by P. R. Frost
Scrap turned bright red and gibbered something unintelligible.
I guessed it was some kind of prayer, or curse, in his own imp language.
I nodded my agreement. Then I followed her down the stairs, stepping lightly, breathing shallowly of the hot moist air that rose up from the depths of the basement.
At the base of the stairs, when the diffuse light from the upper room dwindled to almost nothing, Sister Gert produced a very modern and powerful flashlight. The beam shot forth from the lens to reveal a large room, big enough for forty or fifty Sisters to swing their blades all at the same time.
I couldn’t figure out what heated and humidified the room. We were in the high desert, barely fifteen inches of rain fell a year. This was the middle of December when outside temperatures rarely ventured above forty. This room should be cold and dry. Very cold and very dry.
Sister Gert shook her head and frowned a warning as I opened my mouth to ask my questions.
Scrap prodded my mind to remind me to obey.
Then the flashlight picked out iron-and-brass fittings on a round door in the wall. At least twelve feet in diameter.
It looked to be one solid piece of metal. Nothing decorative about it, just a solid barrier between here and there.
As we stood there, the door began to vibrate and glow red with a new blast of wet heat.
Scrap turned scarlet.
Sister Gert grabbed my arm and we both hastened upstairs.
The cold air in the armory was a welcome relief.
Briefly. Then the goose bumps on my arms rose and I shuddered with more than cold.
When the trapdoor was back in place and the carpet hiding it once more, she heaved a sigh. “That is the portal. Just going into that room was dangerous. The demons smelled us. They wanted to break through and taste our blood.”
I sensed her genuine fear.
Believe her, babe, that is one mean place to be.
“What keeps them from breaking through?” I finally asked. I didn’t like the way my voice shook. Something was down there. But I still didn’t know precisely what.
“We do not know. For many, many generations the Sisterhood has been charged with the duty to guard that portal. All we know is that upon occasion, demons breach it. When they do, we must fight them back to their own dimension and close the portal once more.”
Sister Gert led me out of the armory, back into the sunlit corridor.
“Well, shouldn’t we find out what seals it and what breaks it so that we can do a better job of keeping it closed?”
“Ours is not the place to question, only to fight.”
“Well, that’s stupid.”
“There are others who keep this information. They will tell us if we need to know more.”
“How long has it been since you’ve heard from these ‘others’?” I couldn’t stand still any longer. This woman had blinders on and refused to look beyond them.
“Questing into other realms is more dangerous than allowing demons to breach the portal and come into this world.”
“How do you know that if you’ve never done it?”
She looked at me in bewilderment, not understanding what I asked or why. “We leave that to those who know better than we.”
“But how do you know that these ‘others’ still exist? How do you know they have the best information and pass it along? How do you know…”
“It is very clear to me, Teresa, that you do not belong here. I hate to waste one who is chosen by the Goddess, but you must leave here. You will never be worthy of the title ‘Sister.’ ” She marched off. I don’t think she had any other gait than marching.
“Who said I wanted to be a ‘Sister’ in the first place?”
Time to keep your mouth shut, Tess. We’re in big trouble here.
“What can they do, throw me out?”
Yes.
“That is bad how?”
We will be utterly alone.
“Sounds good to me. I could use a little privacy now and then.”
Chapter 25
SHOUTS AND GUNFIRE awakened me just as the first rays of sunlight poked above the hills to the east of Half Moon Lake. Friday morning, my second full day in this dusty little town.
I dashed out of bed and peered out the front windows, heedless of my lack of sleeping attire. A quick glance through a slit between the drapes showed Donovan and Quentin barring their door to Dog and a decidedly grubby and disheveled Cynthia.
Quentin had a big handgun. A very big handgun.
Dog had a slight graze on his left flank, like a bullet had bounced off his hide. Bullets wouldn’t touch a real monster from another realm. Sister Gert had been most adamant on that point.
I couldn’t dress fast enough. Clad in jeans and a sweater, without underwear or shoes, I ran across the courtyard to Donovan’s office suite.
“Don’t hurt him, Sapa!” Cynthia yelled as she grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck.
“Outta the way, girl. I’m gonna shoot the fucking dog!” Quentin yelled back.
“Forget the dog, protect the blanket, you fool!” Donovan joined the fray. He looked as if he’d slept in his clothes. His rumpled hair and heavy eyes only made him look more attractive and vulnerable.
I couldn’t let my heart stutter in utter awe of the man’s beauty. I had to get the girl away from the dog.
Dog, Sapa she’d called him, looked into Cynthia’s eyes with utter devotion and backed off two steps.
The killer I loathed with every atom in my being looked just like any other oversized puppy in need of an ear scratch.
I came to a stumbling halt, suddenly aware of the gravel cutting my feet. “Everybody shut up and hold still,” I commanded as sternly as I knew how. I put on my schoolteacher face—I had teaching credentials in history and lit, and had substituted in numerous inner city high schools in New England before I met Dill.
Strangely, they obeyed me. Even Sapa turned his attention toward me for two heartbeats. Then he looked to Cynthia once more for confirmation that he should obey me.
Good move, Tess. Stop and think before you get everyone into more trouble, Scrap said around one of his favorite black cherry cheroots. He looked mildly pink.
There was evil afoot but nothing imminently dangerous.
Still, he stayed back by the doorway of my suite. The barrier that existed between Donovan and him was back in place.
“Can you talk some sense into these men, Tess?” Cynthia asked. A little-girl plaintiveness returned to her voice and posture. She didn’t want to be in charge, even though Sapa thought she should be. Someone needed to be in charge of that dog.
“Donovan, I suggest you allow the dog into your office. He won’t hurt the blanket.”
“Are you crazy, Tess? He’ll steal the blanket again. It’s unique, worth three fortunes. And it belongs to my family.” He stood firm, arms crossed, chest heaving in agitation.
“I know how unique it is.” I took my eyes off the dog and shifted my gaze toward Donovan. A glare of pure hatred crossed his face. Before I could blink, the malevolent expression vanished, replaced by his completely charming smile.
But I had seen something in his eyes that broke his spell over me. At least temporarily.
“As long as Cynthia is nearby, Sapa will merely guard the blanket for her.”
“What’s she mean, boss?” Quentin asked. He kept his handgun leveled on the dog. I didn’t know the caliber, only that it was an automatic and the muzzle looked very large and powerful.
“Never mind. Let the dog and the girl inside, but keep your aim on the dog at all times. If he so much as drools on that blanket, shoot him.” Donovan turned back into his suite.
I counted his stomping steps. Fifteen of them. Then I heard an interior door slam.
“Go with Sapa, Cynthia,” I said quietly. “I’ll be right behind you. As soon as we get the dog settled, I’ll take you to my room. You can bathe and have breakfast.”
“I… I don’t kn
ow if he’ll…”
“Sapa knows you need food and rest. He’ll let you come with me. Won’t you, Sapa?” I forced myself to scratch the dog between the ears. His shoulder was as high as my hip. But he reacted just like any other dog, sighing and leaning his weight against me as he luxuriated in the caress.
Remember, he isn’t totally responsible for Bob’s death, Scrap reminded me. If the demon children didn’t have knives aimed at Cynthia, Dog would not have attacked.
Bob got in the way of both of them.
“It’s not over between you and me, Dog, but for now I’ll let you live. For Cynthia’s sake.”
In moments the dog had curled up below the blanket and rested his massive head upon his paws. He looked up when I led Cynthia out the door. Then he settled down again.
“Quite a show, Ms. Newcomb,” Vern Abrams said from his half of the deck that spread in front of our suites. “Thought you believed the dog to be dangerous.”
He looked at me with suspicion and not a trace of the previous evening’s camaraderie.
“Most dogs are only dangerous when they or their pet humans are attacked,” I replied. I dragged Cynthia inside and slammed my door, putting an end to the next question I could see forming on Vern’s lips.
I’d figure out who he was and what he wanted from me later.
Scrap’s words set me to shaking. What if Dog was one of the good guys?
Right now, Cynthia needed a bath, new clothes, and food. I was the only one who could give them to her.
“Interesting development, the dog and the blanket together with a new weaver,” Guilford van der Hoyden-Smythe said. He’d parked his long, skinny body on the sofa in my suite and propped his big feet up on the log-and-tree-burl coffee table. The television blared the twenty-four-hour news station. He fingered my antique comb, shifting his attention between it and the TV.
Damn. I knew I should have locked the door behind me.
Chapter 26
WHEN I’D SETTLED Cynthia in the tub and ordered breakfast for three from the steak house, I planted myself between Gollum and the TV that fascinated him.
“Why are you here?” I asked when he finally realized that I blocked the screen from his view.
I smell cat. Do you smell a cat? Achoooooo!
That was the least of my worries.
“I think you’d better watch this next news segment,” he replied.
Frowning, I turned to watch an all-too-familiar scene.
SWAT teams camped outside a chain-link fence and a scattering of low featureless buildings. Police tape, crowds of media trucks, and cameras littered the rest of the high desert landscape. The anchorman’s voice over the live pictures droned on about the militants inside the abandoned military facility—unnamed, of course.
I’m sure I smell a cat. Scrap turned a nauseating shade of puce and sneezed again.
“Software mogul Donovan Estevez, as spokesman for the C’Aquilianish Tribal Council, released this statement yesterday evening.”
Donovan replaced the unnamed military facility in an unnamed location on the screen. He stood before a bouquet of microphones, wearing a pristine white shirt and tie. His long black braid, decorated with those eyecatching silver wings at his temples looked just as respectable as the rest of him—an image I’m certain the tribe chose deliberately.
I’d never heard of that particular tribe, though.
“More than one hundred forty years of abuse of treaty rights by the U.S. government must end,” Donovan said most pleasantly, as if discussing business over tea. “We of the Confederated Tribes of the C’Aquilianish Nations,” he went on to name several other tribes I did not recognize. None of them resembled the Colville tribe he claimed as part of his ancestry. Each name had more of the unpronounceable clicks, pops, and hisses I’d heard Donovan use in his curses the day before.
“We do hereby declare war on the United States Government,” Donovan continued. “We currently occupy this military base and have taken possession of all the weapons stored here. We have set up further defenses with armament purchased out of tribal funds.”
His speech went on and on.
I stared at the TV in disbelief, mouth agape.
“They can’t possibly win. What can they hope to gain? They’re insane,” I said over and over again.
“Or they are desperate,” Gollum replied quietly.
“Or they are being manipulated.”
“Those aren’t any tribes I’ve ever heard of,” Cynthia said from the doorway to the bedroom of the suite. She wore one of my jogging suits with the cuffs and sleeves rolled up.
“Me either,” Gollum said, his accent more clipped than usual. He leaned forward, peering at the TV screen intently. “And I’ve done a lot of research into tribal legends and mythology this last month.”
Breakfast arrived. Gollum paid for it out of a thick wad of bills.
I raised my eyebrows at the sight of the cash.
“Family trust fund, just kicked in,” he said as he started to make coffee.
I’m going to find that cat. I hate cats. Another sneeze.
How can I scent out evil with a cat clogging my nose?
We all tucked into the meal provided by the steak house. Steak and eggs and pancakes for Cynthia, bacon and eggs and waffles, traditional Belgians (not air-filled) for me, more sausage and eggs and French toast for Gollum. Cynthia wolfed down most of her food, including two glasses of milk and sixteen ounces of orange juice. But she barely touched her steak.
“Um, Tess, would you um, mind…”
“Go ahead and give it to Sapa. That’s why I ordered such a big one. I figured you’d want to share.”
“Thanks.” She wrapped the meat in a napkin and bounded out the door, barefoot and happy.
“That’s an incredible bond between her and the dog, considering he kidnapped her and killed two of her friends back in Alder Hill,” Gollum mused.
“They adore each other. Sapa is the family that was stolen from her when her parents died.” How did I know that? “I don’t think she really fit in, even after Leonard Stalking Moon adopted her. She needs that dog as much as he needs her.” And I needed to call Leonard.
“But she can’t stay here. She needs adults to look after her, school, clothes, friends, all the normal things adolescents have,” Gollum insisted.
“In her culture she is a woman. I don’t know how this is going to turn out, and as much as I hate leaving that dog alive, right now we have to keep Cynthia and Sapa together. We also have to call Leonard and let him know she is safe.”
“Are you forgetting that Sapa is a killer?” Gollum and I stared at each other. The vivid memory of two dead boys at the skate park and another maimed rose up in ghastly detail in my mind’s eye. The perfect recall given me by the fever was as much a curse as a blessing.
Then I remembered Bob. My dear friend. I choked and nearly gagged on my tears. I could almost smell Bob’s blood on my hands, on my clothes, in my hair, everywhere but in his body where it belonged.
The weight of his head in my lap was all too real.
Remember Donovan’s demon children and their knives.
Were they trying to protect Cynthia or kill her?
“Why would they want to kill her?”
She is the weaver.
I had to relate the snippet of conversation to Gollum.
“Sapa has killed, but only to achieve the mandate given him centuries ago. He had to find a young woman of tribal blood to weave and maintain the blanket—for the good of all humanity.” As much as it felt like betrayal of Bob’s memory, I had to acknowledge that Sapa would never hurt Cynthia, his chosen weaver.
Gollum sighed and nodded. “I can stay a few weeks and look after her.” He pulled out his PDA.
“Scrap, what’s my schedule?” I called into the thin air. I hadn’t seen the imp since he’d gone cat hunting.
He probably got distracted by hunger and was in the lake feasting on micro bugs.
Clear for m
ost of a week. Then you have to go to World Fantasy Con in Madison, Wisconsin.
“Crap. I forgot about that.” Both my agent and editor planned to attend the mostly professional con. I was up for an award. I really needed to go.
Gollum’s got a cat. He can’t stay if he has a cat. I won’t let him.
I relayed my schedule to Gollum, remembering that he couldn’t hear or see Scrap. I didn’t care about the cat.
“Let’s just hope we can wrap this up in a week.”
“Where’d you get this?” Gollum held up the comb.
I snatched it from his hand. “It’s an antique I picked up somewhere.” I twisted up my hair and jammed the comb in. It seemed to fit better every day. But I also noticed more and more transparent and brittle hairs came out with it each time I removed it. My scalp hurt, too, as if a cat had run its claws over the surface.
I couldn’t wear it as often as I liked, or I’d lose all my hair.
“It has a glamour of magic about it. Only a few antique stores in this country would be able to handle something like that. Do you remember where in your travels you found it?” Gollum moved around behind me to study the thing.
“Magic,” I snorted.
Listen to him, babe. And find out why he has a cat in his room. Scrap sounded decidedly stuffy.
“Magic,” Gollum said firmly. “I wonder what sort of magic.”
So do I.
Cynthia came bounding back in, still happy. “Sapa thanks you for the steak. He was really hungry.” She plunked back down at the table and tucked into her remaining pancakes. “Oh, and Sapa reminded me that the mean man thinks he has a claim on the blanket, but he doesn’t really.”
“What?” Gollum and I said together as we stared at her.
“Long ago, in the time of our oldest grandfathers, when Coyote still walked the earth, the gods gave the blanket to all of the tribes so that they would learn honor and dignity and compromise.” Cynthia fell into a kind of chant.
I thought she might be channeling this legend much as Gollum had channeled the original, but her eyes remained bright and her face animated.
“The blanket didn’t always work, humans being what they are, so when the Columbia River changed course, and chaos ruled, the demons from beneath the lakes and rivers stole the blanket. Humans took a long time recovering from the awesome floods, but when they did, they missed the blanket and the honor and dignity and compromise it helped us hold onto. So three warriors from each of three different tribes went down below the lakes. The nine warriors had many adventures and six of them died. But the remaining three captured the blanket from the demons and returned it to humanity. This time it was entrusted to the best weaver in all of the tribes and she and the blanket were hidden where no man could find them with the dog Shunka Sapa to guard her and the blanket.” She finished and drew a deep breath.