by Ryk E. Spoor
“By himself?” Given that the demons who’d taken down the ancient civilization had literally rewritten continental geology, the thought of one person trying to oppose such forces was mind-boggling.
“I suspect…something more complex, something involving your young friend Xavier, Ms. Lumiere, and others. But in the end, yes, I think he will take a direct hand. Somehow, Jason, you are part of those plans. As am I.”
He shook his head. “And I do not know how all this will end.”
Chapter 56: Vows and Threats
“Ready, Jason?”
I took a deep breath. “All set.” I wasn’t nearly as nervous as other grooms I’d known; my nervousness was only an echo of the proposal now. I was more excited than anything else.
I walked up the sunlit aisle, lined with flowers—incongruous against the browning grass of winter—that ran between the rows of chairs on Verne’s back lawn. Many people had wondered why we were having an outdoor wedding in winter. Syl wanted a wedding in the light, and what she wanted, she was going to get. I strongly suspected, however, that the unseasonably warm weather in the last week was not accidental, but due to intervention by a certain priest of Eönae.
Verne, of course, was Best Man. I saw my mom and dad—Mom’s hair still clearly blond (maybe dyed, but I’d never dare ask), Dad’s a distinguished gray—both smiling broadly. Sylvie’s mom sat just across the aisle from them, and was already dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Why do so many people cry at weddings? Jeri Winthrope was also near the front, leaning back in a relaxed pose as she waited for the vows, having already sat through Father Turner’s quick little introductory sermon; Morgan was next to her, straight as a ramrod in his proper butler manner. Kafan was with his three children and Paula, looking happier than I’d ever seen him. I saw Camillus and Meta a row back, along with several other members of Verne’s household who I’d only glimpsed on occasion.
Then I saw Sylvie, and everything else faded. She’d chosen a traditional shimmering white for her gown, and I no longer saw the laughing gypsy princess…or, rather, I saw the shining angel who’d hidden behind the gypsy façade.
I heard the vows, and responded, but at the same time I hardly heard them at all. Sylvie was the only one who mattered.
“You may kiss the bride,” Father Turner said finally.
I lifted the veil and bent down. I don’t know how long we stood there.
Then the party began. But as a favorite character of mine once said, that’s a deceptively simple statement, like “I dropped the atom bomb and it went off.” The reception and dinner went on for hours, and no one seemed inclined to leave early. Hitoshi had outdone himself, and even with my newfound wealth, I shuddered trying to imagine the bill for this one. Imported caviar was a trivial garnish, and I was quite sure that if I’d asked for a truffle, I’d be handed one the same way other people might give you an apple from the fridge. Butterflied lobster, some kind of imported beef that cost twenty times what any other cut might, abalone, the list went on and on. The cake itself was a stunning edifice of the pastrymaker’s art. I learned later that Verne had imported, not the cake, but the cakemaker from Paris just for this one cake.
Finally, with most of the guests cleared out, our inner circle gathered in the living room and Sylvie and I started going through the remaining presents. Most of them were exactly what you’d expect: silly knicknacks, small appliances, we all know the kind of thing. But there were a few…
I studied the long, slender package. “Damn. Feels pretty heavy. What, a crowbar?”
Jeri smiled. “Open it and see.”
I stripped the wrappings off and opened the box. “My god!”
It was a sword—katanaesque in its design, with strange upward-spiking crossguards and a hilt that could be grasped with one or both hands. There was something strange about the metal of the blade, maybe a color or a shimmer. I glanced questioningly at her. “Okay, you people seem to have found out that I collect swords, but I’m stumped on this one. What is it, exactly?”
“Sort of a joke,” Jeri said, obviously pleased that it wasn’t instantly clear to me. “Since you seem to get involved in all kinds of unearthly strange stuff, we thought an unearthly blade would be appropriate.”
“Unearthly…?” I stared at it. “Meteoric metal!”
“Bang on,” she agreed. “There’s a couple outfits that make things like this, so Achernar and the rest of us chipped in to get it.”
“Well, thanks!” I hugged Jeri. “Convey my thanks to the rest of the spies.”
“Will do. Hey, go help your wife over there.”
Sylvie was wrestling with the wrappings on something that stood about six feet high. Finally, the two of us convinced the box to open. Sylvie gasped. “Oh, my…”
It was a vanity table—wood so polished that it seemed to shine from within, a mirror sparkling in the center, drawers so carefully fitted that they slid in and out with only a whisper of sound.
“Oh, Kafan, how beautiful!” Sylvie said, throwing her arms around Verne’s foster son. “You shouldn’t have!”
“Bah,” said Kafan, blushing. “I don’t have much money of my own yet, so all I could do is make something. Jason’s got matching bookcases and a dresser, but I didn’t wrap those up—take up too much room.”
I thanked Kafan, and while Syl hugged him again I chose another package. This one had elegant writing on it that could only belong to Verne. Opening the small box, I found two rings, formed of gold and what appeared to be platinum and ruby, intertwined like growing vines. “What…”
“Gold and platinum, imperishable metals, the essence of the Earth,” Verne said, “and ruby, the bloodstone, symbol of life ever-flowing.” His own ruby flickered, and I thought I saw a faint answering shimmer from the twining ruby threads.
“They’re amazing, Verne,” Sylvie said. Her eyes became distant momentarily, and then widened. “No, Verne, you can’t!”
I understood then. “We can’t possibly—Verne, you took these from your true home! We can’t accept them!”
Verne shook his head. “My friends…my very dear friends…in my culture, such rings were one way that couples to be married would symbolize their vows. In my own collection, they do nothing save gather ages of dust and memories. What better thing could I do with them, than to see the two people who brought back my very heart and rekindled the flame I thought lost wearing the last rings of the Lady? I insist.”
Syl hugged him even more emphatically than she’d hugged Kafan, and I just gripped his hand. There weren’t words to express this kind of thing properly, but he understood.
We went back to wading through the mass of gifts.
“Look, Jason, another blender!” Sylvie said, laughing, from the pile. “Oooh, look at this one!”
“This one” was a large box in shimmering silver-and-gold paper.
“It’s heavy!” I grunted, setting it on the table. It had no card on the outside, and Morgan vaguely recalled that it was among the large number sent to us via special couriers. Presumably, it would have a card on the inside, as most of them did. Sylvie and I undid the wrappings, revealing a hardwood-sheathed box held by a clasp at the top. It had an interesting symmetry of almost-invisible lines down the side, indicating that it opened in a unique fashion; when I undid the clasp, the sides fell away like the petals of a flower.
Sylvie gave a shriek and leapt back; I sucked in my breath and recoiled. I heard both Verne and Jeri gasp.
In the center of the table, the focus of the radiating sides of its box, stood a crystal sculpture of a wolf in mid-leap, facing us with savage glee. Carved on the water-clear base were the words, “’Til Death Do You Part.”
Fear washed away at that taunting, threatening phrase. I glanced around for something heavy, then reached out to heave the glittering reminder through the window.
“NO, Jason!” Verne and Sylvie both shouted.
The desperation in Verne’s voice halted me, even more than the fear in Sy
l’s. “Why the hell not?” I demanded. “The son of a bitch—and I mean that literally—wants to send me a message, I’ll send him one back!”
He plucked the statue from my hands. “Please, Jason. Sit down.”
My heart still pounding from a mixture of terror and fury, I did so, a little shakily. I hadn’t realized just how scared I really was of Virigar until I saw the statue. “Okay, I’m sitting. Now why shouldn’t I break the thing?”
Verne sighed. “Because, my friend, it would have terrible consequences. I do not argue with you what his purpose was in sending this to you, for that purpose is obvious: Fear, uncertainty, to ruin your future with thoughts of your eventual demise at his hands, and to do so on your very wedding day, yes, this is undoubtedly his purpose. Yet you also must understand that Virigar is not an ordinary adversary. He is not even what you believe him to be. He is an ancient being, evil, yes, perhaps more so than you realize, yet with a majesty and a pride that you cannot begin to comprehend. That statue was carved with his own hands, Jason. I have seen a few works like it in my years, and I cannot mistake that inhumanly perfect hand; you have been gifted with a creation the likes of which few mortals have ever even seen, and even fewer have owned. Throwing it away would be a mortal insult, one which would almost certainly require that he turn his immediate attention to your painful demise. It is, in its way, a salute as much as a turning of the screw. You are an enemy who has actually bested him, in a manner that he found artful, original, and worthy, and further, one whom destiny favored sufficiently to save from your second confrontation. For that, he has chosen to terrorize you in a manner worthy of your stature. See it that way, please, and take heart in your own success. He may threaten, but only you can fear.”
Syl nodded, so scared that she couldn’t speak, but obviously seeing the truth in Verne’s words.
I saw the truth, as well. I’d faced Virigar in person. I sensed that what Verne said was true, and more, that the whole thing—even being beaten—was to the King Wolf nothing more than a game. If I played by his rules, I had a chance. If I didn’t, I would be risking the lives of everyone associated with me. “Okay, I’m cool now. But I know what I am going to do with it.” I turned to Kafan. “Could you do me a favor, just once, and let me borrow your transport skills?”
Kafan nodded, confused. “On your wedding day, of course. Where are we going?”
“One second. Verne, that case over there, the one you emptied the other day—can I use it?”
“Certainly, Jason. Consider it a gift.” He measured it by eye. “It will fit the statue admirably, actually.”
“My house, Kafan.”
He took my hand, and there was a flickering dislocation; I suddenly stood in my kitchen. “Whoa. I always wondered what teleportation felt like.”
“It is less disorienting after you get used to it,” he said. “Why are we…?”
“Just a second. Then we can go back.” I ran to the living room, got what I came for, came back. “Okay, we can pop back now.”
It was still disorienting, so I presumed that it took more than a couple of times to accustom oneself to instantaneously crossing distances. After I refocused, I went to the case, in which Verne had just placed the statue, and around it placed six other sparkling objects. “I’m sure he’ll find out somehow what I’ve done with it; let this be my message to him.”
Verne smiled broadly, and Sylvie gave an emphatic nod.
The wolf still sprang, triumphantly leaping upon its cornered prey.
But surrounding it were werewolf claws.
Part VI: Mirror Image
March 2001
Chapter 57: Honeymoon Hotel
“Jason, you’re sure about this?”
I looked over at Sylvie, who was looking through one of the Florida guidebooks. “Sure I’m sure. One of my classmates back in high school used to come here every summer with her family and found at least two.”
She sighed and smiled. “Okay, Jasie. We can spend a few days in the area looking.”
“Hey,” I said, “it’s not like we weren’t planning on spending weeks at the beach anyway. Venice has a really nice beach—that’s where you look for the Megalodon teeth.”
Sylvie put on a mock-indignant expression. “So we’ll be at the beach and all you’re going to look at is fossil shark teeth?”
I reached over and grabbed while keeping my eyes on the road; her sudden giggling shriek told me I’d grabbed the area I’d intended. “Not a chance.”
I glanced over at her again, quickly admiring the sight of my brand-new wife in shorts and a tight shirt—a huge change from her habitual “Gypsy Princess” look, which ran to layered skirts, puffy tops, multicolored handkerchiefs, and acres of sparkling crystal necklaces, earrings, and bracelets, all of which concealed the details of her figure from any prying eyes. I’d always thought she was pretty, although it was a lot more than that which had drawn us together and, almost a month ago, led to our marriage. It had been my immense delight to discover, after the wedding, that the gorgeous face was matched by the rest of her. Yes, as a matter of fact, we had not slept together before our marriage, not that it’s any of your business. We had all of our lives to make up for that lost time, after all. And I certainly intended to spend plenty of that time admiring her whenever she chose to wear something like the glittery bikini she had bought earlier today.
Venice looked much like other Florida towns—built low, no really tall buildings, the newer homes and condominiums tending to follow the same vaguely Hispanic pattern while the older ones often had more individuality. It was, however, smaller than many others we’d visited, and as such was less built up and felt more relaxed.
I chose one of the nearby hotels that had beachfront—with my current finances, I didn’t need to worry about how much I spent on our honeymoon—and parked in a lot that was surprisingly empty of cars, with only a green Ford, an orange Saturn, and a couple of dully colored Hondas taking up spaces. Once more expending the effort that put the “lug” into “luggage,” Syl and I dragged our stuff into the lobby.
“Reservations?” the big, cheerful-looking man behind the desk asked.
“Actually, no; I was hoping you had some openings.”
“As a matter of fact, we do!” he said, grinning. “Y’all are in luck; had a small convention here over the weekend, and when they left, it gave us a small hole to fill. Just the two of you? Newlyweds, I’ll bet?”
“Yep,” I said, answering both questions with one word. “How’d you guess?”
He chuckled. “Guess? My friend, after fifteen years in the business, there ain’t no such thing. Seein’ two people walkin’ in like that, draggin’ a hunnert pounds o’ junk without so much as a groan or a gripe, an’ tryin’ to stay as close together as they know how, you know they just got hitched.” He went to his computer and glanced at another monitor near it. I knew from its location, the glance he gave it, and the odd camera unobtrusively pointed right at the check-in desk, that it was a standard CryWolf system ($250 retail, $350 with monitor) as provided by Shadowgard Tech under license from me directly. “How many days you folks plannin’ on stayin’?”
“Two or three. Say three.”
“That’d be two nights, then.” A few taps on the keyboard, then, “Cash or charge?”
“Charge. Here.”
I handed him my card. He turned around to his credit validation scanner, slid the card through, and sent the query through the lines which would determine whether or not my plastic was worth anything.
Had I been in a different line of business, or not been looking straight at his back, I might have missed it. But as the little credit gadget’s screen lit up, I saw him stiffen, like a man opening his eyes to discover a scorpion sitting on his stomach. It was just a moment, but I was sure I’d seen it. “Anything wrong?”
He was just a hair slow in answering, and the first few words lacked the breezy, relaxed tone of our earlier conversation. “No. Not at all.” His voice came bac
k to normal. “Sorry, got distracted there, remembering something I gotta do—one of the rooms needs work and I plumb forgot. Not yours, don’t worry ’bout that.” He turned around, the credit slip in his hand, and gave me back the card. I signed, he did the ritual of glancing at the card and my signature, accepted that the scrawls looked similar enough, and handed me back the yellow copy. “Okay, Mr. Wood, you’re all set. Here’s two keys, I’ve given y’all one of our oceanside rooms, that’d be number 240. Just take the elevator there—here, lemme help you with that.” He hefted our bags onto a rolling cart. “There ya go. It’ll be the second door to the right after y’all get off the elevator. All the rooms got cable, air conditioning, plus the doors have the new CryWolf peephole gadgets so’s you can make sure any visitor is who they say they are. Pool’s open from ten to ten, and we own the beach out front there. Lifeguard’s around from ten to eight on the beach—after that y’all are on your own. Thanks for coming, have yourselves a great time, and if y’all need anything, just call down to the desk here. My name’s Vic.”
“Thanks, Vic, we will,” Syl said.
We wheeled our luggage to the room and got it settled. While we did so, I mentioned my observation to Sylvie.
Syl frowned. “Hmm. I didn’t see it myself, but I know how good your observation skills are. Still, Jason, I didn’t feel any hostility from him. I don’t feel there’s any immediate danger.”
“Good enough for me. Let’s get down to the beach.”
Chapter 58: Never Off-Duty
“This really is a pretty little town,” Syl said as we walked down one of the sand-strewn sidewalks in flipflops, looking very appropriately like tourists. She glanced around at the palm trees whose sunset shadows stretched towards the other side of the street.
“It certainly is that,” I agreed. “Though not nearly as pretty as you.” I luxuriated in walking on a solid surface after having spent the afternoon either sifting gravelly sand for fossil shark’s teeth or chasing after, and sometimes catching, a certain black-haired enchantress in a bikini.