A few yards away a line of bushes divided Alexandra’s yard from the wooded area beside the house. Taking a deep breath, he took three long strides and hurled himself over the bushes. He landed hard, rolled, and hugged the ground. He peered through the roots and faintly heard the women out front chatting away. He saw three of them, one probably choosing to hang out in front rather than with the fat one.
In back, if fatty heard anything she gave no indication of it. He low crawled to the back of the yard where the row ended and again checked fatty’s position. She turned in her pacing and now moving away from Tim. Seizing the moment, he pushed himself to his feet and half crouched, half ran for the tree line.
Expecting a cry of alarm at any second, he stopped a few yards past the first trees and ducked behind a particularly large trunk to look back toward the house. Fatty still retraced her steps. When she turned away again, he moved further in.
A few moments later, when no shouts came from behind him, he knew he made it. Now to decide where to go…
He heard a woman cry out in the distance ahead. Not in pain or distress, but more like happiness. It reminded him of the way his wife used to scream at those damned country concerts she used to drag him to. It piqued his curiosity, but only for a moment. Where the women in this town hung out, trouble waited with them. He started through the trees in a direction he hoped would take him toward town.
Again came a woman’s cry, this time from a different throat. It carried the same note of excitement. He froze, then shifted direction and moved toward the noise. Two more cries came together. He heard a faint sound almost like singing. A flicker of orange light threaded through the trees.
His curiosity got the better of him and he knew it. He already saw some strange things, and despite all that happened to him he could not help but be awestruck by them. A quick peek and he would be on his way once more. And if he got caught, oh well. Comfortable imprisonment versus uncertain freedom was not much of a difference.
He picked his way carefully through the trees and underbrush, careful not to make a sound. The slightest whisper of a leaf against his leg set his hair on end, though he knew the women could not hear it. Their song grew louder with every step, and it began to sound more like a chant or mantra than an actual song. Though he did not understand the words, he picked out specific repeated rhythms and phrases. Perhaps the witches performed one of their ritual spells?
Then again, maybe they just sang campfire songs and roasted marshmallows and s’mores. He chuckled quietly.
Likely the former, he decided, hugging the trees as he came closer. He had yet to witness any safe spells, but he recalled his fascination with magic as a child and just had to know what these women could be capable of.
He saw now that the fire burned far higher than the average bonfire. The woodpile easily reached twice his own height, and the flames licked higher than the treetops. He saw the women as little more than dancing silhouettes gathered in a ring about the fire. Moving closer, he could see many of them danced in various states of decency. Most wore clothes, but many threw off blouses and shoes, some while he watched, and a few others danced in the nude. Another handful of women stood in a group off to one corner, some swaying to the cadence of the song, some watching intently.
Alexandra, her straight black hair and pale skin unmistakable even in the firelight, leaned against a large stone tablet at one end of the clearing in which the women made their fire. Behind the tablet rose a big, decorative stone that reminded him of the Mayan calendars he learned about in school. A pair of braziers mounted on a sculpted stand hung on either side of her, their flames hardly a candle’s light in comparison to the bonfire. A font resembling a birdbath stood beside the stone tablet.
He spotted a gap in the trees to the right, just large enough for the passage of cars and small trucks and directly opposite the stone structures. The witches probably used the path the firewood to the clearing, and he wondered if following it would lead him back to town. Or, better yet, maybe some of these women parked their cars somewhere along the path. That would save him a lot of time on foot.
Tim knew very little of witches and warlocks and so forth. Guys like Houdini or Penn & Teller worked their illusions, of course, but this all worked on a whole different level. What little he knew about the occult he gleaned from watching television as a kid. Unfortunately, witches often took a backseat to demons and werewolves and vampires on most programs. He knew enough, however, to realize that the tablet Alexandra leaned on was probably an altar, and this clearing was their version of Stonehenge or a similar monument. He began to wonder whether he wanted to be around when they finished their spell.
As he looked on, the chanting and dancing rose to a fever pitch. More and more of the women threw off their clothes, and Alexandra, though she did not undress, kicked off her shoes and danced alone in front of the altar in a slow, hypnotic pattern. The women in the corner wrung their hands impatiently, an almost childlike expression of eagerness on their faces.
“I think I’ve seen enough,” Tim mouthed to himself as he crawled toward the car path. Though most of the women were not all that attractive, and he knew he had to get away, his loins silently protested leaving the spectacle. Based on the circumstances he had little difficulty ignoring the impulse.
“He’s arrived!” a woman suddenly shouted.
“Sebastian is here!” cried another.
Tim blinked against the light as someone emerged from the trees beyond the altar. Alexandra whirled, her arms spread wide in welcome of this new intruder. The solitary group of women also gathered around quickly while the singers continued their spiraling dance.
The intruder came closer to the altar, and Tim was surprised to see that it was a man. His short, coarse beard and the thick mat of hair on his chest and arms unmistakable even at a distance. He towered over the women, likely pushing seven foot and built like a brick wall. He appeared to be wearing a headdress of some sort, as a pair of stubby ivory-like horns protruded from just above his forehead.
“Sebastian!” a few more women cried out gleefully. The figure moved toward Alexandra, only briefly acknowledging the presence of the other women with a simple nod.
The figure moved closer to the firelight, and as the women danced around him the light brightened across his features. Getting a better look now, Tim saw Sebastian wore no headdress, but the horns grew straight out of his skull. He began to wonder what kind of genetic twist could cause such a deformity, only to have his surprise grow into shock when Sebastian stepped past the altar and into full view.
His knees jointed backward between large thighs and narrow shins, and a thick mat of hair covered the length of his legs. Cloven hooves, like those of a goat, grew in place of feet. He wore only a long leather loincloth that flapped from his waist.
Satyr.
The word came to him quickly, though he first learned of the mythological creature back in high school. It stuck to his mind most because of the old “Satyrs and Nymphs” cartoons in his old man’s Playboy magazines.
His flight response kicked into high gear and he just barely managed to keep himself still, trembling as he did so. Slowly, eyes locked firmly on the thing taking Alexandra into its arms, he crawled backward into the deeper darkness of the trees. Every rustle of leaves set his nerves on end, though he knew there was no way the women could hear him over the din of their song.
The singing suddenly changed in pitch.
The rhythm disintegrated, giving way to a cacophony of cheers and cries of joy. He wrenched his gaze back to the fire. The dancing stopped. The women shouted and cheered. Some dropped to their knees, their arms raised high over their head in adoration, bowing toward the fire. A handful swooned, their chests heaving heavily, their sweat glistening in the firelight, firelight that moved in strange new patterns.
He ducked lower, his eyes following the pillar of flame from the base of the bonfire to the top. Two tendrils of flame lashed out near the top and twisted indepen
dently like tentacles or arms. They waved over the tops of the women’s heads, occasionally dipping low or making subtle gestures, as if giving a benediction.
“The Earth Mother has come!” a woman nearby shouted with elation.
Alexandra stepped away from the altar, the satyr leaving her side to roam amongst the others. Unafraid, even smiling, she moved closer to the fire. The flames seemed to congeal, slowly coalescing to take shape and contour. Spidery fingers formed at the end of each arm of flame. A shape reminiscent of a heavy bosom bulged near the front, always staying forward of the two arms no matter which way they turned. Atop the whole, the tip folded in on itself to form a rounded head. If he looked at it just right, he swore he could make out a woman’s face in the glare.
He struggled for every breath as he backed away further, then continued around toward the narrow path. He took three steps before stopping dead in his tracks. A large black cat sat in front of him, its eyes burning yellow in the firelight. It sat back on its haunches, tail flicking in front of its forelegs. For one tense moment they stared at one another.
“It’s just a cat,” Tim told himself. “Just a fucking cat.” He took a tentative step to his right, intending to pass it without disturbing it. Unfortunately, the cat appeared to have other ideas. It hissed, rising to a defensive crouch and exposing its claws. Tim froze for a moment, then took a second step. The cat leapt forward, yowling and spitting. Tim jumped back, his fists raised in defense.
“God damn it!” he spat. He risked a look over his shoulder at the women in the clearing. A large tree blocked his view but he heard no sound of pursuit. “This is ridiculous.” He started to move around it once more.
The cat pounce, descending on Tim’s left thigh. He got his hand down a split second too late and the cat dug its claws through his jeans and into his flesh, its teeth coming down on his wrist. Tim swallowed an outcry of pain and twisted his left hand to seize the cat by the neck, then smashed his right fist down hard on its back. It relaxed its claws with the impact and Tim ripped it free and hurled it against a tree. It fell to the ground and lay there, motionless.
Tim rubbed his leg vigorously and looked toward the clearing to see if the coven spotted him. Again, trees blocked most of his view. He turned back to continue toward the path.
Standing in a rough half circle in front of him, four more cats hissed and spat.
Tim took a cautious step back from the cats, and realized they tried to corral him closer to the witches. If he didn’t get out soon, it would only be a matter of time before one of the women happened to see him.
He cursed the curiosity that led him to the edge of this clearing, as well as his stupidity for thinking he could ever escape from this God-forsaken town in the first place. He cursed Alexandra, and whatever child she used him to spawn. Finally he cursed women in general for perhaps the thousandth time, especially his ex-wife for getting him into this mess.
A sudden caw from above startled him out of his wits. A single crow sitting on a branch glared down at him. It cawed two more times, louder and more urgent this time. Tim broke and ran. With a rapid flapping of wings, the crow gave chase. The cats leapt for his legs, but fortunately for Tim their small size made it easy for him to brush them off. They scratched up his legs but did not slow his escape.
Shouts broke out behind him. The cats kept leaping for his legs, causing him to stumble occasionally. He held one hand over his head protectively as the crow swooped down to rake at his scalp with its talons. He heard a rhythmic pounding he first dismissed as his heartbeat in his ears. Looking over his shoulder, however, he saw the satyr, its massive hooves kicking up clods of earth as it rapidly gained ground on him.
One of the cats struck his ankle, knocking his foot sideways enough for it to collide with his opposite leg as he brought it forward. He stumbled sideways to compensate, his shoulder ramming hard into a tree trunk. The impact knocked the wind out of him and he spun around the side of the tree and collapsed onto his back. His head really pounded now, and pain flashed up and down his entire left side.
“I’m in Hell,” he wheezed, one hundred percent convinced that he made a true statement. His vision blurred as dark shape, one of the cats, moved close to his face.
“Get out of there,” a deep voice boomed, and the cat sprang away in an instant.
Oh, God, the satyr, Tim thought. His mind screamed for him to roll over and run away, but his body was either unwilling or unable to follow through. He felt two massive fists seize the front of his clothes and lift him off the ground. A sharp pain burst from his left shoulder and he screamed in pain. The satyr shook him roughly. He lifted his head enough to stare into the face of his captor, its horns inches from his face.
“You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you, Wilder?” the satyr boomed. “You just had to know everything!” With little effort he threw Tim backwards into the tree.
Tim struck the tree with an explosive outburst of breath and slid down the trunk. Bark scraped his back and snagging the back of his jeans. The satyr said something else, but the words came to him distorted, as if mud plugged his ears. Bells rang in his skull as he passed out.
Chapter Eleven
Tim woke up with a pounding headache and dull pain festering in every joint. Even the effort of opening his eyes nearly made him scream. Someone once tried to tell him pain is a good thing, that it tells you you’re still alive. Maybe so, but at the moment Tim thought he would rather be dead and feel nothing than endure this much pain.
It did not take him long to figure out he lay in bed back in Alexandra’s basement. She left him naked except for what seemed to be miles of gauze taping his left shoulder and upper arm to his chest. Sitting up took a supreme effort, but he managed. A set of boxers, a pair of jeans, and a sling waited for him on the rocking chair.
He managed to ease himself into the sling without screaming, and fortunately its straps had already been adjusted to fit him. He had a rough time getting the boxers and jeans on, particularly fastening the snap and zipper. Dressed at last, he turned off the lamp and headed upstairs.
He blinked hard against the daylight and saw Alexandra standing at the stove stirring a pot of boiling water. Pasta sauce bubbled slowly in a smaller pot in front of it. “Well, well. Hello sunshine. I was about to come down and wake you. How do you feel?”
Without thinking, Tim shrugged. He gasped in pain. “Not too bad,” he said through clenched teeth.
Alexandra turned back to her cooking to hide her smile. “Have a seat. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”
“What time is it?” he asked as he carefully lowered himself into one of the chairs in the dining room.
“Ohh, a few minutes to five.”
“I feel like shit.”
“You look like shit. Just be glad we bathed you.”
“That’s a pretty picture. Not that I shouldn’t be used to it or anything…”
“Hey now!” Alexandra said with a hint of warning. “Let’s not forget who interrupted whose celebration, okay?”
“Is that what you called all that shit?”
Alexandra dumped the spaghetti pot through the strainer in the sink. “And now you’re just trying to pick a fight.”
“Well what do you expect?” Tim shouted. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the ever-present guards in the backyard turn toward the house and take a few tentative steps closer, “You people broke my fucking shoulder!”
“No, you dislocated your own shoulder. We just treated it for you. Actually, you’re lucky to be alive.”
“Then why am I alive?”
“Sebastian was going to kill you. I stopped him because, like you and I talked about, I want to keep you around until the baby is born.”
“Sebastian?” Tim said the name almost mockingly. “Is that what you named your pet satyr?” He intentionally pronounced it “satire.”
“Say-ter,” she corrected, not picking up on his pun. “I’m surprised you even knew what he was. And Se
bastian is hardly a pet.”
Tim harumphed.
“In fact, he’s a relative.”
“What is he, your father?”
Alexandra chuckled. “No, he’s not nearly that close of a relative. But he is related to us.”
Another retort died at the tip of his tongue. “Us?”
“Us, as in you and me.” She scooped spaghetti onto two plates, ladled sauce over the noodles, and sprinkled grated cheese across the tops.
“Well?” Tim asked impatiently.
She slid a fork onto each plate and carried them both to the table. “Be careful not to drip sauce on your dressing.”
“Fuck my dressing!” He shoved his plate across the table and over the edge.
Alexandra held a palm out toward the plate. Both it and its payload froze in midair, then floated back over the table and settled down gently before Tim. “Relax, Timothy.”
“Just stop playing with me and tell me what the fuck is going on!”
She licked her lips and smiled. “Alright. Why not? Shall I start with the ‘us’?”
Tim reigned in his sarcasm and insults. Instead, he gave a single, sharp nod.
She swallowed a mouthful of spaghetti. “Well, I can’t specifically name a relationship, like nth cousin or great-to-the-umpteenth-power grandfather, but, we are both descended from the same ancestral bloodline.”
“So you’re saying I got goat’s blood pumping through my veins?”
Alexandra shot him an angry stare. “Watch your tongue, Timothy. Insults will get it cut from your throat.”
Again, he kept his temper in check. She would probably keep that promise after his escape attempt. “Satyr’s blood. Whatever.”
“Yes, we think you have satyr somewhere in your bloodline.”
“As do you…So, you’re hoping this kid of ours is going to be a satyr?”
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