by Dyrk Ashton
* * *
“Come on, lad. You need to wake up now. Rise and shine.”
The dull impact of a slap on the cheek.
He’s Zeke, he knows it, and he’s asleep, somewhere—but he’s also someone else, in another place and time.
* * *
A parking garage at night.
A couple stumbles in, leaning on each other, laughing. It’s them. The man and woman from earlier nightmares. Nightmares of childhood torment and abuse.
Stepping out in front of them. “Remember me?”
“Unbelievable,” the man slurs. “You miss me, ya little fuck?”
The woman laughs. “Bad Zeke! Bad!”
The man laughs with her. “Bad Zeke back for the belt?”
The woman guffaws. A pistol lifts to her face and fires. An explosion of brain and bone.
The man begs. He gets a bullet in the stomach and crumples, whimpering. A knife is drawn and goes straight for the man’s groin.
* * *
“Zeke! Wake up!”
Someone’s yelling, shaking him. Someone he knows.
A dog barks.
“Milady, perhaps you could...?”
* * *
Scarlet neon. Sickly green light. Washing blood from his hands in a mildewed sink. Splashing his face with rust-brown water. Scrawny arms, tracked with sores. A broken mirror. Bruised and sunken chest, tattooed and pale. Raggedly shaved head and gaunt face. Teeth stained brown between cracked lips twisted in a fiendish grin. Eyes sunken in purple hollows, staring back at him.
Zeke’s eyes.
* * *
The voices argue, vaguely familiar. A woman with a Russian accent, an Englishman, and a girl.
But not just any girl.
* * *
Her name clicks in Zeke’s mind at the same time his bald double in the mirror screams, “Fi!!!”
Whine, whir and squeak...
* * *
Splash!
Zeke sputters, water running from his face and hair. He blinks it from his eyes.
He has a hard time focusing, but makes out the form of a woman standing over him, her lithe body draped in a diaphanous gown of shimmering blue. A pendant of deep metallic red hangs at her neck, and a slim golden chaplet sits atop dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. Sensuous lips quirk up at one corner and keen eyes of burnished gold glint beneath sweeping eyebrows. She bounces a canteen in her hand.
“Like magic,” she says in a velvety voice. Zeke’s foggy brain is pierced by a vivid memory of wonder and trepidation.
Prathamaja Nandana. The First Daughter.
Next to her is a stocky, dour-looking woman with long, stiff black hair, streaked gray. She wears an ankle-length skirt, blouse and vest. Her overly endowed, peaked chest, propped by thick crossed arms, seems to point at him in accusation.
Mrs. Mirskaya, Fi’s old babysitter and employer—who also happens to be Mokosh, the fabled Slavic deity of weather and protection.
Fuck. From one nightmare to another. But this one is real.
Mrs. Mirskaya purses her lips, which causes the sparse hair on her upper lip to poke out like little whiskers, then clucks her tongue behind prominent front teeth. “Lentyay,” she says in Russian.
Zeke can barely hear her, doesn’t know the word means “bum,” “slacker” or “lazybones.” Given Mrs. Mirskaya’s general attitude toward him, though, he could probably guess.
An elderly gentleman leans in to unbuckle straps from Zeke’s shoulders. Mutton chop sideburns, long braided ponytail, proud hooked nose and flinty gray eyes.
Fi’s Uncle Edgar.
“Sorry to disturb you, lad,” Edgar says. “We have a bit of a situation.” But Edgar’s voice is muffled and Zeke can’t quite make out what he’s saying. Edgar hauls him up from a flip-down seat that faces sideways, its back secured to the wall. Once he’s certain Zeke isn’t going to fall down, he hurries away.
Zeke sways on his feet. “Wait. Situation?” He’s disoriented, his muscles stiff and sore to the bone, and his back hurts like hell. He’s also shaking, feeling thin, weak, worn out. He pumps a finger in his left ear, which still bothers him due to the clamorous cry of Tengu-Andrealphus, The Peafowl, who attacked them at Peter’s house. It doesn’t help.
His nose registers mingled smells of plastic and tin, fuel and disinfectant, but his groggy mind can’t place them—then the floor bucks and shudders.
Zeke catches himself on the top of the seat, shakes his head to clear his thoughts. His hearing remains weak in his bad ear, but his good ear squeaks and pops. Sound rushes in—the drone of engines and howl of wind. A relentless vibration runs through his heels up his spine. And he remembers.
He’s on a plane.
They’d left Peter’s estate outside Toledo on a boat, made their way up the river, then across the western end of Lake Erie to Canada. Edgar presented official-looking papers at a dock near Windsor and made a call on the dock master’s phone. A black van picked them up and drove them to a remote airfield where the plane was readied. A decommissioned Alenia C-27J Spartan troop transport. Edgar told him he’d “bought it for a song.”
Of course Edgar owns a military plane, Zeke’s worn-out brain had mused. He is Sir Galahad. Sir Galahad should own whatever the hell he wants, right?
Too exhausted to ask questions, Zeke had gone to the hangar restroom to wash up and put on fresh clothes from his backpack. They’d placed Fi on a fold-down cot on the plane, unconscious, ghostly pale, breathing shallow and weak, perilously close to death. Then they were off on the long trans-Atlantic flight to Norway. Going to see Freyja, of all people. The Freyja of Norse legend, Edgar had assured him.
Unbelievable.
Well, more of the unbelievable.
Zeke rarely left Fi’s side during the flight, and Mrs. Mirskaya was always nearby. Peter flew most of the time, but Edgar took over once while Peter sat with Fi, holding her hand in silence.
Zeke couldn’t sleep. He didn’t want to. For worrying about Fi, but also because every time he dozed off the nightmares of childhood torment and drug-induced misery returned. And memories of murder. Someone else’s memories.
He must have finally succumbed, though, because here he is, having one hell of a time waking up. But how could he have let it happen with Fi in her condition? She’s been bitten by Maskim Xul, and for all Zeke or anyone knows, she’s dying. Aggravated, he shakes himself and slaps his cheeks.
“Hey sleepyhead.”
Zeke jumps and whips around to find Fi standing behind him—standing—clutching the taut webbing at the back of another seat to keep her balance in the turbulence. Her smile is weak and her red hair a mess, but she’s changed into clean sweatpants, tank top, light jacket and hiking shoes—and she’s awake—and alive.
“Fi!” He grabs her and hugs her. “You didn’t die!”
She grunts. “Nope.” She hugs him back. “Careful, though. Little sore.”
Zeke puts space between them but keeps hold of her arms. “Oh my God.” He chokes back tears. “We didn’t know if you were going to make it. You okay?”
“I guess. I mean, I feel like shit, and I can barely stand up.” She touches the bandaged fang-wounds hidden beneath her sweatpants, on her bottom and the back of her thigh, and winces. “My ass hurts.”
Someone brushes past, chortling. “She got bit on the butt.”
Zeke and Fi cringe as Dimmi flashes a toothy grin. He’s in human cloak, dark-skinned and black-eyed, wearing khaki shirt and pants, and jungle boots, as he’d first appeared in the tunnels beneath Peter’s house. He giggle-barks at his own joke.
“Idimmu Mulla!” From near the back of the plane, Pratha’s voice comes as a warning. Her golden eyes glare, though she smiles at the same time, as if she wants him to screw up so she can rip his head off. Literally. Just like she did to the alligator-monster, Ao Guang.
Dimmi yips and hurries on his way, carrying a crate in his hands.
“That guy’s creepy,” says Fi.
“That’s Idimmu Mulla. They call him The Hyaena.”
“Dimmi, I know. I woke up a couple hours ago. Edgar and Mrs. Mirskaya filled me in on what happened after Max bit me.” She shivers at the thought.
“So you met Pratha and Baphomet, too.”
“Mmm. Yeah.” Fi gazes over Zeke’s shoulder, her expression a mixture of contemplation and fear. “The First Daughter, and The Goat.”
The plane is entirely open, cabin to tail, the interior nearly eleven feet wide and over seven feet high. It’s mostly empty, with red canvas troop seats folded against the walls. In the tail section, Edgar, Baphomet and Dimmi are hurrying to pack a truck that rests on a skid.
Like Dimmi, Baphomet is “cloaked,” as Edgar called it, taking on human form. Most likely to keep his horns from inhibiting his movement in the plane's cramped quarters. He’s dressed the same as Dimmi, but is extremely light-skinned, with short white hair and goatee—and pink eyes. Fi saw their Truefaces earlier, though, and she’s discovered, if she squints and thinks about it, she can see his Trueface now too, like a superimposed image. The backward curving horns that rise above Baphomet’s caprine face nearly reach the ceiling, yet they’re ethereal, their sharp points somehow passing through the conduits and cabling as he efficiently, almost gracefully, goes about his work with slender fingers that terminate in tiny cloven hoofs, crouching on back-bending legs with cloven feet. Dimmi works on the other side of the truck, and Fi can see his grotesque fuzzy face and big black eyes, high peaked ears and wide mouth full of jagged pointed teeth. She blinks, and they’re in human form once again.
The truck is a military Mercedes G Wagon with dual rear axles, its roof support bars and canvas top stowed, the front windshield folded down and latched. Pratha lounges against the wall nearby, overseeing the loading of supplies—and ensuring Baphomet and Dimmi stay on their best behavior.
“What’s going on?” Zeke asks Fi.
“Hell if I know,” Fi replies, exasperated. “They haven’t told me much, and they keep speaking in languages I don’t understand. But I think we’re going to Norway.”
“To find Freyja.”
“Yeah. They call her The Mother of Cats and Dogs.”
“Really?”
“No, I made it up.” Fi’s condition has made her cranky, but not entirely subdued her sense of humor. “Yes, really.”
Her snarky reply catches Zeke off guard. He stares, taking in her sparkling green eyes, and it hits him again—she’s alive. And, disheveled as she is, right now she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
He grins. Fi scowls, then it occurs to her too. A smile emerges, broadens to a grin of her own. They’re both alive.
Together, they laugh. Foolish, perhaps, absurd even. But they need it.
The shared relief subsides and Zeke wipes a tear from her cheek with his thumb. His hand stays on her face.
Fi notices that Zeke is gaunt, pale, with black circles under his eyes, taken by an occasional tremor.
“How about you?” she asks. “You okay? You don’t look well.”
Zeke breathes deeply to control the shaking. “I’m okay.” Flashes of the horrid dreams stab through his mind, but he mentally swats them away. “Just cold, I think. Or maybe I’m getting a cold.”
“Great. Just what you need, right?”
The plane bucks again, knocking them off balance, and an odd voice rises.
Mrs. Mirskaya stands near the far wall, face and arms raised, mumbling ancient words.
“What’s she doing?” Zeke asks.
Edgar hustles to them carrying two parachute packs by the straps in one hand and Zeke’s big blue backpack in the other. The splint on Edgar’s arm is gone, the wrist Kleron broke in the tunnels now healed. “She’s reinforcing the storm she’s summoned,” he says. There’s a snap of lightning and rumble of thunder outside. The plane lurches. Fi and Zeke grab hold of each other and squeeze their handholds tighter.
“A storm?” Zeke says. “Is that a good idea?”
“It will hopefully aid in our escape,” Edgar answers. He holds up the parachute packs. “Have you skydived, lad?”
“Uh, no?” Zeke says, looking at the chute packs as if they’re severed heads of little green aliens.
“I thought not. Put this on, then.” Edgar hands the blue pack to Zeke, who grunts and nearly drops it, because it still weighs a ton. Edgar tosses one chute pack on the floor and dons the other.
“What do you mean, escape?” Fi asks, her voice a little shaky.
“Escape from what?” Zeke adds, his voice a lot shaky.
“Fighter jets, attempting to force us toward shore,” Edgar answers, indignant. “And we were over international waters! They’re acknowledging none of my clearance protocols—and my privileges are of the highest order, believe you me.” He snugs the chute pack’s straps in agitation. “Baphomet believes it’s Kleron’s doing.”
A pall falls over Fi at the mention of Kleron. Lucifer. The Bat. Attacking the hospital with his minions, killing Billy, setting all those monsters on them at the house—including the buffalo-beast Mahisha and the screaming Tengu-Andrealphus peacock-thing. Tempting her in the tunnel hub chamber beneath Peter’s house. Almost biting Edgar’s face off, and ordering that horrible Maskim Xul to bite her.
And Max is a spider...
“Whose planes are they?” Zeke asks Edgar. “I didn’t know Norway had an air force. I mean, did we make it to Norway?”
“No,” Edgar grumbles. “We’re off the northern coast of Scotland.” Now he’s really annoyed. “It’s the RAF!” He turns in a huff, but Zeke grabs his sleeve.
“Wait,” Zeke says. “How long was I asleep?”
“Just a few hours lad. It’s still Monday. With the time change, not yet noon. Fiona woke shortly after you nodded off. I hadn’t the heart to wake you.” He turns to Fi. “This young man has barely slept or eaten, or left your side, the entire trip. He needs rest and food.” He waves his hand in frustration. “Not this bother.”
Edgar marches to where Baphomet and Dimmi have finished strapping the load on the truck and are now covering it with a taut safety net. He pushes a large button in a panel on the wall and the aft ramp of the plane drops like the lower jaw of a very large fish, accompanied by the loud whine of servo motors and increased howl of the wind. The water-laden mist of blue-black storm clouds spirals away behind the plane. Flashes of lightning spark the sky pink and green. It’s as if they’re looking down the eye of a tornado.
“Oh,” Zeke says. “I’m not liking the look of this.”
“Me neither,” says Fi.
Zeke realizes something. “Where’s Mol?”
Fi jerks her thumb toward the cockpit. “Up front, with Peter.”
“Have you talked to him? Peter, I mean?”
Fi frowns. She’s going to have to speak to him at some point. He is her long-lost father, after all. She’s just not looking forward to it. “Not yet.”
Zeke runs his hands through his hair and groans as he watches Edgar fuss with the truck. “Edgar seems pretty worked up. Is he worried?” Because if Edgar’s worried, Zeke figures, they all should be.
Fi’s attention is drawn to something outside the oval window in the fuselage next to them. “Well, there’s something else you should see.” She points.
Zeke squints through the window. It’s all dark rushing clouds. “What?”
“Part of the reason Edgar’s upset, I think. They showed up a while ago. Been communicating with Peter and Pratha using some kind of sign language.”
“What? Who? I don’t see anything—” The mist rips aside and Zeke jumps back. “Holy fuck!”
“That’s what I thought.”
Flying alongside the plane is what looks like a large man with a white bird’s head, wings and tail. On his back rides a skinny old man, stringy white beard flapping in the wind and snug knit cap held to his head with a strip of cloth knotted beneath his chin. His clothing, some kind of robe, is similarly lashed to his body to keep it
from blowing away. The old man waves, grinning like mad, but loses his balance in his excitement and grabs hold of the bird-man’s feathers with both hands.
“Who is that?” Zeke asks.
“More Firstborn. They did tell me that. But these are supposed to be on our side. Edgar called the bird-guy Fintán mac Bóchra. Seemed genuinely excited to see him. The little guy on top, not so much.”
“Why?”
“That’s Myrddin Wyllt, Edgar’s grandfather.”
Zeke recalls what Edgar told them about his lineage. His father had been Sir Launcelot du Lac, and regardless of what the fables say, Launcelot’s real father was... “Merlin. No way.”
The mist thickens, obscuring the view. When it clears again, the figures are gone.
Back by the truck, Edgar whistles toward the front of the plane, startling Fi and Zeke.
They hear a familiar bark and turn toward the open cockpit doorway. Molossus, Fi’s uncle’s dog, pokes his big sandy head around from where he’s perched in the co-pilot’s seat. He ruffs happily, jumps down and trots to them.
Zeke greets him with a scratch behind the ears. Mol grunts in reply. His bandages are gone and there’s little sign of his battles with the terrible wampyr and werewolves, or his run-in with the locust swarm on another world. Instead, he’s wearing a makeshift harness of nylon straps and safety belts.
Zeke tugs on the harness. “What’s this?”
Fi says, “No idea. Like I said, they haven’t told me much. Mostly ‘Be still, Fi.’ ‘You’ve been through so much, Fiona.’ ‘You’re lucky to be alive, Fi.’ ‘You should be resting, dear.’” Mol barks and presses his head against her leg. “Ow!” she exclaims. He barks again, wagging his whole body.
Zeke says, “Guess I’m not the only one who’s glad you’re okay.”
She looks at Mol. “Until yesterday I was convinced he couldn’t care less about me.” She rubs his head. “All this time, I was wrong.” Mol barks louder and licks her hand.
“Molossus!” Edgar shouts. “If you please.”
Mol trots to the back of the plane and hops into the front seat of the truck. Edgar clips Mol’s harness to straps anchored to hooks on the truck floor.