Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  A very small, frail woman stepped into the office. She had a little tuft of blue hair, pulled into a bun, with square bifocals, and wore a rather dated but functional blue dress, which went all the way down past her ankles. She stepped lightly over to an old, solid wood counter, greeting him warmly with a dentured smile. Just beyond the office he caught a glimpse of a quaint, comfortable living room, with an rather old console television blaring away with what sounded like a stock car race. The place had an old smell, of mothballs and cedar, not unpleasant, but warming. No corporations here, just a mom, and a pop, and maybe a dog. Petrus relaxed as he smiled at the woman.

  "Lovely riding weather it is," she said, glancing out the window at the three motorcycles. "My husband and I used to tour on Indians, just after the war."

  "Oh, it's been a nice ride," Petrus said. "Beautiful country as well."

  The woman was studying the bikes further, which was starting to make Petrus nervous. Her brow wrinkled. "Are you folks all the way from Germany?"

  Huh? What is she . . . Then he saw what she was talking about. The license plates! Oh sheisse, Hans is from Germany, and so is his beemer! Fortunately, only one of the plates were visible, the one on his bike, closest to the office. Otherwise she would have seen three identical plates.

  "Those are beauties," she said, turning reluctantly from the window and pulling a card out of the drawers. "A friend of ours has an old slash two. Lovely shaft-driven machines, just lovely." She handed him a card and, thankfully, a plastic Bic pen instead of a metal one.

  Petrus filled out the card with their "address," Box 11, Rural Route Nineteen, Kingman, Oklahoma. "I'd like to prepay for a week," he said.

  "Oh, how nice," she said. "That's . . .oh, I can give you a discount. Seven days? One thirty, with tax."

  "Thank you, ma'am," Petrus replied politely as he handed over the bills. "That's very kind of you."

  "Oh, never you mind," she said, her eyes twinkling. "I've ridden motorcycles for years. We're practically family!"

  Which explains why Wolf recommended this particular motel, Petrus thought, maintaining a sincere smile. She handed him two keys, each on big green plastic tags that said "La Puerta Lodge." "It's number seven, on the end. There's even a carport where you can park your bikes. You just let me know if you need anything. And you can call me Mattie."

  "Thank you, Mattie," Petrus said as she rang up the money on an old, non-electric cash register. "We were hoping to find a nice place like this."

  If I stay here any longer, she's going to start feeding me milk and cookies, he thought as he closed the screen door behind him.

  The room was small but suitable, though the bed would be a little cramped for three. Looking over the room, deciding where the cold iron was, and determining there wasn't much they would have to watch out for except for the fixtures in the bathroom, Petrus realized there wouldn't be much time for sleeping on this mission, so the bed's size was irrelevant.

  Odras brought in the bag with the laptop and set it beside the telephone on a small, imitation woodgrain table. Petrus began setting up the machine to dial in to America Online. Meanwhile Wenlann stood behind him, in front of the mirror, admiring the necklace Wolf had presented her.

  Crap! I'd almost forgotten about that, he thought as he plugged in the adapter and began the brief booting process. He tried looking away, but it was impossible; the mirror was on the wall right in front of them, and the necklace, which she fondled lovingly, appeared right above the laptop's screen. It was as if she were taunting him with it.

  Well, if she is, she's not going to win! he decided, and plugged the phone line into the internal modem.

  "You know, this must be very old," Wenlann said. "These are real wolf teeth."

  Petrus ignored her, concentrating on the screen. Then, a moment later, "Did you say something?"

  "This necklace," she said, and Petrus had to glance up. "Some sort of power is connected with it. Do you suppose Wolf is a mage?"

  "It seems possible," Petrus replied neutrally. "His grandfather certainly must have been. But that doesn't mean he is."

  Odras spoke from near the door. "If you'll permit, I am going to place some protective wards around the perimeter. Then I might pursue this idea with these gemstones."

  "Go right ahead," Petrus said. We're about to have a hell of a fight anyway. He must have seen it coming.

  The mage nodded and slipped out of the room.

  Petrus turned to the laptop, hoping the conversation would just end. Pretending to be busy wasn't much of a pretense; he hadn't used the AOL account in a while, and he was trying to remember how this machine was set up.

  "You're not changing the subject on me like that," Wenlann said, from just behind his right ear.

  "Wenlann," Petrus said, making no attempt to conceal his irritation. "Do you mind?"

  He typed a brief message to the King, giving their location, and a short summary of their encounter with Wolf.

  "He was not insensitive to magic!" Wenlann protested, reading over his shoulder.

  "Do you want to write this?" Petrus said, but sent what he had composed before she could answer.

  "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter now," Wenlann said, and sat on the edge of the bed, the necklace now cradled in both of her slender hands. Petrus turned around and glared at her. "This bothers you, doesn't it?"

  If she hadn't been smiling, mocking him, he might have held his tongue. But the situation suddenly made remaining civil an impossibility.

  "Yes, it bothers me!" Petrus said shortly. "There! You wanted a reaction out of me, you got it."

  "But why?" Wenlann said, this time sincerely.

  "I . . ." He began, and stopped himself short. Admit I'm in love with her? Now? No way!

  "We are Elven!" he ranted. "Not only are we Elven, we are Avalon." Brief image of elf and human, in bed, making love. "It just doesn't . . . I don't know."

  Wenlann looked like she was ready to laugh, which infuriated him further.

  "I think you're afraid you wouldn't, how should I phrase this . . . measure up? Wolf is a human, and although he is a young man, he is a man! Is that what it is?"

  And I'm not?

  "You're still a virgin, aren't you?" Wenlann observed, accurately.

  "It is not proper to discuss such things!" Petrus said, wondering just where in hell all this prudishness was coming from. Was it a trait of the Avalon clan, fall back on propriety and decor when the argument is in trouble?

  Petrus felt his face burning. He felt his ears burning. Wenlann sat seductively on the edge of the bed, her legs crossed. Laughing at him.

  "I'm going to go for a walk," Petrus announced, standing up. "Maybe Odras has a few ideas on how to find the Unseleighe."

  His sudden calm amazed even him, he mused as he left the small hotel room. With a start he saw only two 'steeds, instead of three. From somewhere behind the motel, he heard the purring of the third one. Odras. What is he up to?

  Grateful for the sudden diversion, Petrus picked his way through a gaping hole in a chainlink fence, walked over a gravel lot and found a wide side street, flanked on either side with warehouses and industrial businesses. None of them seemed to be open, and except for Odras on the beemer 'steed, the street was deserted.

  The mage dismounted the bike and pulled a half used roll of gray duct tape out of the saddlebags; Petrus saw pieces of duct tape wrapped around the spokes, and the front forks.

  This looks really bizarre, Petrus thought, wondering if he should disturb Odras at work. No, I've gotta see what this is.

  Odras looked up as Petrus approached, clutching a small leather bag and the tape.

  "Whatcha doin'?" Petrus asked conversationally.

  "Pursuing an idea," the Mage said, glancing around. "This seemed an ideal place. No humans about." He pulled a length of tape, ripped it off, and from the leather bag extracted a crystal Petrus recognized as diaspar, or elvenstone. "Do you recall the experiment in the workshop that produced such amazing resul
ts?"

  "Of course," Petrus said, then saw what he was up to. "That's elvenstone on the spokes."

  "Amene and topolomite on the forks. Admittedly, this is rather crude. But the duct tape has done well."

  "The tape doesn't affect the crystal's field?" Petrus asked, leaning to examine the configuration of crystals on the fork.

  "Amazingly, not. In fact, it acts as a sort of buffer. Takes the edge off the generated field, as it were."

  Odras completed taping the elvenstone into place on the front wheel. Now Petrus counted five stones, equally spaced around the rim. "I've discovered that the elvenstone needs to be at even intervals. Otherwise the field pulsates unevenly. Difficult to work with."

  "I see," Petrus replied, not sure if he did.

  "Observe," Odras said, mounting the bike. The elvensteed started of its own accord, and the Mage rode off at a leisurely pace down the street. Immediately he saw a flashing of yellow and blue light near the motorcycle's forks as the five elvenstones passed between the amene and topolomite crystals. Though not a mage, Petrus knew this was an exciting advancement in elven technology. This is not stored node energy, this is generated node energy! Just like in the workshop at home.

  At the far end of the street Odras was a mere spot. The mage paused briefly, then began riding swiftly toward Petrus, the 'steed's two-banger simulacrums increasing in pitch and volume as it approached.

  The bike was traveling at a considerable speed as it passed, but not so fast that he couldn't see the white circle of power that had formed before the bike; tendrils of power streaked off the disc's edges and down past Odras, resembling licking flames. The mage seemed to be in full control of matters as he decelerated, turned, and rejoined Petrus.

  "The optimum speed is right at fifty two miles per hour. Any slower and it doesn't stay together. Any faster, and it falls apart."

  "What falls apart?" Petrus said, still uncertain of what he saw in front of the bike.

  "A Gate!" Odras said, his eyes on fire with the discovery. "Or a concave disc of node power that can easily become a Gate with a little push."

  Petrus smiled with satisfaction, a short lived feeling as a complication occurred to him. "But what if we don't want the Gate, or any energy coming from the front wheel? I don't think we'll want that white disc preceding us as we tootle around Albuquerque."

  Odras untaped one of the crystals from the front fork. "Remove the amene, put it away. The other two jewels become inert. Nothing happens. The machine doesn't work."

  Petrus thought feverishly. Do we really have time to develop this? This is supposed to be a recon, not an assault, or even a scientific expedition.

  Still, the possibilities . . .

  "Nargach, what was that? That's the second one now," Japhet said, rising from a dubious state of slumber. Dry wind wafted through the tent, the tassels over the doorway dangling silently in the breeze. The other Unseleighe, some still drunk from the evening's revelry, had evidently sensed it too. They were struggling to sit up, looking confused.

  Nargach appeared in the doorway. "Node energy," he said softly. "Toward the city."

  "Human mage?" Japhet asked hopefully.

  "Unlikely . . . not like this," Nargach said, his gaze turning away. "A short flash, then it was gone."

  "A Gate?" Japhet asked fearfully, before he could mask his emotions.

  "More powerful than a Gate," Nargach replied, his eyes narrowing. "I think we may have Seleighe visitors soon."

  Japhet Dhu stared at the horizon, wishing he could just go back to sleep and forget this nightmare. But with Seleighe in the area, the whole situation had changed, again; first with the arrival of Nargach's blasted demon, Ha-Sowa, now this.

  It's time to change the conditions of the game, Japhet thought. Time to return to Underhill, where the Seleighe will least expect us to go. And a place, if my guess proves correct, where Ha-Sowa has no power.

  This place was getting boring anyway.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lucas was supposed to meet Panic that afternoon, for reasons that were still unclear. There was a bookstore and coffee house near the University that was supposed to be their contact point; the meeting was in half an hour, and if he walked west, he would be there in time. But he was having second thoughts about the whole thing, and before he could change his mind he started walking east on Central, toward home.

  He looked up to see a black van going west, the driver gazing intently at him. He glanced behind him as the van passed, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw it was making a left turn into a parking lot. Fighting an urge to run, he made do with a swift walk. A second glance behind him revealed that the van had turned around, and was coming up behind him slowly.

  Too slow, he thought. Too damned slow.

  The van pulled up beside him, slowed to a walking pace.

  Lucas hazarded a glance up, and stopped in his tracks when he saw Satanic Panic sitting on the passenger's side, grinning from ear to ear.

  "Where ya goin'?" Panic asked, as the van stopped altogether. "We have a meeting, remember?"

  Now what? "Oh, yeah. That's right. Look, I can't make it. I've gotta . . ."

  Panic's expression changed to sullen disapproval, and Lucas felt weak all over again. "Come here a second. I want you to meet someone."

  Feeling powerless, he went over to Panic's window, sensing someone moving around inside but not seeing anyone in the driver's seat.

  Panic extended his hand, as if to shake Lucas'.

  "For you to leave we have to shake on it." Panic's eyes narrowed, to slits. "You do want to leave the group, don't you?"

  "Yes, I want out. This is sick shit. I don't care what I promised, I was stoned out of my mind." He reached for and grasped Panic's hand. "I want out."

  "It's a deal," Panic said, rather loudly, but he wasn't letting go of Lucas' hand. His grip tightened. Lucas tried pulling away.

  The van's side door flew open, and he saw a large man, wearing a hockey mask, holding a white cloth in his right hand.

  It happened quickly, suddenly, and Lucas' last thought as the cloth closed over his face was that these assholes must have done this before.

  Dammit to heaven and back, I knew the kid was going to flake, Damien thought. Oh well. Such things happen. Not everyone is ready to be enlightened. Not everyone has what it takes. Very very few, in fact. In the long run it all worked out. Those who didn't quite cut the satanic mustard were often loners anyway, making them excellent gifts for the Master.

  He pulled the kid into the van and dropped him on the floor, then slid the door shut. The boy was limp, but he was still breathing, however shallowly.

  "You know what to do," Damien said to Panic as he returned to the driver's seat. As Damien pulled away he heard the familiar rip rip rip of duct tape being sectioned off. "Get the hands and feet real good. One long piece is usually enough for the mouth," Damien prompted, but he needn't have worried.

  For a second or two Damien caught a glimpse of the Master sitting in the van's far back seat; his face was calm and approving. He must have been sitting there the whole time, invisibly watching his work. This had happened before; it was the Master's way of testing him. Then the Master vanished, but Damien knew he wasn't seeing things.

  To the cabin, he thought gleefully. There is much to do.

  Once Nargach dismissed the kenned tents of their temporary homes, the ground beneath them looked as if nothing had touched it. The mage also refreshed the glamorie on the 'steeds, renewing their sharpened image as Harley Davidsons, before they set out on their short journey to Damien's cabin. Mort rode on the back of Japhet's 'steed.

  It will be most gratifying to return home, where Nargach cannot toy with my clan. I may even suggest that Nargach stay here, to make his own way. I can do without a mage for a time, and sooner or later I will come across another. Nargach must go.

  But to rid myself of him as only an Unseleighe might, that is the challenge. Short of destroying him outright, I must cast hi
m from the clan without his even knowing, while not losing face in the process. Let him stay here with his feline plaything. I'd rather he make his own kingdom than try to take mine!

  Such as it is. . . .

  "Turn off here," Mort said, indicating a dirt road that seemed to go nowhere. "It's a large section of land."

  Indeed it was a vast place, Japhet discovered as his 'steed deftly negotiated the dirt and gravel, something an ordinary two wheeler would have found difficult. Vast and hilly, the land would conceal them well, better than the ravine they had just abandoned. And we may stay here with the blessings of the owner. I can't think of a better stage upon which to fortify my forces.