a smorgasbord of crackers, peanut butter, a few granola bars, and a box of Cheerios wobbling on the threshold of going stale. It wasn’t what I’d hoped I might find, but beggars—or thieves—couldn’t be choosers.

  Forcing myself to chew slowly, I took inventory. I’d regained my magic, at least—without it, I was an easy target.As far as physical possessions went, I didn’t have much. A pair of sneakers, khakis, a plain gray T-shirt, and a long-sleeved button down. That was just about right for Phoenix in November, but in my quick trek outside, I’d been more than a little chilly. Then there was the fact that everything was grimy and a little gross. I’d get suspicious side-eye from the staff of any stores I walked into.

  Which was a problem in and of itself, since I no longer had a wallet. No ID, no credit or ATM card, no cash. Shit.

  Meal complete, I bundled up the trash as neatly as I could, jamming the granola bar wrappers and an empty cracker sleeve into an empty soda bottle. I’d sipped the second more slowly, but it was nearly empty as well, and I left it out while I put the jar of peanut butter and the other boxes back where I’d found them. Other than a few crumbs on the kitchen island, there was little overt evidence of my passing. I brushed the crumbs into the sink and called it good.

  Stomach full, sugar and starch singing in my bloodstream, I cast an appraising eye toward the ceiling.

  I didn’t feel like I had time to do a load of laundry, but if I was quick about it, surely I could get a shower. If Jack was close enough to my size, maybe I could even get a fresh set of clothes, too.

  Pushing down a nagging sense of guilt, I pulled a spare trash bag from under the sink, finished the last Mountain Dew, and headed upstairs.

  The layout of the second story was simple. The master bedroom sat at the rear of the house, over the kitchen. Smaller bedrooms flanked the stairs. Washington Nationals memorabilia filled the room on the left, and a massive television set across from a pair of recliners. The opposite room was more understated, frilly almost—a small sofa, bookshelves, and a desk with an all-in-one computer. His and her caves, I guessed. I headed for the master.

  The same taste evident in the woman-cave continued into the bedroom. The king-sized, four-poster bed bore a heavy burden of pillows and a patterned comforter. Framed photographs lined the walls. Jack and Nora didn’t look that much older from Cassie and I. They glowed with happiness in the pictures, and from the looks of things they were the sort to spend their vacations outside doing things rather than relaxing. In one photo they posed in ski gear, another, scuba masks.

  I saluted the photo closest to the attached bathroom. “Thanks for the hospitality, folks. I’ll pay you back, someday.”

  Picking through the closet, I found that Jack and I shared a waist and inseam, but his outdoorsy lifestyle had blessed him with a serious upper body. His shirts would all be baggy on me. Tucked in and layered up, it wouldn’t be a big deal.

  My own clothes went into the trash bag, while I was careful to take the more casual clothing showing wear. Hopefully, I wasn’t stealing Jack’s lucky hockey shirt or anything. Naked, I carried both loads into the bathroom. After hemming and hawing whether to leave the door open, I finally just went with it.

  Living out of an RV, bathing usually consisted of a quick shower in the miniature built-in stall. Every so often I’d use the rental stalls at truck stops, just to stand up straight and take more time to enjoy the hot water. Here and now, I split the difference. I lathered up nearly as fast as I did in the RV, but I took a few minutes to let the hot water beat down on my head and blast away some of the accumulated funk.

  It wasn’t as relaxing as it should have been. I kept imagining shouts from below over the spray of the water. Once, certain I’d heard something, I cut off the water and listened intently.

  I remained alone in the house.

  Look at it this way. Surely the house sitter has a job. Why would she come over at—I checked. Ten in the morning? That’s it?

  “Wow,” I said to myself. The way the day had started, it wouldn’t have surprised me if it had been closer to noon. Time might fly when you’re having fun, but it crawled under intense pressure.

  Wiping the condensation from the mirror, I took a look at myself. My hair went bone-white the same night Mother killed my father, and I keep it cut short enough that it didn’t need much in the way of maintenance. Other than the color, it looked fine. The dark stubble on my face was another thing entirely, and with a little guilt, I dug around in the drawers and medicine cabinet until I found a razor.

  I had to laugh at the image of myself shaving with a bright-pink razor, but Jack seemed to be the electric shaver type, and he’d taken it with him. My eyes kept going back to my hair, and when I realized why, I bit back a curse.

  Surely this mysterious agency would try to enlist the help of police around the country. Any description of distinguishing features would include my young age and incongruous hair.

  I dug through the cabinets again, but the rich black hair Jack demonstrated in his family photos was all-natural. However you sliced it, the dude had hit the lottery of life.

  “Something else to take care of,” I muttered with a shrug. Personal hygiene attended to, I relaxed and pulled on the clothes from Jack’s closet. As I’d figured, the shirt was loose, but not by much. Tucked in and covered up by a baggy hooded sweatshirt, I no longer looked like a homeless person.

  The bed was a tempting sight, but I shook my head and forced myself to leave the master. Sleeping uninvited in a couple’s private bedroom seemed like more of a line to cross than stealing food and clothing.

  Secure for the moment, I wandered into the room with the computer on the desk. I needed to get back to Phoenix. Without an RV or even my motorcycle, my only real option was to fly. I considered stealing a car, but that posed its own set of problems. With no money, how would I get gas? Then there was my lack of a license, the possibility of a manhunt by this Division M, traffic cameras, and any number of complications.

  As lousy as my last flight had been, another one was my best option. Crossing my fingers, I found the power button on the computer and waited for it to wake from sleep. A wallpaper of a kitten clutching a tree branch with the caption ‘Hang in There!’ greeted me on the desktop. “Bless your trusting soul, Nora,” I said as I opened up the Internet browser. I’d feared a password, but with an open system, I could do a bit of planning before heading on.

  That bit of luck seemed to use up my supply. I figured my best chance for slipping onto a flight unnoticed was later at night when there should be fewer people on the plane. The last flight out of Dulles en route to Phoenix left before six in the evening. Not only was that too early, the trip was also over five hours long. That was a great deal faster than driving it, but that was a long time to keep up the deception. I wouldn’t be able to hold the invisibility spell for that long, and if I happened to nod off, I didn’t know if I’d maintain it. That was something that bore experimentation, but something told me that sleeping would be a pretty effective off switch.

  I could push any of the flight crew or fellow passengers who found something amiss, but that wholesale abuse of power was the kind of thing I was trying to stop. It struck me as the sort of thing Mother would do, and logical or not, that automatically made me bristle at the thought.

  Of course, that all depended on getting to the airport. Jack and Nora’s house was, according to Google Maps, only a twenty-minute drive to the airport. Tracing the route with my finger, I determined that there was no easy way to walk to it with a couple of major freeways between me and Dulles.

  “What a pain in the ass,” I muttered. I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. Like it or not, I was going to have to get a ride, which meant I’d have to use the push. “Magic book four inches thick. Do you learn how to fly or teleport? No, you had to talk to ghosts. Idiot.”

  Closing my browser windows, I put the computer back to sleep. With my imme
diate needs met, I sat in the chair and stared off into space, unsure what my next step should be. Finally, I stood and moved to the window. Peeking through the curtains, I looked up and down the street. There were hardly any cars in sight—if their neighbors were anything like the couple that owned this home, I imagined they were all at work. Short of going door-to-door in search of a stay-at-home mom, I didn’t have much choice other than to wait. When I saw cars trickling back into the neighborhood, I could keep an eye out for men or women who lived alone. If I had to push someone to give me a ride, I’d rather not have to mess with an entire family.

  I debated calling a cab or an Uber, but that sort of thing left an electronic trail, even if I used my magic to get out of paying. Would my former captors be keeping an eye on that sort of thing, to try and track me down? This house was close enough to the holding facility for me to see that the plume of smoke was gone. If the fire department had completed their job, someone was presumably combing through the wreckage, and if Stocker hadn’t told them I’d gotten out yet, they’d learn sooner or later.

  With no plans coming to mind other than waiting, I gave Nora’s small sofa an appraising glance. It had about eight pillows too many, but after I kicked my shoes off and moved the excess to the floor, it was the most comfortable place I’d rested since the last night at Kent’s house.

  Telling myself to keep listening for the house sitter, I closed my eyes and promptly forgot about the reminder as I drifted off.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Aleister—Monday evening

  Washington Dulles International Airport

  The bloke in the suit moved with too much care to be completely sober. When he plopped into the seat next to Knight outside the terminal gate, the slight slur of his speech confirmed that assessment. “Going or coming?”

  He considered ignoring the guy, but drunks were like puppy dogs—they tended to not want to leave you alone absent a strong reminder. The last thing he wanted to was garner attention from TSA by sucker-punching a drunk, so Knight gritted his teeth and played along, “Headed home.”