by J. P. Sloan
I was aware of sunlight at some point, and willfully ignored it. My body needed to catch up on sleep. I reached for a ragged throw pillow behind my head and pulled it over my face. Perhaps it was a good thing the light had awakened me, because if I hadn’t taken that moment to move the pillow, I might not have heard the shuffling downstairs.
My heart hammered as adrenaline rushed into my system.
Whispers.
Someone was in the building.
I reached down and grabbed the darquelle. Easing my feet off the couch wasn’t easy, but I bit down on my lip and swallowed the pain, treading light against the carpet as I crept around to the back of the couch.
The wrought-iron spiral stairs creaked slightly as someone began to ascend. They were moving slowly and quietly.
I crouched low, keeping an eye on the platform above the stairs.
Something eased into view. Thin, shiny. It looked like chrome, or stainless steel. It slipped higher into view, and I recognized it was the tip of an actual sword.
This was about to get interesting.
I doubled my grip on my darquelle. The “blooded” working blade was meant to sever energetic constructs, but it would work against flesh and bone in a pinch.
The sword lifted further into view as the one wielding it poked his head into view.
I released a breath, and slowly lifted my body into view.
“Careful with that sword, Edgar,” I called out.
Edgar froze, blinked several times, then nearly dropped the sword as his shoulders relaxed.
“Holy crap, man,” he coughed. “You about gave me a heart attack.”
“Sorry about that.”
Edgar turned and called down the stairs, “It’s okay. It’s just Dorian.”
A series of noises erupted downstairs, including at least one grumbled pejorative from Wren and a whoop of excitement from the kids.
I set the darquelle back down on the pillow.
Edgar stepped into the room, still shaking his head. He lifted the sword and propped it against his shoulder.
“Where did you get that thing?” I asked, leaning gingerly against the couch.
“Not really sure. Picked it up at an estate sale in New Jersey a few years ago. I think it’s a prop from a movie or something.” He reached out to chuck my shoulder, then froze when he noticed the state of my face. “Holy shit, man. What happened to you?”
“Got in a fight.”
He hissed and inspected the cut above my eye. “Nasty.”
“You should see the other guy.”
“Mess him up?”
I smirked. “Not really, but he’s going to need to polish his shoes. So there’s that.”
Tiny footsteps stormed up the stairs. I braced as Eddie and Elle rushed around Edgar. They clamped onto my midsection in bear hugs, both of them weirdly strong for their size. This family didn’t play when it came to hugs, and I sucked in a breath as they squeezed a fresh shot of pain into my ribs.
“Ah, Jesus…” I wheezed.
Edgar pulled Eddie off my side as Elle took a quick step back, wincing up at me.
“Hear that, kids?” Edgar chuckled. “That’s the sound of a man with a broken rib. A man who I’m guessing hasn’t been to the damn emergency room yet?”
“I’m fine.”
Wren rounded the top of the stairs with two enormous suitcases. She power-armed the first up onto the landing before lugging the second one behind her. She glared at us all.
Edgar shook his head. “I, you know, could have helped.”
“You were busy,” she panted, “saving us from an intruder.”
“Sorry about that,” I offered. “I needed a place to crash.”
Wren cocked her brow. “You left the back door unlocked.”
“Oh. Uh, yeah. Sorry about that, too.”
Edgar asked, “Where’s your car?”
Wren interrupted, “Never mind that, why do you need a place to crash?”
“It’s been a hell of a couple weeks,” I answered.
Wren sighed. “It always is.” She turned to the kids. “Who wants some bacon and other stuff but mostly bacon?”
The kids nodded furiously, as did Edgar.
She turned to Edgar with a finger lifted. “Sorry, buckaroo. You’re going to bed.”
“Damn, man.”
“Uh-uh,” she chided. “You drove the night shift. Hit the sack, dude.”
He shuffled past her, stopping to kiss her cheek. “Save me some of that bacon.”
“No promises.”
Edgar paused by me. “You seriously okay?”
“In a roundabout manner of speaking, yeah.”
He shrugged, then smiled. “All right. I’ll take it.”
Once he had plodded down the hallway and shut the bedroom door, Wren broomed the kids away. “You two need a shower. You smell like feet.”
Eddie groused, but Elle said nothing. She lingered at Wren’s elbow staring at me.
I muttered, “I’ll get out of your hair.”
Wren reached for my head, jerked it to the side and peered at my eye. With a whistle, she said, “Nope. Gonna dress this first. I get not going to the emergency room, by the way. Nothing but doctors and people with qualifications and medical credentials up in those joints.”
“And MRSA.”
She smacked my arms. “Up.”
Wren shoved me down the hallway. The kids followed, and she gave Eddie a jerk on the ear. “You’re in the shower, buddy boy.”
Eddie glanced up at me, then at his mother. “You’re all in the bathroom.”
“Nothing Dorian can’t handle. Come on. Let’s get that butt moving.”
Wren manhandled me onto the lavatory and pushed my head back to get a better view. Elle hovered by the door, watching.
I gave her a wink, and she grinned.
Wren grabbed a dark brown bottle of what I hoped wasn’t hydrogen peroxide and a handful of toilet paper. Eddie turned on the shower and scurried out of his clothes and behind the shower curtain quicker than human sight could register.
“So, you start this fight?” Wren asked.
“Yes.”
“Figures.”
“So, drove all night?” I asked, changing the subject.
“We were going to stop at a motel, but we decided we wanted to come home.”
Elle huffed, and Wren rolled her eyes.
I asked, “Did I miss something?”
Wren smirked. “You missed having a dramatic teenage daughter.”
I hissed as she pressed the peroxide against my eyebrow.
“Well,” Wren mumbled, “looks like you were right, kiddo.”
Elle straightened, and explained, “I knew something was wrong with you.”
“Something’s always wrong with me,” I said.
“No. Something really wrong,” Elle protested. “Like you were hurt.”
I glanced to Wren, who was fishing a bandage from the drawer under my knee. “You training her up in divination or something?”
“Not yet,” Wren answered, “but I’m starting to think it’ll happen sooner than later.”
“Awesome,” I said, holding out a fist to Elle. “I need a diviner in my corner.”
Elle bumped my fist with a blushing grin.
The shower turned off, and Wren spun on her heel. “Oh, uh-uh. You’re going full soap, dude.”
Eddie groaned and turned the shower back on.
I hopped off the lavatory after Wren applied the bandage, and stole out of the bathroom to let Eddie shower in peace.
“Hey you,” Wren called to Elle, “you’re on deck.”
Elle crossed her arms, and Wren closed in with her.
“Give Dorian some space, okay,” she whispered at a volume I figure she thought I couldn’t hear.
Elle nodded, then gave me a deep glance.
I made a shooing gesture with my fingers, and she disappeared to her room.
Wren turned to me and swept past me for the kitchen.
I followed, saying, “The least I can do is make the coffee.”
“Nope. You make it wrong.”
“It’s just water and coffee grounds, right?”
“Yeah, but you skimp on the grounds. That doesn’t make coffee. That makes liquid sadness.” She bustled around the kitchen assembling the coffee maker.
“So, Elle’s going better?”
Wren nodded.
“How’s the nightmares?”
“Hasn’t had one for a few weeks. Knock on all available wood.”
I knocked on the casing to the kitchen.
“She’s good,” Wren continued. “She’s eating again. She’s sleeping.”
“These premonitions are new.”
Wren paused and looked out the window. “Yeah.” She swiveled her head to me. “And she never stops talking about you.”
“That’s not new.”
Wren laughed. “Oh, sit down. You’re making me nervous.”
I did as ordered, looking up at the pentacle she had hung over the doorway to the kitchen. “Hey, quick question for you. Magic related.”
“Shoot.”
“Chaos magic. Ever deal with anything like that?”
Wren nodded matter-of-factly. “Time to time.”
“No shit?”
“Why?”
“I might have a thing.”
“Well, I’ve studied Himes and Neuwaller. Basic stuff.”
A flutter in my stomach overtook the pain in my side. “Tell me.”
She hoisted a skillet from the cabinet and settled it on the stove top. “What’s to tell? It’s intuitive. Mostly it’s a wrangling act… lassoing chaos where you find it. Like, from Nature or the subconscious.”
“Subconscious?”
“Lots of chaos practice involves voluntarily breaking the mental connection.”
I blinked. “Making yourself insane?”
“Doesn’t have to be quite that dramatic, but insanity sure doesn’t hurt if you’re trying to play with Chaos. If you rather not actually break your brain, you can accomplish the same goals with a strict mental discipline of subconscious… why are we talking about this?”
“No specific reason.”
She turned to face me full-on.
“Maybe a couple specific reasons.”
Wren turned off the stove and stepped over to the table.
In a low but firm voice, she asked, “I know I’m going to regret this, but what trouble are you in now?”
“You really want to know?”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
I gave this a moment’s thought. I’d already corralled Julian into this fight. Wouldn’t I rather keep the Swains out of the crossfire?
“Let’s just say this. I’d really rather all of you were still in Orlando.”
“You need any help?”
I closed my eyes. “You’re a Wiccan, so you know more about Nature magic than I do. Tell me about chaos and physical locations. Like, say someone jinxed a piece of land. What would that do, exactly?”
Wren leaned back and crossed her arms. “Well, it’s not like cursed land. That’s way simpler. A land curse creates an area effect for a spell, like disease or bad luck that plagues anyone who lives on it. A curse stays with the property, but doesn’t really do anything to it. That’s why land curses are relatively easy to cleanse. It doesn’t go deep.”
“So what about a jinx?”
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s totally different. A jinx actually punches a hole through the substance of Nature, Herself. It’s an open wound called a ‘nihil.’ Not just some stain of evil, it’s a hole into a realm of pure destruction. You can’t just clear a jinx; you’d have to repair the damage. But at this point, we’re not dealing with Wicca anymore. We’re dealing with the old craft.”
“You mean Stregheria?”
She unfolded her arms and stretched. “Yeah, so, if you know any Streghas who aren’t interested in cursing the living dogshit out of you, I’d ask them.” She added after groaning through her stretch, “Though I can’t imagine why a Stregha would give you the time of day.”
“One might,” I answered, “if they were an old customer.”
housed several pieces of bacon, then wrapped my darquelle in some silver cloth Wren loaned me. Elle gave me a hug goodbye, squeezing tight again. I sensed she understood it was painful, but couldn’t stop. I honestly didn’t mind. She had fought a long, hard fight back to whatever “normal” means to a fourteen-year-old. She was lucky to be alive, and with such a vibrant soul. I honestly envied that girl.
Wren asked as I turned to the stairs, “How much of this do you want me to tell Edgar?”
I gave it some thought. “Really, I trust your instinct. He’s going to want to get into it, if you tell him. It’s your call.”
She nodded, then reached around my shoulders and gripped me tighter than Elle had.
“Be safe, asshole.”
“I will.”
I reached the bottom of the stairs, and spotted the door to Edgar’s collection. “Oh, I might have bought something.”
“What?”
“You’ll see.”
I hurried out the door before she could bust my balls over liberating a cursed object from Edgar’s collection.
Curses. I was already deeper into Netherwork than I had ever planned to be… than Emil had ever wanted. Every time I used the Gregori pendulum, I was risking my disembodied soul, banking on the fact that I couldn’t damn the thing while it was outside of my body. Hell, the curse I cast against Osterhaus could be free-and-clear, if that were the case.
As would any curse I might use in defense of the Presidium.
My soul was in someone’s possession, according to Parrish. Someone owned it. That notion filled me with dread. How had they found it? Did it fall into their laps? Were they fishing out in the Nether and just snagged it on their line?
Or was this someone who knew exactly what they were looking for?
None of these possibilities made me feel like singing Oh What a Beautiful Morning as I limped my way along Carroll Street to meet Julian. He’d offered to pick me up when I called him shortly before breakfast. My existential dread notwithstanding, I had a lot to feel good about. I had three solid leads. That was three more than I’d had all week. My whole notion that the Nombre D’or was almost entirely behind this conspiracy was materializing day by day. But something still wasn’t lining up in my thinking. If Pierre L’Enfant managed to swing his mulligan in the New World, then what went wrong? What were these people trying to accomplish by nuking his node sites, turning them into nihils?
And what was Clement’s role in all of this?
Julian pulled up the street with his typical punctuality.
He rolled down his window and called, “Hey, stranger. Need a lift?”
I slid into his Volvo and braced as I clicked the seatbelt over my midsection.
He peered at my face. “Got patched up, there?”
“Yeah,” I wheezed. “The Swains came back this morning.”
“Oh. Awkward.”
“Tell me about it.”
“To the tavern?”
I caught my breath and forced a smile. “Actually, how would you feel about a drive to the Eastern Shore?”
Julian snickered, then scowled when he realized I wasn’t kidding.
“Eastern Shore?”
“Yeah.”
“Any particular reason?” he asked.
“I learned a little more about the land jinxes these mystery men are throwing around. I need to talk to someone who, well… moves in this arena.”
“Someone I’ll want to meet?” he ventured as he pulled back onto the street.
“Probably not. In fact, you should probably wait in the car.”
“I think you know, at this point, we’re way beyond that.”
Julian’s dark interest was piqued again. But I remembered Annarose Rodolfi. She was a dangerous witch, and not particularly forbearing. This wasn’t an
encounter I could indulge Julian, or we’d both end up with diseases, or worse.
I turned to him without too much pain from my ribs. “I need to see a Stregha, Julian.”
“Okay.”
“You have no idea what a Stregha is, do you?”
He shook his head with a bemused smirk.
“Okay. So, picture my life. I’m a book-learning, ancient languages, specific metals and reagents in specific orders on specific strokes of will kind of practitioner.”
He shrugged. “I suppose I follow that.”
“Well, you know my kind of practice has a dark side. Right? They’re the ones who twist the will of men, subvert karma itself, conjure demons and generally wreak havoc with the order of things.”
Julian scowled. “Charming.”
I flipped my palms up. “Right? So, scary shit. Now, let’s talk about the other side of this Life of mine. The people who worship Nature. That’s Nature with a capital N. You know, the same Nature with sharks who savage basically everything, flesh-eating bacteria, wasps that turn ants into zombies, city-leveling earthquakes, floods, volcanoes, Hurricane Katrinas, and motherfucking Ebola. Now. Those are the ‘good guys.’ Imagine if they have a dark side, too. That’s the person I’m about to meet. Still want to put your thing down, or would you rather just sit in the car and give this a miss?”
After a block or two of consideration, he responded, “I think I’ll take the car option.”
“Then you’re a smarter man than I.”
By the time we reached the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, I still hadn’t come up with a good way to approach Annarose Rodolfi. She was the genuine article, an Old World Stregha who had set up shop just outside of Easton, Maryland. Not a year after I’d moved back to the States after Emil’s unfortunate demise, she had contracted my services against a clutch of Jesus Freaks who felt nostalgic over the Burning Times. It was a messy little caper… highly educational, all things considered. But the end result was a Stregha who had precious little love for me in her heart, but owed me at least the benefit of an audience.
Which wasn’t saying much. Streghas are as close to the Hans Christian Anderson style of haggard witch as one actually finds in the Life. And holy ball-sweat, this woman was terrifying.