The Wild Hunt

by Thomas Galvin

  In two days, Miranda DuBois would die.

  It was a little after ten PM, and I was sitting on my bed. I had the lights turned off and the curtains open, letting the moon illuminate the room. A brief sense of hopelessness clutched my chest. Would I be able to stop Warren? Would I be able to save Miranda? Would any of this make a difference?

  Memories filled my mind. The way Erin’s eyes crinkled when she smiled, the way her hair fell in a golden-brown tumble, the sound of her laugh, the touch of her skin against mine. The look on her face, the fear in her eyes, the sound of her cries …

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Things were different now. I knew what I was. I knew what I had to do. I wouldn’t let history repeat. I wouldn’t let Warren win. I wouldn’t fail Miranda the way I failed Erin.

  I shook my head, tossing the memories aside like chaff. There was still time to make Warren see reason, and sitting on my ass moping wasn’t going to accomplish anything. It was frigid outside, near zero, so I wore a heavy coat over a sweater, wrapped a scarf around my neck, and put on heavy fleece-lined gloves.

  “Going for a walk?” Miranda asked when my hand was on the doorknob. She was sitting in the living room, by the fire, reading a book. She had kept the lights off, and I hadn’t even noticed her.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I need to clear my head.”

  “Your room isn’t filing up with noxious fumes, is it?” she asked, firelight dancing in her emerald eyes.

  “No,” I said, smiling. “But my head’s filling up with noxious memories.”

  “Christmas probably isn’t your favorite time of year, is it?” she asked. The fire had turned her hair the color of heated bronze.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, you said your family kind of gave up on holidays, and you are spending Christmas with a bunch of strangers, so …”

  “I suppose you’re right.” I shrugged. “I never really thought about it, but Christmas kind of means something different to me than it does to most people.”

  “You mean it doesn’t mark the birth of the savior of the world?” she asked with a grin.

  Actually, the Mashiach was born in late August, and he wasn’t the savior of anything, but that was beside the point. “Christmas is just another day,” I said.

  Miranda closed her book. “You want some company on your walk?”

  I missed a beat. The offer was so unexpected, so … so trivial, but so important at the same time. I hadn’t taken a walk with someone in years, not since Erin, and it would be so nice to go out into the woods, to hold someone’s hand, to hold Miranda’s hand, to talk about nothing in particular, to look up at the stars, to just be with someone. “I really do,” I said, “but I kind of need to be alone tonight.”

  Miranda blinked. “Oh. All right then.” She looked around awkwardly, then started thumbing through her book, looking for her spot.

  “I mean that,” I said. “I’d love to take a walk with you, but tonight really isn’t a good night.”

  She just looked at me, and it felt like I was on trial. I had the sudden urge to confess, to tell her everything, to explain who I was and why I was there and what was going to happen in two short days. But that was crazy, impossible. If I told her the truth she’d have me carted off to the loony bin.

  “All right,” she said finally. “Maybe tomorrow night.”

  “Maybe,” I said, half smiling.

  I opened the door, shuddering against the sudden blast of cold.

  “Caden?” Miranda called after me.

  “Yeah?”

  “Stay warm.”

  It was cold but dry, and my feet crunched frozen grass as I walked toward the forest. My breath trailed behind me like smoke from a hell hounds’ nose. The moon gave everything a light blue tinge, even the evergreens.

  The first ley line tickled the back of my brain a few minutes later, and I followed it to the clearing in the wood. Moonlight fell gently through the opening in the canopy above and glistened off the shards of ice decorating the glade.

  In two days, Wotan would ride again. In two days, everyone in Mirrormont would die. In two days, Warren and his cult would observe their final feast.

  But the old religions didn’t just celebrate holy days; they marked entire seasons, held weeks-long festivals that culminated in their high rituals. And if Warren was as committed to the old ways as he claimed, his followers would do the same.

  The fire pit was cold but had been used recently, probably the night before. I gathered some loose wood and kindling, then waved my hand over the stack, releasing the Æther. The tinder flared and soon I was tending a modest but serviceable flame. I took off my gloves and warmed my hands over the fire, then dragged over a log to sit on.

  The Norse cult showed up about an hour later.

  Warren and Ashlyn led the way, hand in hand. Warren was wearing an old canvas coat and one of those hats with the floppy ears; Ashlyn was dressed like a ski bunny.

  Sandra came next, dressed in Goth-approved black. One of her hands was wrapped in a cast. She walked with a reedy guy that had a nose like Cyrano de Bergerac and hair you could use to change your oil.

  Behind them came a strawberry blond in a white coat, gloves, and scarf. Her companion must have been six and a half feet tall and two hundred twenty pounds. He had a blond beard and a longish hair tucked under his hat. His jacket was dark blue plaid and he had some kind of canvas slung over his back. He wasn’t holding hands with the girl because he was dragging a sled loaded up with wood. It looked heavy, but he didn’t seem to have any trouble with it.

  The next girl coming down the path would have been right at home on the Swedish bikini team. Her escort was straight from the Jersey Shore, with skin so tan it was almost orange and hair that could take a bullet without flinching.

  Bringing up the rear was an Italian girl with dark makeup around her eyes and a shirt that read Princess in sparkly pink, attended by a guy that was at least six inches shorter than her. He had cold, reptilian eyes.

  Italian Princess was leading a goat on a rope. Ashlyn, I noted, had some sort of gaudy dagger tucked into her waistband. Poor animal.

  The cult fanned out in a semi-circle around me. Ashlyn clung to Warren like she was afraid of drowning. Sandra’s fingers flexed like claws. The lumberjack stared at me hard enough to crack stone. Everything was silent and tension filled the air.

  “Thank God you brought more wood,” I said. “It’s fucking cold out here, and I was starting to get worried. Hey, did anyone bring hot dogs? Oh! Or how about some s’mores? I love s’mores.”

  Warren, who was straight ahead of me, stepped forward. “Interloper. How dare you desecrate our sacred grove?”

  “Sacred grove? You mean this campfire?” I looked around. “I mean sure, it’s a nice spot and all, but sacred?”

  Warren’s face turned blotchy. “Have you no decency?”

  “Decency? You sent your little strumpet–”

  “Hey!” Ashlyn said.

  “–and the president of the Marilyn Manson fan club–”

  “You pig.”

  “–to attack me. And everyone else in the room,” I said.

  “We were defending ourselves!” Ashlyn said, half hidden behind Warren.

  “From nice old men and their terrified wives?” I asked.

  “From you,” Warren spat, “and your closed-minded, bigoted–”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake,” I said. “Just because I don’t want to see the town burned to ash–”

  “Because you won’t let us practice our religion in peace!” Warren shouted.

  I sighed. “I’m all for you idiots practicing your religion in peace. The problem is that your god–”

  “Lord Wotan,” Warren said.

  “–Yes, I got his name, thank you. Your god isn’t peaceful. Hell, none of them are peaceful. Jesus, he’s a Viking. Do you expect him to show up with flowers and shortbread? He’s–”

  “Of course not, Caden,” Warren said. “We know full well
who, what Lord Wotan is. Your vision helped … clarify matters for me.”

  “Well thank God for that,” I said. “So if you’re calling the whole thing off, what are you–”

  “Calling it off?” Ashlyn asked. “Are you nuts?”

  “We are calling nothing off, Caden. We have merely altered our expectations. And,” he said, laying his hand on the goat’s head, “our approach.”

  I stopped, hoping that being quiet for a minute would make the world stop spinning. “So let me get this straight. You know that Wotan is going to destroy this city, but you’re planning to summon him anyway?”

  “We are,” Warren said, his mouth curling up into a piranha’s grin. “We are the Asatru, the heirs of seidhr, the last remnants of the Old Faith. Ours is not to dictate terms to the Lord of the Hunt. Ours is only to call him, and to welcome him, and to receive his bounty.”

  “And what about the people he’s going to kill?”

  Warren smiled. “Lord Wotan blesses the strong, Caden. And the weak, if they have nothing to offer, why should they be saved?”

  “Well, that settles it,” I said, cracking my knuckles. “You know, when we met, I really thought you were innocent in all of this. I felt kind of bad about the idea of kicking your ass. But now …”

  “John, would you?” Warren asked.

  The lumberjack slung the canvas from his shoulder and unwrapped it, drawing out an enormous hammer. The head was made from stone and decorated with runes, and the handle was made of dark red wood, carved into a spiral. John hefted the hammer and smacked it against his left hand, eyeing me hard.

  “Is that a Mjolnir?” I asked. “Did you make yourself a Mjolnir? Because that’s adorable. Did you–”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up and the air filled with the scent of ozone. “Oh, crap,” I muttered.

  The hammer flared with blue sparks. The lumberjack thrust it forward and let out a guttural cry. White-hot plasma shot across the glen and slammed into me.

  Chapter Seven

  I threw my hands in front of my face, arms crossed at the wrists, and poured my will into a quick spell. The lightning arced and crackled around me, searing the grass near my feet and charring the branches overhead. I was thrown backwards, tumbling out of the clearing and coming to rest against a tree.

  I scrambled back to my feet and threw up another ward, just in time to block another lightning bolt. Electricity crashed around me and shattered an evergreen’s trunk. The wood creaked and groaned, shards of bark falling down on my head, and the tree started to topple. I rolled to the left. The trunk cracked and the tree crashed to the ground.

  Sandra rubbed her hands together and black smoke started swirling around her. She grinned malevolently and stretched out her arms. The dark fog rolled across the glen. Cyrano de Bergerac spread his hands and a fire sprang up all around us, hemming me in.

  Which was just fine with me. I hate running. Makes my knees hurt. I’m much more comfortable standing and fighting.

  The lumberjack raised his Mjolnir high. I wasn’t sure if he was planning to hit me with lightning or with the hammer itself, but I didn’t expect either to feel particularly good. I thrust my hand forward and the glen was suddenly bathed in harsh, blue-white light.

  The light slammed into the wannabe-Thor, knocking his hammer from his hands and sending him sprawling across the frozen grass. Strawberry Shortcake screamed and rushed to his side.

  Sandra started shaking, and a harpy’s shriek split my eardrums. Her deadly fog swirled and writhed around her, and shadowy tentacles reached out to grab me. Ice ran down my arm when the first tendril reached me. I jerked back and almost landed in the fire. I shouted a curse and moved back toward the center of the clearing.

  The tendrils roiled toward me. I gathered energy around my fist and slammed it into the ground, releasing an expanding ring of azure fire. The black mist was brushed aside, the tentacles crumbling to nothing, and the Asatru were knocked off their feet.

  I started forward, blood in my eye. Cyrano de Bergerac snarled at me and waved his hands in the air. A wall of fire roared to life, separating me from the Asatru. The sky turned dark, the moon completely blotted out, and a fucking meteor fell straight toward me.

  “Are you goddamn kidding me?” I shouted. I dove to the side and threw up the strongest ward I could manage. The meteor looked like it was the size of a car, and I really didn’t know if my spell would hold. Hopefully I was far enough out of the way …

  The meteor crashed into me.

  And passed right through me.

  And dissolved into nothing.

  “The hell?” I asked. I let my eyes go fuzzy, let the Æther whisper to me. The fire surrounding the glen and separating me from my opponents faded into half transparency.

  The bastard wasn’t throwing offensive spells at me, he was creating illusions, distracting me so his buddies would have an open shot. Loki must have been his god of choice.

  I walked through the flames, which were no warmer that the frigid night air, and punched him in the jaw. Cyrano’s eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled to the ground. The flames vanished instantly.

  Mini-Thor was back on his feet and swinging his Mjolnir at my head. I blocked with my forearm, the Æther forming a barrier around my skin. The hammer hit me hard enough to shatter bone, but my armor absorbed and deflected the bulk of the impact.

  The bulk, but not all. “Son of a bitch!” I grunted. My right arm felt like my funny bone had been hit by a car. I shook it out, trying to get some feeling back into it …

  And blasted Mini-Thor with a column of solid light from my left hand. It hit him in the face, hard as Tyson in his prime, and knocked him right on his ass.

  Sandra screeched and threw black smoke at me. I crossed my arms, drawing the Æther in to a sphere around me. The tentacles whipped about, slamming against the shield, clawing to get at me, but the barrier held.

  I threw my arms out to the side, turning the shield into a blast of willpower. Energy ripped through the columns of smoke, shredding them, and slammed into the Little Goth That Could. She grabbed her head, screamed, and fell to the ground.

  But Mini-Thor was back on his feet, the hammer clutched in his hands. He swung it like a baseball bat and caught me right in the chest. The wind exploded out of my lungs and I tasted copper. I smashed into a tree, landing in a heap at its base.

  Mini-Thor walked toward me, electricity crackling around the hammer. He thrust it forward and lightning split the air. I threw up a fast ward. It blocked most of the attack, but a portion of it got through, scorching my chest.

  I groaned. Mini-Thor came forward, Mjolnir held high over his head. I rolled on the ground, trying to get to my feet, but my legs were disconnected from my brain. Instead, I raised another shield. Mini-Thor brought the hammer crashing down. The impact passed through my ward and rattled my teeth, but at least I hadn’t gotten mushed into paste.

  He brought the hammer down again. God, it felt like getting kicked by a mule. A giant mule, wearing bowling balls on its feet. Bowling balls with spikes.

  Mini-Thor raised the hammer one more time. Sparks danced across its surface and my hair stood on end. Lightning rushed down from the sky and struck Mjolnir, lighting it up like a torch. Mini-Thor growled at me, every muscle in his body straining to contain the power he had summoned, and swung the hammer.

  I shouted and threw my hand forward, blasting him with another torrent of blue-white light. Mjolnir flew from his hands, the lightning exploding all across the glen. The Asatru screamed and dove for cover. Jets of white plasma showered the trees, setting them ablaze, and this time the fire was real.

  Warren looked at the growing blaze. “Run,” he stammered. “Run!” The Asatru fell back, following the same trail that had led them in. Strawberry Shortcake helped Mini-Thor to his feet and got beneath his arm, helping him limp away.

  The fire raged around me, and for a moment I stood there, paralyzed. The light was blinding, the heat oppressive.
Smoke burned my lungs. I tried to get to my feet, tried to run, but I fell to my knees. My hands shook.

  I closed my eyes, cleared my head. I needed to focus. I needed to concentrate.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. Too far away. They wouldn’t get here in time.

  I crawled on my hands and knees, and got as close as possible to the center of the clearing, and as close as possible to the three intersecting ley lines.

  The Saints are powerful, but they don’t have a very wide repertoire. The Mashiach’s magic makes them strong and durable, and they can all throw the same burning light that I summoned. Some of them are exorcists, and some of them are healers.

  When I broke up with the Mashiach, I lost access to his power. His Spirit no longer comes upon me, no longer fuels my magic, so I had to learn to do it my damn self. But I didn’t stop there. I learned to project the armor of a Saint away from my body, creating wards and shields. I learned to move objects with my mind. I learned how to hear the whispers on the Æther.

  I learned magic.

  Controlling the elements isn’t my strong point, but I didn’t have much choice. The fire was quickly spreading out of control. If I didn’t do something about it, it would consume the whole forest. The bed and breakfast. Me.

  So I touched the ley lines, drawing in power, feeling it course through me. The Æther hit me in a cool rush, briefly soothing my injuries. I gathered energy until I felt overfull, then guided it with my mind.

  Magic is all about emotion. When I create my armor, I feel protected, and the Æther shields me. When I throw light, I feel like an instrument of justice, and the Æther burns away the darkness before me.

  Kneeling there, in the center of the burning glen, I felt cold, wet, and miserable.

  It started slowly, just a couple of drops of rain, but soon clouds gathered overhead, blocking out the moonlight and reflecting the fire’s hellish glow.

  Rain fell heavier, matting my hair and streaking down my face like tears, but it wasn’t enough. I drew in more power, more, and poured my misery into it. I shuddered, feeling frigid water in my soul and commanding it to manifest.