Chariots of Wrath

by R. L. King

  “Yeah. Whoever this is—whether it’s Selene or the Skelligs or somebody else, they want me dead too, it sounds like. Not sure if that’s for some direct reason, or just because I’m connected with you, but it sure looks like they’d be happy if I wasn’t around anymore.”

  Twyla raises her head again. “Mr. Happenstance, right now I don’t give a damn what you do. I don’t want to know about it, but it’s none of my business. Whoever’s after me, it sounds like they’re after you too, so we’ve got something in common. If you’ll help us figure out what’s going on, who’s behind this, and how to stop it…you can have the money. I don’t want it, and I sure as hell don’t want to give it to whoever Selene was trying to send it to. So…will you help us?”

  Happenstance looks between me, Twyla, and Nick, then finally settles back on Twyla. “I’ll help you,” he says. “Someone’s obviously responsible for trying to frame me, which means I don’t have a choice about getting involved. And the fact that you and Bron removed that card from Mr. Hooper’s mouth has saved me from a lot of potential problems. That has to be worth something. That, and you’re friends with my grandson.”

  He indicates the money. “And as much as I regret passing up fifty thousand dollars in untraceable cash, I won’t take your money. As long as your aims and mine coincide, we can work together.”

  “But you don’t get it,” Twyla says. She violently shoves the piles of cash across the table toward Happenstance. “It’s not my money. If Selene’s paying some criminal for something that’s leading to this kind of a mess, I don’t want any part of it. Take it. Buy drinks. Throw a party. Toss it in the trash. But I won’t take it.”

  Happenstance regards her for a moment, and I can tell he’s using magical sight. “Interesting,” he says. “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who would normally give up this kind of money. But in this case, your fear is stronger than your greed. I understand that.” He ponders. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll hold on to the money for now. Perhaps when this is all over, we can come to some sort of understanding. I’m sure I can help you disassociate this money from its problematic provenance.”

  I snort. I’ve never heard a real human use such flowery language to describe criminal activity. He even talks like a Thirties matinee idol. “Money laundering, you mean.”

  “Well, yes,” he says, as if it’s obvious and I’m a little rude for naming out loud what everybody already understands. “But that is a lot of money, Bron. And I suspect if nothing else, the orphans and homeless children who were supposed to benefit from Mr. Hooper’s assistance might benefit even more from a generous donation.”

  I exchange glances with Twyla. I hadn’t thought about that. Assuming there even were any orphans and homeless kids—if Nana or Grandma Inez had their fingers in the middle of this mess, it might all be nothing but a big con.

  But even after all this time away, I still can’t believe that about Nana.

  “Okay,” I say, standing up. “Let’s revisit that later. It sounds like we’ve got some things to do.”

  “Yes.” Happenstance remains seated, looking thoughtful but relaxed. “My next step, it appears, is to set up a ritual and try to trace that card back to whoever left it. Aside from that, there might be some value to tracing the other two people who attacked you. Can you remember anything about them?”

  I look at Nick, then close my eyes, trying to dredge up mental images of the other zombies. It’s hard—if anybody ever tells you that you can get a good read on somebody when they’re trying to sink their teeth into your guts, they’re full of shit. All I can recall is flailing hands, growling, and a whole lot of terror.

  “Wait,” Nick says, jumping up. “There is something!”

  “What?” Max and I demand at the same time.

  “One of those guys—the one in the tank top, who talked to us before he took off. He had a lot of tattoos on his arm. One of them was some kind of…” He scrunches up his face. “…I think it was one of those two-mask things. You know, like you see at the theater sometimes.”

  “Ah, yes. The sock and buskin.” Happenstance nods knowingly.

  “The what and what, now?” I look at him like he’s just said something in Latin. Except I know some Latin, and that’s not it.

  “The comedy and tragedy masks of Greek theatre.”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Nick says. “There was a ribbon or something underneath them, with something written on it. I couldn’t read it, though—didn’t get a good enough look before the guy took off.”

  “That’s all right. That should be enough for now. Well spotted, Nick. Thank you.”

  “Okay, great,” I say. “But what about us? I don’t think Twy’s in any hurry to contact Selene, and neither am I.”

  “No way,” she says emphatically. “If she’s in the middle of something bad, I have no idea how many other people in the family are involved. And there’s still the matter of that dream.”

  Happenstance looks like he’s going to say something, but changes his mind. “Let me handle this for now,” he says. “You go on home, and I’ll contact you when I’ve found something.”

  “But wait,” Nick says. “If somebody’s trying to kill either Bron or Twyla, is it safe for them to go back to her place?”

  “As far as they know, Twyla’s a zombie rage monster,” I remind him. “Or maybe even dead by now. Unless either of those other two rat us out, we’re probably safe for at least tonight.”

  “Yeah, and I can put up some basic wards around Bron’s place,” Twyla says. “They won’t be enough to keep out anything determined, but at least they’ll give us a warning.”

  “All right, then,” Happenstance says. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow. I don’t think I need to caution you to be careful.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I think we’ve got that covered.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Twyla and I don’t talk much on the way back to my place. She doesn’t volunteer anything, so I leave her alone. I think she’s pretty freaked out by everything that’s happened—even though she’s got a lot more extensive magical training than I do, I know most of the normal stuff in our family is pretty low-stress. I’m not too much better, but with the Glamour situation fresh in my mind from a month ago, I guess I’m primed a little better for dealing with this kind of problem.

  I’m not sure whether I think that’s a good thing.

  I stop by the shop long enough to make sure nobody’s blown it up or broken any of the windows, and to pick up Rory. She’s indignant—normally I take her home with me every night, and despite her food and water dishes still being well stocked, she’s not pleased about being left alone for so long. “Sorry, kid,” I say as she stalks into her carrier with the bruised dignity of a queen somebody just flipped off. “But trust me, your day went a lot better than ours did.”

  At Twyla’s direction, I park her rental car down the street a short distance and she goes on ahead to check the area for magical traps, lurking attackers, or anything else someone might have left behind to deal with a couple of loose ends. I follow her at a distance, wishing for one of the few times in the last five years that I could do something to help her. This is why I made the conscious decision to stay away from magic: because even after everything that happened, I still feel useless when people are throwing it around near me.

  “I don’t see anything out here,” she says. She’s already checked the door leading in from the outside, then trudged up the stairs to check my front door. “If they left any passive traps around, they’re a lot more subtle than I can handle.”

  I doubt they are—subtle is one thing I wouldn’t expect of somebody whose previous weapons have included zombie rage monsters and ripping their victim’s heart out of his chest.

  “Let me check inside and then I’ll put up little wards around the doors and windows—just enough to let us know if anybody tries to get in.”

  “Thanks, Twy. I’m glad one of us can do something useful.”

&nbs
p; She must have picked up the bitterness in my voice, because she grips my arm. “It’s okay, Bron. I get it. And if it turns out I’m right and what happened to my mom wasn’t your fault, well—”

  “Well, what?” I unlock the front door, push it open, and start to walk in.

  Her grip tightens. “Let me go in first, okay?” She smiles down at the carrier. “Wouldn’t want anything to happen to my little buddy there.” She summons a glowing shield around herself and steps across the threshold.

  I hold my breath, waiting for something to happen. I hate letting her go in first—that’s not the way it’s supposed to be. From the time we were little kids, I was always the strong one, the pushy one, the one with the smart mouth who wasn’t afraid to use it even when it got me in trouble. I was the one who cleared spiders out of the bathtub, cleaned up the small dead “offerings” our cats would bring us, stood up to bullies, and provided a shoulder to cry on when one of Twy’s relationships went belly-up and she didn’t have a guy to drop her troubles on. Waiting here in the hallway like some kind of passive lump isn’t sitting well at all.

  “Well, what?” I repeat as she moves around the living room with her shield still up, checking the doors and windows. “What if it does turn out not to be my fault?”

  “You can come in here now,” she says. “Let me check the bedrooms and the kitchen.”

  She’s stalling. “Twy—”

  “Okay.” She stops her pacing and turns back to me. “If it’s not your fault—if my dream’s right, and Selene really did do something to mess up that ritual and get my mom killed—maybe…well, maybe you might come back home. Maybe you might even think about picking up your studies again. Finish your apprenticeship.”

  I sigh, dropping down on the couch and setting Rory’s carrier down next to me. “Twyla, come on.”

  She’s disappeared down the hall, but now she comes back and stands in front of me. “I don’t see anything back there. I think we’re okay. And ‘come on,’ nothing. You bailed on us and came out here because you wanted to get away from magic. Because you thought you messed up so bad you could never face the idea of being a mage. I totally get that. But if it wasn’t your fault—” Her voice catches a little “—then what’s stopping you from coming back? Everybody misses you, Bron. We all want you to come back and be part of the family again.”

  I open the carrier, and Rory immediately leaps free and streaks down the hall like she’s afraid I’m going to coop her up again. “Twyla…”

  How can I tell her everything that’s on my mind? I can’t even organize it, so if I try to say it, it’s going to come out as a big incoherent jumble. How can I say that as much as I miss the family, I’ve made a life for myself out here—a life I enjoy? I like running the bookstore. I like my quirky little apartment. I like big, sprawling Los Angeles, where you can choose as much or as little social interaction as you want, and nobody tries to get up in your business. Even back when I was home, I found being surrounded by that many well-meaning but nosy people irritating. Sure, I love them and I wish I could spend more time with them, but being out here has shown me that I have other options. I was barely twenty when I fled—I’ve changed a lot in five years.

  Plus, I don’t want to tell her my other fear: that even if I do decide I want to pick up my magical studies again, I’m not sure I can. The couple of times I managed to get spells to work in the last month were the first time in years, and I only made them work because it was a life-or-death situation.

  “Look,” I say with a sigh. “It’s almost two a.m. I’m tired. You’re tired. This has been about the longest day I’ve had in ages, and if you knew what I’ve been doing lately you’d know that’s saying something. What do you say we get some sleep and revisit this in the morning? We need to figure out if we’re going to do anything on our own or just wait for Happenstance to turn something up.”

  She looks like she might protest, but then sighs. “Yeah. I guess you have a point. Just let me put up those quick wards, and…” She shudders. “I really need a shower. I already think every muscle I own is going to hurt tomorrow morning.”

  “I guess you don’t have a future as a cannibal zombie rage monster.” I try to sound flippant, but my words fall flat.

  From down the hall, a soft hiss sounds as the shower comes on.

  “Thanks, Alice,” I call.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I’m back in a familiar space, and it feels like home.

  Every inch of it closes around me with the warmth and ease of a well-loved blanket. It feels right: the wooden walls with their colorful prints of magical techniques, the bookshelves lined with well-thumbed tomes, the threadbare but soft rug on the floor, the tables stacked with ritual materials and objects that glow with magical light.

  I can’t count the number of times I’ve entered this room, from the time I was a small child, eyes shining with wonder. Our family isn’t religious in the mundane sense, but this place always felt like a temple. A place for hushed voices, and reverence for forces even the wisest of us have only begun to understand. Even at that age, I knew this was a place I belonged—and as I grew older, it would be a place where I would take my spot among those who came before me, joining my mind, my heart, and my power to theirs and taking the next steps toward unraveling those mysteries.

  I step forward now, sparing a quick glance down at my body. I’m dressed in my usual style: jeans, T-shirt, combat boots. No gauzy gowns or ritual robes for this girl. Magic is part of the world, and the world now is more comfortable with jeans than it is with gowns. At least my world is, and that’s one of the things I’ve always been taught: to be truly good at magic, each person has to open herself up to its mysteries and make them her own. At its core, magic is a highly personal thing—it has many aspects in common for each individual, but ultimately the differences are where the true power originates. Even the strongest teacher can’t force her style on a student, and the best teacher understands that her job consists mainly of helping her student discover her own path.

  Ahead of me is a familiar door: tall, wooden, carved with swirling patterns that seem to move on their own even without magical sight. It’s closed now; it has no knobs or handles, but I know how to open it.

  I know I’m ready to open it.

  I’ve never seen what’s beyond that door, but I can almost picture it nonetheless: it’s the place where our family’s most important and sacred rituals take place. It’s where our circle, hundreds of years old, is inlaid into a stone floor with bits of gold, silver, and precious gems. My mother has described it to me many times, as has Mara, my mentor, but I haven’t been permitted to enter it until now.

  The door ahead of me is a threshold in more ways than one.

  I’m not afraid. Why would I be afraid? This is a joyous occasion, the day that marks my transition from one level of my training to the next. In an hour it will be all over, and I’ll be attending the party they’re already preparing in my honor. I wonder if it will feel like it did when Twyla and I graduated from high school—surrounded by happy people, celebrating our latest milestone, brimming with pride at what we’d accomplished. I’d always gotten good grades without trying—not top of the class, though that was more because I couldn’t control my mouth than any academic failing—but my mundane studies had always felt like an afterthought to me. Something I could pursue to keep me occupied until the real study began.

  Important, sure, but this is what is truly important.

  I pause in front of the door. Even though I’m alone in the room, I can feel their well-wishes swelling around me: Mom, smiling, pumping her encouraging fist. Mara, quieter but every bit as kind and loving, her confidence shining through. Twyla, my best friend, grinning, her trial completed just last week, her fists clenched in anticipation of all the new things we’ll learn together when I’ve caught up. Selene, cool and elegant, always in the latest fashions, her pride more subtle but no less heartfelt. Nana, stooped, wrinkled, wreathed in scarves, her cheerf
ul face radiating power like a small sun. And behind them, less distinct, the others: Grandma Inez, Grandma Akiko, all the aunts and cousins and sisters who’ve come before me, alive or dead, related by blood or by a bond almost as strong. They ring the room until it feels like I’m standing in a coliseum, preparing to battle a lion.

  But I’m not going to battle a lion.

  I am the lion.

  And I am prepared.

  I press my hand against the door. Instantly, the intricate scrollwork designs from the floor to the top light up in all the colors of the rainbow, transforming its austere beauty into something truly magical—in every sense of the word. I hesitate for only a second, more to acknowledge what’s about to happen than because of any nervousness or fear, and then I press harder.

  The door swings open, revealing the chamber within. I step through and it swings shut behind me. The click I hear as it locks is not the sound of finality, but of welcome.

  The room is round and windowless, but not dark: faint, comforting light bathes it from more designs on the walls. The circle is every bit as beautiful as Mom and Mara have described it: fifteen feet in diameter, shining out of the warm, sand-colored stone floor. Its primary structure is of gold, with silver accents. At every important intersection point, gemstones glint: rubies, sapphires, emeralds, amethysts, diamonds. They’re all real—Mom’s told me that too. If a thief ever found his way in here, his haul could be priceless.

  If he could ever find his way in. But the combination of illusions, wards, and other protective magic has kept this space secret and safe for longer than even Nana has been alive.

  I pause a moment to admire the circle’s sheer mundane beauty. I don’t use magical sight yet—I want to wait until it’s complete, until I’ve made my mark on it. Instead, I turn my attention to the small tables on the far side of the room, where the ritual materials I’ll need to customize the circle for the working I’ll be performing have been laid out.