by James Hunter
“What?” she replied, a frown of disapproval dancing across her face. “I’m part of the FBI for a good reason. I’m very good at my job.”
“Any other tips, Sherlock?” I asked.
“Well,” she said, more or less ignoring me, “once you’ve narrowed down your suspect pool to those who had the means to commit the crime, then look for motive. Who would actually want to commit the crime—who might benefit from it.”
“That’s the problem,” James said. “I can easily figure out who might have been able to do the thing, but I can’t, for the life of me, think of a compelling reason why someone would want to do this. I remember Koschei—bringing him down was one of my first major assignments with the Fist, we have a bit of history. Nightmare doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
“Well,” I said, “if whoever is pulling the strings behind this mess wants to rule the world, then he’s gonna need a shit-ton of loyal muscle to do it, right? Shelton was an outcast with a chip on his shoulder bigger than the friggin’ Titanic. So if someone gave a guy like that power and a chance to belong to something, he’d create a loyal, capable underling and a powerful ally later on.”
“That’s true,” Ferraro said, “but why Shelton specifically? There’s probably a large pool of potential candidates that our suspect could have chosen from, but he picked Shelton. There must be a reason for it.”
She paused, drumming her fingers against the table. “Shelton was unbalanced,” she continued, “angry at the Junior Council—so giving him the ring was like giving him a loaded gun, one that was pointed at the members of the council that rejected him. Whoever is behind this had to know exactly what Shelton would do, whom Shelton would target. Which means that either Ben or Kozlov was likely the actual target and Shelton just a convenient means to an end. So look for people who’d have a good reason to hurt one or both of them.”
A little light bulb flicked to life in my head. “Shit, I think you’re right. But I bet the motive isn’t personal, or at least not solely personal.” I shifted in the booth to look at Ferraro. “You wouldn’t know this since you’re not a member of the Guild, but the Junior Council can propose legislation. They also act as the tie-breaking vote when the Elder Council can’t come to a consensus.” I looked back at James and bounced my hand on the table—this was the right track, I could feel it in my gut. “So take a hard look at folks who would’ve benefited politically by having a change in the Junior Guild membership. Maybe someone on the Elder Council is trying to stack the Junior Council with lackeys that’ll give him an edge somehow.”
“But what about Old Man Winter?” James asked. “How does he fit into the whole sordid mess?”
I tapped my chin. “Yeah, I’ve been trying to figure that out too. When Shelton went rogue, he immediately reached out to form an alliance with Winter. But from everything I’ve heard about the kid so far, that just doesn’t fit. This kid wants revenge and he wants to belong, he’s not after power. So why make a deal with Winter? That must be an order from someone else. No question about it. Damned if I can figure out exactly how he fits into the bigger picture … Still, I guess you could also look for people who might stand to benefit by a power shift in the Winter Court. Kind of a thin lead, but it’s better than nothing.”
James picked up his glass and took another drink before squeezing his eyes shut tight for a second. “God, maybe I should’ve been taking notes. Are you sure you don’t want to take this to the Guild?” he asked one last time. “This feels … big. Maybe too big.”
“No,” I said, “just us. It’s safer that way. Can you do it?”
He sighed again. “I can get you a location for Shelton—someone out there must know something and I’ll get them to talk. As for the rest”—he raised his hands and shrugged—“well, I’ll do my damnedest.”
“Hey, that’s all I can ask for.”
He snorted. “You’re asking quite a lot, actually. What will you do in the meantime? Back to your dewdropper ways—leaving everyone else to do your work?”
“Har har, asswad. Real funny.” I sat for a moment—what were we going to do, what would our next step be? “No,” I said after a time, “I think we’ll keep our heads down, get a little shuteye, and stay far away from anyone in the Guild. We’ll pay a visit to the Farm—get ready to kick some wrinkly, old, Lich ass.”
THIRTY:
The Farm
Ferraro and I stepped out of a portal from the Hub and into the brisk morning air of a Colorado winter. Colorado can get downright frigid in the winter months, but there wasn’t much by way of snow—the constant influx of sunshine had kept the powdery piles mostly at bay and after Boston it practically seemed like a sauna. We were behind a Wal-Mart—the Wal-Mart, actually, since Gunnison was a one Wal-Mart town—and only a couple of miles from the El Camino. It was still early, four thirty in the afternoon, but already the light was starting to fade and die, casting orange and pink fingers into the sky.
Ferraro followed closely on my heels, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”
“Hey, you’re preachin’ to the choir—I hate the Hub. I stay away whenever I can.”
“Convenient for travel, though,” she said.
“There is that.” Convenience was the reason we opted for the Hub in the first place. After battling the metus up in Wyoming, I’d driven the Camino down to Gunnison while Ferraro had squared away the reports with her superiors—I’d done the trip in a single go, which had been a long slog—just over four hundred and fifty miles and about eight hours all told. It had been worth it, though, I couldn’t stomach the thought of my Camino sitting in some impound lot up in B.F.E.
Some things simply can’t be tolerated.
Plus, Gunnison was home to the Farm—my blot-hole, complete with my personal stash of weapons, armor, and other supernatural badassery acquired over the years, including the Crook of Winter. That puppy was currently locked away in a giant steel safe, lined with lead, coated with silver, and covered inside and out with binding sigils.
Damn crook was powerful as hell and as dangerous as a wild honey badger—The One Ring dangerous even. But Lady Fate said I wouldn’t beat Randy without it, so there was nothing to do but snag the thing.
“So where to now?”
“I’ll hitch us a ride—we’ll pick up the Camino and then head over to the Farm.”
“The farm?” she asked.
“You’ll see when we get there.”
I walked away to flag down a ride before she could protest further, which she would, because she hated being kept in the dark. But, I didn’t want to talk about the Farm. I trusted her, but not that much. Shit, I didn’t trust anyone that much. Greg, one of my best regular human friends on the planet and an actual monster hunter, knew of its existence, but even he wasn’t privy to its location. I’d taken him a handful of times, but he’d always been incapacitated until we arrived. As much as I loved the guy, compulsion could make him talk even against his will. If only I knew the location, it was that much safer.
I spotted a good ol’ boy driving a huge red Ford, with an extended cab and no passengers present. I waved him down, summoning the Vis and weaving a very subtle glamour to make sure he noticed me. He pulled over—the engine idling like a friggin’ big rig—and rolled down his window.
“Hey ya, partner,” he said. “Y’all need a hand?” That was the glamour working, though the folks down here were a friendly lot, so there was a good chance he would’ve given us a lift even without the construct. I nodded and waved Ferraro over before heading around to the passenger side and hopping in.
The ride wasn’t long, ten minutes of fairly uncomfortable silence—I dropped just a little more glamor on the driver to give us some peace and quiet—couldn’t afford to have him asking questions or remembering us. We merged onto the US 50 W and got off a few minutes later, turning down a couple of side streets before finally pulling to a stop at a nearly empty parking lot outside of a bar called the Last Chance Grill. A tiny sing
le-story place that was just on the wrong side of run down, with an auto body shop across the street and not much else around for miles. The bar and eatery was called the Last Chance for a damned good reason—it sat right on the edge of town and there wasn’t much for a good long ways thereafter.
After kindly thanking our generous driver, we slipped out of the Ford and headed for the Camino. I’d left the car parked in a long-term spot behind the bar, which normally wouldn’t have been the smartest idea, but I’d taken precautions. Underneath the car, sprayed-painted onto the parking lot asphalt was a sigil of power—a glamour ward, much like the one built into my jacket. This is always where I parked my baby when leaving it for a while.
The result? First, the spot always stays open, waiting just for me. And second, people just don’t take notice of the Camino when it’s parked there. They’d see it, sure, but somewhere in their brain that info would fade, be pushed to the background as unimportant, which meant she was sitting prime and ready, waiting just for me. No, I didn’t get teary-eyed, but it was close. Man did it do my heart good to see her again: 1986, midnight-blue, black camper shell, with a mean engine, and a sound system that would leave even the most stalwart rockers reeling.
Seeing her again was a little like coming home.
I fished out car keys, unlocked the driver side door, slid into the seat, and leaned over to unlock the passenger side. Ferraro slid in, took one look around, and rolled her eyes. “I almost forgot that you drive this ridiculous thing. I mean I knew consciously, but somehow I must have tried to repress the memory. An El Camino with a camper shell. So tacky. I’m surprised I didn’t find you sooner—can’t be many cars like this on the road.”
“I’ve got glamour sigils built into the door panels—makes the car much harder to spot. But before we go any further, let me just establish a few ground rules,” I said, caressing the steering wheel. “Let me say that you’re a special lady, Nicole.” The use of her first name seemed to catch her off guard just a little. “We’ve been through a lot and you’re growing on me—but the Camino? We don’t say bad things about the Camino. This is a line in the sand for me. You don’t have to say anything nice, but refrain from saying anything mean or you’re gonna find yourself walking. Okay?”
She scowled and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re such a juvenile … man. Fine. Your car is wonderful. Amazing. Not ridiculous or childish at all.”
“Thank you,” I said, ignoring her obvious dig. “Now, before we go any further, I’m gonna need you to trust me. I’m gonna have to weave a construct over you—temporarily incapacitate you, Sleeping Beauty-style.”
“Excuse me?” She arched an eyebrow. “You want to put me in a temporary coma?” she asked, glaring at me like maybe I’d just asked her to chop off her arms and legs. “Absolutely not. Like you said, we’ve been through a lot and you’re growing on me—but my mind? No, you don’t get to touch my mind. This is a line in the sand for me.”
I ground my teeth, irritated. She was being totally unreasonable. “It’s a safety precaution. Where I’m taking you—you can’t know its location. I’d just blindfold you, but even that’s not enough. If you have any sensory input—sounds, smells, directional sense—it could be extracted from you … it’d be more than unpleasant. Please.”
“No.” Her scowl deepened.
“Fine,” I said, “if you really aren’t interested I can head by a hotel and drop you off for the night, swing by and pick you up tomorrow morning.”
“You really won’t take me unless I’m comatose?”
“I know how it sounds, but this is important. Look, I’ve worked with the Guild for a long time, but I’ve always had some suspicions that not everyone there was totally above board. That’s one of the important lessons I learned during my fix-it years—bad people are everywhere, and it’s important to protect yourself. So … I took certain precautions. Came across a lot of items of power that I didn’t want to see end up in the Guild vault for one reason or other. Useful stuff and dangerous shit. Like the Crook of Winter. I can’t risk someone else finding the place.”
She looked down and fidgeted with the seat belt for a moment, before finally snapping the buckle in place and sighing in resignation. “If you mess up anything inside my head—anything, you hear me—the things I do to you will make Fast Hands look tame. You understand?” She paused, locking her most murderous death gaze right on me. “I’m serious.”
“Yes ma’am,” I said, with a mock salute, “loud and clear. I’ll be very, very careful—you’ll wake up feeling like you had a long nap.” I opened myself to the Vis, drawing fire and life—swirling chaos and meticulous order, in equal parts—into my body, the sudden influx of power was so friggin’ exhilarating. Time slowed, taking a deep breath, my senses sharpened—I could hear Ferraro’s heartbeat, just a little too fast, smell the sweet scent of her. I exhaled and let those thoughts go, bending the power to my will.
The flows were fine things, a weave made of delicately wrought water, air, and spirit—I cast out my hand, like flicking some water free, and a few flows of blue smoke drifted free, darting into her nose and mouth like a plume of cigarette smoke.
“Sleep,” I whispered under my breath, a gentle suggestion laced with the power of Vis. Her eyes fluttered for a moment, then her head bobbed down and back up, like she was nodding off after a long day of work.
“Lean back,” I said softly, “its okay, just a little nap. Don’t fight it.”
She looked at me for a moment, groggy, eyes heavy, then nodded and leaned back in her seat, head arched back. Her eyes fluttered one last time before closing completely, her chest already rising and falling in the steady rhythm of deep sleep. I let go of the Vis and fished my iPod out of the glove box—way more handy than carrying around a crate of CDs, let me tell you—hooked it up to the stereo and put on “None of Us Are Free”, by Solomon Burke. As the funky jazz beat filled the interior, I popped the car into gear, pulled out of my spot, and cruised out of the lot, bound for the Farm.
The drive was a couple of hours along the US 50 W, with a few twists, turns, and switchbacks thrown in for good measure. There wasn’t much of a chance that someone had followed us from the Hub, but better to play it smart.
The ride was peaceful, exactly what I needed after a shitty couple of weeks—relaxing to some good tunes, out on the road surrounded by a whole lot of natural beauty. The road curved and arced around looping mountain turns, rocky hills covered with evergreens off to my right, while the lake—Blue Mesa Reservoir, a giant expanse of blue stretching into the distance—sat off to the left. I even rolled down the window for a bit, sure it was chilly, but I turned the heater on blast, and let the clean scent of mountain air fill the cab. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not some kinda nature purist—I like the city with its dirt and grime and life—but once in a while it’s nice to be someplace so quiet and unspoiled.
Occasionally, I’d take a peek at Ferraro as she snored softly in the seat next to me. Watching someone sleep is kind of creepy and stalkerish, I know, but it was hard not to stare a little. She was a naturally good-looking woman … but sleeping, she became more. Sleeping she transformed into something beautiful. When awake, she was so serious, weighed down by responsibility and some hard years, but asleep … well, her normal scowl vanished and she looked almost happy. It’s amazing how much a little change like that can affect things.
Eventually, the US 50 W arched over the Gunnison River and shortly after I turned left onto a cutoff road, which bobbed and weaved back into the tree-covered hills. Another ten minutes of slow and careful driving—the snow wasn’t deep, but it could make the going treacherous—and I turned right onto an unobtrusive dirt road snaking its way even further into the boonies. The access road, just wide enough for the car, hooked and wandered for about a mile before coming to a cattle fence, with a metal gate that had a “Private Property” sign posted on its front.
On the backside of the sign was a powerful sigil, made of silv
er and bronze, welded into place, then painted over so it was almost unobservable to scrutiny. The ward was a costly one, but it was a powerful deterrent to Rubes and most supernatural beings alike.
Any wandering souls who happened by this way would be struck with a fear so intense it would take a seriously compelling reason to continue on. If you’ve ever found yourself driving by an old creepy house that feels like the site of a horror movie, a place where something evil is lurking, just waiting to gobble you up, then you know the feeling. It also helped that just past the fence, framed by a thicket of dying trees, sprawled the most beat-up, ghoulish-looking barn you’re ever likely to see. If there was ever a place for a monster wielding a chainsaw to lurk, the Farm was the place. The Butcher from the police station would’ve felt right at home.
I pulled the Camino over, threw it into park, got out of the car, unlocked the padlock on the gate, and swung the thing open. The barn doors were likewise locked, so I ambled over and took care of them too, before getting back into the Camino and pulling into the barn itself. Though the outside looked to be old, rotted-out timbers, it was really only illusion—a mix between regular vanilla camouflage and powerful Vis constructs. In the Hub, dwellers will often pull the same trick: disguise the outside so that folks are less likely to take a peek indoors.
The barn interior wasn’t anything special exactly, but it certainly wasn’t as dilapidated as the outside would lead you to believe. A dirt-covered floor with some old hay strewn around. A workbench along the far wall, with some ancient hand tools hanging on wall mounted brackets.
There was a loft overhead, which looked appropriately ominous and foreboding, but which was really just an empty storage space. A wheelbarrow sat in one corner amidst some digging equipment—a couple of shovels, an old pitchfork, and a rusted pickaxe. Along the left wall, covered by a heavy-duty canvass tarp, was my motorcycle: a vintage ’43 Indian custom bobber. A mean-looking cruiser in black and silver, that could’ve come right off the battlefield of World War Two.