Life and Limb

by Jennifer Roberson

  I massaged my neck, cleared my throat. Swallowed painfully, sucked in and blew out a breath. “Shit,” I expelled on a gust of air, “I guess—” I hacked a little, sucked air again, but the voice still came out broken, “—guess Grandaddy was right.”

  “About which?”

  “All of it! Including the thing that old man said up there today—” I coughed, cleared my throat, flipped a hand toward the ravaged mountain looming behind us, “—about lions taking dogs from the heights. She damn near took me right off. Shit.” I rubbed my neck again. No blood, but very sore.

  Remi bent, collected the knife, examined it in bar lighting. “Huh. SOG Seal Strike.” He turned it over in his hands, admiring the weapon. “Damn near ten inches over all, and a blade almost five.” He looked at me, brows lifted. “Yep, she was goin’ for you, all right.” He bent down in muted light, scuffed at the shattered necklace with the toe of one boot as he studied it. “What’d you do to piss her off so fast?”

  I intended to answer, but the door opened again. I twisted away from it even as Remi stepped back, flipping the knife in his fingers with ease, clearly prepared to use it.

  Another woman, but vastly different. Elegant inked spirals and angled geometry ran in a rainbow of colors up her bared forearms wrist to elbow in sleeve tattoos, twisted silver bands clasped her biceps, and she wore her two-toned hair in a modified Mohawk. It was dark and cropped close to her head on the sides, though not shaved; choppy and red on the top. The end of her right eyebrow sported the twin glitters of silver hoops, and a torc—an actual Celtic torc, worn in the correct manner—hugged the back of her neck as the coiled, knotted ends rested on her collar bones. Even in poor light, her eyes, set at a slight upward tilt, were a very clear green.

  “So,” she said, and a lilt colored her tone, “you boys outside to see a man about a horse, or got something more on your mind?”

  I rubbed my throat again. “Do what?”

  McCue was laughing. “That’s country speech, son. She’s asking if we’re drainin’ the lizard.”

  I reflected that the ponytailed blonde very nearly had drained the lizard, if of something other than piss. And it sent an uncomfortable quiver through my gut. God, those eyes.

  “You Jubal’s boys?” she asked. “You look like it. You look like a lot of them.” She pursed her lips, nodded. “Jubal and his grandkids. I’ve seen many of you. Come on, then. Let’s go next door. My rig’s parked over there.”

  McCue actually tipped his hat to her. “Would you happen to be Lily Morgan, miss?”

  She seemed amused by his Southern courtesy. “Morr-i-gan,” she emphasized. “Not Morgan.”

  Morrigan. Hah.

  Remi caught it, too. I found it clever and amusing as he ran with it. “Your sisters around? You come as a trio, don’t you?”

  Her eyes sharpened on him, accepted his challenge. “They’re in the rig,” she said. “Come on along and meet them.”

  Remi was deadly serious. “Yes ma’am.”

  I watched the woman continue striding ahead. “You’re not suggesting she really is, are you?” I asked, sotto voce. “And her sisters?”

  “Well, I don’t think it’s the Kardashians, no,” he said dryly, “but you just met someone who claims to be Lily Morrigan. You tell me.”

  “Irish mythology in all its beauty,” I answered, grinning. “The Morrigan is the Goddess of Battles, heroes, the dead. She’s either herself and independent, or one of three sisters. The stories differ.”

  The woman swung around, walked backward with tattooed arms hanging loose. Her torc and arm bands glinted in starlight. “So, which do you figure you boys will be? Heroes? Or the dead?”

  I cleared my throat, neck still sore. “Very much alive and victorious,” I replied. “Every damn time.”

  “Well,” she said, smiling, “that is what I’m here for. To make sure you survive to be victorious.”

  “Where exactly are we going?” I asked, looking ahead of her to the building some distance away. “Or are you living in the bowling alley?”

  “Right here.” She paused, stepped aside, swept an illustrated arm out to indicate a massive black-and-red bus-like vehicle that had a front end on it like an 18-wheeler cab.

  “Whoa.” McCue was patently impressed. “That is one honkin’ big rig. Garage unit?”

  She nodded approval. “Sixteen feet of work space at the back end, the rest is all for living. Come on in. I’ve got whiskey.” She tossed a bright glance at me. “Though it’s Irish, not the Scottish Jubal says you prefer. Might help that throat.”

  I was astonished. “You live in a motorhome?”

  It was, I felt, complete cognitive dissonance to link her with the giant vehicle. Lily Morrigan, with tattoos and Mohawk, was most decidedly not what one might think of behind the wheel of an RV, based on what I’d seen at rest stops. She tilted her head a little, assessing me. “The battlefields don’t generally come to me, I go to them. Now, come on inside. I’ll show you a few things, find out what you know, ply you with whiskey until you’re babbling like babies, and then you can crash here after you’ve done the job.” She pulled open the door, climbed steep steps, disappeared inside.

  Oh. Yeah. The job Grandaddy had mentioned.

  Remi went up first, took off his hat as he entered. I waited a beat, ducked in behind him. Stepped into the impression of warm lighting, rich wood, leather, brushed metal fittings. Music was playing, something robustly Celtic.

  And then the crow on its perch croaked, and the huge Irish Wolfhound rose up from the floor.

  Lily Morrigan said sweetly, “Meet Nemain, the crow. The bitch is Macha. My sisters.” Her smile was very wide and it set her eyes alight. “Céad míle fáilte from the Goddess of Battles. A hundred thousand welcomes.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I couldn’t help myself. I was pretty sure I knew the answer, but something in me needed to ask. A couple of days before, no. But after what Grandaddy laid upon us and my encounter with the murderous Iñigo Montoya/Legion (or whatever her real name was), I was no longer so certain how the world was ordered.

  “You’re not . . . really,” I said, and knew it sounded weak. Better I should scoff, or deny. Or simply be polite about it and say nothing. But . . . “From mythology?”

  Then Remi McCue stepped in. “I am a man prone to belief in many things, but this, well . . .” He let that trail off, seemingly at a loss for more. Then he tacked on, “Who are you really?”

  I thought what was she might be a better inquiry, but at least McCue had asked a sensible question. More than I had.

  Her bright eyes amused, Lily Morrigan said, “This from a man whose soul is born of heaven.” Then she shrugged. “Need to know basis. And what you need to know, right now, is that I can set you boyos up with what’s required to undertake the task. Follow me.”

  We followed. McCue seemed unfazed by the surroundings, by the fact we were inside what approximated, to me, a decidedly up-style hotel suite. I noted good wood, granite countertops, rich leather upholstery, flooring a split between tile and carpet. Everything was sized with infinite care to optimize limited space. Couch, recliner, big U-shaped dinette. Stove, oven, sinks, refrigerator, and freezer. Entertainment center over the front cab with speakers, flat-screen TV, CD and DVD slots.

  I’d passed plenty of motorhomes on the road—always, always wallowing in an interstate lane where they did not belong. I’d seen them at campgrounds with awnings put out along with yappy dogs, but I’d never been inside one before; had never anticipated this kind of quality, of detail.

  And certainly I had never expected to walk through a kitchen and into an actual garage that made up the entire back end of the huge RV. It housed banks of utilitarian white-faced cabinetry, a metal ladder running up to a hatch in the roof, diamond-plated chrome flooring, plus a ceiling fan and skylight, and a roll-up door.

 
A rectangular platform of sorts was folded inward and fastened against one big wall, beside banks of drawers; I realized it was a bed that could be lowered and leveled. I saw, too, an oxygen tank, monitors for blood pressure and heart, a tangle of tubing that suggested IVs could be hung. On the other side, where Lily Morrigan led us now, was a stack of drawers topped by cabinet doors, and a counter.

  “Jesus,” I muttered, rubber-necking. “Livin’ large.” Certainly larger than my prison cell.

  She flipped latches, pulled open foam-padded, compartmentalized cabinets and drawers, began taking items out of storage. Two handguns, an assortment of sheathed knives, even two short-barreled shotguns. She also stacked plain cardboard boxes of ammunition, various tubes and flasks, plus small dyed-leather bags with mouths snugged closed by thongs and ribbon. A motorhome that was, I realized, a combination of living quarters, field hospital, armory.

  Remi voiced what I was thinking, though the vocabulary differed: “Might could come in handy, rig like this, at the end of the world.”

  Lily picked up two revolvers, one in each hand, held them out. I took one, McCue the other. I was conversant with handguns in general, knew these after a fashion, but had never fired either style. Mine had a short, fat, 3-inch barrel, long cylinder, a striated grip that felt like rubber. Probably 7.0 to 7.5 length overall.

  I broke it open: five chambers. The one McCue held had a longer barrel; 6.5, I judged, and an overall length maybe 9.5 inches.

  Lily watched me. “Well?”

  I shrugged. “Taurus Judge. Two different models. Both hold .410 shotgun shells—bird- or buckshot—or .45 caliber rounds simultaneously.”

  She nodded. “In our line of work it’s silver rounds, of course, just like the bird- and buckshot. Or powdered iron cartridges. Even consecrated salt will do, though that’s only a temporary hold that gives you time to reload, or get the hell out of there.”

  “Only a five-round chamber,” I pointed out.

  She shot us both a hard look. “If you can’t put down something in five, maybe you deserve to be dead. It’s a revolver, not a semi- or auto, so reloading in the midst of battle is a challenge, but maybe that’ll convince you to get the job done within a couple of shots.”

  I swapped out with McCue so he could inspect the short-barreled model. Other than the reloading in the midst of battling demons thing, I was familiar with the weapons and their features.

  Lily picked up a shotgun, tossed it to me; I caught it, tucked it automatically under one arm. “Well?” she asked.

  I set down the revolver, put the rifle through its paces. “It’s a Remington 870. Started with an 18-inch barrel, modified with a police tactical barrel swapped in. Plug is pulled, so you can load it with five or six shells.” I grinned. “It’s a James Bond movie, right? You’re our Q setting us up with all the cool weaponry? Where are the gadgets? The Aston Martin?”

  She smiled briefly, shoved unmarked ammo boxes toward both of us. “Silver-dipped birdshot, buckshot, powdered iron, silver rounds. Keep in mind that you can’t just walk into any old sporting goods store and buy this. You’ll be with me a fair amount of the time, and others can resupply, but you’ll need to learn to make what you need. You can buy many supplies online, but you can also go to pawn shops and estate sales for silver. You can obtain silver shot online from APMEX—they’re the top gold and silver retailer—but it’s very pricey. Melt down your own, make the shot. Or dip what you buy.”

  McCue studied the gun in his hands, then looked up at her. His blue eyes held respect, but also concern. “You’re serious.”

  “It’s a war,” she said evenly. “I’m here, am I not—the Goddess of Battles? Wake up, boys. You’re part of it, now.” She picked up a sheath, tossed it at Remi. “Tell me about this.”

  He caught it one-handed, set down the revolver. He slid three knives out from the sheath, spread them like a fan. They were slim, elegant, oh-so-sharp, with slightly curved handles. “Hibben throwing knives.” His tone was worshipful. “Gen 2. Blades four and a-half inches, give or take; overall is almost nine. Just under six ounces apiece.” His grin lit up his tanned face. “Works of art, these are. Three to a sheath.”

  “Dipped in silver and holy oil. Get it done in three,” she said, “and you don’t need more. But—a little backup. For you both. Here.”

  McCue set aside the throwing knives as she slid a big leather sheath across the counter to me. I put down the revolver, shotgun, pulled the knife from the leather. Steel blade glinted light and dark in whorls and tangles like oil atop water.

  “Bowie,” Remi said, standing close. “Twelve-inch blade, almost eighteen inches overall. Serious business. Full-tang Damascus steel; look at that patterning. My God, she’s a gorgeous thing.”

  Light glinted off Lily’s piercings as she continued. “Buffalo horn handle, brass fittings; both are protective materials when it comes to certain unnatural beasties,” she said. “Always, always use consecrated holy oil when cleaning. And do it every day.”

  McCue and I exchanged a glance, brows raised. Holy oil?

  Now she touched the leather bags, the silver flasks. “Herbs. Oils. Some for protection, some for stopping, dispersal, or killing. Holy water; but you’ll learn to make your own there, too. You can mix in a little colloidal silver for an extra kick. Consecrate the salt, bless the water, you’re good to go. Holy oil: it’s abramelin, made of equal parts myrrh, calamus, cassia, plus a little essential oil of cinnamon, and seven parts pure olive oil. Add a blessing, it’s ready. You can burn bones with it, take out a surrogate, depending on what’s needed.”

  “Stop.” I raised one palm in a belaying gesture. “Just—slow down.” I looked at the supplies laid out on the counter. Herbs, flasks, ammo, knives, guns . . . “You keep talking about ‘holy,’ ‘consecrated,’ and ‘blessings.’ Are we supposed to haul all this to a priest, ask him to pray over it?”

  Lily’s eyes were bright as her brows rose. “Doing so would probably result in your being arrested.”

  “No shit. And I can’t really afford that. So, we have a priest on our team?”

  Lily looked at McCue, then back at me. Her expression suggested she believed we were perhaps blithering idiots. “That’s right,” she said in tones of dry discovery, “you’re newbies. My bad. Okay, so there are rituals and rites. I’ll give you both cute little booklets containing those you’ll use most often. Learn Latin.”

  “Got that down,” Remi said quietly.

  She looked at me. I shook my head. “A few lines here and there.”

  “Then you learn it, too,” she advised. “Don’t depend on Remi to be right there when you need it. Memorize the rites, because in the midst of demonic confrontation you’re not going to have time to draw out a booklet and find the right page. In the meantime, remember something very, very important.”

  We waited.

  Her expression was quite grave, her eyes serious. She spoke with explicit precision. “No, you do not need a priest to perform anything. Because you are both born of heaven, you imbeciles. Your souls are heavenly matter. Follow the recipes, recite the rituals—in Latin. Call upon that spark inside of you and imbue the hardware—breath, saliva, or blood will do—and you’re good to go.”

  Remi smiled. “Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, et in nomine Jesu Christi Filii ejusmodi, Domini et Judicis nostri, et in virtute Spiritus Sancti, yadda yadda yadda.”

  “It’s a beginning,” Lily said, “but only a beginning. Not all surrogates are the same, and not all rites work on each. Sometimes it’s hunt and peck.”

  I shot Remi a glance. “How do you know all that?”

  “Studied Roman Catholicism,” McCue replied, “along with a bunch of other religions. Doctorate, remember?”

  “And you studied exorcism?”

  He shrugged. “Was always kind of interested in that kind of thing.
Rituals, rites. Maybe I was meant to, bein’ as how we’re heavenly matter supposed to battle evil.” His smile crooked off to the side. “Hell if I know. But it might could come in handy, I guess, if we go runnin’ into any demons.”

  “The Zoo,” Lily said.

  We looked at her blankly.

  “The roadhouse,” she clarified. “You know, that big building standing maybe thirty yards away?” She hitched a thumb in that direction. “It’s haunted.”

  I stared at her. “Haunted?”

  “Married couple, once owned the place. Benign spirits, mostly—supposedly scared some people by doing the typical ghosty things: moving stuff around, screwing with the power, changing the temperature, weird noises, popping up here and there. At least, those were the stories; who knows if they were true. But it became true when the hell vents cracked open. Suddenly there were reports of paranormal activity echoing exactly what the stories claimed.”

  “Wait,” McCue said. “You’re saying you don’t know if these ghosts ever actually existed, but they exist now? How can ghosts do that?”

  Lily looked at me expectantly, and I sighed deeply. “What Grandaddy described . . . if it’s true that all the legends and stories are now real and among us—well, it could be rooted in thought-forms. Tulpas. What’s imagined becomes real. Corporeal. And I can’t believe I’m even saying this.”

  “Baudelaire,” the cowboy murmured. “And what was it Grandaddy said about disbelief opening the door to demons?”

  Lily nodded. “You must accept that these ghosts are now real, thanks to Lucifer. But now it’s much worse, because demons are riding them. One person’s been killed already, two weeks ago. Autopsy said a heart attack, so no one thought any different, but there are certain signs if you know what to look for.”

  “What signs?” I asked.

  She flicked her gaze to Remi. “You’ve heard of the ‘odor of sanctity,’ have you not?”

  “Sure. It’s a pungent, flowery scent associated with the bodies of saints, particularly stigmata. Though I heard stories that some sick people, on the verge of death, reported smelling something strong and sweet.”