by VK Fox
Sister Mary nodded, her voice kind but without frills. “Jane, I am sorry if this is the first time you’re hearing it, but people who hold links can’t have children.”
The words were a slap in the face. “What? Why? How does that even make sense?” Fucking Dahl had failed to fucking mention it, except for the wisecrack earlier in the day. She’d never been baby crazy like some girls, fawning over every kid that wandered by and picking out names and numbers and whatever, but having a family seemed likely. Little moments like blowing the seeds off dandelions and bedtime stories were tucked in her future. Now those dreams would never materialize. She was it. The end of her personal line.
Sister Mary continued, “I don’t know the medical reason, but the explanation I heard was being linked to another reality weakens your hold on this one. Honestly, it sounds like a silly hand wave, but it’s all I know. As kids were never for me, I never dug into it. I’m sorry I don’t have anything more concrete to offer.” Sister Mary stood. “Do you want to talk more, or should we get going?”
Jane stood. “Let’s get going.” The trees were bare of trail signs as images of her shifting future swirled through her mind.
Chapter Twenty
The women continued dead ahead from where the cryptid had taken flight, since a monster the size that the prints indicated would be a pretty clumsy flier, good for short hops and maybe gliding like a turkey or a vulture, but unable to achieve agile changes in direction. A five- to eight-hundred-pound turkey or vulture with cloven hooves and eight razor-sharp talons. Lack of agility was a small consolation. Twenty minutes of searching with her face tipped skyward left Jane with a stitch in her neck and increasing frustration. Sister Mary rubbed the sun from her eyes and muttered, “Saint Hubert and Saint Jude, pray for us.”
“Oh!” Jane was entirely too loud, and it earned a sharp glance from Sister Mary, but she pressed on in a whisper. “Of course you know Catholic saints!”
“Sure,” Sister Mary whispered back. “Saint Hubert is the patron of hunters and Saint Jude is the patron of hopeless causes. He isn’t the only patron of lost causes, but he’s my favorite. Are you Catholic? Or interested academically?”
“Both I guess. I’ve kind of recently reconverted to Catholicism . . .”
“Welcome back.”
“. . . and my link formed after reading a book of saints, so naturally I’m interested.”
Sister Mary stopped dead, her mouth slightly open. Had she said too much? Or was Sister Mary just interested in the saint connection? The Sisters didn’t know what book they were after at her apartment, so most likely Mary had not connected the dots. The way Ian talked about it, Sana Baba didn’t have any agents linked to saints, so that must be rare. Jane relaxed and took a mental Polaroid, as she’d probably never see an equivalent expression on the unflappable nun’s face again.
“That’s amazing.”
“Thanks.” Jane grinned.
“No, really.” Sister Mary was nodding. “I see why Ian wanted me to meet you. Just incredible.” A blush crept up Jane’s neck as she scuffed some of the mud off her shoe. “Do you know which one?”
“Ian thinks there might be more than one. I figured Saint Barbra, but I don’t know about the others. Maybe you could help me when we’re done saving the world and all?”
“Yes, absolutely.” Sister Mary paused, choosing her words. “Do you have a plan for after this? Ian said you were contracting on this assignment, but obviously you two are close. Will you be continuing with him once we’re finished here?”
“Honestly, right now I’m having a hard time figuring things out a few hours in the future.”
“I get it. Maybe I can get leave from Mother Superior to travel in tandem.” Sister Mary half grinned. “That’s what we call it when we’re pretending not to work together.”
Jane picked her way around a few brambles, scrutinizing the trees. “I really don’t want Sana Baba to know about me. If you could not let anything slip beyond Ian, Dahl, and Mother Superior, I’d appreciate it.” The list of people who knew was already uncomfortably long.
Sister Mary’s brow creased. “Are Ian and Dahl agreeable to this?”
Jane swallowed. “Yeah, they said they could keep it on the down low.”
“Jane, I don’t want to pry, but—”
“Look!” Jane was, again, too loud for tracking, but the sight of the tree limb dangling by a thick strip of bark twenty feet up after so much dead trail brought a surge of childish excitement. Sister Mary’s Benelli M4 was barrel up before Jane’s shout tapered off, and another puncturing glance was thrown her way once Mary established the coast was clear. Jane was pretty sure being a living saint wasn’t going to spare her a tongue-lashing if she announced their position to the world again.
A few trees farther out was a birch trailing ribbons of shredded bark at a similar height. The next tree held smaller, fallen upper branches tangled in its lower arms. Sister Mary put a finger to her lips and signaled for them to move out.
Jane’s focus on the upper branches was so intense, she nearly tripped over the little campsite. A small pile of kindling in a ring of stones, a plastic bag with half a PB&J, and a leather book were laid out around a fallen trunk at a good sitting height. Sister Mary was laser focused on the trees, so Jane stooped to examine the small group of discards. The book was open, a leaf jammed in as a bookmark. Sister Mary motioned for Jane to stay put and started a circuit around the trees bearing trail signs. Jane crouched noiselessly. Since Sister Mary had the tracking thing under control and Jane’s job was being quiet, she smoothed back the pages and read:
Eileen stood on the nosy pedestrian side of the crime scene tape, listening to gossip. The bodies had been cut down before she arrived and tarps hung around the base of the footbridge, shrouding the area under it. She was on the bank, trying to get a peek at blood or entrails in the rocky stream below. Two teenagers had been killed, disemboweled with an axe, and hung from the bridge. No one knew their names, but speculation ran rampant. All of her neighbors crowded against yellow police tape, trying to figure out whose kids were never coming home.
For the first time, Eileen was deeply thankful David was far away. He may be out in the world with its dangers and pitfalls, but he wasn’t in a body bag. He could still make good choices, figure things out. He could live a full, long life and come home for Christmas.
Eileen watched as an officer on the scene, a stout woman with a severe, short haircut, ducked under the tape with a box full of evidence bags. Eileen fixated on a stuffed animal, soggy and ripped, in the top bag. The detail of that little stuffy was too much to process. She had to leave.
She turned abruptly and was at her car without knowing how she got there. She opened the door, sat, buckled, and put the keys in. Even this small, familiar routine brought her back from a dark place. Just focus on the next thing. No reason to think about the stuffed animal that would never again be cuddled. No reason to think about the bridge and the polluted water below.
The next thing was driving home. Take the car out of park and check her blind spot before pulling out. It would be a quick drive home and then a bite to eat, and maybe she’d head over to Longwood Gardens for the fountain show. The flowers might be winding down, but fountains lit under the night sky were beautiful and just the thing to brighten a chilly, lonely evening.
Morty was chattering as Eileen came in the front door. He didn’t bark, exactly, but he made a high, staccato noise when he got excited. Much nicer than barking, less jarring on the nerves. He’d been cooped up in his basement crate for a few hours, and he would enjoy a little jaunt around the fountains. She gathered his leash, a couple of plastic bags, and a “Service Dog” bandanna to duck pesky questions at the entrance gate.
“Jane, drop it.” Jane’s head snapped up. Mary’s intensely dispassionate expression was more frightening than any level of terror. Jane dropped the book, and it fell closed on the leafy forest floor. The title Eileen’s Story was stamped in bold,
silver Times New Roman against tan leather.
Jane’s mouth was dry. “Mary, what’s wrong?”
“Did you feel anything when you read it?”
“No. It’s a story about Eileen—”
“Don’t tell me what it said!” Iron in Sister Mary’s voice cut Jane short. She snapped her mouth closed. “Jane, listen up. If you felt any change from that book, any tingle of magic, any connection, any sensation, we need to go to the convent immediately. We can handle this, but time is essential. Anything?”
Jane shook her head. Her lip trembled. “Nothing. I swear.” Sister Mary’s shoulders loosened, and she exhaled with a small whistle.
The tension evaporated, and Jane cast her eyes up as eight hundred pounds of flying muscle slammed into the ground with the force of a tractor trailer. A smack from one hand threw her tobogganing across the forest floor. This was it. In the face of the unstoppable onslaught, Jane clung to a single word: survive.
Flung over the ground before the beast, Jane rolled onto her stomach an instant ahead of the massive weight scrabbling along her back, tearing into her—rending backpack canvas, leather jacket, flannel, and skin. Face in the dirt, Jane’s lungs burned and compressed as she lay, limp as a drunk doll while the cryptid lunged forward. Something hot and wet dribbled through her hair and ran down her neck and cheeks: hopefully saliva and not blood. Her hand grasped the bear spray canister at her side as her body filled with a strange, desperate urgency. Her lungs were on fire. One arm pinned. A weird, crunching pressure formed at the back of her skull. Jane pulled the spray.
In an eternal second, she popped the cap, aimed the canister backward over her shoulder, and let it rip. The pressure in her skull, swelling like a melon about to pop, instantly released as the huge weight reared back. Gunshots exploded while Jane sucked in desperate gulps of chemical-laden air and dirt. With a final shove, the massive beast lifted. Coughing took over everything she could do, her lungs demanding oxygen and getting filth—bear mace, bloody saliva, and detritus from the forest floor. Every convulsion was a white-hot stab of pain in the side and a burning, sickening, suffocating fire spread over Jane’s eyes, nose, cheek, lips, and mouth, seeping into every cut and scrape with immolating urgency. The lips were the worst. Chapped from the mountain air, the sensitive skin was on fire as Jane impotently clawed at her face. Another gunshot forced her hands to her ears. No lesser sounds could register through the smothering, endless agony.
Cold, marvelous water poured over Jane’s head. Accidentally inhaling some was a small price to pay. Jane wished she could lay limp under the steady cooling stream, but instead her body was still convulsing, expelling what it could from her lungs while her side howled in protest.
Sister Mary’s voice penetrated the Scoville-spiked haze. “You’re okay. Everything’s going to be all right. No major injuries, just some nicks and bumps.”
The mind-bending pain was from just a few nicks and bumps? Jane intensely, desperately wanted Ian. He wouldn’t be so dismissive. Sister Mary switched from water to another bottle that smelled like baby shampoo and then back to water again. The blistering heat in Jane’s skin and eyes gradually faded. The stuffed canvas of Jane’s backpack was nudged onto her lap, and Sister Mary positioned Jane’s arms around it. The flow of water tapered off, and Jane lay on her side on the leaves, managing to get the coughing from “agonizing force of nature” to “excruciating annoyance” as the last pepper spray rinsed away and she steadied herself by hugging the pack. After assisting her to sit, Sister Mary briskly worked over her body with practiced hands. Jane yelped before Mary had even touched her side.
“Bruised rib or two, maybe small fractures. No biggie.” Sister Mary summed up the agonizing injury with a light tone. “We’ll take the rest of our hike at a more leisurely pace, hook you up with some painkillers, and you should be all set. Good news is your skull’s fine. Nice action with the bear spray. One thing to keep in mind,” Sister Mary’s sun-worn expression came into full focus, a clotted scrape across her cheek and forehead where she’d evidently hit the dirt. Leaf pieces clung to her long-sleeved black shirt. The cryptid must have knocked her aside when it landed. “Scalp wounds bleed a lot. Doesn’t make them serious. Yours aren’t. They look a little gnarly though, so don’t freak out when you next meet a mirror. Now, are you ready to go get the bastard?”
Jane gritted her teeth, grinding bloody dirt between them, and nodded with a sharp jerk. She clamored to her feet with Sister Mary’s assistance and a lot of swearing. In an upright position, her eyes and nose poured fluid. Sister Mary gave her the water bottle and a thick flannel kerchief, and Jane rinsed her mouth, spitting on the ground, and wiped her face. When she pulled the cloth away from her tender skin, the older woman was bagging the leather book in a gallon ziplock with her latex-gloved hand.
“I tagged him twice, so hopefully he’s gone off somewhere to die, but it’s best not to bank on hopefully.” Mary turned to Jane, stowing the book in her pack and unslinging her gun. “Normally I’d tell you to stay put, but in these woods, you’re safer with me. Let’s go.”
Sister Mary picked up the trail, and Jane worked on developing a method of shambling that accommodated the stabbing rib pain and blurred vision. Running eyes and nose necessitated a total face wipe every ten paces, so she was a worthless tracking partner, but Sister Mary didn’t need the help. Jane had lost most of the contents of her backpack through wide slashes in the canvas, but she clutched the bear spray at the ready in case she needed to go another round. The raw, tender skin all over her face stung with salt from her tears and snot, and Jane found herself focusing on the irritation as a distraction from more significant pains. If she gazed straight ahead and was careful not to glimpse her clothing, she could also avoid seeing blood.
They crested the hill they’d been trudging up for the last eighth of a mile and found long, rectangular warehouses and a small service road on the far side. The aroma of compost, pungent and complex, wafted gently on the sunlit afternoon air. A colorful sign, “Phillips Mushroom Farm,” muraled a wall of one of the cinder-block buildings.
Sister Mary’s voice was quiet and clear. “When we get in there, stay safe and act as support. Make sure we get out alive and the cryptid doesn’t, however you can manage it with the magic you have. I’ll work on it with the shotgun. Stay by me. We don’t want to get picked off one at a time. Got it?”
“Can do.” Jane’s voice rasped. Two syllables were her current maximum before gasping for air. Did Ian or Dahl ever feel this way? Like they were faking it and they actually had no idea how they were going to get through something? Because, really, how do you prep for fighting an eight-hundred-pound winged devil in a mushroom grow house after taking a grizzly-force punch in the ribs and a face full of bear mace? It couldn’t be on the Sana Baba routine training program. Mary paused for a few seconds before heading down the incline, boots shuffling over rocks, branches, and leaf litter. Jane didn’t need her to point out the warehouse with the door hanging open in the breeze, bloody smears against the white concrete visible at thirty yards. Sister Mary crossed herself, kissed her hand, and stepped inside.
Jane traversed the threshold into damp, earthy twilight. Little jets of water vapor misted from piping along the ceiling, accumulating as an interior cloud. Racks upon endless ten-foot racks shelved long trays of soil, compost, and thousands of mushrooms layered vertically, forming narrow walkways with terrible visibility.
Mist condensed on Jane’s skin, damp and chill, as she followed Sister Mary’s quiet, precise stride. A dull red glow from two overhead heat lamps bathed everything in ruby light. Blood on the wet concrete spread like snowflakes, each droplet diluting to a wide star in the thin film of water on the floor. Dripping was the only sound covering their tread and, although Sister Mary didn’t seem to have trouble stalking, Jane’s footsteps, breathing, and even her pulse were loud enough to give her away at a hundred paces. Thank God the compost covered their scent. Could the cryptid see in the low li
ght, or was it also night blind?
Sister Mary turned down a side aisle, shotgun in hand, continuing along the trail of dark blood. On one side of the aisle, the mushroom grow racks were interrupted by a propagation table and a hose-fed hundred gallon tub. Mist floated off the warmed, dark water. The floor was littered with brown, football-sized orbs. Jane toed one to see what kind of mushroom they were, and the soggy, packed mass sloughed apart, revealing compressed fur and bits of bone. Jane stepped gingerly around the rest of the giant, indigestible pellets cluttering the ground as they continued along the aisle. Out of the mist against the warehouse wall, a large nest appeared.
Sheets, blankets, and clothing tangled together in a wide bowl, a flattened depression in the center. The bedding was enough to fill the end of the aisle: mushroom racks on two sides and a concrete wall with a utility ladder on the third. The fabric was stained freshly crimson in some places and crusty dark in others. Jane’s eyes locked on a swath of calico fur, but she averted her focus to the blue oyster mushrooms on the rack. If she didn’t look again, she could pretend the orange and white fur belonged to a coat or a plushie and not the mangled remains of someone’s beloved pet.
Sister Mary surveyed the ladder and gestured for Jane to follow her back out. Jane’s palms itched, and a shiver crept up her spine. As the women emerged from the aisle, shifting light induced a moment of dizziness. Snapping back and staring through the shrouding mist, Jane fixed on the twin heat lamps twenty-five feet up. Not heat lamps. Two giant, luminescent red eyes.
“Mary!” Jane shuffled into an agonizing roll, shoving large brown shiitakes and sawdust bags off the rack. She scrambled into the protected bottom shelf as the shotgun boomed and a massive weight slammed to the ground, knocking the shelving unit next to Jane’s back into the one behind and the one behind that in a colossal, deafening domino effect, spewing compost and skittering thousands of white button mushrooms across the floor. A charge built in Jane’s blood, little bits spilling out as sparks, small rivulets of electricity running into the mist—bright flashes popping and disappearing around her while the huge beast, rocked from the gunshot, clawed and recoiled. Its red spotlight eyes threw shadows between the racks as it thrashed.