Jericho: A Novel

by Alex Gordon

  “—especially lovers’ lanes.” Heath snickered. “Where naughty teenagers park ’n’ fark.”

  “The woods and roadways.” The driver raised his voice to drown out Heath’s commentary. “Most folks smell him before they see him, and that’s a good thing because the sight of him is terrible to behold.”

  Lauren thought back to that last afternoon in Gideon, the evil that permeated the air along with the stench. “He smells?”

  “The stink of his rotting, infected flesh.” Heath poked Lauren’s arm once, then again when she ignored him.

  Lauren leaned forward beyond his reach. “Has he ever been seen around this mountain?”

  The driver turned and frowned at Heath. “You hear things.” He shrugged, his storytelling mood squelched.

  The train rumbled through a wooded stretch and up a steep incline, then came to a stop beside a flagstone walkway. “Okay, folks, just follow the path.” The driver pointed toward the house. “It’ll take you to the doorway that leads into the parking garage. There’s an elevator at the far end that will take you up to the ground floor.”

  “Of course there is,” Heath muttered.

  LAUREN’S ROOM WAS located on the top floor of the four-level house, overlooking what was technically the backyard. She caught glimpses of the helipad when the breeze fluttered through the trees, and she could just see the bright blue thread of the Pacific in the distance.

  Her suite proved spacious, but the layout and decor allowed for little privacy, with floor-to-ceiling glass in the bedroom and sitting area. Even the bathroom left her feeling exposed. The open-air shower was located out on the balcony, sheltered from view by strategically placed evergreen shrubbery.

  Lauren stepped outside, and savored the warm breeze as she worked out the controls for hot and cold water. But attractive as the setting was, something about it gave her the creeps. She looked over the railing to the sheer drop below, and took comfort from the fact that a Peeping Tom would have needed climbing gear to get a decent view.

  She scanned the trees. Her voices had lowered to whispers, so she could hear clearly the chitter of squirrels, the trill of birds. But there’s something else. She stilled, held her breath, and listened. Caught the barest hint of a hum. Or was it a buzz?

  Then an insect zipped past within inches of her face, a fly or a bee.

  That answers that question. Lauren went back inside and toured the rest of the suite. Well, if modesty got the better of her, she could always get dressed in the closet, which came complete with three chests of drawers, a dressing table and a floor mirror, and had more square footage than the living room of her condo. She sat at the table and surveyed her few articles of clothing, which had been unpacked and hung up in the few minutes between the housekeeper telling her the location of her room and her ascent of the winding staircase.

  What am I doing here? Lauren spun in one direction in the dressing table chair, then the other, as that question warred for her attention with her voices, images of shambling, stinking ghosts following her through the woods, and a wide-eyed, beseeching Fernanda Carmody reaching out to her in a dead-end hallway.

  Then a familiar warble joined the chorus. Lauren dug her phone out of her bag and checked the incoming number. Counted to three. “Hello, Virginia—”

  “Is this my emissary? Never had one of those before. So fancy.”

  “Stef Warburg called you already?”

  “Oh, yes. We just hung up. My ears are still ringing, and I have a headache from trying to back up whatever it is you told her without knowing what in Lady’s name that was.”

  “She wanted to know why I was here given the state of things in Gideon.”

  “Yes, I got that.”

  “That’s when I told her that you sent me.”

  “Could you tell me why exactly I sent you? That way we’ll both know.”

  “I think we should ask the Council for help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “Financial. Manpower.”

  “You won’t get it.”

  “Did you ever ask?”

  “No. Because I knew I wouldn’t get it.” A man’s voice rumbled in the background and Virginia swore under her breath. “In a minute, Zeke, dammit, I’m on the phone with Lauren.” She sighed. “Zeke says hello.”

  “Back at him.” Lauren winced as animal screeches of wood sliding over wood grated her ear—she envisioned Virginia opening and closing desk drawers and pushing her chair under the desk. “Did Warburg say anything else?”

  “She asked if we’ve been bothered by any recurrences, any new visitations.” Virginia paused. “She asked if you had been experiencing anything out of the ordinary. I said no, Lady help me. I am pretty sure she suspects we’re holding back.” Again, the sounds of her rooting through drawers. “Walked through any strange woods lately?”

  Speaking of holding back. Lauren decided against mentioning Fernanda Carmody. She had already shoveled enough onto the woman’s plate. No sense giving her even more to worry about. “Not since I got here.” She revisited her balcony, looked both ways, then reentered the suite and closed and locked the glass doors. She doubted anyone else staying on the floor could hear her, but she still couldn’t shake the sensation of being monitored. “You filed a report about me. About what happened last winter.”

  “I had no choice. We were on the news every damn day for two weeks.” Virginia’s voice softened. “That was the best report I ever submitted. It had footnotes and everything.”

  “That means the Council knows a lot about me.”

  “Given what you might be facing, that’s a good thing, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe. Were you able to set the protection spell I asked about?”

  “Yes. Me and Zeke.”

  Lauren looked out at the nearby trees, the birds flitting from branch to branch. “Thank you.”

  Virginia grumbled an acknowledgment. “So we have our story straight now? I sent you to beg. Any trouble you get into from here on out, I can say that I have no knowledge and it’s all your fault.”

  Lauren smiled. “Sounds good.”

  “So if Stef calls me again to complain about you, I will tell her to go to blazes.”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll be your usual charming self.” Lauren stilled at the sound of approaching footsteps. Then came a knock on the door, and someone announcing that drinks were being served in the downstairs lounge. “I have to go.” When she disconnected, Virginia was still laughing.

  CHAPTER 9

  Lauren braved the shower, then donned a black silk T-shirt and beige linen pants. Fixed her short brown hair as best she could given its innate unruliness and the humidity. Gave herself as much of a pep talk as she could manage given the circumstances.

  She exited her suite and peeked over the railing of the open corridor, and listened to the laughter that drifted up from the lounge. Skipped the elevator for the spiral staircase, descended past the original paintings and sculptures, the museum-quality wall hangings, and stopped on the landing to study one piece, a netlike construction in black and silver that reminded her of a web. She looked around to see if anyone could see her, then touched one of the cords. It felt rough, gritty, as though it had been newly excavated from some den or cave and hung on the wall.

  Welcome to my parlor, said the spider to the fly. Lauren shivered, rubbed her arms, and hurried downstairs.

  The lounge was an open, multistory space that overlooked a steep descent into a forested ravine. Views of nighttime skies through the glass-paneled roof would no doubt prove extraordinary, but now the midday sun blasted through, making the room look floodlit and feel uncomfortably warm despite the air-conditioning. Stef, Peter, Sam, and Heath sat on a circular couch at the far end while near the entrance, a lone server stood polishing glasses and lining them up on the bar.

  Lauren opted for local pinot noir and downed half the glass on the way to the couch. Peter waved to her as she approached, then scooted over to give her room to sit
.

  “We were just talking about the showers.” He cocked an eyebrow and shook his head. “I guess on a rainy day, you don’t need to bother running the water.”

  “Forget rainy days—what about winter?” Sam wore a sweater over her wrap shirt and trousers despite the warmth, and cradled a cup of hot tea. “The snow falling on you while you’re naked—gah!”

  Heath nudged her with his elbow. “I don’t know. Sounds kinda hot to me.” He tossed back his whiskey, then looked back over his shoulder at the server and raised his empty glass.

  Stilted silence fell. Lauren looked toward the darkened corners to see if Jenny Porter had opted to sit by herself. But the woman was nowhere to be seen.

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking, Ms. Mullin, is it?” Heath waited until the barman departed. “Where did you study?”

  “I went to school at the University of Washington.” Lauren glanced at Peter, who nodded for her to keep going. “Bachelor’s in business admin, then an MBA, emphasis on project management.” She felt the stares, caught the not-so-fleeting frowns.

  Heath snorted. “Well, that sounds very . . . I don’t know, Stef—what’s the best word you can think of? Mundane?”

  “You don’t think witches need to understand business?” Lauren sat back, felt the warmth of the alcohol suffuse her limbs. Be careful. Her tact filter tended to malfunction when under the influence.

  “I believe we as creatives lose something vital when we allow ourselves to be consumed by everyday concerns.” Heath sat with his legs crossed ankle on knee, one arm draped along the back of the couch. “The bean counters of the world have sucked enough out of life. Why should they suck the magic out of it as well?” He ran a finger up and down the back of Sam’s neck as he spoke, pausing every so often to stroke a tendril of hair.

  “I feel magic in my life every day now.” Sometimes I wish I felt a little less. Lauren sensed everyone’s eyes on her, looked out toward the woods to avoid meeting them. “My education didn’t have anything to do with it. My everyday concerns don’t dull my senses.”

  “As with any faith, the day-to-day worries occupy minds best focused elsewhere.” Heath pointed to her with the hand that held his glass—the glass tipped, sending watered whiskey splashing across the leather upholstery. “The village wise man didn’t also keep shop or run the local pub. He lived to counsel, to instruct.”

  “And let others do the cleaning up,” Sam muttered as she dried the cushions with the hem of her skirt.

  Lauren held back a wisecrack about counseling bartenders, as one of her last Gideon memories replayed in her mind. The Parkinsons’ loaded pickup truck, headed out of town. “That might have been true back in the day when a village supported their witch and paid for her services. But those days are gone and they’re not coming back.” She tried to choose her words carefully, even as she felt the frustration rise. “Unless you have a money-printing spell up your sleeve, I don’t see how you can function without paying attention to the bottom line.”

  Heath’s face reddened. “My bottom line gets sufficient attention from those paid to do so.” He finished his drink, then stood. “If I need your advice, I’ll ask for it.” He rounded the couch and headed toward the bar.

  “I better go see—” Sam struggled to her feet. “I better go.” She hurried after Heath, who had grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and followed him out of the lounge.

  Lauren waited until the clatter of Sam’s sandals on the wood floor died away. “I put my foot in it, didn’t I?”

  “Maybe a little. But how were you to know?” Peter rocked his head from side to side. “Let’s just say that Heath could use a little counsel in what he considers more mundane concerns, and leave it at that.”

  “Do I need to apologize?”

  “He started it. But if you feel compelled, it might make the next few days go a little more smoothly. It’s your call.”

  Lauren nodded. Stared out at the trees. Checked her watch. Less than a half hour gone by, and she already had someone pissed at her. “What the hell am I doing here?” She meant to speak under her breath, but Peter’s chuckle informed her that she had come through loud and clear.

  “We’ve all been wondering that very same thing.” Stef had kicked off her pumps and tucked her feet under her.

  “Well.” Lauren rose and moved to the couch across from the woman. “You told me you’re on the Council.” She nodded to Peter. “I assume that you are, as well?”

  Peter nodded, eventually. “Stef is Mistress of the Council, in fact. She leads it.”

  I wish Virginia had told me that. Lauren imagined the amount of chair-squeaking and drawer-slamming that must have accompanied that phone call. “And Heath and Sam?”

  “Heath advises us on purchases of rare documents and artifacts. Sam? Lady forbid. She’s just along for the ride.” Stef swirled something caramel brown in a small snifter, but seemed more intent on inhaling than drinking. “I spoke with your Mistress a little while ago. She said she sent you here on a mission that you will explain in good time.”

  Lauren nodded. “I—we—wanted to discuss some issues related to Gideon, and felt it better done in person. And since Mistress Waycross couldn’t leave—”

  “But you went to Seattle first before coming to Portland.”

  “Seattle’s my hometown. I had some personal business that I needed to see to.”

  “And you just happened to meet Gene Kaster while you were there?” Stef smiled, but the warmth stopped there—her brown eyes glittered like ice in coffee. “Forgive me, but it just seems more than coincidental.”

  “He tracked me down and extended the invitation.” Lauren looked up through the glass ceiling to find a vulture circling lazily overhead. Was it a verdict or a prediction? “I had never even heard of him up to that point.”

  “But you’d heard of Andrew Carmody?” Peter’s turn. His voice came softer, more conversational.

  Stef’s the fist. You’re the velvet glove. Together they made quite a team. “Everyone in the Pacific Northwest has heard of Carmody.” Lauren held up a pleading hand, then let it fall. “How many times do I have to say it? The first time I met Kaster was the day before yesterday, when he invited me here.”

  “But he didn’t tell you the purpose of this get-together?”

  “He made it sound like Witch Camp. A break. A chance to meet with like minds.”

  “Witch Camp.” Stef shook her head. “That sounds like Gene.” She sipped her drink, then set the snifter on the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to try to nap before dinner. Doctor’s orders.” She brushed her hand over Peter’s, then stood. “We’ll continue this later.”

  Lauren watched her leave. “Is she all right?”

  Peter pressed his hand over his heart. “They want her to take it easy.”

  “And I’m not helping?” If Gene Kaster and his shit-eating grin had appeared before Lauren at that moment, she’d have slapped him. “He didn’t say ‘Witch Camp.’ He just made it sound like a retreat.”

  “Gene is good at making everything sound like a party. Until you sit across the negotiating table from him.” Peter passed a hand over his face. “You understand our difficulty? We came here for our own reasons.”

  “Which are?”

  “Council concerns.”

  “Carmody’s a member of the Council?” Lauren waited, even though she knew Peter would never tell her. “So what if Kaster sought me out for whatever reason. He works for Carmody. He’s acting for his boss, right?” She caught Peter’s eyes narrow, and the realization hit her like a slap. It’s about more than my appearing out of nowhere. They’re worried about something. All wasn’t well in Council-land. “You know, there are ways that you could determine whether or not I speak the truth.”

  Peter broke eye contact, which probably indicated that he had been thinking along those same lines. “That would be intrusive.”

  “Not if I gave my permission.” Leather crackled as Lauren shifted in her seat. She ha
d mined truth from so many others, both by accident and on purpose. Saw the fear, anger, and yes, sometimes the hatred in their eyes when they realized what she did, and that their innermost thoughts were no longer their own. Payback’s a bitch. “Consider it given.”

  Peter nodded. Then he finished his beer, and stood. “You are acknowledged to be a talented practitioner, Lauren.” He looked down at her for a few moments, lips pressed into a thin line. “Later.”

  Lauren watched him leave. He thinks I’d beat his test. He’ll never believe me. Stef wouldn’t, either. Good luck asking them for help. Or for anything else. I’m on my own here.

  She sat for a time. Then she recalled Peter’s mention of the sculpture garden and decided to give it a look even though sculpture wasn’t her thing. If I were back in Gideon, I’d be headed for a walk in the woods about now. She needed to move, think, figure out what to do next.

  As she left the lounge, she realized that her voices had quieted almost to nothing. The only sign of their presence was the occasional buzzing in her ears, like the pressure change signaling a storm.

  THE FIRST HINT of cooler ocean air had drifted in as the sun sank into the west. Lauren walked down to the ground floor of the house and out onto an immense flagstone patio. Beyond that were terraces that reached a third of the way down the peak. They were connected by wide stairways of hewn rock, and filled with flowering plants, shrubs, and small trees. Here and there she could see stone benches and planters, steps and walkways that wound through it all.