By Dusk

by T Thorn Coyle

  “Let’s get to it then,” Shaggy replied. She swallowed her nervousness and headed up the steps toward the sidewalk that would take them up onto the bridge.

  33

  Moss

  Moss had just dumped his last load of gear into Tariq’s truck when a black, luxury SUV rolled up the street. It was so not the sort of car that belonged up in St. John’s. The only wealthy people that rolled through were developers, and the long-term residents hated them. Luxury cars rarely made it out of the neighborhood without getting keyed, or worse.

  Moss shaded his eyes with his hand.

  “Cover up!” Tariq called to the rest of their crew. “Who the fuck is that?” Tariq asked, flipping an old brown tarp over the gear in the truck bed.

  Moss shrugged, still watching. The other activists quickly shut the doors of the perfectly serviceable hatchbacks that looked ancient and battered in comparison to the sleek vehicle creeping up the street. Moss heard the front door of Justice House shut and turned to see Barbara Jean, clad in boots, jeans, and a black denim jacket, standing, arms crossed on the broad porch now emptied of gear. The household’s queer pride flag flapped gently in the late morning breeze.

  He saw several people twitch, wondering whether to mask up or not. He understood the impulse and hoped they resisted. Masking up this far from an action would mean bad news for everyone involved, and bad news for the neighborhood. Justice House and a few other places already attracted unwelcome notice from the FBI. It was why they no longer held meetings on site. Any attention from the authorities put too many St. John’s folks at risk.

  The SUV finally stopped when it grew even with Moss and Tariq. A tinted window slid silently down.

  It was the woman from the press conference. Patricia Sloane. Her dark hair was down today, but her hectic green eyes looked the same, as did the pale lipstick that framed her white, white, teeth.

  “Excuse me.” She paused to smile. “Can you tell me how to get to St. John’s Bridge?”

  Moss froze in place, staring. The sound of water roared inside his ears. Some thing anchored to her reached toward him. He barely saw it, a dark gray shimmer. A blot in the bright morning air.

  “Never heard of it.” He heard Tariq speaking. Good. Someone was speaking. Someone could speak. Gray crowded the corners of Moss’s sight. The roaring in his ears grew louder. Blood? Or water? What?

  The woman’s mouth was still moving. Saying words he couldn’t hear. The gray shimmer grew thick. The taste of chemicals flooded his tongue. He swallowed, struggling to not puke. What was she doing to him? Spots danced in his eyes. He needed to get his shields up. Shut down his aura. He couldn’t breathe. Drowning. The thing swiped, raked across his aura. Marking him. The world went black. Moss felt himself fall, hitting the truck on his way down, hands grabbing him. Shouting.

  The screech of a car pulling quickly away.

  “Moss! Moss! Someone get me some water!”

  Tariq’s voice. Then Barbara Jean’s.

  “What the hell happened? Moss? Honey, come back to us. Did he hit his head again?”

  “No. I caught him in time. He whacked his arm pretty good, though.”

  “Should we move him?”

  Moss’s eyes fluttered. A sliver of blue sky between Tariq’s thin, dark face and Barbara Jean’s rounder pale one. The dark gray shimmering was gone. He blinked. Focused. Both his comrades looked worried.

  “Hey, Moss. You back?” Tariq waggled a steel bottle in his view. “Want some water?”

  “Do you think you can sit up?” Barbara Jean asked.

  Moss nodded, then gasped as a sharp pain lanced through his left wrist. Must have clipped it on the truck.

  “Fuck,” he said, struggling to sit up without using his bruised ribs or putting any pressure on his left hand.

  “What’s up? What hurts?” Tariq asked, helping to prop him up.

  “I messed up my wrist.”

  Barbara Jean tsked. “You know what that means?”

  “It means Maggie’s going to be happy.” It meant there was no way he could lockdown. Dammit. He was so sure….

  Then he noticed the roaring in his head was gone. The pressure from the river had subsided. The danger was gone.

  “Who was that woman?” Barbara Jean asked as they helped Moss to his feet.

  “The woman from GranCo,” Moss choked out. And her egregore.

  “And that’s proof enough for me that she had people stalking you, man. How else she gonna show up on our doorstep like that?” Tariq said.

  “We have to warn Terra,” Barbara Jean replied. “And get that wrist of yours wrapped. If you’re planning on still heading to the park.”

  Moss snorted. “What do you think?”

  They walked Moss toward Justice House.

  “Hey Squirrel,” Tariq called out. The lanky anarchist ran over.

  “What’s up?”

  “Change in plans. Moss won’t be locking down. Can you coordinate the others?”

  “Sure. We should be fine with the folks we have. You hurt bad?”

  “No. Just borked my wrist. But don’t worry, I’ll still be there.”

  Moss felt calm now. No rage. No fear. No worry. Certainty. He knew what he needed to do. He would be there as a witch. As one who spoke to the spirits of place. As an activist.

  He would help Raquel face down that egregore.

  And thank the ancestors, he wouldn’t need to wear a damn diaper to do it.

  He’d just wished he’d figured all of this out sooner. He wished the river had let him know the pressure wasn’t about locking down, but about facing that woman head on. Because it was clear he was going to need to do that. Whether today or someday soon, Moss and Patricia Sloane were going head to head.

  34

  Shaggy

  Thinking she could go without her fleece was wishful thinking. Her bare feet were going to be bad enough. Up here on the bridge, small whitecaps below and towering green steel spires above, it was breezy. And once they dropped into open space above the water, there was no telling how things would be.

  As Terra helped Shaggy get into harness, another person was checking to make sure Phoebe was anchored, and not likely to tangle in the silks. Despite all the practice, Shaggy was nervous.

  “You doing okay?” Terra asked. “There’s no dishonor in backing out last minute. People do it all the time. I’d rather you said no now than in the middle of the drop.”

  Shaggy shook out her hands and legs, shaking off the tension and letting the harness settle on her frame as she bounced on the balls of her bare feet. The concrete walkway wasn’t too cold, at least.

  She looked at Terra, whose hair was secured inside a black head wrap. Practical, given the wind. Shaggy’s own hair was short enough to not be much of a problem, but she wished she had a cap to keep the wind from her ears.

  “I’m a little scared,” she admitted, “but excited, too.”

  “That’s a combination I can live with,” Terra said, smiling. “I’ve gotta go check the banner folks.” Terra squared off with Shaggy before leaving. “Just remember, no matter what goes down, we’ve got you. There’s a whole team up here that’s going to make sure you keep safe.”

  Shaggy swallowed and nodded. “Thank you. Just…thanks.”

  Terra loped off to confer with the activists setting up to drop a massive banner. Shaggy didn’t know what it said, and wished she’d thought to ask, but the thing had to be twenty feet wide. She was amazed at this group. It was pretty clear they did this sort of thing all the time.

  How, though? Dangling over blue padded mats was one thing. Hanging over rushing water was another. How did someone decide to put themselves on the line, hanging from buildings and bridges while risking arrest at best and plunging to their death at the worst?

  They’ve figured out what’s important. The thought came with certainty inside her. And that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?

  Shaggy felt the truth of it, or at least one piece of the truth. S
he was here because it mattered, even if she wasn’t one-hundred-percent sure why. As she stood and stretched, on top of that sunny bridge, it started happening. Three cars blocked the four lanes of traffic. Cars were honking, stacking up behind them. People began to run around like ants, unloading equipment and getting into position.

  She scanned the group for Moss’s fauxhawk, but didn’t see him anywhere. She hoped he was okay.

  Phoebe put a hand on Shaggy’s arm. “Let’s go over the plan one more time. Okay?”

  A row of activists began locking themselves into long, white cylinders. Moss wasn’t there. He had to be. But he wasn’t. What was happening?

  “Shaggy? It’s time. Let’s go over this, okay?”

  Shaggy ripped her gaze away, and looked down at the harness and the coils of blue silk, then back to Phoebe’s face.

  “Okay,” she replied. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  35

  Moss

  Tariq swung beneath the bridge into the tiny, jam-packed parking lot and stopped. Just below, steps led down to the waterfront park that defined the north–south boundary between the Cathedral Park and St. John’s neighborhoods, sliced into east–west quadrants by the elegant bulk of the bridge overhead. It looked like the crowd was down by the stage, which meant the blessing ceremony was probably over. Things were right on time.

  “I know you’re disappointed in the change, but frankly, man, I’m relieved.” Tariq looked at Moss from the driver’s seat.

  “Yeah. I’m kinda sorry now I didn’t listen to you all, but…”

  “Sometimes you gotta figure shit out your own way.”

  “Right. That.” Moss grinned, then got serious. “Stay safe up there, man. And keep our people safe.”

  “Safe as I can, but really, you know, that shit all depends on the pigs.”

  Moss nodded, unbuckled his seatbelt, and leaned over to give his comrade a side shoulder hug. Old marijuana and Nag Champa incense perfumed his clothes and hair.

  “You and the witches stay safe, too. You been hurt enough this past week,” Tariq said. Releasing him from the hug, he gave Moss a quick kiss. Moss leaned his forehead against his friend’s and sighed, then pulled away.

  He slid out of the truck and slammed the door, leaning into the window. “No justice, no peace.”

  “No justice, no peace,” Tariq replied, then, putting the truck in gear, he gave Moss a salute and took off. Moss turned and walked to the top of the concrete stairs leading down to the park. His eyes took in the plum colored leaves of the cherry trees and the huge, golden-leafed maple. The towering firs and scraggly grass. The massive rise of the bridge overhead, and down the gentle hill, past the railroad tracks, the crowd. It looked like a great turnout clustered around the stage area and wandering down near the water. The sound of drums and rattles echoed up the hill as dancers swirled and turned on the small stage.

  It was truly a beautiful day out, and warming up a bit, too. A great day for an action. But Moss felt unsettled by his encounter with Patricia Sloane, Environmental Engineer, and it was more than the fact that the encounter had made him black out and re-injure himself. That was definitely not good.

  He knew her, somehow, that woman from GranCo. As soon as she looked at him, he saw her, clearly. He just hadn’t realized it in the moment. He’d been too focused on the weird gray shimmer of the egregore.

  And now, the river told him more, whispering a vague sense… She and the egregore were connected to the river, just like he was. Everyone who came in contact with the water was connected, but this woman? She paid attention to the river. Her connection was more intimate than the average person who crossed any of the seven bridges every day. Whether she knew it or not, in helping build the egregore, Patricia Sloane worked to affect the river directly, and much as she might want to deny it, she knew that in her soul.

  Through the kami of the river, Moss read that in the memory of her, in the image of her eyes burned on his brain.

  And this was new, this ability. Some small part of him made a note to tell Brenda and Raquel that his psychic powers were expanding. But for now, he had to let that go, and ride the information flowing through.

  He saw Patricia Sloane. He felt her inner drive. Listened to the beat of her ambition. Tasted her fear of being left behind.

  Patricia Sloane was a person who had lost her sense of home. She buried her sorrow beneath a bright and brittle anger. And GranCo had used all of this. And the egregore had grown.

  A grudging compassion rose inside him, but it still wasn’t okay for her to threaten the lives of countless others. Animals. Plants. All the fish that would lose their home. All of the people whose neighborhoods would be affected by the scent of pollution and the sicknesses that followed.

  Her pain did not excuse dealing pain out to these others. It never could and never should.

  Moss clenched the fist on his uninjured arm, then opened it again. His right hand, the hand of action. His left hand was the hand of magic and intuition. He would need to rely on other, expanded senses, to do that work today. Breathing in the green of the grass and the distant smells of river water and the smoke from burning sage, he rocked his feet on the grass. He sent out a tendril of awareness and greeted the Willamette, and clapped his right hand on his thigh, a courtesy that at this point felt barely necessary, they were so intertwined. Moss smiled and sent out a thank you to the spirit the bridge was named for. The wandering spirit that named the neighborhood Justice House stood upon. The old settler and recluse, a man named James John, who the people came to call the hermit, St. John. A Holy Fool.

  “I can use a little of what you had, my friend,” Moss murmured to the air. “A little wild wisdom, please. Some foolishness. Let me act outside the ordinary, and do what needs to be done.”

  He pulled his phone from his pocket and winced.

  “Damn. Need to switch pockets.” It was almost time for his comrades on the bridge to be getting in place. He needed to find the rest of Arrow and Crescent Coven, especially Raquel and Alejandro. He’d texted them the change of plans but hadn’t gotten clear coordinates of where they all would be. The whole coven—minus Brenda and Cassie who had to mind the shop and the café—should arrive at any time.

  His left wrist throbbed, and his knee, elbow, and hip were all messed up, along with his ribs. He was a wreck, and yeah, he should’ve listened to his friends in the first place, before today’s psychic smack down…. But he’d been so damn sure the urgency he felt meant that he needed to lock down.

  Ego masquerades in many ways. Should’ve listened more carefully to the river, instead of just going off the emotional energy.

  He thumbed another message to Raquel, giving his current location. His eyes swept across the grass, and then down through the massive concrete arches, the outdoor cathedral that held up St. John’s Bridge. Closing his eyes, he felt all the heat, pain, and complaining in his tortured tendons and bruised muscles. Acknowledging the pain, he breathed past it. Through it. He inhaled deeply into his belly, letting the park and the people, the scents and the sounds, flow all the way through his being, softening his edges, and opening him to the magic that moved through every living thing.

  Then he imagined his breath moving down all the way through the soles of his feet. As he connected to the earth below, he simultaneously reached upward toward the tall green gothic spires of the suspension bridge and further, to the blue autumn sky. He felt the deep, heavy strength of the concrete and the soaring of the steel.

  Beneath it all, the river hummed. Moss exhaled, expanding his ætheric bodies, feeling the strength and centered softness every magic worker cultivated. In his right hand, his phone buzzed. He checked the text. Parking now.

  He could feel it in the energy of the park. A shift, and a barely describable taste on the back of his tongue. The witches had arrived—he felt it the second their feet touched the grass—and overhead, the blockade was almost in place.

  And Shaggy was getting ready to go over the
edge.

  “Thank you,” he whispered to the river. Grateful for the knowledge, he turned to greet his friends.

  36

  Shaggy

  Terra had given her a peppermint, saying it would calm her down. Somehow, sucking on the hard candy actually helped. Whether it was the mint, or the distraction, or some primal comfort that came from the sucking motion, Shaggy couldn’t tell. She felt grateful, all the same.

  Looking out past the huge steel cables, over the expanse of the river, toward downtown Portland, for the first time in her life Shaggy felt as if every part of her was present. She was filled with an upwelling sense of love. She wished she could kiss Moss before going over the edge, but that wasn’t going to happen. Even though she couldn’t see him, he had to be busy with the group that had just arrived in a small caravan of cars, and were busy locking themselves to the bridge around thirty feet away. She recognized Moss’s friend Tariq, but still no Moss.

  Just let Moss be okay.

  “You almost ready?” Phoebe asked.

  Shaggy looked at the woman who was her teacher and who maybe, just maybe, was becoming her friend. Phoebe’s headwrap was barely doing its job of keeping escaped strands of hair from her braid from whipping around her face. Shaggy kicked herself again for not bringing a cap to cover her ears. They were already icy cold.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Shaggy said. “How do we do this?” She flexed her bare toes on the sidewalk, then shook out her legs.

  Phoebe smiled. “We climb up on the railing edge, slowly lower ourselves until we’ve cleared the bridge, and then start dancing.”