Wild Ride

by Jennifer Cruisie

  “Right,” Ray said tiredly. “Minions harrying all week, killing all five at once after midnight Friday. So we're not protecting Glenda anymore?”

  GLENDA IS NO LONGER GUARDIA. Kharos paused for a moment, regretting the loss of all that beautiful power. She'd been ... delicious.

  “So okay,” Ray said. “The demons go after the Guardia on Saturday -”

  THROW THEM INTO CHAOS. GRIND THEM WITH GRIEF AT THEIR LOSSES SO THEY ARE AS DUST.

  “Sure. Oh, I found out that Mab's going to repair Fufluns' chalice so they can recapture him. It's not a high priority, though. Ethan's a lot more worried about Glenda dying than he is about Fufluns.”

  Kharos stared down at Ray. He was getting a lot of very good information about the Guardia very quickly.

  How was Ray getting such good information?

  Ray stood up. “So I'll go get the minions -”

  CALL YOUR PARTNER TO ME.

  “What?” Ray said, cautious now.

  I WISH TO MEET THE TRAITOR WHO IS HELPING YOU. SOMEONE IS TELLING YOU THINGS ONLY THE GUARDIA COULD KNOW. YOU HAVE SUBORNED SOMEONE WITHIN.

  “Well,” Ray said.

  CALL THIS TRAITOR TO ME.

  “He's not going to be happy. He's doing this because he wants to retire, not because he hates the Guardia. And frankly, he's not of my quality. You're going to be disappointed when you meet him -”

  CALL HIM.

  'Right," Ray said, and dialed his cell phone. Ten minutes later, Kharos stared out at a stripling.

  YOU WISH TO RETIRE?

  “I just want out,” Young Fred said, looking unsure. “You need to be free, we need to be free, it's a no-brainer. I set you free and nobody gets hurt, right?”

  YOU'RE ALL GOING TO DIE, Kharos thought, but he said, RIGHT.

  Behind Young Fred, Ray rolled his eyes.

  HERE'S WHAT I NEED YOU TO DO, Kharos said.

  Wild Ride

  16

  ************************************************************************************************

  You rest,“ Ethan said to Glenda as soon as they were in her trailer. ”Just ... sit down."

  Glenda sank down onto the red banquette, still a little rocky, and Ethan got the scotch from the cupboard, poured out a good slug, and drank it.

  Then he looked at his mother. 'You scared the hell out of me."

  Glenda nodded jerkily. “I scared the hell out of me.” She found her cigarette pack and took one out, and then stared at it. "Death. That'll make you think.”

  Ethan sat across from her with the bottle and his glass. “That was too close, too close to losing you, too close to not getting Tura. We have to do better.” He poured himself another slug.

  “Not 'we;” Glenda said. “I don't think I'm Guardia anymore.”

  Ethan's hand paused with the glass halfway to his mouth. “What?”

  Glenda spread her fingers out, concentrating - “Come on, burn,” she said-but they stayed just fingers, no little flames sprouting from the tips, and she folded her hand again, looking disconcerte d but not unhappy. “I think I died and somebody else was called.” She smiled, and she suddenly looked twenty years younger, if still a little shaky. “I feel ... different. Lighter.” She pointed to Ethan's glass. “Except for that, which depresses the hell Out of me.”

  Ethan closed his eyes.

  “You have to stop drinking,” she said, and when he pulled back, she said, “Ethan, life is too short to waste. You have to stop taking the easy way out. That's why you brought Weaver in, big gun, big helicopter because that's what we need here, more goddamn metal - you went with what was easy for you because your life is so damn hard. That's why you drink, so you don't feel life, feeling sorry for yourself. The lone survivor.” Her voice grew harsh. “Well, better to be the survivor than the dead.”

  She stopped, and Ethan realized she was breathing hard.

  “Hey, slow down,” he said.

  Glenda shook her head. “Gus is the only Guardia left with experience. And his hearing is going and he's old. It's amazing he can walk the tracks every morning and run the Dragon every night, You have an untrained team that you haven't even tried to bring together, and you don't know a damned thing about hunting Untouchables because you don't want to think about it, it's unpleasant.”

  Ethan pushed the glass away. She was wrong, but she'd almost died and he was grateful to have her there, even if she was bitching at him.

  She stood up, her hand on the table for support. “It's all up to you now, so you can do whatever you want, and if it doesn't work, well, you can just have a drink and forget it. The rest of the world will be in hell, but you'll be safe in the bottle.”

  Ethan held up the wooden chalice. It was still warm, and he could sense Tura's seething presence inside. “Hey, we got her, we did that right. And we got Selvans, too.” He put the chalice down on the table with a thud. “And Fufluns is not going to kill anyone, right?”

  “Just him being loose makes us vulnerable. The more Untouchables that are out of their chalices, the greater Kharos's powers. They strengthen him. And if Fufiuns gets a chance, he'll let Tura out again. If all live get out, they can take their own shapes, they won't have to possess anybody, and then they'll be in full possession of their powers. We can't let that happen.”

  “See, you didn't tell me that,” Ethan said, picking up his glass again.

  “You wouldn't listen.” Glenda took a deep shuddery breath, and Ethan felt like hell.

  She went over to the cupboard above the fridge, pulled out a small wooden box, opened the lid, retrieved a small steel key and handed it to Ethan. “The key to Hank's trailer. I made it ready for you whenever you decide to rejoin the human race.” She leaned over and kissed the top of his head and put a shaky hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for saving my life. Now sober up and save the world.”

  She went down the short hall and shut the door, and Ethan was left alone at the banquette with the bottle, the chalice, and the key in front of him.

  Save the world.

  Well, not tonight.

  He drank the rest of his scotch and then went out to the woods and got his sleeping hag. When he came back, he listened at Glenda's door. Snoring. Alive.

  He wedged the bedding in the hall in front of her door and stretched out.

  He couldn't save the world tonight, but he could protect his mother.

  Ethan woke before dawn. He hadn't slept well, dreaming about being shot again, a searing pain in his chest, the screams of his team leader, so it rook him a few seconds to get oriented. He almost knocked over Tura's chalice, which was right next to his head as he sat up and reached for his pistol.

  His chest was killing him. He reached inside his vest and shirt to the scar where the bullet had entered and felt a hard lump. What now? He sat up and peeled off the vest, then removed his shirt. He could see the lump, right below the scar, and for a moment thought it was old stitches working their way out but realized it was too big and too hard for that.

  Much too big. More the size of... a bullet.

  Ethan slid his dad's knife out. Probing with the point, he dug into the skin and extracted a spent AK-47 round. The round. Looking at the bloody piece of lead in his hand, Ethan barely registered the trickle of blood on his chest. It had been so close to his heart, the surgeons didn't dare go after it. So how

  He'd felt the pain changing, lessening, the longer he stayed in the park, the more he'd joined with his mother and her team. Something had made the bullet move away from his heart, something that wanted him strong to fight demons. Glenda was right, the Guardia had given him his life back.

  Abruptly, he turned his head, listening. Someone was coming, even though it was an hour or so before dawn. Not a demon. How the hell did he know that? He looked at his chest. The bleeding had stopped. The scar looked as it always had. Shaking his head, he pulled on his shirt and combat vest and slid the pistol in its holster. He pocketed the AK-47 bullet, then tucked the chalice under his arm.


  He went outside and spotted a slender figure coming from the direction of the Beer Pavilion. Weaver. She had her demon gun slung over her shoulder and was wearing her goggles.

  “You get any sleep?” Ethan asked, trying to keep from laughing. He wasn't going to die. His whole life was back in front of him again, with another mission to accomplish. One he could feel good about. One that saved people.

  “No.” She pulled the goggles up and looked at him without warmth. “How did you know it was me?”

  “Saw you under the trees.” A mission with Weaver by his side. Ethan smiled.

  Weaver looked over her shoulder. “No way you could see me there.”

  “I think it's part of being the Hunter.”

  “Great,” Weaver said. “Now Ursula's really going to want me to bring you in.”

  Ethan stopped thinking about the rest of his life - he had a rest-of-his-life, that was enough - long enough to notice that she was upset. “What's going on?”

  “She was not happy requesting a covert ops Nighthawk and having it waved off. She was not happy learning I took an extra D-gun. She was not happy that I didn't bring her back anything more than your blood, which you'll be unhappy to know has francium in it.”

  “You don't look so happy, either,” Ethan said.

  Weaver smiled at him tightly. “How's Glenda?”

  That wasn't good. “Still sleeping. What's wrong?”

  Weaver lifted her chin. “Nothing's wrong, Ethan. I just put my career on the line for you last night and got it handed back to me with a 'No, thanks, we'll use magic.' If you weren't going to use me, why was I there?”

  “Because you asked to be,” Ethan said, exasperated that she was dwelling on the past when there was all this future before them. “Because I thought the D-gun might be useful. I was wrong.”

  “Not a problem,” Weaver said, clearly lying. “Your problem is Ursula. She's coming to the park today. Wants to meet you.”

  “No,” Ethan said, having enough women on his hands at the moment.

  “She thinks the whole thing is a crock, but she's not sure. So she's going to find out.”

  “Screw Ursula.” He shifted the chalice in his arms and hit the old wound and winced from habit but there was no pain. The bullet was gone, and he had his future back, and he did not want to talk about Ursula. “I'm sorry if I wasn't appreciative last night.”

  “I'm sorry I wasn't appreciative last night.” He hefted the chalice to balance it under his arm. “I have to lock this up in the Keep. Want to go with me, protect me from whatever is walking around out there?”

  She looked at him as if she wanted to say something - probably Up yours - and then she sighed and said, “Sure.”

  That wasn't good. He wanted her happy. Looking forward to the future. Maybe with him.

  I have a future, he thought, still amazed at the idea. So maybe it was time to start thinking about what he wanted to do with it.

  “Glenda's got Hank's trailer all set up, ready to move into.” He took a deep breath. “I think you should move out here. Easier for you to watch the park if you're staying out here instead of in town.”

  Weaver looked skeptical. “Does Glenda want that?”

  “I want that,” Ethan said.

  She shrugged. “Okay. Sure. It will be better for the mission to be out here.”

  “And then after you're moved in, we'll ... talk,” Ethan said, praying she wouldn't want to.

  “Whatever you want,” Weaver said, and started down the path to the midway without him.

  “Oh, great,” Ethan said, wondering how long she was going to be mad, and then he remembered he had a future. She could he mad for a while and it was okay because he wasn't going to die at any minute, he had a future. It was still a shock every time he realized it, it was going to take some getting used to, but it was there. “Great,” he said again, and took off to catch up with Weaver.

  Mab’s plan to get up early and move out to Delpha's trailer that morning ended when she woke up and immediately rolled over and threw tip into her wastebasket. “Oh god,” she said, and stumbled into the bathroom, where she threw up again.

  Frankie did his raspy raven coo, which was a comfort but not a help.

  “Flu,” she told Cindy when she got downstairs with Frankie on her shoulder. “Or maybe I'm still barfing from that stuff Ethan made me drink last night. Whatever, I feel like hell.”

  “Yeah,” Cindy said, looking down the counter to where Coke-bottle glasses guy was sitting next to a middle-aged woman with tightly waved dark hair wearing an expensive powder blue suit and an unpleasant expression. Except for a mother and a couple of kids, they were the only ones in the place.

  “What's wrong?” Mab said. “Why aren't there more people here?”

  Even as she spoke, somebody rattled the doorknob, and Mab saw that Cindy had put the CLOSED sign on the door.

  “Cindy, it's Saturday, you need to ...,” she began and then got a good look at her roommate.

  She looked panic-stricken.

  “Are you okay?" Mab whispered to her.

  “That's a bird,” the woman called down the counter to Mab. “Birds are unsanitary.”

  “Thank you for sharing,” Mab called back while Frankie glared at the woman from her shoulder. Then she turned to Cindy. “Okay, I had a bad night, and now I'm sick, and I need a big dose of cheer and whatever ice cream you've got that cures flu, but first, what's wrong?”

  “I said,” the woman at the end of the counter said more loudly, “that bird is unsanitary!”

  Cindy's gaze wandered toward the ceiling again, as if she were concentrating very hard on not paying attention.

  Mab leaned toward Cindy and whispered, “Who is that woman?”

  “She's something to do with the government,” Cindy said, still staring at the ceiling. “She was asking me questions about the park.”

  “Government,” Mab said, thinking of black helicopters. “'That's not good.” She looked down the counter at them. The woman was exactly the kind of person who would think a black helicopter was a good idea.

  “You have to get that bird out of here,” the woman said to her. “That bird is a violation of health department regulations.” She transferred her attention to Cindy. "You're in charge here. It's your responsibility.”

  Cindy looked at the woman without speaking, her whole body tense.

  “Are you okay?” Mab said to her.

  “Yes.” Cindy refocused on her. “Did you say you had a bad night?”

  “Yeah, Glenda died.”

  “What?”

  “And then we brought her back. It was not fun.”

  Cindy was really focused now. “Is she okay?”

  “She was a little shaky the last time I saw her, but I think she's going to be fine. Can I have breakfast or do we have to do something to the government first?”

  The woman straightened on her stool, probably so she could threaten louder. “I'm going to make a formal complaint to the health department about that bird.”

  Frankie cawed at her, which did not help, and Cindy stared at the ceiling again, clenching her jaw, as if she were holding back a scream.

  “Okay, now you're creeping me our,” Mab said. “And given my life lately, that is not easy to do. What's wrong with you?”

  "I woke up funny.” Cindy said tightly.

  “Funny how?” Mab said.

  “Stuff has been happening.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Are you listening to me?” the woman demanded. She turned to the guy in the Coke-bottle glasses. “Stop eating that damn waffle and do something about that disease-carrying bird.”

  The man lifted his head from his ice cream and said, “The bird is fine.” Then his glasses became round shiny eyes and his body began to elongate, looming over her, muscles rippling as his pin-striped suit turned to scales, his coattails shooting out to become a long, thick, lashing -

  “Dragon,” Mab said, fascinated.

&nbs
p; - tail spiked with green trilby hats, just as he opened his mouth, filled with rows of serrated teeth.

  “You, on the other hand, are a pain in the ass,” the dragon said calmly.

  The woman froze, staring at him, and then toppled off her stool onto the tile floor, out cold.

  “I can't stop doing that,” Cindy whispered to Mab.

  “Uh-huh,” Mab said, still staring at the dragon, the muscles moving under its beautiful scales, the grace in the way it turned its head on its long strong neck to look at her, the heat in its sharp gray eyes.