by N. D. Wilson
How could they not be in California?
Or maybe they were in California right now, while they were inside the tree, but they weren’t once they went outside. Maybe she’d opened the crack wrong. Maybe she needed to open a different part of the trunk, or start with a different ring. But she hadn’t done it; the tree had….
She could feel her breath quickening, and even with her eyes shut, the space felt tighter than it had all night with three boys, damp with sweat, snoring around her. She was the one damp with sweat now. Her forehead was slick with a cold layer, and a single droplet rolled down her spine.
What had she done? Her ribs shook. But just once. She managed to bite back the sob. That was the fear. And fear wasn’t helpful right now.
Fear that she would never find their way back. Fear that her parents would return to a home without her and without her brother. Instead they would be devoured by a witch with mushroom men and a creepy cat.
She bit her lip harder, hard enough to turn her fear into anger. Hard enough to draw blood.
That’s not how this was going to go. She would find her way home, and the witch was going to die.
“We have to figure this out,” she said quietly. “We will figure this out.”
“What?” Lawrence asked. “Figure what out, Hy?” He shuffled in place. “I really have to go.”
“Mordecai,” Caleb whispered. “What did she do?”
Gritting her teeth and closing her eyes, Hyacinth tried not to listen. Facing the back of the hollow, across from the first crack, she tried to clear her mind and focus on where she wanted to be. Somewhere the witch wasn’t. Somewhere safe. Somewhere they wouldn’t die.
“She opened a way,” Mordecai said. “I think the old woman collected dead lightning trees for a reason.”
Not dead, Hyacinth thought. She touched her bitten lip and then touched the wood. Somewhere with my family. Somewhere near this blood.
This time the tree did not need waking. The life in the grain had already quickened. The trunk shivered and groaned all around them. Rocks bounced and hopped beneath their feet, and the hollow inside the tree began to close from the bottom up.
Lawrence jumped, trying to grab on to the sides, but he only managed to throw his arms around Hyacinth’s neck. They slammed into Mordecai and Caleb, and all four of them writhed and climbed, pulling up their feet as quickly as they could while the wood rumbled shut.
“Stop!” Hyacinth yelled. “Please!”
The sides began to close in.
But they weren’t just closing in. They were becoming smooth. The bottom stopped rising and flattened. Above them, the chimney hollow rumbled shut, cutting off the light.
All four sides pressed in tight against them and then stopped. Lawrence was wriggling against Hyacinth’s side, and one of the brothers was breathing on her face. The ceiling was less than a foot above their heads.
The smell of burned wood was even more powerful than the smell of breath.
“Hyacinth,” Mordecai said simply. “This is worse.”
“Shush,” Hyacinth said. “I hear voices.”
She pressed her ear against the wall beside her. But instead of listening, she felt the wood lurch stiffly. A seam of light opened all the way up the center, and a slice of cool air found Hyacinth’s face.
The voices grew louder.
“It’s a door?” Caleb asked. “Push it open.”
“Hy,” Lawrence said, and she could hear the urgency in his voice.
“I know,” she whispered. “You have to go. Just hold on a second.”
Leaning forward, careful not to rest her weight on the doorway, Hyacinth put her left eye to the crack.
The room was octagonal, lit with oversize lightbulbs hanging from heavy chains from a high beamed ceiling. The walls were made of smooth stone, and they were lined with loose doors and cabinets and boxes.
In the center of the room, there was huge plank table with six people around it. On the side facing Hyacinth, two men and one woman were examining picture frames—crudely constructed and occasionally charred. The man in the center had dark hair, and even though he seemed young, his face looked like it had been made from a saddle and sandpaper, and his eyes were set in deep shadow beneath his brows. He was wearing a tan linen shirt with an over-both-shoulders double holster that held a gun beneath each arm.
The other two—a round man with a long beard, and an old redheaded woman with a face made of freckles—were more distracted by the frames and much softer.
The hard young man leaned back in his chair and focused his attention on three people sitting quite still across from him—also two men and one woman.
Their backs were to Hyacinth, but she knew them.
The Viking.
And her parents.
—
TRUDIE HATED THE ROOM. The Room of Ways, they had been told it was called. Why they had to give their statements in front of strange paintings and carved cabinets and ancient doors, she did not know. Even worse, there were two coffins in the room as well—three if she counted the Egyptian sarcophagus that had been converted into something that looked more like a wardrobe. She had given it no more than a glance—enough to see that the ancient rituals depicted all over it focused on honoring Reshep, the god of lightning, war, and pestilence. A real charmer.
She slipped her hand off the arm of her chair and slid it under her husband’s on his.
“Do you need to take a break, Mrs. Smith?” The boy with the guns spoke with a twang. She had last seen him when he was barely ten. Bobby Boone, all jokes and smiles. Now, even as young as he still was, he would have been intimidating among any group of killers. Of course, that was probably the point. That’s why the Order had selected him for the job he now held. Like a sheriff in the Old West…he was the lawdog, investigator of violent threats against members. Blood Avenger when lives were lost. His title was Avengel.
“No, sir, I’m fine.” She smiled. “And please call me Trudie.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, smiling. “And I’d appreciate it if you would just call me Robert. Or Bobby, like you used to.”
“Well, Bobby,” Albert said, “we’ve brought you some samples of the frames. We’ve given you a full and complete description of the creature we killed. Is there anything else you need from us before we leave?”
Bobby Boone tapped the table, and for a moment he watched the bearded man and the redheaded woman as they examined every millimeter of the frames.
“This woman,” he said. “Granlea Quarles. You believe that she has been intentionally gathering and milling lightning trees for use in way-making spells.”
Albert nodded. “Although I suspect she is only attempting to continue old Isaac’s work. And now that the property is ours, we will be erasing every trace of their efforts.”
The young man studied Albert, unblinking. Trudie felt her husband’s grip tighten. She heard him swallow.
“Excuse me,” Trudie said. “Robert.” She smiled quickly. “It’s hard to call you Bobby now. But I hope you don’t mind if I ask you a personal question.”
Trudie could feel Albert tensing up even more. He had no idea what she was doing. They had discussed their plan—get in, say as little as possible, get out, get home.
“Ma’am.” Bobby grinned. “You can get as personal as you like. I hope I haven’t done something wrong.”
“Oh, no,” Trudie said. “And if you had, I’d let your mama handle it.” She was letting a little bit of drawl creep into her own voice now. If she had some sweet tea, she would have handed him a glass. She wanted the tone in the room to change. She needed him to look at her and see his mama’s old friend, and feel himself being put just a little bit on trial. “You look like you’ve been through a lot. And it’s not just that you’re all grown up. You look, well, you look like you’ve been through a war.”
Bobby Boone’s smile faded a little. “You could say that, ma’am.” He straightened up in his chair. “I’m young—too young for the
Avengel’s job, more than likely. But I’ve been living dog years for a while now—seven years in every one. And I expect it will feel like that from here until the end.”
The pair that had been inspecting the frames stacked them all neatly on the table, apparently finished with their task, and then turned to leave.
“Nothing,” the bearded man said.
“Lightning force,” the woman added. “And lots of it. But no way-magic at all. No manipulation of the grain.”
Robert Boone nodded, and the two exited the room through a heavy iron door, whispering as they went, but then slamming it behind them.
“All right, then,” Robert said. “You’ve asked a personal question. Now I’ll ask you one, Mrs. Smith. How many children do you have?”
Trudie’s throat cinched tight.
“I’m sorry.” Thor leaned forward, placing his big hands on the table. “Could the two of you catch up at some other time? You know the family, Boone. And you have whatever records you might need. Albert and Trudie have fulfilled every duty as members and more. And I’ve donated the use of my plane. Unfortunately, I need to be on my way.”
“And I thank you for that,” Robert said. “But I do have a point, Mr. Smith.” He pointed at Albert. “You believe that a crazy old woman successfully opened a way between worlds, allowing four monstrous creatures to enter, but you still trust her enough to leave her in possession of your children?”
“Of course not,” Albert said. “I don’t trust her at all.”
Thor rapped his knuckles on the table. “On the way here, I delivered his children to Llewelyn’s camp up north, along with my own godson.”
—
HYACINTH BARELY MANAGED to turn around in the tight box.
“Are you sure the back is closed?” she whispered. “We can’t go out this way. Not right now.”
“Of course we’re sure,” Caleb said. “We wouldn’t be in here at all if the back were open.”
“It wouldn’t be the back if it were open,” Mordecai muttered.
“Hyacinth,” Lawrence whined. “I’m going to have an accident.”
“Just…okay.” Hyacinth spread her hands against the sides. “Hold on, L. Just hold on.”
But Lawrence tried to wriggle past her.
“No,” she hissed, and blocked him. “You can’t!”
“Yes,” Lawrence said. “I can.”
Caleb and Mordecai tried to grab on to him, but he was already in motion. Lunging forward, Lawrence put his shoulder into Hyacinth’s stomach, yelled, and drove her out through the doors, tumbling with her onto cold stone.
Hyacinth landed hard, and her breath escaped on impact. She heard her mother scream as Lawrence rolled right over her and jumped to his feet.
There was a man standing up with two guns drawn, pointing at her, at Lawrence, and then back at Mordecai and Caleb as they stepped out of what had apparently once been an Egyptian sarcophagus.
“I really need a bathroom,” Lawrence said, dancing in place. “Super bad.”
GRANLEA QUARLES OPENED HER eyes for the first time in hours. Her arms and legs were spread wide and she was flat on her back…on the ceiling.
She was in her living room, looking down past tendrils of her dangling white hair at the wreckage on the floor and at the witch, rocking slowly in her rocking chair, stroking a bloody white cat.
The pressure pinning her to the ceiling was immense, and it pushed against every inch of her body. Even breathing was difficult.
Before falling unconscious, she had witnessed the arrival of the witch’s wolves and hunters and wizards. She had seen them stream in through the open doorway in her wall and march away with confidence.
“How,” Granlea gasped, “did it go?”
The witch didn’t look up, but her hand paused for a moment on her cat.
“You know,” Granlea said, “I bear you no ill will.”
The cat slowly looked up, directly into Granlea’s eyes. And what Granlea saw was anger. Hunger. But above all else, cruelty.
“When my brother, Isaac, began…” She paused, fighting for a large-enough breath to finish her sentence. “When Isaac began his quest, he was seeking faeries.”
“Faeren,” the witch snarled, and then spat on the floor.
“But he thought faeries were creatures,” Granlea breathed heavily. “Grand like you.”
“Fool,” the witch said. “I know your Isaac. He wandered into Endor, clothed all in white, claiming to be an ambassador from the children of men. When my servants brought him to me, he begged to be made undying and trained in Endorian power. In exchange, he offered me his world.” The witch coughed, scraping a laugh up her throat. “I offered to apprentice him to my own father, Nimroth Blackstar, and your Isaac wept with joy.”
“What did you do?” Granlea asked.
The cat blinked.
“I kept my word,” the witch said. “I presented him as a gift to my mad father. And he was consumed.”
“You sent him to his death?” Granlea asked.
“He is not dead. His soul has fed the Blackstar. He will live on forever, wherever one of our blood may strike. He is as undying as the incubi bound up in my veins.”
Granlea shut her eyes, and the pressure on her body almost erased her consciousness again.
“Will you also try to barter?” The witch laughed. “What have you to offer me? There are only two things I desire. Verily, three that will sate me. Four that can bring me happiness.”
The rocking chair sighed, and Granlea reopened her eyes. The witch was on her feet. She and the cat both turned their faces up toward the woman on the ceiling. The cat’s eyes were locked onto Granlea’s, but the witch’s gaze was as blind as it was beautiful.
“Four things,” Granlea said, panting. “I’m sure I can help you with one of them.”
“I desire the rule of this and every other world, the taste of every living thing upon my tongue. Can you bend me every knee?”
Granlea tried to shake her head, but her dangling hair barely wavered.
“No,” the witch said. “Now look on me as I am.”
In a flash, the beautiful witch-queen was gone, and in her place, there stood a woman as shriveled and bald as a diseased monkey. Dark pus dripped from open sores on her arms and legs. Her patchy scalp was covered with bloody scratches, scabbed black, and her lips were split and torn. She had no eyes. She had only oozing scratches and claw marks striping down her brows, across her baggy, empty eyelids, and down her cheeks.
In her skeletal arms, she still held her cat. And the cat’s eyes still searched Granlea’s.
“Can you heal my eyes?” the witch snarled. “Can you give me sight that is again my own? Can you ease the burning in my veins?”
Granlea gasped in disgust. She wanted to turn her head and look away, but she couldn’t even manage to blink.
“No,” the witch said. “The cursed man who took my eyes has only two more living sons, and they have dared defy me. Can you gift me the sons of the eye-thief? Can you stretch them on an altar and plunge a knife into their hearts? Can you fill a bowl with their blood so I might dip my cat’s tongue and quench my hate?”
The wrinkled witch hissed up at Granlea, and then spat on the floor between her own feet.
“No,” the witch said. “These things I will do for myself, and owe you nothing.”
In another flash, the witch transformed back into her former beauty, then sat back down in the rocking chair.
“There are one thousand lightning-struck trees in your grove,” the witch said. “Four hundred and forty-four more twice struck. It is a powerful number. The sons of the eye-thief opened a way through one of them, but those mongrel boys may return through any of the others. Even now my way rites are being prepared, and the bloods will soon be mixed. I will open every way, I will set in every tree a crossroads, and all will lead to me.” The cat began to clean the witch’s arm with its tongue.
“Why keep me up here?” Granlea asked. “Why not
just kill me?”
“You are the mistress of the trees,” the witch said. “Your blood will be required.” She sighed, rocking gently in the chair, staring blankly at the empty fireplace.
“In this place, I shall open the greatest Grove of Ways since Semiramis fled the wind-hung gardens of Babylon, since Fuhi gathered the beasts with his gopherwood doors. I will be the mistress of worlds.”
“Blind mistress,” Granlea grunted. “Too bad you won’t see them.”
—
HYACINTH WATCHED LAWRENCE RUN for the big iron door while Robert Boone rose to his feet, drew both guns, and tracked him.
“Stay put, kid,” Boone said. But Lawrence kept running.
“Lawrence!” Trudie yelled.
“Hi, Mom,” Lawrence said. “I’ll be right back. I have to find a bathroom.”
“No,” said Boone. “You don’t.”
A fiery band of light erupted out of the sarcophagus, winding around Robert Boone’s arms and slamming him down into his chair so hard that it tipped over backward.
Albert and Thor jumped out of their seats, and Trudie clamped a hand over a scream.
Mordecai and Caleb stepped into the room.
Lawrence managed to tug open the iron door, dancing while he did it.
“Down the hall to the right,” Thor said.
“And then come right back,” Albert added.
Lawrence slid out into the hall and sprinted out of view.
“First, Hyacinth Smith arrives,” Robert Boone drawled from his back. “The shameful young witch, long hidden away by her parents.”
“She’s not a witch,” Mordecai said, and he jerked his burning hand, flipping Robert’s chair upright so hard that it nearly slammed his face into the table before the vines held it tight.
“Then I expect you’re not a wizard either.”
“No, sir,” Mordecai said. “Wizards are useless.”
“Then explain to me,” Robert said, “how you reopened and entered a sealed and forbidden doorway that is kept in a room that has for centuries prevented all such travel.”