by O J Barré
Slinking back to the bed where she lay comatose, Nergal chuckled. The bitch thought he hadn’t recognized her. He might have been tanked up on furroot, but not enough to miss the royal tattoo placed discreetly on one inner ankle. Inanna—Shibboleth’s spawn—was a fracking good lay, but she was also the cause of Nergal’s problems with the warlord.
Eyeing his old paramour, he fastened his belt and shoved his weapons in their holsters. He ransacked Inanna’s room, finding a stack of credits taped to the bottom of a chair and a cache of weapons hidden behind a false wall in the closet.
He shouldered what he could carry and made sure the wench was unconscious, then crept to the door. The draught he had slipped her would keep her under a while longer.
Nergal would be far from Irkalla by the time she woke. He’d decided not to return to Shibboleth’s war party. Instead, he would go to Agartha and link up with the reverend. There, he would quietly gather his army and contemplate his next move.
Half drunk and nursing a raging hangover, Nergal scanned the dim corridor for watchful eyes, then hurried to the nearest transit chute. A deserted car rumbled to a stop and its doors slid open.
He boarded, settling his arsenal beside him on a grimy bench. Extracting his communicator, Nergal cursed and slapped it against his leg. Damn thing was dead. Either that or there was no reception at this level.
The rickety car picked up speed. Clattering over the tracks, it rocked and swayed through the bowels of UnderEarth with Nergal its lone passenger. He was just nodding off when the lights in the unit sputtered and died, then blinked on again.
The car lurched to a halt in the middle of nowhere. The onboard computer whirred and sputtered a lame excuse about a maintenance stop, but Nergal could see no station.
Before he could do more than grumble, he and his munitions were flying through the air, ejected from the car. Reacting quickly, Nergal landed upright, but his weapons flew helter-skelter and disappeared into the dark. The reek was disgusting. And if the filth was any indication, neither the passage nor the car had been serviced in centuries.
Where in UnderEarth had he landed? Eyes yet to adjust, Nergal felt for his weapons in the muck and tried not to imagine what was causing the stench. Then something slammed him hard from behind, catapulting him forward. He landed spread-eagled on the slimy floor, pain radiating from his kidneys up his back and down both legs.
He scrambled to all fours, shrieking when a concussive device detonated, shredding the side of his face and cartwheeling him through the rancid air to crash against the schist wall.
Roaring with rage more than pain, Nergal leapt to his torn feet. He charged the unseen attacker, intent on pulverizing whatever Draco had the gall to challenge a General of the Reptilian Forces.
But there was only thick, fetid air. Drunk and disoriented, Nergal thrashed about, jabbing at first one fleeting shadow and then another. A well-placed kick connected with Nergal’s torso and he flew backwards, crashing into the opposite wall.
Clambering to his knees in the slippery slime, he grunted when another blow connected with his chin. His head whipped back against the solid schist with a loud crack and an ice pick of exquisite pain pierced Nergal’s skull.
He roared and clutched his head with his hands, legs betraying him as he crashed to the ground and curled in a defensive ball against the unending onslaught of kicks and punches.
Pride forgotten, Nergal writhed there on that nasty ground, howling in agony. Blows landed on every exposed centimeter of his already-bruised body until all he could comprehend was pain.
Then that, too, was gone.
**
He had no idea how much later, but Nergal woke on a heap of decaying bodies in the corner of a deserted way station. By all accounts, he should be dead. According to the sign, he was near Virginia City. He had a vague suspicion that was somewhere beneath the Appalachian Mountains. Far from where Nergal had started.
He lay unmoving for a very long time, in and out of consciousness, until the pain in his head reached fever pitch and convinced Nergal he must be alive. Pain wouldn’t follow him into death.
Millimeter by excruciating millimeter, he crawled off the heap of maggot-infested flesh, across the glass and debris-strewn floor, and out an opening that used to be a door.
Finding a spigot with running water, Nergal drank his fill and bathed his wounds as best he could. Then he dragged himself behind a waste recycler and passed out.
Grand Druid
C u’s barks woke Emily from a deep, untroubled sleep. In her ear, he chanted, “Emily Bridget, you did it! You stopped the blizzard!”
Groaning, she rolled her head his way and was greeted with an exuberant tongue bath. She squealed and yanked the comforter between them, then wiggled out of bed on the opposite side.
Cu beat her there. “Did you hear me? You did it!”
Her head pounded, drowning out her Da’s ridiculous assertion.
“Not so loud,” she pleaded, holding her head between her hands.
“But you stopped the blizzard!” her Da insisted. “Last night. Don’t you remember?”
“Um. No.”
She had a momentary inkling of the vision from last night, but it was a wisp of a thing and quickly gone, leaving no recollection of the actual deed. Head down, she shuffled to the bathroom in search of an aspirin. Damn cognac.
Hamilton followed close on her heels. “Well, you did. I was there with Cu and Hope. They helped. I watched.”
The vision danced through Emily’s head, stronger this time, and the words of a spell ricocheted around her brain. She gaped at the wolfhound, aspirin bottle in hand.
“Are you shitting me?”
“No. I shit you not. You can ask Hope. But now that you mention it, I could take a dump. Wanna let me out?”
He trotted from the room and Emily hurried to dress, pondering his revelation. How great would it be if what he’d said were true? But try as she might, the only memory Emily could muster was the brief vision and the strange words that still played in her head.
Fighting the keen edge of disappointment, she brewed a cup of tea and carried it to the lanai. The sun drilled crystalline splinters of light into Emily’s corneas. She clapped a hand over both eyes, then slowly peeled away one finger after another as they adjusted.
The world sparkled, transformed by the blanket of snow that glittered diamonds from every surface. The trees and bushes bowed low, dressed in coats of wondrous white.
The blizzard had indeed ceased. Could she really be responsible?
Grinning, Emily opened the door for a whining, dancing Cu. Hope materialized and ran out behind him as he plowed a path through the fluffy snow.
Ralph stretched on his pillow by the hearth, content to stay inside where it was warm. Emily knelt to hug the purring cat, then threw logs on top of last night’s embers.
By the time the fire caught, Lugh had joined Emily in the living room. And by the time the fire blazed, Brian was awake and running to the storm door to let the animals in.
Hamilton shook off the snow and to Emily’s chagrin, proceeded to regale them with the story of how Emily got off the couch in the middle of the night and marched outside to calm the raging storm. Hope added details here and there.
But though Emily felt a growing sense of déjà vu, probably ignited by the vision, she had no physical memory of being out in the blizzard, much less casting a spell.
While the animals talked, Emily pondered the glimpses she’d had into Awen’s mind. Could it work the other way, as well? Did Awen have the ability to take control of Emily’s body? Had Awen done that spell?
The thought sent a shudder from Emily’s head to her toes. If her body was being commandeered by someone else, shouldn’t Emily remember?
**
The companions slogged through the dense melting snow to the main house. The druids were already gathered in the great hall, anticipating Mary Cobb’s call to breakfast.
That, and Emily’s arrival,
as she soon learned.
To her dismay, news of her purported feat had reached the house ahead of them. As the druids greeted Emily en masse with congratulatory fervor, dread lodged against her spine until she shook in her Uggs. They all believed her a magical whiz, but she was nothing of the sort.
True to his usual pattern, Mitchell Wainwright spewed bile. He accused Emily of blatant witchcraft and ending a storm she had created herself. But the others were fed up with his endless accusations.
Even Olga Phagan and Mitchell’s fellow detractors moved away from the attorney. Olga came over to shake Emily’s hand and offer sincere congratulations for her newly-found powers.
Around the great hall the druids murmured amongst themselves, remarking on the suitability of their new grand druid. Emily’s defeat of the storm was cause for celebration—but it was the awakening of Awen’s power, they all agreed, about which the druids were most excited.
Emily shivered. If that had truly happened, why couldn’t she remember?
At breakfast, someone posited it was time for Emily to assume her leadership role. Any druid capable of performing such advanced magic was gifted indeed.
Another wondered if the new grand druid was strong enough to defeat the coming Darkness.
Knowing she was an enormous fraud, Emily wondered the same thing.
**
Breakfast at Wren’s Roost was a noisy affair. The Hester family and the visiting druids overflowed the formal dining room. Mitch ate quickly, chaffing to escape.
He was not pleased with Emily Hester’s rise to power. It was all he could do to restrain himself when Lugh’s nephew regaled them with yet another asinine story of her magical prowess. But when he bragged about how she stopped the tornado, then the blizzard, Mitch couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Bullshit,” he snarled. “Emily Hester is a witch, taught by the not-so-reverent Shalane Carpenter.”
The Hester heir glowered at him.
“You studied with the sorceress, didn’t you Miz Hester?”
“I studied with the shaman for a short time, yes. But I only learned simple spells. No weather witching. Get a grip, counselor.”
“I am getting a grip—on why you insist on undermining our Order.” He stood and leaned in her direction, ready to tear her a new asshole.
Lugh MacBrayer slammed his palms on the dining room table and growled in his coldest voice. “That’s enough, Mitch! You will apologize to our grand druid and get the hell out of Wren’s Roost.”
Glancing at his one-time friend, Mitch sneered at Emily, “Admit you created those storms. And that you used dark magic to end them in the hopes of gaining our trust. Isn’t that right, Miz Hester?”
The witch sputtered, eyes wide.
Lugh’s chair crashed to the floor as he leapt at Mitch.
Mitch stepped back, surprised. He hadn’t seen Lugh this angry since he’d stolen his girl in high school. Lugh stuck his sharp chin in Mitch’s face. His dark eyes were cold with an uncharacteristic glint of disgust. When his arm shot up, Mitch flinched backwards, relieved when he jabbed his finger toward the door.
“YOU HAVE GONE TOO FAR! GET OUT!” Lugh thundered.
Shocked at his vehemence, Mitch glanced around the table, looking for support. Every face glared. Not one of them believed him. Hot indignation bubbled inside Mitch and ate at his composure. Screw them all.
He took a moment to dab at his mouth with a cloth napkin from the buffet and nodded at Mary Cobb, who stood in the corner holding a butcher knife like she would use it on him.
“It’s okay, Miz Mary. I’m leaving.”
To the room at large Mitch announced, “But mark my words. This woman is a witch and she will continue to bring nothing but heartache and ruin to this family and Order.”
Done with the lot of them, he turned to leave, only to be blocked by the interloping bitch. Her face was calm, her manner even as she said in a wintry tone, “Where do you think you’re going, counselor?”
A chill went up Mitch’s spine. He’d heard that menacing note somewhere before.
“I’m going home. I’ve had enough of this shit. You may be fooling them, but you have no sway over me. You are nothing but a pretty face.”
Gasps went up around the table. Mitch studied Emily’s turned-up nose with its tiny groove and her wild lion’s mane of coppery hair.
“No, come to think of it, you’re not even that pretty.”
He wheeled toward the door and went flying through the air, tripped by her out-flung leg. His arms stretched to break his fall, but he skidded nose-first on the hardwood floor.
Groaning, Mitch rose to his knees, blood spurting onto his crisp oxford shirt. Pissed to the max, he pinched his nostrils and peered up at Emily, whose expression took his breath.
She stood over him like an avenging angel, fists clenched and ready to strike. Remembering her ample martial arts skills, he scrambled up and backed away, grabbing the cloth napkin to stay the blood.
The grandmother clock over his head ticked loudly, the only sound until Hope and the wolfhound materialized out of nowhere. They crossed the room, nails clicking on the burnished floor.
Mitch stiffened when Hope purred, “I think it’s time for you to leave, young mouse.”
But Emily snarled, “Not until I’m done with him.” His head snapped up when she went on to say, “Lugh? Arthur? Am I or am I not, the Grand Druid of the Awen Order?”
Arthur bobbed his burly head.
A smirk broke out on Lugh’s face. His black eyes gleamed. “Yes, Emily, you are the grand druid.”
Mitch felt his blood freeze.
The redhead moved closer and he backed to the wall, out of her reach.
“And since my Da hired this snake of an attorney in his capacity as grand druid, then I also have the authority to fire him. Isn’t that right?”
Mitch glanced around the room, stomach plummeting as grins broke out on several faces.
“You wouldn’t,” he gasped and tossed the napkin on the buffet. The bleeding had stopped.
“Go get ‘em, Em,” Lugh’s nephew hollered.
Mitch glared and the impudent kid leered back. Around the table, other druids nodded and grinned, obviously enjoying Mitch’s discomfiture. Even Olga sneered. Damn them all. Damn every one of them.
Emily crowded as close as Lugh had earlier. Mitch held his ground this time.
“What are you gonna do?” he bellowed to the room. “Let this upstart of a witch get rid of your only voice of reason?”
Lugh gurgled, “Ohhh yes. Do us all a favor, Emily. Fire the bastard.”
Livid that his old friend would suggest such a thing, Mitch lunged at Lugh, only to be tripped by Emily again. This time, he caught himself.
“You bitch!” he squawked and charged at her, grabbing a handful of unruly hair.
Chaos erupted as the druids around the table reacted. Before they could interfere, Emily seized him by the throat with one surprisingly-strong hand. She squeezed hard, cutting off his air.
The amount of pain surprised Mitch. He let go of her hair and clawed at her fingers, but her chokehold tightened and he went down on his knees. Flecks appeared before his eyes and his body went slack.
She let go with a backwards shove just as he would have passed out. Mitch landed on his ass, gasping for air. The witch leaned over him.
“Mitchell Albom Wainwright the Third,” she intoned in a singsong voice, “you are hereby relieved of all duties to which you were previously contracted by my father, Hamilton Hester, or by any other member of this Order.
“You will leave Wren’s Roost and never come back. I forbid you to speak of, or reveal anything related to, druids or the Awen Order. If you violate these terms, you will be prosecuted to the full extent of druid, state, and federal law.”
Everyone in the room clapped and cheered.
“Fuck you all!” Mitch screeched. Barely suppressing the urge to retch, he scuttled away, hands to his throat.
“Taurus? P
ete?” Emily said quietly, “Would you please escort Mr. Wainwright from Wren’s Roost? Then I’d like you to go to his office and remove the Order’s records from his possession.”
“What? I—no!” Mitch howled. The two officers rounded the table.
“You heard the boss, Mitchell. Get your things. We’re going for a ride.” Pete pointed toward the door.
“Fuck you!” Mitch shouted. He could tell his face was flaming. It felt like he might explode in a ball of fire. “Fuck all of you. You will rue the day you let this bitch into the Order. Mark my words.”
He stormed from the dining room to collect his overnighter and strode to the front door. The two cops nodded. He ignored them and slammed the door in their faces, but one of them caught it as they exited behind him.
“We’ll follow you to the office,” Taurus said, descending the front steps. “Don’t try any shenanigans either, Mitchell. We know where you work and where you live.”
Mitch glowered and they went to fetch the cruiser.
Outside, the snow drift had melted considerably. The wet stuff seeped into the tops of Mitch’s ankle boots, making him even more miserable. At the sight of his BMW blanketed in white, he damn-near cried. Anger gnawed at his insides. He used his coat sleeve to brush the snow from the driver’s door and yanked it open, then climbed in, teeth chattering.
The vapor of his breath filled the interior. He started the engine and climbed out to retrieve his foul-weather kit and cleared away the worst of the snow. Looking up at the imposing lines of Wren’s Roost, Mitch gave it the finger, climbed in the BMW, and drove slowly down the driveway. Snow crunched beneath the all-season tires.
The cruiser pulled onto the street behind him and the perfect revenge came to Mitch.
“Call Shalane Carpenter’s cell phone,” he instructed the BMW’s computer and winked at his image in the rearview mirror.
**
Alone in the quiet of the carriage house, Emily pondered Mitchell Wainwright’s accusation. Today was the second time he had mentioned Shalane. Had her stalker somehow gotten to the attorney? Had they formed some alliance against Emily?