Halfway Drowned (Halfway Witchy Book 4)

by Terry Maggert

  The treasures revealed, he held them out for us to see. “Rather unimpressive, I think.”

  “Umm, yeah. I sort of thought there would be something with more, I don’t know”--Eli began, then waved helplessly.

  “Grandeur?” I offered. “Me, too.”

  Wulfric held two decayed items. The first was the shattered stump of a sword, rusted into oblivion and on the verge of collapsing in his hand. He set it aside, then brandished the second, wider piece of wood. “It’s an oar. What’s left of one, I should say.”

  “From the Skraelingsdottir?” I asked.

  Wulfric nodded, but Eli spoke up before anyone else could comment. He was fairly vibrating with excitement despite the unimpressive loot Gran had magicked out of the muck. “Yes, Eli?”

  “May I?” Eli picked up the sword hilt. “A thousand years old, at least. Maybe more.”

  “Closer to twelve hundred, I think. Family blade, handed down from father to son. It would have been forged before the first ships came west, based on the shape,” Wulfric stated with emphasis.

  Exit stared at the broken metal with unalloyed joy. It was a rusted mess, but it was history, and it was metal. Those had been two threads of his life before he was waylaid. He mumbled about Wulfric being the expert, eliciting a smile from Eli.

  “He is the expert here.” Eli’s voice bubbled with wonder at his new reality. “What of the oar?”

  “It stands to reason that Gran would find everything of importance here, and that means there’s only evidence from one ship. One raiding party, one effort. A single mission, cut short by something that can lift a stone thrice the size of a man. Something that can hide in a lake for as long as I’ve been here, and more importantly, a creature that can stalk me like a child in the woods.” There was naked disgust in Wulfric’s voice. He didn’t like being made a fool.

  I could sense the rage within him, sending his pulse racing. His face drew into something raw with anger. It was a new side of him, or at least new since he’d left his vampiric ways behind him. I found it repellant and fascinating in the same moment, licking my lips in a response to his heated reaction.

  Gran cleared her throat, jingling her truck keys like we were kids being rounded up to go for ice cream. “What we just found tells me far more than silver or gold.”

  “It does?” I asked.

  “It does,” Eli confirmed. When he saw my surprise, he elaborated. “Gran found evidence of the ship, not just of Vikings leaving an enormous stone behind as some kind of marker.”

  “And their defeat,” Wulfric said. The storm clouds were gone from his face, but he still simmered with latent anger. I could tell. His anger was a physical presence.

  “And their defeat,” Eli allowed. “That stone is a physical reminder of an event that I can’t explain. I’ve tracked shipwrecks across the Northeast, all the way to Halfway. I think this is the end of the line, but that doesn’t explain why the Vikings continued to move forward, leaving wrecked ships in their path.”

  “Bones, too,” I added, glum with the thought of Wulfric’s people lying forgotten in the murk.

  “Do you remember the first time we ever met, dearest?” Wulfric asked me. He was wiping his hands after dropping the oar fragments and hilt into a plastic bag.

  Everyone turned to watch my response. My cheeks heated with thanks that the man before me had come into my life. A pang of loss for Jim Dietrich streaked through my mind like a meteor, bright but quickly gone. “I do.”

  “And our friend Bindi, of course. She’s unforgettable. Do you know that her kind have not always been so charitable with their good humor?” Wulfric asked all of us.

  “Wisps are notorious for leading people to their death,” Gran said without judgment. She might hate their actions, but cast no aspersions. Gran understood the small folk and their habits.

  “Indeed they are. Which makes me wonder how an unknown creature could convince a shipload of men armed to the teeth that it was always the next lake they needed to see. The wisps lead people who are lost, but the Vikings weren’t lost. They were raiding.” Wulfric looked back at the stone, now inert. “Although I concede the point that they were lost by the time they reached Halfway.”

  I thought of their mindset as Halfway Lake had come into view all those years ago. What were they seeking? Were they scared? Wounded? Hungry?

  Who was leading them out into the deepest point of the lake, where their ship would rest for a thousand years? And why?

  Looking at the stone, a sour frown pulled at my lips before the image of the bark relic swam into my mind. It--the thing, whatever it was--had been wakened by that idiot Richie and his weather tricks. Now cats were vanishing, strange people showed up, and there was something capable of stalking Wulfric in complete silence from a distance of two feet.

  “I feel the same way,” Gran murmured, watching me from the corner of her eye. The rest of her attention was focused on the deadfall. “I know why this stone hasn’t been found. Eli, if you will, take a look at that line of debris. Just there, if you please?” She pointed to distant layers of sticks and other detritus, rising higher along the slope where the oxbow was fed by a tiny creek.

  “The flood debris?” Eli replied, instantly. He recognized the jumbled sticks and bleached trash of receding water. “Actually, several floods.”

  Exit squatted and looked to the stone. “I think that even a couple feet of water would cover that relic. If you’re looking for the answer to how we don’t know about this, the answer is clear.”

  Eli looked at him with respect, then nodded. “The creek fills this little basin over the years, making a small oxbow pond. After enough debris is pushed down by snow melt, it breaks through and releases into the lake. I’d say every ten years or so, given the pattern of lines along this little bank.”

  “That explains why I didn’t know about it.” Gran sounded nonplussed, a rarity for her. It wounded her pride to think there was something out of her sight on the McEwan lands.

  “If this hidden place and the ship can appear to us in one season, I think that there are many more things unknown to us. All of us.” Wulfric sounded mildly disgusted, having been a steward of his lands for centuries.

  “You left out the important part,” I told him. Before I could speak, he frowned. “I know, babe.” I took his hand, looking up. His face was inscrutable, but that’s sort of a Wulfric thing. It isn’t that he tries to be mysterious, he just has Resting Viking Face.

  Eli sighed, the noise heavy with frustration. “I think it’s adorable how you two get along, but can we sort of focus on the issue at hand? Look, I love archaeology. I love ships, and the wrecks, and even discovering an unknown flood basin with loot, but I’ve been chasing them across four states without ever understanding why these people left. I’m close now, and with your help, I might be able to answer something that goes beyond my own need to know. This is for Wulfric, too.”

  He was right. “What do you want to do next, Eli?” Gran asked. She was according him the respect due his purpose and position, and he beamed.

  “Brendan will need a full day or more to fix the lens, and I don’t even want my toes in the water until I can send Gertie down to take another look. That means a day in town, then half a day to fit the lens and adjust it before we can run an active scan of anything bigger than a bathtub. Until then, I’m going to hover near the water and make certain that Domari and her sidekick Mella don’t scare anyone. It’s in their nature to be menacing and I can’t have that. I need your town to be calm. I need life to go on here until we can figure out exactly what needs to be done. Sound good to you, Gran? Carlie?” Eli directed his question to us, though he was looking at everyone with a youthful hope that was so earnest as to be comical.

  “I think you’re being eminently reasonable, Eli. Take my arm? It’s time to go home. I’ve seen enough of this place for one day.” Gran linked
arms with Eli as we all spun on our heels, leaving the weirdness of the oxbow behind.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Armageddon and Cake

  There were stars in the sky when I rolled over onto Wulfric’s sleeping bulk. He was like a warm mountain with a light beard, having sprouted one overnight. Halfway was still silent except for Gus and his welcoming purr.

  “I’m going downstairs, then to work. Love you,” I murmured into his ear. He would stay in bed for a few minutes, then stalk downstairs at the exact moment that I’d become immersed in making coffee and feeding Gus. It was good to start each day with a kiss and a mild fright, I thought, savoring the moment when he would lift me to the counter while I stirred his first cup of coffee for him. Wulfric liked honey, not sugar, having a powerful sweet tooth that made his food decisions more than a little predictable.

  “Mmm. I shall see you before you see me.” A smile creased his lips in the gray light, and I had one of those powerful flashes that tell you to stay in bed all day instead of going to work. It’s always a bit iffy since, let’s face it, Wulfric is better than work, but I resisted and pulled away from him after a playful nip at the expanse of his jaw.

  Naturally, Gus was the model of patience, and by model I mean he stared at me, judging, until I spread his tuna just so on a plate that he found acceptable. Gus doesn’t like getting his chin dirty while he eats, because that necessitates another full hour of grooming, so he dines on a flat, antique saucer that would cost a hundred bucks in any vintage store.

  He’s not spoiled. He’s exacting. I think.

  With his deep purr of satisfaction filling the kitchen, I got down to the serious business of caffeine. The coffeemaker chugged merrily as I filled my mug, then Wulfric’s. It was 4:06 AM, and the first birds were beginning their running account of the day’s events outside.

  I looked at my phone, idly, as the coffee ran into the pot.

  “Hmph,” I said to the ceiling, which didn’t answer, because that would be weird. “Less than three days until Armageddon.”

  “Three days until what?” Wulfric said from beside me. I stifled a twitch and looked up. How that much Viking moves with such stealth, I’ll never know, but if he ever wants to be a ninja, I’ll be the first to support his efforts.

  “Armageddon. A classic battle between good and evil, but in this case, there will be cake.” I handed him the cup, then began pouring honey into the steaming coffee. The sugars released like magic, and I should know, because that’s kind of my field. In seconds, the sweet smell of nectar filled my kitchen.

  “What are you--oh.” His grimace was that perfect combination of just waking up, unsavory news, and crushing adulthood. It’s terrifying to see on an unsuspecting Viking. “The birthday party.”

  “Yes. The party at which we’re going to play nice with Anna while kids scream and smear food on their faces. I’m giving even odds at one or more of them getting motion sickness. They’ll gorge themselves, hit the bouncy house, then run around until they overheat and collapse on their parents. It’s like a scripted movie, but with more yelling and sugar intake.” I took a wincing sip of coffee and reached up to pat his chest, sending chill bumps across him like a tiny shockwave.

  “I’m selling a canoe today, so I’ll have a stack of money and nothing to do with it. You can have it for this controlled chaos that you’re planning,” he told me, staring into his cup with a look that told me he still found parts of the modern world to be mysterious. Or dumb. I couldn’t really argue. I found modern life to be occasionally bizarre, and I was born to it.

  “Who’s the buyer?” I added more honey to his coffee before he could complain. He’s like Gus that way, but upright and far less hairy.

  “One of Domari’s officers. Bit of an enthusiast, it would seem, and openly appreciative of my design.” He sounded curiously detached from his success.

  “Mella?” I asked. “Why so glum? It’s a sale, right?” Not that every one of his canoes weren’t coveted by everyone who saw them.

  “Him, yes, but he sees the shape for what it is. I borrowed it from my own people, rather than creating something.” His tone verged into gloomy, which was unlike him.

  I put my cup down after glancing at the clock. “And you’re disappointed that the basic design for a canoe hasn’t changed, like, ever?”

  “I. . .hmm. Your logic is only exceeded by the height of your hair,” he told me, patting one of the cowlicks with an exaggerated gesture.

  I kissed him, smiling. “Don’t sell yourself short. Canoes are meant to float, and yours are beyond art, love. Just enjoy the sale, even if it is to that lurking galoot.” I touched my hair and felt it spring back instantly. “As to my hair, that’s why I own a hat.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Almost Vanilla

  The diner, to quote my mom’s generation, was jumping. We had every seat full and a hodgepodge of people milling around outside, waiting to get in the door to wait some more. It’s an impressive sight, and before I could draw a breath, it was well past eight o’clock, and my coffee was wearing off.

  I went around the counter to pour a mug of caffeine and noticed that more than one person had waffle fragments on their plate, and in some cases, the waffles were untouched. They were regulars, so I knew it wasn’t a question of them not liking our food--my food, to be specific. Without hesitating, I asked the nearest customer if everything was okay.

  Her name was Lisabeth. She was a redhead, young, and a local working at--- well, she did something vaguely associated with books or data or whatever personal hell you have to find in order to end up in the Adirondack version of a cubicle farm. She saw me staring at her plate and looked sheepish, but it may have been because redheads always look like they’re up to something.

  “Everything okay?” I asked, sliding the waffle corpse away from her with a look of concern.

  “Yeah, Carlie. My taste buds must be off this morning. No worries.” She smiled and lifted her cup to me, but there was a shyness to the gesture that seemed forced.

  “Is the waffle, um, bad?” I leaned forward with genuine concern. The golden waffle is my Mona Lisa, Great Pyramid, and Grand Canyon rolled into one. It’s my thing. If I messed one up, I was going to make it right.

  “No, it’s just . . . well, there’s a lot of salt in it.” She made a face like she was delivering news that someone’s dog had died. We’d known each other for three years, bonding over things like being short, hating exercise, and avoiding sunburns. She was a sweet woman, so it was a bit awkward for both of us. Mostly her, since I get lectured about cooking at least once a week by someone who feels that their five dollar bill means they can criticize my food, and my life, and my general attitude.

  “Salty?” I picked a bit of the waffle and tasted it, regretting it instantly. “Blech. Good gravy--sorry, Lisabeth. This one’s on me, and everyone else who has them. Want a muffin?” When she nodded, I began gathering up plates and handing out plump blueberry muffins that Louis baked the night before. At least I knew I couldn’t screw those up. My mood darkened, but everyone took their muffins with a smile as I carried the offensive waffles to their grave.

  In the kitchen, I tasted the batter. It was on the cusp of being . . . something bad, but I couldn’t tell what. I looked at my coffee mug with an accusatory stare, then started tasting everything in the kitchen. There was too much pepper in the gravy, not enough butter on the rolls, and so much orange essence in my cinnamon loaf that it made me screw my face up like a church lady who’d seen a miniskirt.

  “Okay, McEwan. Time to step away from the mix table so someone doesn’t get hurt.” I nodded to myself and started pulling tickets, thankful that it was a stream of eggs and bacon. Like Gran told me, if you can mess up eggs, you might want to consider a career in professional napping.

  The grill sizzled before me as I ran my tongue over my teeth. There was a metallic echo in m
y mouth, and I didn’t know what it meant.

  But I knew how to find out.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Shadows

  Wulfric was sleeping in that deep, dreamless way that only babies and the pure of heart seem to achieve. I’d left him upstairs, stealing away in silence to creep into my cellar for something far more important than sleeping.

  Gus stayed silent as I passed by, giving him a gentle scratch in the lush fur of his neck. We were attuned in a way that only witches and cats can be, and I let my hand linger on him for just a moment as my night unfolded before me.

  I’d been thinking about these next hours all day, playing possibilities and meanings through my mind like the endless loop of a film made from memory. There were hazy parts followed by scenes of astounding clarity, all spliced together with the scents and movement of everything I am as a witch. And a woman.

  I am many things, but my humanity and witchcraft would coil around each other like warring serpents until dawn, when I would ask and answer a power far greater than my own soul. The answer I was granted would determine nothing less important than the rest of my life, but the need to ask the question was overpowering. I could not go on without knowing, and for Wulfric’s sake--and my own--I would not be denied.

  Lingering scents of dust and age greeted me as I reached the cellar stairs, flicking on a light that had two switches. When my feet landed on the cool earth of the cellar floor, I reached out and turned the light off, letting the darkness return instantly. I was bathed in it, shrouded by the familiarity of my own place, where magic and I have become more than friends and less than family. You must respect magic as a peer, and for all of my life, I had.

  Except for one moment of weakness, but in truth, I would repeat that mistake a hundred or even a thousand times, because nothing was worth more to me than Wulfric.