“It’s a small town, DeLong,” the werewolf says as he climbs into his car. He starts it and turns back the way we’d come, and his disappearing taillights are about the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in years. I barely have time to retrieve my magazine from the mud and holster the Springfield before I feel the irregular battering of raindrops pause, then the rain falls down in sheets.
The storm has finally arrived.
It hits with the meteorological impact of a ten-pound sledgehammer. The rain comes in monstrous waves, the raindrops big and hard enough to physically hurt. It’s as if the world has turned into rain, filling the air, replacing it, forcing us to turn our heads down so we don’t drown where we stand. Instantly our clothes are saturated, plastered to our bodies in chill, sodden layers. Claire moves for the door, but I catch her arm and hold her steady.
“Do you see what I mean now?” I shout over the crescendo of rain. “Those assholes didn’t even know whether or not I had the thing, and they were willing to turn this whole area into a slaughterhouse anyway. They would have killed you, me, and anyone else around in order to get it. If I don’t get it first, who knows who else will end up paying for it?”
“I get it, Ian,” she says. “Get in the car. We’re almost there.”
Six
We drive a few more miles in silence. The chill rainwater plasters my clothes and hair to my body in a thick, dripping layer, and it seems to leach more of my body heat from me with every passing minute. Add that to the throb of the headache that never really left and the growing soreness in the middle of my back I hadn’t noticed before (probably from the thing that had thrown me like a basketball onto the lawn) and I’m in a pretty miserable state. Claire is in the same boat, her normally neatly pressed EMT uniform now a twisted mess. I have to admit, though, that her mess looks considerably more fetching than mine does. I can see the goose bumps rising on her forearms and the small shivers in her shoulders. I turn up the heat, hoping to bring about a little bit of comfort, but she doesn’t say a word to me. I doubt she could’ve, with her jaw clenched like that. I wonder what it’s like to drive around with a happy woman.
Shellbreak Park appears quiescent from the road. The normal herds of partying kids must’ve been driven off by the storm, sending them to seek drier climes. I drive deeper into the park, the rain drumming frantically off the roof and windshield, until I reach the official campgrounds. A few trailers are scattered here and there, and a lone tent beneath a cypress tree does its best to repel the elements a short distance away. I hope none of the occupants feel the need for a little late-night storm watching.
Up ahead, inside the tree line, I can see a light dancing in the rain. I can’t tell what kind, exactly, but it’s big. I park in the farthest available spot, as close as I can get to the light, next to a stretch limo in gleaming white. Moira’s car. I’ve seen it around town before. Claire and I sit in uncomfortable silence for a few moments after I kill the engine, listening as the rain beats like a mournful castanet against the roof.
“Dangerous to be doing this where civilians hang out,” I say, mostly just to break the silence. “What happens if someone comes by?”
“Regular humans can’t see the ritual,” Claire says with a stony voice. “To them it’s just an empty clearing. A minor charm keeps them from wandering in uninvited.”
“Are they ever invited?”
She makes a noncommittal shrug. “Sometimes.”
I’ll have to look into that when I have more time. I unbuckle my seat belt. “Stay here,” I tell her. “I don’t need you for this part.”
“I would have just given you directions if you didn’t need me here,” she answers. “She’ll never talk to you without me.”
I wish it isn’t true, but it probably is. I have several strikes against me when it comes to seeking a one-on-one with Moira. She doesn’t like to associate with people that aren’t part of her coven. She hates the authority that I used to represent. Finally, and most importantly, I’ve played a crucial part in stealing one of her own away from her. No, Claire is likely to be the very key I needed to get into this meeting.
“I’ll make it as quick as I can,” I promise.
“Just shut up and follow me,” she snaps. She flings the car door open and steps out into the storm. I follow her across the pavement, instantly drenched through. Again.
Away from the pounding rattle of rain on the Jeep’s roof a new sound pierces the hissing slash of the storm. It’s a high, lilting melody, light as an ocean breeze and full bodied as a fine red wine. A chorus of voices, not one of them a bass, rolls over the muddy campground like waves roll over the shoreline. It’s a sound so foreign it’s almost alien, a blanket of almost extrasensory allure, and it brings to mind vague images of shifting bodies, entwined silhouettes, shadows that flow like water. Claire’s shoulders square against the music, her chin raises an inch despite the beating the raindrops must have been giving her cheeks a painful lashing.
The pavement gives way to sand, saturated and puddling. It threatens to pull our ankles out from under us with every step, standing pools of rainwater sloshing into the meshed sides of my running shoes. I glance around as far as the rain will let me. Shellbreak is just wild enough that some of the local wildlife makes guest appearances; the occasional skunk, maybe even a small gator in this weather, but this doesn’t seem to be a night for the natural.
My sneakers twist awkwardly in the mud but Claire has no problems, handling the terrain with well-remembered grace, getting by on her balance and stiff spine. I follow as quickly as I can, then come to a surprised stop at the edge of a small clearing.
The bonfire rages on despite the cloudburst.
I learned a long time ago to stop questioning such things, but it’s still an odd thing to see. The flames rise at least twenty feet into the air, hissing clouds of steam billowing upwards where the blankets of rain fall on it, but the fire itself never seems to be in danger of going out. The firelight touches each raindrop as it falls, splintering the light into millions of tiny glittering diamonds and causing an otherworldly shimmer in the darkness. The flickering light casts dozens of lithe, twisting shadows through the storm – indiscernible bodies dancing ceremonially around the blaze.
As we enter the clearing the song breaks, notes splintering off like shrapnel. Once I can see them clearly the dancing bodies acquire a great deal more curves, all of them pleasing to the eye. Well, my eye, at least. As far as I can tell through the rain, none of the curves are hidden under cloth, denim or spandex, and not a single one is male.
It’s a hell of a party to crash, that’s for sure.
As Claire and I near the fire the figures stop dancing. Even through the curtain of rainfall and backlit by the fire it’s plain to see that, as one, they have turned towards us and are wordlessly staring at us with eerie stillness. After a long moment one of them breaks rank with a step almost military in its precision she peels away from the circle and walks toward us. No, she doesn’t walk. She strides. She stalks. Like a predator she crosses the earth like she owns it and stops five feet away from us
“Moira,” I say courteously.
Moira Durande, leader of Superstition Bay’s lone witch coven, refuses me even the acknowledgement of eye contact. She stands a few inches over five feet, with generous curves that gleam under rivers of rainwater. Even being more than half a foot taller than her I’m struck by her presence as she stands with squared shoulders and a proudly jutting chin, hands on her hips, feet braced wider than her shoulders and her chestnut curls plastered to her head in a dripping layer. She’s unabashedly naked, clothed only by the sheeting rain and flickering firelight, either unaware of or unaffected by the chill that even ninety-degree rainwater brings. I try to keep my eyes above her shoulders (it seems to me that it would be bad form to ogle a witch, no matter how fascinating her curves may be), but looking up invites the sledgehammer raindrops directly into my eyes.
She has been the head of the coven since long
before I’d first hit town, but we’ve had almost no contact in that time. The only time I’ve ever had to take any direct involvement against her or hers was when Claire had come to me, wanting to quit the coven but unable to pry herself away on her own and I’d had to persuade her to let Claire go. As far as I know Moira had never tried to overtly force Claire or any of her followers to stay against their will, though there are ways to keep someone in thrall that are anything but overt.
Nevertheless, she’s never broken any law that I’m aware of and has never harmed anyone human or otherwise, though I’ll be checking on their ‘invitations’ for normal humans down the line. But, as it is with everyone in positions of power, I know that there are things under the surface that I can’t see.
Moira’s coven is unequaled in the entire region. When she’d assumed leadership she’d done something almost unheard of amongst witches – she’d recruited. Tracked down the most powerful freelance spell weavers she could, even lured some away from existing covens. Before long she’d assembled a throng of magical muscle that was respected and even feared up and down both coasts by supernaturals of all flavors, not just witches. Officially, Superstition Bay is their home, but unofficially they have range from Texas to Florida. Witches the world over pay them respect.
Even though she’s standing equidistant from both Claire and myself, I have no evidence that she even knows I’m there. She’s staring holes in Claire, the bonfire casting the left half her face into shadow. The right eye catches the flame and holds it, a shining spark that I doubt has anything to do with the bonfire.
She smiles, but she shouldn’t have bothered. It’s as transparent as new glass.
“Whippoorwill,” she says with something just shy of open hostility. As she speaks the entirety of the assembled dancers speak with her. Not an echo, as if they’d heard and repeated whatever their leader said, but all at once with no hesitation. One voice spoken through thirty mouths. Under the splattering rain the effect is spine tingling.
“Moira,” Claire answers timidly.
I look sideways at Claire. “Whippoorwill?”
For the first time Moira addresses me directly, though the focus of her eyes never changes. “We like to sing,” she says. They say, since once again the coven talks as one through her voice. “It’s far more enjoyable than those boring chants, don’t you think?”
“You’re going to have to stop doing that,” I say. “It’s a bit unnerving.”
“Nice to know you can still be unnerved,” she/they continue. I wonder if she’s speaking through them or they’re speaking through her. Or if there really is a difference. “I’m surprised to see you here,” she says. Bitterness drips off her voice like the rain dripping off her body. “You went to such great lengths to get away from us.”
“It wasn’t her idea,” I say. Even though I knew there was never a chance that this would be a happy reunion, I’m hoping for a little less hostility from Moira.
“No, leaving was her idea. So abruptly, too. Didn’t even ask. We just looked up and there you were, storming the castle like a good white knight to carry her away. How fucking heroic.”
I look at Claire, wondering when she’s going to speak up for herself, but she’s still intently studying the mud under her sneakers.
“I’m not here about that,” I say, hoping to placate her a bit.
“I didn’t think you would be.” She finally looks at me. Through the rain I can’t tell if the rest follow suit. “Even after all that’s happened I might be open to Claire rejoining our dance, but you, Ian, aren’t… properly equipped.”
“I’m not here to dance, either, Moira.”
She goes back to ignoring me. “Why have you brought him here?”
Claire’s voice, the very bedrock of her formidable magic, is as soft as the tread of a mouse. It’s barely audible over the slashing rain. “Because he needs help. More than I can give him.”
Moira gives me a languid, up-and-down once over, then does the same to Claire. Hers takes a lot longer. “I think I see why you let yourself be ‘rescued’, Claire,” she says. “I’ve wondered that, from time to time. But Ian, isn’t it true that you haven’t had a girlfriend since you came to town? How many years is that now?”
“My lifestyle’s a bit too adventurous for most women.”
“But apparently not all,” she says with a venomous smile, tilting her head towards the still silent Claire. The chorus is swallowed by a peal of thunder, sharp and resonant. There is no lightning.
“I only date humans, Moira,” I say, stepping half an inch closer. She looks annoyed at the interruption, focusing a rather chilly stare my way.
“And the rest of us are monsters. I’ve heard that about you. Why are you here, Mr. DeLong? What can I do to make you leave? Hopefully you don’t intend on stealing away another one of my friends.”
I’ve had just about enough of Moira’s little potshots. My shoulders tighten as I take a small, but very significant, step towards her.
“I helped Claire because she knew she couldn’t leave your coven on her own. The only reason you haven’t been shut down permanently is that Claire asked me not to bring you to the Aegis’ attention. Like it or not, you owe her for that. Now you don’t have to do it for me, but you damn sure owe it to her to help us on this.”
She’s silent as she weighs my words. She has to know I’m telling the truth. The spells she uses to bind her coven might be cast consensually, but it still constitutes a kind of mind control. I could have a lot of trouble down on her head at any time, and still can. Finally, she sighs and nods.
“What do you want me to do?”
I dig the case out from my sodden pocket. The surface seems unaffected by the rain – even the cracks and curls of the runes seem to be free of moisture, as if the material itself repels the water. I extend my hand, the inlay of the case catching flickering highlights of the bonfire.
Just as Claire had earlier, Moira refuses to touch it. “What is that?”
“Something two people died for tonight,” I say. I open the box, letting the rain pour in. Despite this the felt lining stays as dry as a desert. “I need to know what it held.”
“I’d say it was a straight razor. What’s so special about it?”
“I’m told that it’s powerful. Dangerous. That it’ll attract attention, and that more people are going to die over it if I can’t find it.” I hold it closer to her and she steps back.
She flinches. The woman has the power to stir the seas, and she’s afraid of the case. With nothing in it.
“Talk to me, Moira,” I say. “Can you help me find what was in here?”
She runs both palms over her hair, uselessly smoothing out the curls but sending an intriguing cascade of water down her body. Hey, I notice. She was mostly right about my time alone. Then she quickly reaches out with her left hand and plucks it from my palm, as if trying to catch the box off guard before it can strike her. She holds it high, moving her hand as if testing its weight, then lays her right palm over the box, sandwiching it.
“So, this is it,” she says absently.
“What?”
“We felt it tonight, when it came to our area. It was like a meteor landed in the bay. We’ve never felt so much raw energy in one place before. It was… inspiring.”
“You knew about this?”
“Try not noticing a nuclear explosion,” she says, her voice a reverent whisper. “It arrived about five hours ago. We don’t know exactly what it is, but whatever it is so powerful it shifted the local ley lines when it got here.”
I try to wrap my head around that. I learned at the Aegis that ley lines are where the Earth’s natural currents of magic flow. A Gulf Stream of energy, so to speak, almost like the Earth’s mystical bloodstream. There are three minor ones that run through the local lands and one a couple of miles outside the Bay. Like all rivers, they aren’t easy to shift.
“I’ve never heard of lines being affected by anything barring a natural disaste
r,” I say. “Hurricane, earthquake, that sort of thing.”
“Neither have I,” she says. “What is it?”
“I was told it’s called the Cleave. An old straight razor, very powerful.”
“Not merely a razor, Ian, but yes, very powerful. Wherever it is, it’s a major artifact.”
“Can you locate it?”
She hands me back the box. Once I take it from her she rubs her hand on her thigh, as if trying to brush away the things’ touch. She shakes her head.
“Sorry, Ian. You’re on your own.”
“You’d be helping to save lives, Moira. You follow the Rule of Three, right? What you do, you get back times three? Think of what it’ll do to your karma if you could save lives by helping me but by refusing let them die.”
“I don’t think you understand,” she says flatly. “We will protect them ourselves by finding the Cleave before anyone else does. We can draw on its power in such a way that nobody gets hurt. We don’t intend to let it fall into the wrong hands, including yours.”
Shit. I never really expected her to volunteer their aid, but I also didn’t count on her coveting the razor themselves. I should have expected something like that, though. Obviously, Madeline had been right. It’s a free-for-all, the Cleave is the prize, and Moira has just thrown her hat into the ring.
I put steel into my voice. “Neither do I, Moira.”
She faces Claire again. “Do you intend to stay with him through this?”
Claire hasn’t spoken since that first whisper. The muscles in her jaw look as hard as wood, and I can almost hear the creaking of tensed muscles in her shoulders. She’s using all her composure not to turn and bolt from the woods like a frightened rabbit. But she’s still there, staying resolutely by my side even as the memories of her life within Moira’s coven have to be boiling inside her. I had fought monsters of every shape and size in my life and never showed that kind of strength. She still can’t speak, but she manages the briefest of nods. Moira looks disappointed.
Swim Like Hell: A Visit to Superstition Bay Page 7
