Spiritride

by Mark Shepherd

  Damien was on the ground, out cold. The rifle lay across him, and already Wolf was running toward them, his false malady now magically cured. Lucas reached the rifle before Wolf did, just in time to yank it from Damien, who was starting to wake up. He held it up by the barrel as if it were tainted with poison. It was a big assault rifle, with a clip sticking out of the stock. Shit! This is an AR-15!

  "Where's the key to these?" Wolf demanded, holding up the handcuffs. When Damien didn't answer right away, he landed a kick in the side of his ribs, hard. "Where's the key!"

  "It's . . . in here," Damien said groggily, reaching into a leather bag he wore on a strap.

  It's not a key, Lucas thought, not liking the look Damien had as he reached for it. It was a look of victory. Lucas brought the rifle around and aimed it awkwardly at him, put his finger around the trigger.

  At the first glimpse of the wooden grip and blue gun metal coming out of the bag, Lucas squeezed the trigger, and kept it squeezed.

  The gun in the bag went off, once, into the ground between them. Damien's carcass bounced around on the ground as if it were having a seizure. Wolf ran like hell for cover. Once the rifle was emptied of its ordnance, Lucas could only think about how little recoil the thing had. Parts of the rifle were pretty hot now, so he dropped it on the ground.

  Without really thinking he picked up the leather bag and looked into it. There was a key ring, with a small silver key hanging off it. The handcuff keys were in there after all, along with a snub nose revolver.

  "Here," Lucas said, tossing Wolf the keys. He looked down at Damien, who wasn't moving very much. "Is he dead?"

  Wolf undid the cuffs and tossed them on the ground beside Damien. "That's a silly question," he replied, looking down at the perforated corpse.

  Lucas turned away from what he had done, feeling nauseous. He stumbled as far away as he could before throwing up.

  You did the right thing, Lucas told himself, wiping his mouth, but still having a hard time believing it. The others . . .

  Wolf was with Petrus and Wenlann, who were still frozen in place. Their lack of motion was absolute; they looked like a photo still.

  "There's some kind of field, thrown up around here," Wolf said. "If we can get them back, away from this place, we might be able to shake them out of it."

  "Why isn't it freezing you?"

  Wolf shrugged. "Guess it only freezes elves." He reached for and grabbed Petrus' arm, and pulled. The elf tipped over like a concrete statue, and with Lucas' help dragged him away from the house. Lucas felt him relax into their arms when they had covered a certain distance, and immediately he was on his feet.

  "Was that gunshots?" he said, looking around wildly.

  "Yep," Wolf said. "It's okay. The bad guys are gone. More or less." He was already going over to Wenlann; he had no trouble carrying her out of the field, and when she relaxed out of the paralysis, he continued to hold her in his arms.

  "You know, we've got to stop meeting like this," Wolf said, giving her a kiss. Petrus was over near the van, surveying the damage.

  "You knew there was another dead kid over here didn't you?" he said.

  "It's one of his people," Lucas said. "He's the one who got me into this thing in the first place."

  Petrus looked up from beside the van. "What thing?"

  "Satan worship," he said, having to spit the words out like something bitter.

  Wenlann got to her feet with Wolf's help, then he entered the adobe cautiously. She held her hand up, as if feeling the field that had paralyzed them. "It starts about here. Dammit, this is Unseleighe work."

  "It will fade with time. Their stuff always does," Petrus said. The elvensteeds had wandered a short distance away. "I'll go get our mounts."

  Wolf came out of the adobe, looking pale. He was carrying a pair of boots and clothes that looked like they belonged to him, and Lucas remembered Wolf had been kept here too—for the brief time before Ha-Sowa showed up. "No one else is in there. Looks like they were doing human sacrifices."

  "Hmmmm," Petrus said thoughtfully, holding their 'steed's reins. "No wonder the Unseleighe liked them."

  Wenlann rubbed her arms, as if from a chill. "This place gives me the creeps."

  After a moment's reflection, Wolf said, "Come on, let's go. I've had enough of this happy horse shit."

  Not a bad idea, Lucas thought, as they all mounted and started back down the gravel road. They didn't get very far when another man on horseback appeared, riding toward them. Petrus pulled Moonremere to a halt.

  Right away, Lucas saw there was something unnatural yet familiar about the way the light reflected off him, as if he were only a clip from a film, superimposed over the landscape. Petrus also looked suspicious, but the glance he shared with Wenlann indicated he didn't know for sure what this was, either.

  The rider came closer, rolled an unlit, hand rolled cigarette in his mouth, and regarded them with a wary, watchful eye.

  John Wayne?

  "That's right, it's the Duke," John said, taking the cigarette from his mouth, and pointing it at them. "You think you're clever, you Seleighe folk, just because you won this round. Well, maybe you are. And maybe you aren't," he drawled, and the cigarette lit itself. The Duke's image faded, and morphed into someone else . . . now Clint Eastwood, in a dusty red shirt and vest, and a brown cowboy hat with a bullet hole in it, was looking down the double barrel of a shotgun. "Or is it just luck?" Clint said, dropping the barrel. "Do you feel lucky today, punks?"

  Wenlann leaned over and said to Petrus, with a frown. "He's getting his movies mixed up," she said.

  Who? Lucas wanted to ask, but also knew he would have to wait for an explanation.

  Petrus nodded, his look of confusion now a look of resigned annoyance.

  Clint Eastwood morphed again . . . now the image was clearly taken directly from an old black and white. The cowboy, in a white hat, a gray suit, kerchief and a black mask. "Well, you should," the Lone Ranger said. "Because you ain't seeing me anymore!"

  "Is that a promise?" Petrus asked, not sounding very hopeful.

  The Lone Ranger changed just a little bit, looking something like a black gargoyle with bony, knobby knees and elbows.

  "Now, would old Mort lie to you?" the creature said, then the horse reared up. "Hi ho Silver, away!"

  And the horse and rider vanished in a plume of acrid, purple smoke.

  They stood there, saying nothing, for some time. "I'd forgotten Mort was still running around," Petrus said. "Must have teamed up with Japhet when Zeldan went down."

  "Who the hell's Mort?" Lucas wanted to know.

  "A weak demon," Petrus said. "Underling of the Unseleighe. Only, there's no more Unseleighe here for him to serve."

  "That was no weak demon," Wenlann said. "He's gained some power to be able to pull off all those changes. And I'll bet we do see him again. Mort lies like a rug."

  Chapter Twenty

  Running Duck rose from his bedroll and peered out of the teepee's door, having heard something moving outside. A deer grazed in the half light of dawn; he grabbed his bow and arrow. Hunting had not been good lately, and the elders had decided the tribe would move further north, away from the wagon trains that were bringing the white settlers in from the East. The rest of the tribe was still sleeping, and he hoped they would stay that way. If anyone rose and made noise, the deer would run away; a fresh kill before the long trip would be good for the tribe.

  The deer moved further away, but was not aware of Running Duck. The brave crept up closer, nocking his arrow, aimed; the arrow flew, struck home. The brave ran up to the fallen deer, pulled his knife, and cut the animal's neck, while offering a prayer to the Great Spirit for the animal's soul.

  This will sustain us for at least a few days, he thought, ecstatic over his fortune.

  Running Duck was preparing to carry the deer back to the camp on his back when he heard something strange and alien pulling up behind him.

  A big, green pickup truck with
a red and blue lightbar on its roof screeched to a stop. The driver's door opened, with a big gold star and the words "Game Warden" on it. Out stepped a man in a deep green uniform and Smoky the Bear hat.

  "You're in a whole heap o' trouble, boy," the Warden said. Over his shirt pocket was a gold plate that read "Sgt. Mort." The Warden looked like a lizard in Ray Bans. "Do you have a tag for that deer?"

  Huh? A what . . .

  The truck's headlights came on, twin beams of blinding light.

  Petrus woke with the sun shining directly in his eyes, and rolled over, pulling the blanket around him. The dream's strangeness jabbed at him, making a return to sleep impossible. Besides, he caught the aroma of something really good cooking, complemented by the sound of sizzling bacon.

  Weird dream, he thought, closing his eyes against the sun. Weird, weird, weird!

  He sat up, stiff and feeling like hell, reminding him why they'd stopped here at Wolf's place. Everyone was too tired to move on, and graciously accepted the human's offer to stop and rest here, however meager the accommodations. Wolf had offered floor space in his shed, but he'd turned it down in favor of a bedroll outside, under the stars. He knew they wanted to be alone, and would have felt uncomfortable being in the way. Lucas slept outside too, but his bedroll was empty now.

  He counted three elvensteeds now, one of them in beemer 'steed mode, the one they'd left at the motel. They must have already gone into town and fetched it. What time of day is it, anyway? He looked at the sun, which was immediately overhead. Early afternoon. Time to get up, he thought, with a mental groan.

  "Rise and shine," Wenlann said. She stood over an electric skillet on a makeshift table. "Hungry?"

  "Starving," Petrus replied, noting the plastic spatula, paper plates, plastic utensils.

  Wolf was pouring a cup of coffee, and looked up. The aura between the two was absolutely glowing; now he was glad he had made himself scarce the night before. "I'd offer you some, but Wenlann said elves can't have caffeine."

  "Yeah, it does pretty bad things to us," Petrus replied, sitting down on a cinder block. "Where's Lucas?"

  "Meditating," Wolf replied, pointing to a lone figure, shirtless, sitting cross-legged a good distance from them in the desert, facing the rising sun. "His first lesson. I'm taking him on as an apprentice," he said, taking a sip of brew. "I'm not a full Chaniwa medicine man until I pass the knowledge on to others. And I figured, hell, I owe him twice for my life. Not to mention the prophecy . . ."

  Wenlann brought Petrus a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs. It smelled so good he thought he was going to pass out.

  "What prophecy?" Petrus asked, before thinking. Perhaps he shouldn't ask. This might be a private matter.

  If it was, Wolf didn't seem bothered by the question. "Before my grandfather died, we had a long talk about our tribe," he began, sitting down next to Wenlann and putting his arm around her. "The medicine men would pass down prophecies involving the future of the tribe, and the most important one had to do with the death, and rebirth of the Chaniwa. A new cycle, every nine hundred years."

  Petrus listened intently, forcing himself to eat slowly, a difficult feat in his ravenous state.

  "Grampa told me that when there was one Chaniwa left, there will be a new cycle. Well, I was the last one, after those cult assholes murdered him. Then there was the final showdown, between me and Ha-Sowa. Then he said something that I didn't get at first. But I do, now." He squeezed Wenlann's had. "He said, 'The chi-en will rise from their underworld, the good and the bad. Nargach will return to seek his vengeance, as will others who are his enemy.' Odras took care of him, for us. Then he said, 'there will be a white brave, but he will not know his true path until he goes on a great journey to the underworld.' "

  Petrus looked out, toward Lucas, sitting among the rocks. His head had bowed the slightest bit.

  "Well, this is the rebirth of the Chaniwa," Wolf said. "We're starting over."

  Petrus looked up slowly, and met Wenlann's eyes. "You're staying here," he said, not particularly happy about the way his voice cracked. His throat closed up, and the unwelcomed tears came.

  Dammit, I hate this, Petrus said. Wenlann was next to him, her arm around his shoulder, hugging him. Wolf politely excused himself.

  "I had no idea you were in love with me," Wenlann said softly. "Forgive me for being so blind."

  "It's okay," Petrus said, knowing that eventually it really would be. "I think I need to grow up first. If I've learned anything these past few days, it's that I'm still a child."

  "A child wouldn't have slain an Unseleighe leader single handedly," Wenlann pointed out. "And deposited the head at the King's feet. That took some balls, no matter what you think."

  "That's not the same thing," Petrus said. "Anyone can swing a sword. Dealing with others, on an intimate level . . . that's what takes skill. And maturity. Which I don't have yet." Petrus hugged her back. "I'll tell the King. What of your 'steed?"

  "She should return to Avalon," Wenlann said firmly. "It would not be fair to her to keep her in a world where there were no other elvensteeds. I'll ride her back to the Gate. She can go in by herself."

  Petrus nodded agreement when a car driving up the gravel road to the shed caught his attention.

  "Oh, hell," he said, wiping away the rest of the tears. "It's a cop."

  "What?" she said, looking up. "Wolf, we got trouble. Maybe."

  "It's all right," Wolf said, emerging from the shed. "At least I think it is. I know him."

  The car pulled up and stopped some distance away. On the side was a shield and the words "Socorro County Sheriff."

  The deputy who got out was light skinned and a bit overweight, "What happened to your trailer?" he asked, taking in the burned-out dwelling.

  "Grampa would have wanted me to do it," Wolf said solemnly. "It's an Indian thing. Gets rid of all the bad spirits."

  "I see," the deputy said, handing Wolf a paper bag of something. Apparently that was as far as he wanted to get into the matter. "It's coffee," the deputy said, glancing at Petrus and Wenlann behind him. Their glamories were still in place, so what the human saw was two people in western clothes, in dire need of a bath.

  "Thanks," Wolf said. "Meet my friends," he said, and the elves got to their feet. "This is Wendy and Pete. Guys, this is Deputy Clarke. Any news on Grandfather's murderers?"

  The Deputy eyed Wolf for a moment, an unnerving expression. "Well," Clarke began, hesitating. He looked uncertain. "I think we've solved it, if that's what you mean. There was a suicide-murder at the old Hull gravel pit. Looks like a kid shot this guy, then did himself with a razor."

  Wolf waited for him to go on. "The guy was named Damien Szandor. We searched his house, found all kinds of devil worship shit. Most interesting were the black candles. They had the same wick, a type found only in California, that we found here at this scene. So we're pretty sure it's the same people. You don't know anything about it, do you?"

  "Well, no," Wolf said, careful to meet the Deputy's eyes when he said so. "Last I heard the pit was closed down. Never been out there myself."

  "I had to ask," the deputy said. "Shit, there weren't any witnesses. Sheriff wants to close that case as soon as we can, and I think that will happen today. We're not really wanting the Satanic aspect to get out to the press. Turns out the kid is the nephew of an Albuquerque councilman. Sheriff wants to forget the whole damned thing." He said, spitting on the ground. "But I'm not forgetting it. Not after what I saw in that building. There's more of them out there, if not in the same cult, then elsewhere."

  He started back toward his car and paused at the driver's door before getting in, moving slowly, as if what he'd seen at the gravel pit was still bothering him. "Next month I'm going to a Satanic Crime seminar in Long Beach. Seems that's where this Damien Szandor came from." He shook his head. "There's more to this than meets the eye. And we ain't seen the last of it. In fact, I'm afraid this is only the beginning."

  After breakfast, Lucas fell
back on the mattress in the shed and fell sound asleep. Petrus envied him; he wished he could do the same. But first he had to get back home, and to do that, they had to return to the Gate near the cliff. Then he could crash—after telling the King of Wenlann's decision, of course. Wolf still had to recover his motorbike, and now that he'd rested he felt strong enough to ride it back.

  The bike was right where they'd left it. In silence they rode over to the cliff, Wolf and Wenlann on the bike, Petrus riding Moonremere and pulling the other behind by the reins.

  In the bright sunny day there was no trace of the darkness that had fallen only a day before.

  "You're sure about this?" Petrus asked, once they'd parked and dismounted.