“Get your ass on the bus,” Della said. “Go find out. And, Hal?”
Hal turned around. Della stood beside the counter, fingertips of one hand touching the smooth surface as if for balance.
“Good luck. Bring them all home. Every one of them.”
Hal nodded. “That’s what I do.”
“A hero’s work is never done,” Della said, a smile on her lips. “Right, sugar? Never done.”
Hal nodded, his throat suddenly too tight for speech. He pulled the door open, ringing the bell, and stepped out into the deepening dusk.
A hero’s work is never done.
14
KICKING THE ASSES OF GODS 101
Hal walked up the dark road. The mountain, black and silent, climbed into the air beside him while the moon played peekaboo with the clouds, scattering pale light across the ground. Hal’s boots clumped against the blacktop, underscoring the buzzing summer night song of the crickets.
He balanced the catch pole he’d fetched from work across his shoulder. As soon as he’d wrapped his fingers around its wood shaft, he’d heard an angelic choir singing triumphantly in the background and imagined silver light haloing the pole.
For Arthur, Excalibur. For Hal, a catch pole.
And, for a moment, life was good again.
But the choir and halo vanished as he’d remembered his purpose and those who counted on him. He’d thrust the broken halves of his first pole through his belt. A reminder of the high cost of failure; he simply couldn’t afford to make another mistake.
A red vest and a walking stick, Della had said—common things in Oregon, Eugene especially. She might as well have said the granola-eating recycling woman in Birkenstocks and hemp clothing. Hal would be sifting through people for months. Years. And how would he know who was last off Pisgah?
A Zen puzzle.
What was it about wise people and mountains? That the air at higher altitudes was better for those wise old brain cells? Or was it a metaphor? The mountain representing the higher view point, the accumulation of experience and knowledge?
Hell, Pisgah wasn’t even much of a mountain, all considered. A tree-covered hill with delusions of grandeur. Hal hoped that little fact didn’t reflect on the quality of this particular wise woman.
Gravel crunched beneath Hal’s boots as he stepped off the pavement and onto a dirt road leading to hiking trails and the arboretum on one side and a small parking lot on the other. The coast fork of the Willamette River ran alongside the parking lot, the water’s steady rush mingling with the faint hum of electricity from the transmission towers straddling the mountain. The air smelled lush and green, of wet stone and cold water. Hal drew in a deep, appreciative breath.
Up ahead, he caught sight of the metal-railed gate leading into the mountain trails. One car was parked on the road, instead of in the parking lot, just behind the sign reading: NO PARKING. A classic Mustang, lovingly restored. Sleek. A dark color. Blue, maybe black. Hard to tell under the buzzing street lights. Could even be purple.
Hal strode up to the gate and stopped. Last person off the mountain. Okay, then. He’d wait. Moths and other flying bugs flitted around the light, battering themselves against the glass, their devotion—their attraction—crisping their tiny bodies. Ending their lives in a flash of heat and dazzling light.
Throat suddenly tight, Hal looked away from the moths and the deadly light they courted, remembering his last sight of Desdemona, his last sight of Nick and Galahad—and fervently hoped with every fiber of his being that the word last truly didn’t apply.
“Excuse me,” a low voice murmured.
Hal looked up as a man slipped past the gate. “Sure,” Hal said, stepping back. “Excuse me.”
Flashing a warm smile, the man sidled past Hal and walked down to the road, headed for the illegally parked Mustang. A man in a red down vest, an antlered walking stick in his hand.
Man? But . . .
“Hunter Lawrence?” Hal called.
The man stopped, turned. His fingers tightened on his walking stick. Something shadowed his face—wariness, maybe. “That’s me,” he said.
“Della sent me,” Hal said.
The man glanced away for a moment, his long hair swinging against his shoulders. Drawing in a deep breath, he returned his gaze to Hal. Forced a smile. “Sorry, I no longer teach classes,” he said. “Go to the Third Eye bookstore. Check the bulletin board.”
“Classes?” Hal asked. “No, I . . . Classes in what?”
“Wicca, of course.” The man looked at Hal, his eyes narrowing. “That is what you were wanting, right?”
“No.” Hal stepped down from the gate and into the road. The man swung his walking staff around and held it lengthwise in front of him. Hal took in his wiry build. Strong and fast. Built like a dancer or a cat. Looked like he knew how to use that staff for more than just walking.
“But Della sent you?”
“She pointed me in the right direction, yeah. I need to rescue my friends and the woman I love.”
Hunter Lawrence’s gaze slid over Hal, appraised him, weighed and measured. He lowered the staff to his side.
“Rescue?”
“Heard about what happened at the Country Fair yesterday?” Hal asked.
“The paper said something about a grizzly bear rampage—an exotic pet that escaped, perhaps, and—”
“It was a monster, a wolf-man. It grabbed Louis Dark and—”
“Louis?” Lawrence said, face paling. “Is he all right?”
“No,” Hal said. “Well . . . I don’t know.”
Lawrence murmured something under his breath, his fingers touching what looked like a crescent moon pendant hanging at his throat. Then he focused his attention on Hal again. “You must be a hero in need of guidance,” he said. “And Della refused, right?”
Hal stared at him. “Uh, yeah, that’s right. Does she, like, send you heroes all the time or something?”
Lawrence laughed, a clear and lilting sound. Soothing. “No. You’re the first. But Louis told her that a hero would come and she would die helping him.”
“But she said she didn’t know Louis!”
Lawrence shrugged. “A wonderful woman. But she lies sometimes. One of her quirks. Louis is her nephew, her brother’s only child.”
“But . . . that’s . . . she’s . . . he’s yōkai,” Hal sputtered, trying to put everything together. “He’s a freakin’ cat!”
“No he’s not. You’re wrong about that.” Lawrence swiveled and walked to the Mustang, to the driver’s-side door. Unlocked it. He glanced up at Hal. “I hope you don’t plan on standing there all night with your mouth open. Not a good look on you.”
Hal snapped his jaw shut and hurried across the road. He opened the door and slouched into the passenger seat. Angled his catch pole against the seat. Strapped on the seat belt.
“How do you know so much about Della? And about Louis?” Hal asked. “You from New Orleans too?”
“Full of questions, aren’t you,” Hunter Lawrence murmured. “I think I see another reason Della sent you my way.” He turned the key in the ignition. The Mustang rumbled to life. The engine’s power vibrated up through the seats.
“No, I’m Eugene born and bred,” Lawrence said, shifting the car into first and steering it down the road. “Della’s part of my circle, and Louis . . . Louis . . .” His voice trailed away. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Louis’s my boyfriend.”
Hal shifted his gaze from Hunter Lawrence’s tense face to the moonlit road beyond the windshield. “I know how you feel,” he said. “My beloved, my Desdemona . . . she’s out there too.”
The Mustang rounded onto Seavey Loop Road. “Excuse me,” Lawrence said. “Did you say Desdemona? Desdemona Cohen?”
“That’s right. She part of your circle too?”
“Not exactly.
I didn’t realize Desdemona had a boyfriend.”
“We keep it secret,” Hal said. He glanced at Lawrence and smiled. “Her Goth friends, y’know?”
Lawrence trailed a hand through his hair, his gaze on the road. “I see. Louis never mentioned . . .”
“Well, Louis didn’t know,” Hal said.
“But he’s Dezzie’s best friend.”
Hal frowned. Dezzie? Not a suitable nickname for his pale beauty, although it’d certainly lend itself to crisis situations where one too many syllables could literally spell the difference between escape and death.
“We keep it secret,” Hal repeated.
“You aren’t the one stalking her, are you? The guy who goes into Hot Topic and bothers her while she’s working?”
“Hell no,” Hal said, voice low. Someone was stalking Desdemona? “But when I find who it is, I’m gonna kick his ass.”
Silence stretched taffy-thick through the car.
“Where we headed?” Hal asked. “Look, I was hoping this guidance thing wouldn’t take very long. I need to get busy rescuing people.”
“Do you know who took them?”
“No.”
“Do you know where they were taken?”
“No.”
“Do you know why they were taken?”
“No.”
Hal sighed. “Okay, okay. I get your point. We’ve got stuff to discuss.”
Lawrence arrowed the Mustang onto Franklin. “You said a monster grabbed Louis,” he said. “Do you know . . . I mean . . . is he . . . alive?”
An image flashed behind Hal’s eyes: the monster’s guts spilling out onto the floor and Louis Dark, curled like a sleeping child in bloody entrails.
“Sorry,” Hal said, meaning it. “I wish I could give you an answer. I don’t know.”
“Ah.” Disappointment flattened Lawrence’s voice.
“I know Desdemona’s alive,” Hal said. “I feel it.” He thumped his fingers against his chest, over his heart. “Y’know? I freakin’ feel it. And my friends. I feel them too.” He glanced at Lawrence. “Don’t you think you’d know if Louis were dead? Don’t you think you’d feel it?”
Hunter Lawrence blinked several times. Swallowed hard. He nodded. “I’d know it,” he said, voice husky. “Thanks for reminding me . . . ? I never got your name.”
“Rupert. Hal Rupert.”
Lawrence glanced at him sharply. “Of course,” he breathed. “Of course.” The Mustang surged forward, picking up speed. “Then we’ve got work to do. And not much time to do it in.”
“What are you talking about?” Hal asked.
“Damn Louis. He was right. Again. As always. Tell me everything.”
As Lawrence slammed the Mustang into fourth gear, Hal reflected on the fact that, instead of receiving answers from the wise man of the mountain, he’d only gathered more questions.
He told Hunter Lawrence almost everything. He couldn’t bring himself to surrender his last image of Louis. Couldn’t summon the words. Remembered Della saying, He’s especially bad luck for those he loves. A sinking feeling in his gut told him that Lawrence’s bad luck with Louis was just beginning.
15
SO MUCH FOR THE SECURITY DEPOSIT
Lawrence unlocked the apartment door and ushered Hal inside. The dark apartment smelled of sandalwood and spiced apples. Relocking the door behind him, the Wiccan switched on the lights.
“Please,” Lawrence said, “make yourself comfortable. Tea?”
“No, thanks. Whole milk, if you have it.”
“Sorry, no. Soy?”
Hal shook his head. “Nope. But thanks.” He leaned his catch pole beside the sofa.
“Tea for one, then,” Lawrence said with a quick smile.
Hal walked around the small living room as Lawrence went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. The furniture was simple and natural. Matted and framed pictures of trees—sunlight etching green leaves and rough trunks—adorned the walls; on the coffee table, books—To Be One with the Earth: The Wiccan Handbook; The Witches’ Spellbook; They Walk the Forests Still: A Study of Ancient Gods—incense and burner, and, strewn throughout the room, candles of every color and shape.
No sign of Louis, until Hal peeked in the bathroom and saw the clutter on the counter—black lipstick, black nail polish, earrings and other body jewelry, a jar of Manic Panic, Blue Moon in particular.
“Louis lives with Dezzie,” Lawrence said.
Hal turned to meet the Wiccan’s gaze.
“Most of the time, anyway,” Lawrence said. “I hope he’ll move in with me one of these days.” Light faded from his face as a stark possibility darkened his gray eyes.
“We’ll get him back,” Hal promised. “We’ll get all of them back.” He returned to the living room. “So . . . what’s first on the agenda?”
“It’s not that simple, Hal,” Lawrence said. He smoothed his long honey-colored hair back and looped an elastic band around it. With his hair tied back, Hal realized the sides were buzz-cut—a faux ’hawk.
“Why isn’t it that simple?” Hal asked.
“Because we’re dealing with gods.”
Hal wasn’t sure he heard right. Gods? Fragments of a dream returned to him, uneasing him. Monstrous creatures, neither human nor animal, stalk from within thick autumn-leafed forests and, howling beneath the forever eclipse, hunt human beings and shifters, tearing them apart and tossing them aside.
“Even gods need their asses kicked now and then,” Hal said, voice low. “So line ’em up, wise man, and let’s get to it. We’ve got people waiting on us.”
Lawrence looked at him for a long moment and then he smiled. Shook his head. “The Fool by any other—”
Someone rapped knuckles against the front door. Hard knuckles.
Lawrence’s head jerked around, startled.
Hal grabbed his catch pole, locked his fingers around it. The hair on his arms lifted. Sound tunneled down to just the beat of his heart, slow and steady.
Lawrence walked to the front door. As he leaned in to peer through the peephole, the door burst open. Splinters of wood and metal exploded into the room. Ripped from its hinges, the shattered door fell on Lawrence.
A snarling, hell-eyed beast stomped into the apartment. This one wasn’t a wolf-man, no. This was an elk-man with a rack of antlers two yards wide. It snorted. And stomped in on two hoofed legs, antlers gouging chunks out of the wood-and-plaster doorframe. It stank of wet fur, sour milk, and fly-blown decay.
The elk-man’s gaze locked on Hal. Its eyes glowed red. Sparked flame.
“Yeah, punk, it’s me you want. Name’s Rupert. Hal Rupert.” Hal jumped onto the sofa. “And I’ve got your ass-kicking warmed up and ready.” He twirled the catch pole in his hands. “Let’s do this.”
The beast charged. Hal somersaulted off the sofa, skimming over the jagged antlers, and smacking the catch pole between the elk-man’s beady red eyes. It roared. Hal landed on his shoulder and rolled up onto his feet. Wheeled around. Ducked low.
Someone in the next apartment pounded on the wall. Pissed-off.
The elk-man charged again, blowing stinky snot out of its nostrils. Hal stepped to the side—out of stinky-snot range—just as the beast reached him and thumped it with each end of the catch pole as it passed. Thwack-thwack!
More elk-man trumpeting. More wall-pounding. Lots of wall-pounding.
As Hal swung his catch pole around again, something furred arrowed in through the doorway and hit the creature in the ribs. Bounced away, growling. Bared fangs.
A shifter . . . but from where . . . ? Who . . . ?
Something hard and reeking of dying flesh cracked Hal across the face. Antler, he realized as he flew across the room, hitting the sofa with enough force to topple it. He hit the floor hard.
More trumpeting. More snarli
ng. A helluva lot of wall-pounding.
Hal scrabbled to his feet. He’d allowed the lycan’s unexpected arrival to distract him. Tasting blood, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Scarlet streaked his skin. He grinned. Now it was a fight.
The wolf danced around the beast, darting in to bite its calves, tearing out chunks. Leapt for the belly. The elk-man bellowed in pain. Trumpeted. Flung the lycan away with a sweep of its jagged antlers. The wolf hit the wall and slid limply to the floor.
More wall pounding. A muffled: “GONNA CALL THE COPS, ASSHOLES!”
Hal dropped his catch pole, pulled the broken pole halves from his belt, then ran straight at the flaming-eyed creature. His heartbeat drummed through his consciousness, a metronome for perfect action. Time slowed, stretched thin like a rubber band, and Hal vaulted up. He slashed the ends of the pole halves in an X across the elongated elk face. Spun past and down, then swiveled. Time snapped forward and bull’s-eyed the beast right in the ass. The elk-man bellowed.
“THAT’S IT!” from the other side of the wall. No pounding this time. Ominous.
Hal whirled around the elk-man, hitting it with the pole halves across the ribs, the gut. Having regained its feet, the wolf darted in, dancing and nipping, tearing hunks of flesh from hoofed legs, from furred belly.
The elk-man trumpeted, its eerie cry rising like a banshee wail.
A voice, low and silver-toned, a chiming bell, said, “Hold.”
Everything stopped. Time didn’t just slow down, it froze.
Hal, heart pounding, glanced at the shattered doorway. Hunter Lawrence stood there, blood trickling from his scalp and along his face, dripping onto the floor. A halo of silver encircled each of his upraised hands. Light starred out from the crescent moon pendant hanging at his throat.
The hair on the back of Hal’s neck lifted and electricity tingled down his spine. Mojo. Big-time mojo. The wolf turned its head . . . so slowly . . . and looked at Lawrence.
Lawrence spoke softly in a language Hal didn’t recognize, his graceful hands gesturing as he spoke. The silver circle spiked, brightened, and filled the room with cool light.
Thinning the Herd Page 10
