by Frank Hurt
“It wasn’t your fault. You’ve got to remember that,” Duncan said.
“It s-sure feels like it is. I’ll never forgive myself. There’s no coming back from this.”
Duncan shrugged. “It’ll get better. Give it time.”
“Really?”
“A little at a time, I guess. One day soon, we’ll take down Higginbotham. One day you’ll laugh again.” Duncan offered his counsel like someone speaking of theory and not experience.
Geoff tapped his fingertips together in a nervous percussion. “I…I don’t even remember the last time I laughed. Anyway, that’s…that’s what I was starting to tell you: it’s not just Director Higginbotham. There are others. All around the world, there are others.”
“We’ll talk about that later. We need to defuse this situation before it gets worse.” Ember opened the door of her Ranger, its courtesy light bathing the trio. She reached into her satchel and found a small object. “Geoff, you’re going to order the snipers to stand down. Make it absolutely clear that nobody is to fire a shot, no matter how bad things look from the outside. You’re going to let me go in so I can negotiate with them.”
“But…but they’re ordered to…to kill anyone who gets in their way,” Geoff said. “If you go in there, you’ll be in their way.”
“I’ll handle it. Now go, tell Rodger to order his guys to stand down.”
“Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” Duncan asked as Geoff returned to the command post. “You’re going in alone.”
“I’m going in by myself, but I know I’m not alone.”
He leaned down and hiked up a pant leg. A Velcro strap released and his service revolver appeared in his hand. “At least take this with you.”
Ember shook her head. “It won’t do any good. If this devolves into shooting, it’s already too late. But listen, no matter what happens in there, you need to get Geoff away from here. Somewhere safe. He’s seen too much, and there’s no way they’ll let him live.”
“He knows too much,” Duncan agreed. “He may be the key for exposing this whole corrupt mess. I’ll hide him someplace safe.” He passed the revolver into his other palm, grasping her right hand in his for a firm shake. “I’ve seen what you can do. If anyone can pull this off, it’s you. Good luck, Wright.”
If she lingered, she knew the Schmitt siblings would emerge from the Quonset. They would try to talk sense into her. Or, if she allowed herself to consider the odds, she might talk sense into herself.
I have to move before I change my mind. Ember shuffled quickly across the yard toward the house, leaving rational thought and farewells for another time.
29
The Misery Party
Her heart pounded at a rate inverse to the pace of her approach. With each step she slowed, but her pulse raced faster. When she finally reached the base of the porch, she had become a sloth with the heart of a hummingbird.
There were no leftover neurons to process the fatigue she was feeling in her bones. Her brain was experiencing a low, rolling boil, with thoughts bubbling to the surface to float momentarily before bursting. The lack of preparation nagged Ember. She had nothing resembling a plan. There was no time to consider the next step when she came face-to-face with the changelings. No time to consider the likelihood of everything going terribly wrong.
An option percolated to the surface, offering itself as a voice bubbling slightly louder than the other ideas. The thought presented itself with calm and reason. Its suggestion, likewise, was a calm and reasonable one.
Nobody would blame me if I turned back.
The mage winced with shame at allowing the thought. She imagined returning to the Quonset to face Anna and Arnie and Rik. What would she tell them, then? That was a fine bit of bravado back there, yeah? Pity I care about my own skin more than I do your family’s.
Her toe caught the second step of the porch, and she tripped. Her hand caught the railing, arresting a tumble while landing on her knee. The boots she wore belonged to Rik and were far too big for her.
She hissed through clenched teeth. Bloody hell! I guess I can eliminate the option of stealth.
Voices rose inside the house. Someone barked a command, followed by the unlocking of a latch and the door swinging open. A thin figure stepped into the porchlight, holding a rifle uneasily on his bony hip. He handled himself like someone who had only ever seen firearms in movies.
“Hi Kenny,” Ember said. “I’ve come to talk.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” Kenny said, his inflection somber.
“I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”
An even more agitated than usual voice asked, “who the fuck’s out there?”
“It’s Ember,” Kenny answered into the open doorway. “Should I send her away?”
“I’ve come to talk,” Ember shouted.
“Yeah, well we don’t want to talk with you,” Roy shouted back.
Kenny’s arms trembled as he raised the barrel of the rifle. “Is…is she in our way?”
Ember swallowed, raising both hands so he could see her palms. Geoff told her that their orders were to kill anyone who impeded them. She kept her tone measured, confident—and loud enough for those inside to hear her. “I’m not in your way, Kenny. I know you want Arnie. I’m working on getting you Arnie. But first, I need to see that everyone’s okay. I need to talk to everyone.”
“She’s probably wired with a camera,” another voice from inside suggested.
“I’m not,” Ember said, shaking her head slowly. Her damp hair clung to the back of her neck. “You can search me.”
Roy said, “pat her down. Bring her inside.”
The third voice belonged to Marvin Richter, an overweight, mustachioed man with perpetually rosy cheeks. A pistol was tucked in his belt. He breathed heavily as he lumbered across the porch to inspect the mage.
With nine Deference Spells to unravel, Ember realized she would have to be tactical in her attempt to counter them all. She couldn’t talk while she unraveled the spell—indeed she had to hold her breath for the duration. Whenever she countered the Deference Spell on previous victims, it had always worked best when the target was distracted. I’ll need to fix them one by one.
She began the dance of the counter-spell in her head, focusing on Marvin as he searched her. She didn’t get far when her concentration was interrupted.
“She’s clean,” Marvin announced. He had barely patted her down. She easily could have hidden a firearm beneath Rik’s heavy coat, but the amateur search would not have found it. His hasty, ineffectual search left her too little time to enact the counter-spell.
Fortunately, it also meant that he missed the Leystone pin she had stowed away in her pocket. She squirreled it away from the subterranean Ley Line chamber weeks ago, around the time she began hunting the Changeling Hunter. The Leystone was intended to be used for healing the Mandaree Incident scouts—the very changelings who she now faced. The Leystone proved ineffective in curing them of their disability. Ember held onto it all the same, not knowing when its power would be useful. Perhaps now it could help them, even if not how she first imagined it might.
Marvin led her across the porch and inside. Kenny followed, his hip bone serving as a fulcrum for the heavy rifle he wielded.
It was for Sunday brunch when Ember last walked the stained decking of the porch. Just two days ago, but it feels like I’ve lived two lifetimes since.
A rocking chair next to the front door sat empty. It was the chair Gloria Rout had been nestled into. The old Healer had been tucked beneath layers of clothes, complaining about the cold and how uncomfortable she was. Now, Gloria sat on the floor of the Schmitt’s living room, looking even less comfortable.
“Good, another guest to join the misery party,” Gloria muttered. Her gold-rimmed glasses sat uneven on her nose, unable to get adjusted as her hands were tied together behind her back. Her cloudy, grey eyes spoke even more wearily than her parched voice. “And you thought I was an idio
t when I said there was friction among these people. This is where I get to say I told you so.”
“And I told you to shut the fuck up, you ol’ hag,” Roy yelled. He was holding a Mossberg shotgun, which he now pointed at the old woman’s head. He racked its fore-end, the action chambering a new shell from the magazine even as an unused shell was ejected.
Stephanie whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut. She sat on the floor next to Gloria. On her other side was her mother-in-law, Muriel. Their backs were against the couch. They faced the kitchen wall, along which Boniface and Ronald Schmitt were sitting. All five of the hostages had their hands bound.
Boniface wore a fresh bruise on his cheek, while Ronald had an open cut which dripped carmine down his forehead. The shape of their injuries matched the butt end of Roy’s shotgun stock.
The few changeling scouts who hadn’t already been in the living room now gathered. They abandoned their lookout posts at various windows as curiosity overrode their recently bestowed hobby of hostage-taking. All nine of them were armed with assorted guns. All nine were enveloped by the dark shadow of Elton Higginbotham’s Deference Spell.
I need to get them separated. Maybe I could cast a Sleep Spell on one or two if I get alone with them. Or they need to ignore me long enough so I can work on them one at a time.
“Fine. Shoot an old lady,” Gloria shrugged, feigning indifference. She glanced at Ember. “I didn’t want to hear what this one had to say, anyway.”
And just like that, the focus is back on me. Thank you, helpy-helper.
Roy swung the shotgun around to the blonde mage. The front sight came into focus, perched at the end of the dark barrel. So clearly, she saw his finger twitching on the trigger. Her mind fled to an innocent time. He was the bulbous-nosed, bald hunter dressed in plaid. She was the clever bunny, inexplicably dressed in drag. She just needed to find a carrot to lodge into the muzzle. He would pull the trigger and his gun would explode in his face, painting him with burned gunpowder. She might plant a kiss on his head as a final, bemused insult. Then she would proclaim, “ain’t I a stinker,” before diving into the safety of her underground burrow.
“Well?” The bald man with the shotgun yelled. “You had something to tell us?”
Ember blinked. He was talking to her. A voice that sounded like hers but couldn’t possibly have been—she would never have said anything so absurd—said, “I need a carrot.”
“What did she just say?” Peggy Barth’s gravelly voice asked. “Did she just say she needed a carrot?”
Ember shook her head, dismissing the cartoon playing within. “Sorry, no that’s not what I meant—”
“She’s trying to distract us,” Peggy said. “They don’t plan on giving us Arnie.”
“Then we’ll need to go out and get him,” Marvin said.
The changelings began talking over one another, their voices blurring.
“Shouldn’t we kill everyone here first?”
“No. We’ve got to kill Arnie first, then everyone else.”
“We should kill these people first, then we charge out there and find Arnie.”
“We don’t even know that Arnie’s outside. What if they’ve got guns on us? They brought Ember in to distract us, after all.”
“If that’s the case then Ember’s in our way. Just like these people are. We should kill them all right now. That’s what we were told to do. We should start with shooting her first.”
The agitated voices barely registered in Ember’s consciousness. It was just yesterday that her krav maga instructor, Debra, lectured her on the importance of controlling her emotions, lest they control her. She compartmentalized the panic, the fear for herself and the others. She boxed those emotions up and tucked them away in a locker, where they couldn’t interfere.
Within her pocket, the zaffre colored crystal thrummed excitedly in anticipation. Even without touching it, Ember felt its energy buzzing. She called upon the reserve of mana stored within the Leystone.
Nine targets. Nine counter-spells. Nine spans of holding my breath throughout. Would they stay distracted long enough? Is there another way?
Another way to undo the Deference Spells.
She was not even sure it was possible, but Ember tried it all the same. With all nine targets in the room, within range of her counter-spell, she targeted them simultaneously. The Deference Spell cast upon them had been created by the same evil man, delivered at nearly the same time. They were deeply connected. She could sense this as she entered the dance.
She quietly inhaled, capturing as much air in her lungs as she could trap. Ember willed nine separate wisps of mana from the Leystone pin within her pocket. She called upon the energy and urged it, gently, from her fingers as the dance reached its zenith. The mana pulsed forward into the tar paper tents only she could see.
Every time before, Ember would patiently run her fingertips, projected as they were, across the tar paper until she found a loose spot. She would then carefully tug the thread free until it unraveled. That is what she had done for Geoff. For Duncan and Jackie. For Nick and Katrina.
She dared a different tack this time. She could never hold her breath long enough to take the measured approach. Instead, she narrowed each of the nine beams of mana, drawing strength from the Leystone. The wisps of mana became needles, puncturing the thick tar paper tents surrounding each victim. The needles curved and grew barbs, hooking themselves into the Deference Spell’s shroud.
Ember reeled the wisps of mana back toward her. Invisible fishing line grew taut. The tar paper resisted. Doubt and its companion, panic, whispered in her ear.
This was a mistake. I never should have deviated, not now.
A bead of sweat trickled down her temple. Her fire-blue eyes burned like someone had sprinkled salt in them. She saw the faces of her targets—the nine changeling scouts—within the tar paper shrouds. They were pleading with the mage.
The Deference Spell fought back. It had an energy of its own, an aura which reflected the cruel charm of its creator. “You cannot win,” the tar paper said.
If only I could breathe. All I need to do is breathe. It would be so easy.
“Yes,” the tar paper tents said as one. Their collective voices were that of Elton Higginbotham’s, only distant like a memory in the bottom of a deep well. They spoke soothingly, their charm for her ears only. “You are only hurting yourself. Relax. Breathe in. Breathe us in.”
Only hurting myself. Her lips parted.
“Breathe,” the tar paper tents advised in unison. Their smooth, tough surfaces rippled, forming nine wide grins.
Grins like a shark.
A thunderclap reverberated within her skull, breaking the trance. Ember pursed her lips, sealing them once more. She focused on the tendrils of mana, how they tugged at those cruel grins. The mage curled her fingers as a marionettist plying wires. The nine lines hummed with tension for a moment longer before they resumed their return home.
As the lines of mana returned, they brought the hooked barbs with. Attached to each of the barbs was a torn strip of tar paper shroud, uncoiling rapidly and evaporating into mist around each victim.
Her lungs were pleading when she at last reversed the dance of the counter-spell. Ember gasped, her head like a balloon filled with helium.
Though all five hostages were watching her with concern, it was Ronald Schmitt who risked their captor’s wrath by speaking. “Ember, you look like you’re going to pass out. Sit if you need to. I think you’re having a panic attack.”
Ember did breathe, but she wasn’t having a panic attack. She searched the room, studying each of the scouts through salt-rubbed eyes.
Several of the nine scouts dropped their firearms. They wore expressions of dismay blended with visceral shame. What they no longer wore was the dark shadow of a Deference Spell.
The hostages were no less confused. They glanced about nervously. Only Gloria remained stoic. Her rheumy gaze was fixed on Ember. Her voice was still parched, but this time t
inged with something resembling awe. “Well isn’t that something. You just surprised an old lady, Ember Wright.”
“What did she do?” Muriel asked.
“It’s called a Deference Spell,” Ember said between breaths. She held onto the back of a recliner to steady herself. Her fire-blue eyes met those of each of the Mandaree Incident scouts. “Elton Higginbotham did this. He cast this spell on each of you. You were under his control. You aren’t anymore.”
Boniface Schmitt cursed. Muriel and her grizzly bear subform each growled.
Roy stood in the kitchen doorway, the Mossberg still in his hands. He had been staring at the unused, red plastic 12-gauge shell ejected onto the floor. His bald head was pale, his face pinched with pain. His lip trembled as he looked down at the hostages. He recognized the injuries he had caused with the butt of his shotgun, the blood still fresh on the face of the family patriarch.
“I’m…I’m so sorry, Ronald. I’m sorry, everyone.” Roy rotated the long gun in his hands, raising its stock to the ceiling. He tilted his head back, opening wide as he accepted the muzzle. Roy thumbed at the trigger and closed his eyes as tears began to flow.
30
Pyrrhic Victory
Someone emitted a high-pitched shriek.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Ronald asked from his position on the floor. “Ember just told you this isn’t your fault. Don’t be a damn fool.”
Roy’s eyes remained closed. He held the muzzle of the shotgun between his lips. One fist was wrapped around the barrel, the hand other awkwardly fumbling for the trigger.
Ember’s first impulse was to join the lobbying effort. She would tell him how he has so much to live for. That, despite his disability and his recent actions everything would be okay. She would make everything okay for him.
