Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  Nargach shook his head slowly in disagreement. Japhet's anger rose, but he hid it from the other mage. "It is abundant energy, but it is weak energy. We can cast glamories and ken garments with it, but beyond that its usefulness is limited." He turned to their leader, his eyes narrowed. "Certainly you already knew this. He who is the son of the mighty Zeldan."

  Japhet ignored the jibe. He was about to change the subject by mentioning Mort's understanding of these humans and their Devil, when something else caught his attention.

  "Aie, and what might this be," Japhet said as he watched the lone motorcycle rider flying down the highway. Within the concealing spell the elves dwelt in a plane that intersected both the physical and spiritual realm, and from this vantage he had seen, blazing through the spiritual darkness like a beacon, an aura so powerful he thought at first he had seen yet another elf, and an Avalon one at that. On further examination he saw that this was only a human.

  His power is surprising, Japhet thought, aware that Nargach was silently observing this newcomer with equal interest. I had thought only creatures of Underhill could claim such brilliance.

  The highway wound through a shallow valley, with a sparse green forest, more shrubs than trees, dotting the landscape. The Harley burned a hasty trail for the horizon, as if something pursued it, but this was not so. The rider seemed to be making speed for the sake of speed alone. The blatant disregard this human had for the law interested Japhet.

  He may be useful.

  Then another vehicle came into the picture. It had apparently been in pursuit of the bike for some time, but the rider appeared to be oblivious to it. Lights flashing, siren wailing, the black and white car left no doubt in the elf's mind that this was indeed the cops, out for blood.

  "The human runs from the law," Nargach observed. "We may have some things in common with this creature besides the steed he rides."

  "Perhaps," Japhet said absently, itching to mount his elvensteed and check out this situation, from a discreet distance.

  Nargach evidently sensed his thoughts. "I'll accompany you," he said, as they both mounted their bikes and took off after the humans.

  Their concealing spell remained active as the distance between them and the police car closed. The human evidently saw what was behind him, and began to slow. Japhet and Nargach kept a respectable distance.

  Apparently the human had tried to stop safely beside the road, but something went horribly wrong. The rear tire suddenly slipped out from under him, and the bike started sliding sideways. The human threw himself clear of the machine, slid a good distance on the ground, and stopped. The cop hit the brakes, swerved, and just avoided striking the bike, coming to a stop beyond the rider. The bike's front tire flew off and rolled down the highway, over a rise and out of sight.

  "Then again, perhaps he won't be much use to us," Nargach said. Japhet paid him no attention, instead scrutinizing the motionless rider.

  Dead?

  Perhaps. The rider had sustained injuries, as told by the dark, sickly color of the aura. The elf quickly fortified his own spell, rendering themselves invisible on this plane, so as not to be seen by this new spirit.

  "We are not alone, here," Nargach said suspiciously.

  Another entity came into the picture. He rode a motorbike as well, but it seemed to be of a much older make, perhaps of a different time. Japhet could not hear the conversation, but it looked as if the human's spirit straddled both worlds, committed to neither. Whatever he was hearing from the other seemed to be convincing him to return to his body.

  "We must investigate this," Japhet said. "Immediately, before this being returns from whence it came."

  The rider had already begun to incorporate into its body, returning reluctantly to the damaged flesh. Before the rider had entirely left this plane, Japhet managed to pick out a name from the conflicting mass of data of its soul: Wolf. The Unseleighe also saw with startling clarity the power of this human, his mage potential.

  I must possess this human, Japhet thought as he commanded his elvensteed to pursue the other entity. And I must know what this spirit is. . . .

  As a Rider Guardian, Thorn watched over many a motorcyclist, and followed the evolution of two-wheeled technology. Thorn found himself drawn to the Harleys. He had watched over the U.S. Army recon units as they scouted for armor. He had watched over the 200-mile Championship at Daytona Beach in 1953, the Hell's Angels on their choppers and the officers on their 74 OHV Police Models. Thorn had presided over a thousand deaths, and as many near-deaths. There were sometimes long periods between the deaths, during which he explored the edges of his domain, where he discovered other populated realms. His favorite was Underhill and the elves who dwelled there. But soon duty would call, and another situation would summon him. He did not know how long he had been a Rider Guardian. He didn't care; he still got to ride Valerie. And he knew these were the only terms under which he could do so.

  The contact with Wolf had been typical. A young rider, angry about something, riding fast, riding wild, mind distracted by other things, mind on everything but the road before him and the two wheels beneath him. But unlike others, Wolf's soul had burned brightly, as if it belonged to something other than a human. Thorn did not know what this might mean, however, and simply accounted for it by Wolf's Chaniwa heritage. These things he gleaned off the surface of the confused soul before contacting it; best to know what one is intervening in.

  Even while speaking with Wolf, Thorn knew they were being watched by something else out there. Thorn had only rarely encountered such spirits, lost souls Thorn could do nothing about. On occasion he had even found powerful spirits, demons, who would do him harm. Early on he learned he had one powerful defense, the ability to flee danger at a high rate of speed. Nothing in this realm had harmed him, but then he had never stood up to anything of real strength.

  He steered Valerie into the darkness, away from the edge where it met the physical. The ride was slow and leisurely. He wanted these mysterious beings to overtake him; he wanted to know who they were.

  We are watched, Valerie said, with a hint of anxiety. Take flight? Flee?

  "No, not yet," Thorn said casually, shifting to second. "First let's see who these critters are."

  They're not Guardians, Valerie said, but Thorn already knew that.

  "They will not hurt us," Thorn said. "Rest easy. Didn't you complain just the other day how dull things had gotten?"

  Valerie's only reply was the purr of her eight valve motor.

  Thorn rode a piece, not glancing back to see if they were following. They were, he had no doubt. Two of them. And they were riding motorcycles . . . or at least something meant to look like bikes. The desert had all but disappeared, replaced by an endless darkness, the Land of Shadows. But he rode the edge of this land, not wanting to retreat to the power of the Lord, who lurked deep within the shadows. He wanted these two to follow, but not be frightened away by his ruler.

  Suddenly they overtook him, riding past him on either side and cutting him off. Bad motorcycle manners in any world. Thorn frowned, slowed, then stopped Valerie. The two critters did the same, blocking his way.

  With Valerie idling beneath him, Thorn regarded the two inquisitively, with an expression of mild annoyance. Let them think I can't get away. Then we shall surprise them, if the need arises.

  Thorn had felt their hatred for absolutely everything ooze off them like sweat. He pretended to be bored as he turned Valerie off, and surreptitiously probed them for clues of their origins. They are not demons, he discovered with some alarm. They are elves, Unseleighe elves, from Underhill. This might be a real problem.

  "That was a most interesting exchange back there, with the foolish human thrown from his steed," one said, and from the demeanor and body language of the other, Thorn guessed him to be the superior of the two. "Why would you bother with such insects?"

  "They have souls," Thorn pointed out. "And I used to be one of those insects." He wondered if it might have bee
n an error to tell them this, but it was too late to recall the words. "You are not of this realm," he continued. "Are you visiting, or are you planning to take up permanent residence here?"

  "And what if we were?" the leader said, his hostility radiating from him in thick, black waves. "What would you have to say about that?"

  "I would say 'welcome'," Thorn said, faking a pleasant expression. "There's plenty of room for all of us. But it is such a dismal place for most beings. Why would you be interested in hiding here?"

  The leader's face darkened. "Who said we were hiding?" the elf hissed.

  "Poor choice of words. I don't speak very much out here, and my language is rusty. I'm rather isolated."

  "You didn't seem to have that problem with the human," the other said. He moved around behind Thorn, making it impossible for him to watch them both.

  "The human was one of my charges," Thorn said. "I help those in need, those who ride motorcycles. That is my purpose. That is what I do."

  The two exchanged looks, turning from confusion, to amusement. "That is your purpose?" the leader said. "Whatever did you do in your past life to receive such a sentence?"

  "I'm just lucky, I guess," Thorn said. "I get to ride even after I'm dead."

  They roared with laughter, which further convinced Thorn these two were impostors. If they don't understand the importance of riding for the sake of it, they don't belong on those machines, whatever they are made of!

  "So who was that human you helped?" the leader said, pushing his amusement aside. "He was very powerful for a human, one I might have mistaken for elven if I knew no better."

  So they sensed it too, Thorn thought, and wondered if they were pursuing this boy, Wolf, for some dark reason. "He was just a soul in need of help," he replied. "No other reason."

  They stared at him hatefully. Did they see through the lie? His own thinking startled him. Was it a lie, that this was just another motorcyclist? He thought back to the exchange with Wolf. Typical young male human, thinking little, angry over nothing. But underneath all that there was something special, a spark that I don't see in most people. These creatures must have seen the same thing.

  "I don't think he's telling us the truth," the other said. "He even doubts his own words."

  Drat! Thorn swore. They are more than I can handle. I must escape, right now.

  "We want that human," the leader said. "We want you to help us capture him. We can use his power. Nargach, what might we be able to offer him in return for his services?"

  "Gold," the Unseleighe said casually. "We can make anything."

  Thorn pretended to be interested in the offer. "Let's talk," he said. "But I must include Valerie in this discussion."

  "Valerie?"

  "My steed," Thorn said, touching the engine with a tiny bit of magic, enough to turn the engine over. That is one advantage of being an angel on a motorcycle, he thought wryly. You don't have to roll start your bike! The move startled them, as if they were afraid he might flee. Well, that's exactly what I have in mind. Time to bluff.

  "I have to turn her over so she can speak with us," Thorn said conversationally. This too was not entirely true; she had been patiently taking in the entire exchange, despite her urge to bolt. She was idling smoothly, feeling like a graceful cat, ready to leap. Well, she's going to get that chance.

  "So tell me, which of the Seleighe families chased you out of Underhill? Outremer? Avalon? They must have really whipped your ass."

  Rage stifled any immediate reply the leader might have made. His face turned a hideous purple.

  "You'll pay for that insult!" the Unseleighe managed to spit out. Thorn sensed them drawing power from the desert, raw, natural power few beings could manipulate. But the problem was at his back, as Valerie shot between the two; a moment later, the elves were barely visible dots on the horizon of the Land of Shadows.

  His relief at escaping them soon turned to consternation. They are going to find Wolf eventually, and they probably don't have his best interests in mind. It is my duty to aid him. He is injured and vulnerable. I can't take these two on by myself. I need help.

  I need to contact the Seleighe, find out what's going on. Avalon is nearest. Perhaps they know who these abominable creatures are. . . .

  Chapter Eight

  Lucas' hope that there might be an end to his personal hell had evaporated the very day he left the hospital. He had even begun to wonder if he'd imagined the whole suicide thing.

  It was a few weeks into summer vacation. He had discovered one night that The Axe was still closed. The long walk had taken him along Central Avenue, a fairly active party strip bisecting Albuquerque. On his way back he stopped at a motorcycle dealership, gazing through the plate glass at the godlike machines within. A shiny new Katana which looked identical to Mike's caught his eye. When he saw the word used on the paper tag hanging off the handlebar, he saw that it could well be the very same bike. The price was outrageous. You could still get a new Geo for that amount of money.

  So if I get a bike, it would have to be used, and something else, he thought, but the other prices he saw were as daunting as the first. Then he saw a price in his range. His hopes sank like the Titanic when he saw what the tag was attached to: a little beat-up scooter, with tires the size of bagels, the kind of thing that might be appropriate in Rome, but would be humiliating in the open spaces of New Mexico. And it would sound like a weedeater! Forget it. He walked away in disgust. So much for getting a bike.

  A Ford Escort pulled up and stopped a few feet ahead of him. Lucas noticed right away the muffler was about to fall off, and on the back of the car were a variety of bumper stickers: "Satan Lives" and "Christ Lied" dominated the noisy mobile billboard, accompanied by skulls, inverted crosses and a goat head.

  "You wanna ride?" the kid inside asked. He was about the same age as Lucas, with long blond hair and some sort of black tattoo on his right arm, but he didn't recognize him from school. Something was burning in the ashtray, and it wasn't a cigarette.

  But Lucas was bored stiff, and not a little bit tired from his long walk.

  "Sure." He shrugged and got in.

  The Escort pulled away faster than was necessary. Lucas noticed an expensive looking Nikon camera sliding around on the dash, its cyclopean eye staring at him accusingly.

  "I'm Satanic Panic. My group calls me Panic, for short."

  Lucas wondered if he'd made a mistake. The kid turned to him and said, with a crooked smile, "Speakers are all fucked up. Can't play the radio. Here, have some of this."

  He passed Lucas the burning joint. "Just came over the border. It's the best," he said as Lucas took it.

  Lucas had never had any real interest in pot, or anything else the other kids were indulging in, but tonight something was different. Nothing really mattered, so what the hell?

  He thought he was going to cough his lungs out after the first drag, but Panic didn't even comment.

  "It's dusted," Panic said, pulling the Escort back into the lane it had wavered from. "Come on, let's have some fun. I've got spray paint in the back seat."

  Lucas wasn't about to start huffing paint, but apparently that wasn't what Panic had meant. Lights had begun to cascade before him, and a mesmerizing fist tried to close his eyes. The word "dusted" took on new significance. One minute he was staring out the windshield, and the next they were laughing like hyenas, over nothing. Lucas decided he liked Panic.

  Panic pulled off Central to some lesser, unlit streets, and stopped in front of a tall iron gate. A chain and padlock secured it from night visitors, but this didn't deter Panic. The engine idled roughly, rocking the car as one or more cylinders misfired, as Panic got out with a pair of bolt cutters. Lucas watched in fascination as he clipped the chain apart and opened the gate with a noisy creak.

  "No problemo," Panic said, driving into the cemetery.

  Lucas was a little confused as to what they were doing there, until Panic tossed him a can of spray paint and grabbed one of his own
. "Graffiti time," he said, with a giggle.

  Lucas followed the crazed Panic who, in the bright light of the full moon, found a row of headstones and began painting. Inverted pentagrams, "Satan Lives," "Satan Rules" and just plain "Satan" went over the granite and marble, the names, the dates.

  What the hell, Lucas thought, remembering something someone had told him, but not recalling precisely who. Funerals are for the living. Looking for another marker to paint, he stopped in front of one tombstone, blinking at the name.

  MIKE VAUGHAN

  MARCH 13, 1980 – NOVEMBER 20, 1994

  Panic painted a swastika over his name. Then he looked up and said, "Oh shit. Time to get out of here."