Muddy Waters (Otherwhere Book 1)

by Sara O. Thompson

  “Hurry, before it can reshape itself,” Professor March croaked. “Get the shem.”

  I knelt in the pool of mud and pushed my hand wrist-deep into the quickly vanishing skull. It was cold as death. One eye still stared at me with as much malignance as it could manage. My fingertips finally found a corner of wet paper, and I pulled the little scroll out of the goo.

  It was like all the tension was sucked out of the room. The golem stopped writhing, and the pool of mud stilled as though it was just a regular old dirty puddle.

  I gasped, leaning back onto the floor.

  March stood up and staggered over. He dragged me out of the muck as I held up the shem. We both stared at it dumbly.

  Finally, I said, “What do I do with this?”

  Through his fear, he still looked like a kid at Christmas.

  “Can I see it?”

  “Be my guest.”

  He wiped it off on his pants as best he could then untied the tiny string holding the paper in a tight coil. Though the outside was dirty, the markings were pretty clear. March frowned.

  “This is not the name of God,” he murmured. He turned the paper over as though searching for more. “At least not in any form I’ve ever seen. This is… I don’t know. Does this look like anything to you?”

  I studied the strange little markings. “Looks like gibberish to me. I don’t read… anything, really, besides English…”

  “That’s just it. It’s not Hebrew. Or Aramaic. Or Arabic, Sumerian, Egyptian, German, Portuguese, or anything I’ve ever seen. Can I keep it? Do some research?” The man had just been clocked by a hellish piece of raw ceramic, and he wanted to take on homework.

  “Technically, it’s evidence of a supernormal crime. I’d better hang on to it for now. Can it be used again?”

  He shook his head thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. It’s all new territory for me, though, so, take it with a grain of salt.” He tittered. “Here.” He carefully tore it in half. “I’m fairly certain it’s useless now, if it wasn’t before. You should be able to read it still. Or whoever you will have doing the analysis.”

  “How did it get in?” I stood slowly.

  “I opened the door, and there it was.”

  I brushed absently at the mud on my clothes. “I don’t know if it came after you or me, but I suggest you find a new place to stay for the time being.” He nodded.

  I called Pryam while March changed clothes and made tea.

  Qyll rushed in first and abruptly halted at the sight of me. The sirens weren’t too far off. “Are you well?” Concern colored his sharp features.

  “Yeah, yeah. A little tired is all. Dirty, too. But listen.” I grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the hallway. He looked a little surprised, but followed willingly enough. I let go and wiped my hands on my filthy jeans. “Uh… Okay. Cara Courtland? She was making a golem.”

  Those beautiful silver eyes grew just a little wider as I gave him a rapid-fire rundown.

  “We have a bigger problem then,” Qyll said. “Cara Courtland is dead. She can’t be sending golems after you, so who is?”

  I swore under my breath. “Look, we’ll figure out who else is involved. Right now, you need to talk to March, but go easy on him. I wouldn’t have called you in, but…”

  “It’s a supernormal event. You had to.”

  “Yeah. But I was here on some personal business.”

  He frowned.

  “Look, now is not the time. I’ll fill you in, just later. I swear. Please.”

  He nodded slowly. “Where are you going?”

  “Home. I’ve got some research to do. And a very important and thorough bath to take. With a lot of salt and soap.”

  “Do you think it wise to return there? Alone? What if whoever sent the mudman is after you, not the professor?”

  I was so tired, this didn’t even make sense. I just waved my hands around. “I’m fine.”

  Qyll started to say something then just frowned and nodded. “Call me when you’ve learnt more. And are ready to talk.”

  In, time there will be an age of upheaval and the Rede Witches will dwindle to only a few in all the worlds between the sun and Them that Prowl the Edge of Knowing. After the defeat of the Witch Hunter, and the Trials, she will hold the balance of the worlds in her hands and see the true meaning of things. All this will come to pass.

  ―From the Kykloan Scrolls fragment

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ucky for me, there was an old blanket in the trunk, which I used as a barrier between my muddy ass and the seat.

  So. Cara Courtland bought a rare book and learned to make golems. She had clearly cobbled enough information to be very dangerous, but she was dead. Yet, somebody was still driving the Claymation bus, or I wouldn’t be going home having been dunked in clay and beginning to crust over. And was today’s mudman after me? Or the professor? And, not to get too complicated, but what did this all have to do with the Koby murders and Ann Bartley?

  It was early afternoon by the time I arrived at my apartment. Despite the daylight and possible indecent exposure, I stripped on the deck outside the back door, left the clothes to toss them in the garbage later, and went straight to the bathroom. I used all the hot water available before getting out.

  A Diet Coke, clean clothes, and a trip to my personal library were in order.

  I started doing that thing they do on TV cop shows: yellow sticky notes, some yarn, and tape, and I began building a picture of who, what, when, where, and why. In the middle, I had CARA COURTLAND and BIBLE STUDY/DEMONS. Like spokes of the wheel were GARDENER WEST, HEATHER, PATTERSON, THE RARE BOOK, and THE RED QUEEN. Out to the side, ANN BARTLEY. I had notes with big questions like, WHAT WAS CARA TRYING TO DO? WHO HAS THE BOOK NOW?

  Around two a.m., I gave up and went to bed and dreamed of drowning in muddy floods of little yellow sticky notes.

  I woke up the next morning with more ideas and a definite need to talk to Qyll. I decided to tell him in person.

  I’m embarrassed to say I spent entirely too long doing things to my hair and face to make it appear as though I had rolled out of bed looking professional yet sexy. My hair is a tremendous riot of red-gold-auburn curls. As a child, my mother had made me cut it short when she grew tired of fighting the tangles and the leaves. I was a bit of a tomboy and the haircut made me look a little boyish. Okay, a lot boyish. I got called “him” a lot.

  Finally satisfied and a little sheepish for acting like a primping teenage girl, I went to the car. It still smelled a little of freshly-churned earth and smoke.

  The ride to FBI headquarters was uneventful. Every time I went there, I would think to myself that the building should look more imposing. More like the powerful governmental agency it is, not like a plain boring suburban real estate office.

  As I pulled into the parking lot, I beheld a huge crowd near the front of the building, beneath the flagpoles. On the way, I’d seen more and more bumper stickers with such uplifting slogans as: BE AMERICAN. BE HUMAN. Or, THE ONLY THINGS THAT SHOULD HAVE WINGS ARE BIRDS AND AIRPLANES. Or, THERE IS NO MAGIC WORD.

  The only people who have those kinds of things on their cars? Treevangelists.

  Great. I fought the urge to gag. And turn around. But I’m not one to waste hours of primping.

  I heard the commotion before I could see them very well. A line of picketers, TV stations and cameras, and people-watchers milled about. A man with a bullhorn led the protest chants. “What do we want? HUMANS! When do we want them? NOW!”

  Near the far edge, a smaller group of maybe twenty or thirty stood a little apart from the rest. Judging by their bald pates and flowing robes, they were part of the Fervor. In an eerie move, they all turned to look at me at the same time, a choreographed weirdness that sent shivers across my skin.

  A man in front of me shouted, “SUFFER YE NOT A WITCH TO LIVE!”

  “WHAT HAPPENS IN HELL SHOULD STAY IN HELL!”

  “GOD PUNISHES THE FALSE PROPHETS!”

  �
��Excuse me, ma’am, are you an employee of the FBI?” A perky auburn-haired woman in a red blazer bearing a local TV news station’s logo shoved her mic in my face.

  “I am. And I’m a Witch.” I turned around and held up my hands, drawing the crowd’s attention. “A Witch. My partner in there? He’s a Dark Elf. And you know what? We are the only thing standing between you and total annihilation, so you better remember that the next time you have an uninvited ghost in your home or your kid gets jinxed by a djinn. You people have no idea.” The crowd roared. I shoved forward and the perky mic girl followed me. She looked like she had won the lottery.

  “Please, ma’am, what can you tell us about your job? What’s it like to be an illegal?”

  As I rounded on the speaker, I snarled, “I was born here. I’m not an illegal. Now get out of my face or so help me Shakti, I will hex you.” I stomped up the steps, immediately regretting that last part. Technically, it constituted a threat, and I just gave the reporter all the excuse in the world to bring me up on charges of endangering a Human citizen by an Other being.

  I finally got to the lobby where armed guards let me in and shut the doors behind me. After flashing my creds, I went through the gate and downstairs to the Supernormal offices.

  Qyll was at his desk, talking with a man I’d never seen before, a black guy with dreadlocked hair to his shoulders and round glasses.

  “Ah, Tessa.” Qyll stood. “Just in time. Bristol Jones? Tessa Reddick.”

  The man reached up to shake my hand. “Hey, nice to meet you. Heard a lot about you.”

  I grinned back at him. “It’s all true.”

  He laughed. “Good.”

  “Bristol is our combination IT department and Cult specialist.”

  I parked myself on the edge of Qyll’s desk, and they both sat back down. “Cult?”

  Bristol smiled sheepishly. “I needed someplace to use my considerable cult experience and slightly less considerable academic background.”

  Qyll shook his head. “Be not so humble, good man. Bristol has a degree from MIT, and he is a former Nuabianists.”

  “New wobby anist? What about the old wobby anist?”

  They laughed at my stupid pun and mispronunciation.

  “Nuabians. I grew up in the church.” Bristol Jones had a moon face and a goatee, which he constantly smoothed with his fingers.

  “Okay, so what does one believe, should one be a Nuabian?” I asked.

  “Oh, many things.” Bristol sighed.

  “Such as?”

  “You have to burn the afterbirth so that Satan doesn’t make a clone of the baby. However, there are seven clones of all of us.”

  “Clones. Where do those clones come from?”

  “Good question. I have no idea.”

  I grinned. “I like you, Jones. You’re a weirdo.”

  Bristol laughed. “Well, thank you. Stop by and visit anytime. My office is at the end of the hall.” He pointed. “Q, we’ll talk about that uh, thing, later, okay?”

  “Thank you, Agent Jones.” He saluted us and sauntered off. I perched in what I hoped was an enchanting yet professional way in the chair by Qyll’s desk.

  “I trust you made it past the hellhounds?” he smirked.

  “The mob? Hey, don’t joke. Have you seen a real hellhound? They are nasty. And smelly.”

  He finally looked at me, his silvery eyes tired. His face read mild surprise. “Your hair. It’s…”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Unless you finish that with ‘pretty’, I don’t want to hear it.”

  The admin chose that moment to show up with a stack of files. “Tessa! I’ve never seen it all down like that. Looks nice.”

  “Thanks, Ellen.” I grinned widely.

  Qyll stared at me for a little bit longer and finally said, “To what do we owe the pleasure, Agent Reddick? Isn’t it a little early for you to be out of bed? Especially after yesterday.” He was wearing a fitted dark blue button-down shirt and gray slacks. His dark hair was typically shiny and perfectly tousled.

  “Well, the thing is, I’ve been thinking.” I began, then introduced him to my thought process. I included everything: Charlie and Ann, the clay, the paper, Patterson and Professor March.

  By the end of my word diarrhea, Qyll looked slightly more than mildly surprised, which for him was the same thing as mouth agape and eyes bulging for any other person. “This is very interesting. You say you were working on a separate case? On your own?”

  I squirmed. “Well, it was more of a private investigator type situation.”

  “One, I’m sure, that doesn’t have you abusing the FBI resources?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. Just trying to earn a little extra cash.” Then, before he could press, I launched onward. “Anyway, this is too much magic for someone to handle by himself. It’s almost too much for a group.” I whipped out the diagram, which was certainly showing wear from being pulled out of and stuffed into my pockets so often. “But if you had several people. And you could tap enough of the right kind of energy to fuel your ritual.” I flicked the paper with a finger. “You could raise a golem. But you would have a hell of a time controlling it.”

  “Both Mrs. Courtland and her husband died at Koby’s house that night. They didn’t have any family to speak of and all their friends are from Church of the Earth. Do you remember when terrorists were detonating themselves in the name of this god or that god?” I nodded. “What if Cara was killing in the name of her god? Or goddess? Or many-armed frog lord? These don’t strike me as defensive murders. None of the victims seemed to be doing anything threatening. Plus, they were all in a setting they would have known and likely been comfortable in―their own homes, the home of someone they knew. They were, in theory, friends.”

  I held up a finger. “Yes, but what if the Humans, Bacchuses, and Jezebels were part of that damn Bible study that was getting too close to something someone thought was too dangerous?” We let that sit for a while. “Damn, too bad Cara Courtland’s dead! The questions she could answer…”

  “I don’t think Cara would have done anything to her husband.” Qyll leaned back in his chair. “There’s absolutely no motive.” He thought for a moment. “I checked with Archives about blood magic. No luck. Most of the cases were Knackers. Some were autoevocateurs. Those who perform the spells on themselves, rather than someone else.”

  “Another dead end.”

  Across the room, Pryam’s office door opened and instead of the Special Agent in Charge, a mountain of a man strode out. He had a face that looked like it had been carved out of clay, then thrown down a staircase before it was put in the kiln. His black windbreaker read SMART.

  As he passed, I snorted quietly. “Confident much?”

  Qyll glanced up. “Surely you learned about Special Magics and Related Tactics in your training.”

  “Oh. Right. The SMARTies.” SMARTies were the SI’s version of a SWAT team. They come in, secure a supernormal event site, and contain it, kill it, put it in prison―whatever. From what I could tell, they were like Navy SEALS. Human, but pretty effing scary nonetheless.

  “What was he doing in Pryam’s office? Was there an event?” I did air quotes around the last word.

  “I’m sure I don’t know. This is the FBI. People are supposed to keep things secret.” Qyll gave me a look of amused exasperation. I was quickly getting used to that look. “To get back to our regularly scheduled programming. We haven’t talked to anybody from Antaura’s camp yet. Outside her unscheduled visit.”

  “Nope.”

  He looked at his watch. “I suppose it is as good a time as any, it being daylight and all. Might be a bit… safer.”

  I grinned. “I’ll drive.” Then added, “You didn’t drive in Otherwhere, did you?”

  “What? Do you mean automobiles?” He shook his head, looking amused. “No. I had a horse.”

  “What was its name?”

  “Gauntlet.”

  “Gauntlet, the horse.”

  “Actually,
his full title was Stallion King’s Golden Gauntlet, Son of Lady Silverarrow.”

  I burst out laughing. “Sounds like character from Lord of the Rings.”

  He looked indignant. “It is a fine name. And by far a more realistic choice than your Tolkien with his Galadriels and Haldirs. Sheer nonsense.”

  I shuffled all the things I knew about him in my mind. FBI agent since the 1940s. The name of his horse. His favorite tree (hawthorne). His growing up in a castle. And believe me, I tried to coax more about castle living out of him, but no dice. Something about him that made me want to run after him yet back away at the same time. Not out of fear, exactly, but something more like awe. And if we’re being totally honest, and I hope we are, he’s pretty hot. But all kidding aside, of all the creatures I’d met from Otherwhere, the Dark Elves intrigued me the most. Elegant and mysterious with their black hair and silver eyes. Rather different from my coven of short, curvy, wild women.

  We reached the front doors. Qyll slid his dark sunglasses on.

  “You always wear sunglasses. Pretty much every time I see you.” I noted.

  He gave a small shrug. “There’s something about the sun here. I prefer the shade. Or the dark. It’s easier to see.”

  Outside, the mob was still there. They pressed in from all sides. “The Witch! The Witch!”

  “The crowd here is going crazy as infamous Witch-killer Tessa Reddick exits the building.” The stupid newsgirl was yapping into the camera.

  An older man with a cane poked his finger in my face. “Don’t you think your kind would be happier in your own home?”

  I practically snarled as I stopped and pushed his hand away. He was about half a head shorter than me. “I’m from Louisville. This IS my home. And I’m just as Human as you are.” I shoved past him. People were grabbing at us from all sides as a cool strong hand closed around mine. Just as I was about to yank it away, I realized it was Qyll, attempting to keep us from being separated.