Divine Fantasy

by Melanie Jackson

  For a long moment no one answered.

  “I’m sorry. I know this is your family home, but that would be wisest,” Ninon said gently. I don’t think she knew what to make of me, and I didn’t feel like explaining that the family home didn’t mean all that much because I had never been part of the family. Keeping it had just been my defense mechanism, a way of pretending to myself that I had some connection with my parents.

  “I don’t mind that, but there is something of my father’s that I want to bring with me and we can’t fly with it.”

  “What is it?” Ambrose asked. I knew he was thinking about weaponry, and I was suddenly worried about disappointing him with my whimsy.

  “It’s out in the shed,” I said. As one they put down their coffee cups and waited for me to show them.

  “Can I see it?” Ambrose asked.

  “Now?”

  “If you don’t mind. Haste is the order of the day. The sooner we leave Bar Harbor, the safer it will be for everyone else.”

  Everyone else. That was code for humans. I doubted zombies could do much to anyone in the living room. Not anymore.

  Shrugging, I put down the pot and headed for the back door. I stopped at the telephone table and opened the tiny drawer in the desk and removed a set of keys.

  We all crunched through the ice in silence. I opened the old padlock and pulled open the shed door. It took some effort because the snow had drifted against it during the night, but I was a lot stronger now and I didn’t need any help from Ambrose.

  “This is it,” I said proudly, and everyone looked intently at the green shroud that covered the treasured contents. Realizing that they didn’t recognize it just from the shape I added: “My father was a huge fan of the movie Vanishing Point and he kept this 1970 white supercharged Dodge Challenger here at the house. My mother didn’t approve, but she let him have his toys.” Just not his damaged daughter.

  I pulled the tarp off the car and smiled at the gleaming paint. The hood was cracked open because of the cables running to an outside battery. The car had been left on a trickle charge while the caretaker was away for the holidays. “It gets lousy gas mileage, but the son of a bitch can go. It’s like riding a rocket.”

  “Holy shit,” Miguel said, and gave a soft laugh.

  Ninon didn’t react beyond a small smile that said she appreciated the need for pretty toys. But Ambrose ran an appreciative hand over the hood, stepping back as I pulled the top back and removed the cables from the battery.

  “Beautiful,” Ambrose said, though I had a feeling he preferred horses.

  The car wasn’t dusty. Part of the caretaker’s job was to see to the maintenance of Dad’s automobile, and he obviously had put a lot of care and attention into it. He was especially willing because I let him drive it in town when the weather was good. This kept the battery charged, and the gas didn’t go bad in the tank.

  “Let me start it. You have to hear the engine.” Eagerly, I got in the car and jammed the key home. In spite of the cold, the car started right away and screamed like an angry beast.

  “Wow.” Miguel laughed again.

  I smiled at him. “I know.”

  “Ninon has a Cobra,” he volunteered, and we began talking cars.

  Even in the cold, the shed was a bit odoriferous, and with the engine running it was like standing in the bell of a trumpet played by a halitosis sufferer who never changed the spit valve. I also knew from experience that where Ninon stood near the door, there was every chance the vibrations from the car’s engine would eventually send the snow off the pitched tin roof right onto the top of her head. I reached out a reluctant hand and switched off the engine. Playtime was over.

  “Okay,” Ambrose said. “It’s crazy, but we’ll drive as far as we can and then we’ll put her in storage. I’m not sure how far that will be. We are going to Alaska. In January. This isn’t exactly an all-terrain vehicle.”

  “But you can control the weather,” I pointed out.

  “So can you now,” he answered with a small smile. “But only to a limited degree and for a short period of time. We can call storms if they get within range and make small bubbles of calm around us, but we won’t be diverting any blizzards or tornados.”

  “We’ll manage.” I nodded to myself. Feeling happier, I pulled the shed door back into place. I didn’t bother locking it this time.

  I knew there were some bad times ahead, and I doubted very much that I was going to like turning into a wolf whenever the moon was full, but I couldn’t help but marvel that I was standing in freezing snow, manhandling heavy frozen doors without aid, and not worrying about my stupid heart giving out on me.

  Ambrose waited for me while I fussed needlessly with the door.

  “How soon can you be ready to leave?” he asked me, sensing my reluctance to actually depart. I wasn’t sentimental, but I was sure this would be the last time I saw the place and touched the things my father had.

  I forced myself to stop being maudlin and just say good-bye to the old life I hadn’t liked anyway.

  “We can leave as soon as I pack up some clothes and that Bacchus china piece in the dining room. I have some other arrangements to make if we are going to sell the house, but I can take care of them on the road.” I reviewed my mental checklist. “The lawyer for the trust can manage most things for a while, but some of it I’ll have to hire others to deal with.”

  “Like?” Ambrose asked. This was simple curiosity. I realized that he didn’t know very much about the nuts and bolts of my daily life, nor I about his.

  “My rent is paid through the trust but eventually I’ll have to close up the apartment in Munich. And sooner is probably better than later. It isn’t like I’ll ever go back there to live,” I added. “And I am taking a long break from writing biographies. I think I’m more of an action-adventure kind of girl now, and I am going to have to break this news to my editor. He isn’t going to like that, and I’m thinking the Band-Aid approach is best.” He cocked a brow. “You know, best to just rip it off quickly.”

  Ambrose grinned. “I suspect I will end up thanking God daily that you aren’t a ditherer. Many other women would be whining and crying.”

  “You might want to add a prayer of thanks that I like perverts while you’re at it,” I muttered, my eyes flicking downward and catching the slight tenting in his jeans. “Is that erection ever going to go away?”

  “Yes. Eventually. It’s a side effect of the shifting and calling up lightning. Up until now, I’ve considered it damned inconvenient, but I can think of occasions when it might be handy.”

  “At any other time I’d probably be happy about this.”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” he agreed. “And I’m looking forward to ‘any other time.’”

  “Really. You have more stamina than I. This has already been a long day and the sun is barely up.”

  Scribbler, n. A professional writer whose views are antagonistic to one’s own.

  Ink, n. A villainous compound of tanno-gallate of iron, gum arabic and water, chiefly used to facilitate the infection of idiocy and promote intellectual crime.

  —Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary

  Chapter Nineteen

  We closed up the house, setting everything back in order and wiping the place for fingerprints. It didn’t matter if mine were there, but the others’ prints, I was told—especially Miguel’s—might set off some alarms if they were discovered by law enforcement. Do I sound paranoid? I didn’t feel paranoid after Miguel and Ninon filled us in on how many low friends in high places were willing to help Saint Germain. And the mess in the graveyard might well attract attention from the wrong people, even if a coroner officially found that the bodies had been incinerated by lightning.

  We’d burned some firewood, but the woodpile was large and I doubted that the house’s caretaker would notice anything. Especially not after he saw that the car was gone. We considered letting him report it stolen, but decided that could comp
licate things down the road if we were ever stopped by the police. Instead, I left a short and breezy note saying that I had taken the car for a road trip to Savannah. No one was happy about leaving this note as proof that I had been in Maine, but it seemed the lesser of evils, given that Saint Germain already knew about me.

  I had thought the violence in Fiji bad, though at that point it had been impersonal, but his using my parents against me had given me a whole new appreciation of just how awful things could be. He’d miscalculated there. I think maybe the experience had been supposed to break me, to scare me away from Ambrose. But it had had the opposite effect. My hatred of Saint Germain was now soul deep.

  Ninon took their rental and Miguel drove ours back to the airport. They were going to fly to Quebec and then meet us in Alaska with—are you ready?—Lord Byron and Alexandre Dumas. Who knew both these men were alive and well?

  Our road trip was largely uneventful. We avoided bad weather all the way to Washington and made excellent time since we were able to spell each other while taking turns sleeping. We didn’t need to be in Alaska until the next full moon, but somehow settling in one place and staying for a while seemed wonderful.

  We met Alexandre’s wife, The Spider, in Seattle and she gave us new IDs. Again, as with the others of our kind, I found that I liked this woman a lot. Harmony was quiet and competent. She told us where to shop for colored contacts to disguise our strange eyes. It was in a nice area where they had several boutiques, and I treated myself to some new clothes.

  We had no trouble with our new passports crossing into Canada, so Miguel had obviously done his work well.

  Not feeling the cold as I used to was a huge bonus, but the physical change did mean that both Ambrose and I had enormous appetites and needed to eat often. He told me I would never get fat and needn’t worry about cholesterol, so I let myself go wild and had hot cinnamon rolls drowning in melted butter with a side of strawberry waffles with whipped cream every morning. Ambrose shuddered at my choices, but I think he got a kick out of watching me enjoy myself.

  As I promised, I did buy a cell phone for us to use. Actually, two, since I burned out the first one when I got annoyed. They were throwaway types where you bought your minutes as needed. I used the second phone to call my attorney and to let him know that I wanted to sell the Maine house and that I was closing up the apartment in Germany. I told him that all correspondence should be sent to my publisher for the time being as I would be traveling, doing book research for several weeks and would be unavailable by mail or phone. Mr. Fiske wanted a better explanation for my sudden decision to sell the family home, but I put him off. I think perhaps the changes in me go deeper than either Ambrose or I expected, because the attorney backed off the moment I willed him to. Maybe it’s that my voice is still a bit raspy and deeper than before.

  We put the car in storage in Juneau and retrieved a small plane out of a private hangar at the airport to take us to the valley where Ambrose’s cabin was located. You understand why I can’t be precise about this, yes? Saint Germain hasn’t found the cabin yet and it’s nice to have a bolt-hole that no one knows about.

  Okay, this is where the story gets even weirder.

  We set down about two miles from the cabin on a narrow ice field that looked too short to be safe, but somehow Ambrose managed to put the plane down with room to spare. We had a great many supplies onboard and knew we would have to make a couple of trips to retrieve everything. We can see well in the dark and can survive intense cold, but I was feeling very small and vulnerable out in the white wilderness and not looking forward to making any trips after dark, so we hurried to unload.

  Perhaps it was foolish, but I was so confident that the zombies couldn’t follow us into this ice chest of a place that I wasn’t really looking for anyone to be there when we landed. After all, the others weren’t coming for a couple days yet. It was supposed to be just us and the polar bears. But as I pulled on a new green parka and fished out my gloves, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye near a giant black upthrust of stone.

  I spun quickly, slipping on the ice and almost falling. “Look.” I didn’t point at the three males exiting the plane a hundred yards away from us. I recognized the airplane. It was a Feisler Storch, a remarkable bi-wing that is very rare. The antique plane was second place on the list of unusual things, though. The three creatures climbing out of her were far more extraordinary.

  Since the change I had been seeing auras around people and animals. They came in many colors and I was beginning to be able to read them, kind of like a mood ring. But these three men had coronas like nothing I had ever seen. The power in them was enough to make my eyes ache.

  Ambrose stopped beside me. His eyes narrowed and I saw him sniff at the freezing air. Belatedly, I did this too. I was still not used to having these advanced senses of hearing, sight, smell and taste at my disposal. The wind was eddying our way, and I was able to make out their personal smells. The two with silver coronas, one with red spikes, smelled of hot earth, rocks baking in the sun in the middle of a desert. The third man, with an iridescent green aura tinged with the colors of a stormy sunset, smelled oddly of chocolate. None of them were human.

  They weren’t like us, either.

  Only seconds after I pointed, the three men became aware of us. They turned as one to stare in our direction. It was then that I noticed their eyes. If I had thought them human before I would have been disabused of the idea as soon as our gazes met. Their eyes glowed with a powerful phosphorescence that made me think of aliens—and I don’t mean third-world refugees.

  Without hesitation they crossed the snow field to join us. They made no sound and left no tracks on the ice. The hair on my arms began to rise but it wasn’t with fear. I guess it was a kind of supernatural dread and awe of being in the presence of men so obviously nonhuman.

  For a moment I thought about suggesting to Ambrose that we run. But where? I had the distinct feeling that anywhere we went they could follow.

  “Hello,” one of the silver-shrouded beings said, coming to a halt about ten feet away.

  “What are you?” I asked without thinking.

  The beautiful being smiled, looking almost angelic.

  “I was about to ask you the same question. My name is Jack Frost and I am…” He paused, selecting his words carefully. “I am fae.”

  “Fae? Like, faerie fae?” I probably sounded stupid, but he didn’t seem annoyed with the question.

  “Yes. Faerie. Death fae to be precise.”

  “I thought your kind had perished,” Ambrose said. He came up behind me and put a hand on my waist. I could feel the heat of his body through my parka and knew that he was planning to toss me aside if the men made any sort of an aggressive move. In theory, I could change into a wolf and protect myself, but we hadn’t tried it yet.

  “Most of us have. We are the most endangered of species.” Jack smiled. “These are my friends, Thomas Marrowbone and Abrial Nightdemon.”

  “So you are Unseelie?” Ambrose asked. There was no judgment in his voice, which was reassuring. I had only the haziest of notions about faerie species from my Celtic mythology class in college, but I seemed to recall the Unseelies were the bad ones. The name Nightdemon was also unpleasantly suggestive. I wondered, without realizing then how unusual the thought was, if he were an incubus.

  “They were,” the one called Thomas answered. “That distinction means nothing now, as the faerie courts are gone.” This was said to me, and I realized that he was probably able to read my thoughts. I tried very hard to think politely.

  “But what are you?” I asked, sniffing again. I might be superhuman but the sudden temperature shift still made my nose run. “Your aura is very beautiful,” I added.

  “My aura?”

  “You look like an electric margarita at sunset.”

  Thomas laughed. I liked the sound, and I could feel Ambrose relax.

  “I am part fae, part wizard and part dragon. The sunset would
be the dragon part, I imagine.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know there were any dragons left.” It was all I could think to say. Dragons, faeries—it was all too weird. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”

  “Just one is left…that we know of. And that is plenty,” Abrial Nightdemon said. His voice was deep and a little scary. I was suddenly certain that, of the three, this man was the most dangerous. “And what are you, if I may ask without causing offense? We haven’t met anyone like you before.”

  “Well, I don’t know if there’s a name for us. I recently heard someone refer to Amb—us—as the Dark Man’s get, but I am strictly second-generation and had nothing to do with that whacko.” They waited politely for more explanation, so I went on: “We’re battery-drainers, I guess. Storm-callers. In fact, if you have any cell phones or watches, you may want to stay back. I’m still having trouble controlling things, and I sometimes short electronics out. I already ruined a cell phone.”

  “But you are something else as well,” Abrial said, and he also took in a deep breath and I knew he was tasting us. “Something with fur. Not selkie.” It didn’t sound like he thought this was necessarily a bad thing.

  “We’re lycanthropes. Shape-shifters,” I said cheerfully. “Wolves, I guess. I haven’t changed yet, though, so I don’t know for sure. My name is…What is my new name?” I asked, turning my head to look up at Ambrose. “I keep forgetting.”

  He answered me. I could hear amusement in his voice. Then Ambrose introduced himself, using his real name.

  “Sorry to sound so stupid,” I said, turning back to the others who were showing signs of shock at Ambrose’s announcement. That meant they were literate, at least by human standards. I found myself liking them. “I used to be Audrey. And Joyous. I just changed again. We’re hiding out from a very bad wizard who raises zombies while we wait for our friends. We have to decide what to do about the prick.”