by Tom Deitz
“’Cause you look like hell.”
“It’s not deliberate.”
“Was that an excuse or an evasion?”
Kirk moved his gaze to the ground and folded his arms across his chest, gnawing his lip.
“You…sleep okay?” Calvin asked carefully.
“Did you?”
“Mostly. Had some uncool dreams, though.”
“What kind?”
Calvin told him.
Kirk listened, brow wrinkled, his mouth a thin line. “I didn’t dream anything—I don’t think. Certainly nothin’ like that, so you couldn’t have been pickin’ me up. But…” He paused, puffed his cheeks. “Oh, hell, Cal…I didn’t dream, but I…I heard something, and maybe—maybe saw something, too.”
Calvin stepped far enough out to hear clearly and let the water pound his back. It was lessening in force. He’d have to finish soon. “What kind of something?”
Kirk shrugged, rolled his eyes. “I…don’t know. Maybe nothin’—I, uh—that is, this is gonna sound really stupid, but don’t laugh, okay? But…where’d you take your clothes off last night?”
Calvin regarded him seriously. “I thought I did that on my side and left ’em on that big trunk under the front window. Only when I looked for ’em just now they were under your window. I assumed you’d put ’em there as a joke, or something.”
“No joke.”
Calvin knew by his face he was telling the truth. “No.”
Silence. Then, from Kirk: “I saw your dad last night, Cal—I think I did. I woke up just before light and had to whizz, and I got up, and tripped on your boot—I guess it was migratin’ or something—and…and then I went out on the back porch, and while I was lettin’ fly, I got this feelin’ of something not right out there in the yard, and I finally saw this sorta half-assed shape over by the trees.”
“What kinda shape?”
“Hard to tell. Man-sized, though. And to tell the truth, I sorta thought it was maybe that Snakeeyes asshole snoopin’ around, ’cept that it wasn’t tall enough for him, and it…it had a smaller shape with it like—”
“Like a kid?” Calvin finished for him. He retrieved the soap again to give his hair a go. A minute or so of that, a rinse, and he’d be done.
“Like…a kid. Actually, there might even have been two of ’em, but one was real hazy like. And—” “
Two!” Calvin broke in. “Boy or girl?”
“Boy, I think. Both of them. I—Dammit!”
“What?” As Kirk started toward the house.
“Telephone.”
“Ignore it.”
“Can’t. Guy at the game promised to call me about a survey job this mornin’. I can’t let him hang. Sorry.”
“You’re gettin’ too corporate,” Calvin called to his cousin’s departing back, as his kinsman’s amble broke into a jog, then a run. He made the back door on the fifth ring. The towel didn’t.
And Calvin was alone with his thoughts, cold water, and a pretty mountain morning.
Closing his eyes, he stepped back into the shower, soaked his hair thoroughly, then stuck his head out again and commenced lathering it. Inevitably, some ran into his eyes, making them sting. He blinked, squeezed his lids shut, as he tried to rinse his eyes clear.
Then…
“Goddamn!” as something slammed into his shoulder—something soft and warm and sticklike. And with it came the heavy thump of wings, and air fanned against his flesh, and then another hit, and this time a thin-edged pain tore into the flesh of his clavical. Calvin flung himself out of the shower, ducked below the level of the screen. Some kind of large bird was flogging the hell out of him! But even as he tried to get his bearings, wings smacked his face. Claws scraped his back, missed, then grabbed again and hung on. Half blinded by soap, he could only beat at whatever had latched onto him, but to little avail. Sharpness slashed into the hand he tried to work under the gripping talons; a beak snapped at him as he scrabbled vainly for the neck in hopes of throttling whatever it was. Something clutched at his throat…pulled. A beak stabbed at his eyes. He flung himself flat on the ground, rolled onto his stomach, then had an idea and half-staggered, half-crawled back under the bucket. With one hand on the bird, the other found the faucet and turned it up full. Water beat down, but the bird would not let go. His vision was marginally clearer now—except that he had to keep his eyes closed lest that beak find them. But the little he could see showed that the water pooling about his knees swirled with red.
More claws, more wings, more impacts, more shrieks, more yells and curses. Again something tore at his throat, yanked, tore, then yanked harder.
It was going for the scale! It was the owl, and it was after the uktena scale!
“Get the hell away from me, Snakeeyes!” he gritted, beating at the bird.
“Fucking hell!” another voice broke in, distantly. “Hang on!” Already much closer.
And with that, the owl—or whatever—that had been assailing him ceased its attack. Venting a frustrated cry, it released him and flapped noisily into the air.
Calvin was crouched panting beneath the shower, absently watching blood draw deltas down his legs on their way to the sea around his feet, when Kirk pounded up to him. “What the hell was that all about?” his cousin demanded.
“I was attacked.”
“I could see that much, stooge.”
“Well I couldn’t see anything. What was it anyway?”
“Owl, I think—probably the one we saw earlier. You know, that owl.”
“If that was an owl, I’m Mickey Mouse,” Calvin grunted as he turned off the faucet and accepted the towel Kirk had brought him. He didn’t wait around to use it, though. One final quick scan of the sky—innocently clear now—and he wrapped the towel around his waist, retrieved his bandage and clothes, and started toward the cabin. His ribs hurt like hell. “If you don’t mind,” he gasped, “I think I’ll finish up inside—it’s safer that way.”
“Sorry!”
“I was the one dumb enough to stand naked and blind with my mojo hangin’ out in full view of something that evidently wants it.”
“Maybe.”
Calvin stood on the porch, applying the towel to his hair, as Kirk paused in the door and waited. “No maybe—except possibly to the last, except that there’re too many coincidences.”
“So what gives?”
Calvin donned his jeans and followed Kirk inside. Kirk had made a beeline for the coffeepot. “There’s still the small matter of breakfast. I mean I’d like to pretend I’m leadin’ a normal life, like I was a day ago.”
Calvin grimaced sourly—both from frustration and a whole new assortment of pains—but eased down at the table, only then realizing that he was still bleeding in trickles and his hands were in tatters. Fortunately, Kirk seemed nonplussed, though he passed him a wad of paper napkins. “Yeah, well, it’s like that, magic is,” Calvin told him apologetically as he commenced dabbing. “Once you start foolin’ around with it—or it with you—it won’t ever leave you alone.”
Kirk sank down opposite and filled his plate mechanically. His face was grim. “I repeat,” he said finally, “what gives?”
“Well,” Calvin sighed, “after we eat, I guess I’d better split. In fact,” he added with more conviction, “I’m gonna split. Things have already gotten too risky for you up here. If I stay, they’ll only get worse.”
Kirk eyed him steadily. “I’m goin’ with you.”
“You can’t.”
“Why the hell not? Asshole or not, you’re still the closest thing to a brother I’ve got. I’m not lettin’ you—”
“No,” Calvin interrupted. “You can’t. Don’t you see? It’s me they’re after—two different thems, best I can tell. One wants my scale—that’s pretty obvious. If I leave, you’ll be cool.”
“And you’ll be in deep shit.”
“Maybe—but it’ll be deep shit I know how to prepare for, now that I know kind of what kind of threat I’m up against.”
He wondered, though, if he felt as confident as he was talking, but soldiered on. “And furthermore, if that was Dad’s ghost you saw last night, I really oughta hit the high timber.”
“Why? It’s obviously gonna follow you.”
“Right! Which means it won’t follow you, ’cause even a ghost can’t be in two places at once—I hope.”
“But…”
“No, think, man! Ghosts seek out their closest kin for company, right? That’s what you said last night. So I’m Dad’s closest kinsman, given that his parents are dead, as is Mom—unless you count his older sister—your mom. But that’s all according to the white system. But by our system—our traditional system—his closest kin would be your mom; that hasn’t changed. But you, as sister’s son, would actually be closer kin to him than I am. And since this ghost business seem’s to be following traditional lines, at least in part, it means I’d better stay as far away from the rest of my kin as possible—especially since you and your mom are more vulnerable than I am. And while I’m pretty darned sure it wants me, I’d hate to tempt it otherwise!”
“But—”
“No buts. Breakfast, packing, and I’m outta here, and I hope like hell nothin’ happens to you before I get back.”
“Anything you can do, uh…otherwise?”
Calvin shrugged. “I might be able to ward the place. But it’s awfully big—and you do a lot of comin’ and goin’.”
“How ’bout if you just ward me?”
Calvin looked thoughtful, then strode to the front door. His cycle was still in the yard—though it likewise looked as though it might have moved a foot or two to the west—which made him shiver all over again. Steeling himself, he stepped onto the porch, then checked the sky. It was clear, save for a few specks very high up indeed. A pause for breath, and he ran for it. He unlocked the BMW’s saddlebags, fished inside one for the war clubs he’d wedged in there. And wondered, briefly, why he’d not shown them to Kirk last night. He supposed because he’d forgotten them. Lord knew he tried to, most times, though he’d practiced with them a bit.
Still…
A pause to relock the compartments, and he returned to the house. Kirk was still at the table, looking puzzled. Calvin strode over to him, handed him an atasi. “Here,” he said. “Whatever else this is, it’s also a weapon. Presumably it’ll bust heads, whether human, bear, or raptor. It, uh, came from somewhere else, and maybe it’s got some power for good in it. I’d suggest you keep it with you always. Sleep with it, if you have to. And make damned sure you’ve got it with you if you go outside, even if it’s just to take a piss. Okay?”
Kirk looked solemn. “Fine.”
“And don’t let Snakeeyes see it!”
A troubled scowl, touched with irritation.
“Sorry to freak you, man! Shoot, I’m sorry I’ve fucked up your life, when all I wanted was a little advice.”
“No problem. It’s been a pain, somewhat, but God knows you’ve left me with plenty to ponder.”
“I hope that’s all you have to do.”
“Me too.”
The next fifteen minutes were a flurry of activity, last-minute questions, speculations, and instructions. Calvin finished dressing, repacked his knapsack, and added most of the leftover breakfast including the coffee in a thermos and the orange juice in a canteen. They neatly filled the space the atasi had vacated.
Calvin paused on the porch to give his cousin a hearty hug. “Sorry again,” he murmured.
Kirk held him close. “No big deal, kid. You be careful. And me…well, I always wanted to be a warrior.”
“I hope you never have to be,” Calvin told him as they broke apart. A moment later, he was astride the bike, vaguely aware that once again Kirk’s phone was ringing. He did not drive slowly this time, but was grateful for the cover—for every time he hit clear terrain, he saw the shadow from overhead. Often enough, in fact, that shadow lay right atop his: the outstretched wings of an…owl.
Chapter X: Mojo in Milledge Hall
(Athens, Georgia—Sunday, June 17—midafternoon)
According to the map tucked inside Calvin’s black leather jacket, it was slightly more than a hundred miles from cousin Kirkwood’s place north of Qualla Boundary to the traffic light that had just caught him at the juncture of Thomas Street and Broad on the fringe of downtown Athens, Georgia. A hundred-odd miles as the road curved, he corrected; less than that as the crow flew. Or the owl.
Fortunately, the owl wasn’t flying anymore—or else was maintaining a very discreet distance indeed. Certainly he hadn’t seen its shadow overlying his own for nearly two hours, and he’d been on the road less than three. Which didn’t mean he’d dropped his guard, only that, as best he could determine, there were three possible causes for the critter’s absence.
The first was that it really had been an ordinary owl which had simply followed him a ways, then lost interest. Not likely, granted, but conceivable.
The second and far more reasonable possibility was that it had not been an ordinary owl, but was still subject to natural laws to the extent that it had either become tired or had realized that Calvin could maintain sixty miles per hour a lot more easily than it could, and longer.
The third was that the damned thing didn’t like cedar.
Witches didn’t like cedar. That was…not quite a fact, maybe—and it wasn’t a topic he’d ever raised with Uki—but his medicine-man grandfather had claimed as much, and Mooney had recorded essentially the same. Experience seemed to bear out the theory, too, because a few miles south of Qualla he’d entered a stretch of road so overhung by trees they veiled all view of the sky for seconds at a time—and conveniently enough, a lot of them had been cedars. Once he’d realized that, it had taken but an instant to zip off the road, trim a few sprigs, and affix them to the bike—and inside his jacket, his pockets, and the bandana he wore inside his crash helmet. The shadow had been waiting for him when he’d emerged, of course, but the instant it had tried to superimpose itself upon his analog again, it had missed a couple of beats and fallen back, at which point he’d lost sight of it.
Now if he were only rid of it for good….
A honk from behind informed him that the light had changed. He blinked, gazed down the hill toward the University of Georgia campus, and gunned the bike. Thomas Street became East Campus Road without altering otherwise, and Calvin zipped along until forced to slow by the railroad tracks beside Tanner Lumber Company (where Dave had brought him in quest of material for the loft he and Alec had constructed in their dorm room during Calvin’s one previous visit to the Classic City). Just past that, to the right, he glimpsed the terrace behind the art department, then Friedman Hall’s ground level and the back of Baldwin Hall: the anthropology building.
Another light, up a hill, right turn into a parking lot, and he was zeroing in on Target Two. He parked the cycle in a slot designated for same and climbed stiffly off, then activated the theft alarm and pocketed the key. A pause to stretch, unhook his helmet, and retrieve his backpack—Lord, but his ribs were sore, never mind his shredded collarbone and hands—and he strode across a scrap of walkway to the side door of Milledge Hall: the westernmost of a pair of Williamsburgesque dormitories that bracketed a small courtyard on one side while facing the larger one of Reed Quad on the other. A corridor stretched straight ahead, stairs went up to the right. He took them, turned right at the top, then right again, to gain the opposite end of the U. Second door from the end, to his left, and he knocked four times, a certain pattern Target Two should have recognized.
If it/they was/were home, the alternative to which was only then occurring to him. He hadn’t called from Kirkwood’s, though he’d intended to and probably should have. The main thing he remembered from his previous conversation, more than a week ago, was that finals began next week.
Another knock, and then—
“Calvin, m’man!” David Sullivan cried, whisking into the hallway to snare Calvin by the less-damaged shoulder and yank him insi
de. “I figured that was you!”
Calvin shot him a reproachful glare as he stumbled into the small room. “Then why’d you leave me standin’ on the doorstep?”
“’Cause it’s good for you to suffer.”
Calvin couldn’t resist a derisive snort as he helped himself to a seat in the very secondhand armchair squeezed below the single window and between two institutional-style desks. The loft above housed massive speakers with storage space between. “I’ve suffered enough in the last two days,” Calvin continued, holding up his bandaged hands for emphasis.
David flopped down on the lower of the bunk beds opposite and turned down the stereo: REM’s latest, appropriately enough. In token of the heat that permeated the cramped room despite a box fan and open windows, he was wearing gym shorts but no shirt or shoes. “Jesus, man, what happened?”
“The owls are not what they seem,” Calvin replied cryptically, leaning forward to shuck out of his jacket though retaining his black T-shirt. “You, uh, don’t act surprised to see me,” he added.
A mysterious chuckle. “Maybe I’m not.”
An eyebrow lifted. “Oh?”
A shrug countered. “I’ve got a girlfriend who can scry, remember? And a roomie with an oracular stone.”
Calvin leaned forward abruptly, his face an even mix of relief and concern. “He’s got it here?”
“Where else would it be?” David replied with a touch of sarcasm. “The damned thing has to be fed blood once a month or it’ll go crazy. You think he’d leave it a hundred miles away, where his mom could find it?”
Calvin shrugged expressively and flopped back into the chair again. “Well, I’d hoped he had more sense than that, but you never know, with McLean.”
“He’s got more sense than I have,” David replied flatly. “And more caution. It’s just that he likes to believe that the world works in a certain way. He likes things predictable.”
“He’s got the wrong friends, then.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Speaking of which,” Calvin said, “uh, where’s Liz?”
David checked his watch, did a fast mental calculation. “Prob’ly gettin’ down with Toad the Wet Sprocket, if she got to Atlanta in time.”