The Wild Hunt

by Thomas Galvin

  “Everybody’s a critic. For your information, I’m much better at ‘big loud explosion’ than ‘carefully controlled flame,’ and I didn’t want to slag your entire driveway.”

  Miranda nodded, chewing on her lip. “That’s, um, reasonable.”

  I waved my hand and melted another patch of snow, then looked back at Miranda. It really was a terrible idea. Completely irresponsible. Like handing a loaded gun to a kid on Ritalin. But stupid plans are my stock in trade, so I asked her, “Do you want to try?”

  Miranda’s jade eyes flashed. “Does the Pope poop in the woods?”

  “I … don’t think he does, actually. Anyway, here.” I took her hand and extended it toward the snow-covered ground, then stood behind her, my hand still covering hers. It almost looked like I was trying to help her aim a bow and arrow. “I’ve never tried this before, so if I blow up your hand, I’m sorry.”

  “Wait, what?” Miranda turned her head around, but I was already casting the spell. Energy leapt from me, through her arm, and down to the ground. Fire shimmered against ice crystals, and another patch of snow melted.

  She knelt down to examine the bare ground. “That’s so cool!”

  “Did you feel the spell’s energy?”

  “Yeah. How do you do that?”

  “Well, it’s kind of like using a magic wand.”

  “Come again?”

  “Mages sometimes use things to help them focus their power. I’ve seen guys use rings, medallions, knives, one guy even used his wife’s skull–”

  “Jesus.”

  “–but staves and wands are the most common. A lot of it is just mental. People are tool users, and it helps us concentrate to have a thing that accomplishes our will. But the energy really does move through them. That’s why magical items become more powerful over time. Anyway, same principle here. I used your hand as a focus for my spell, so my energy moved through you when I cast it.”

  “Okay, so now what? Do I use your residual energy or some mumbo jumbo?”

  “Nah, one spell wouldn’t leave behind enough energy to do anything useful. When I learn a spell, I’m usually not worried about using the right words in the right tone, or picturing the right sigil. All of those things are like wands and staves, tools to help the caster focus. The feeling they create is important, not the object itself.”

  “All right. So that felt tingly and, I don’t know, warm. Do it again, so I can concentrate.”

  I laid my hand over hers and wove the spell more slowly this time, gradually building the energy, deliberately weaving it into the correct shape, gently releasing it through my–and Miranda’s–hand. A tongue of flame appeared at our feet and spread languidly, turning snow to water and steam as it moved.

  Miranda shivered and leaned back against me, turning her hand over and wrapping it around mine. My breath caught and I squeezed back, briefly closing my eyes. It felt good, so damn good, to touch her, to be touched. I just wanted to stand there, my fingers wrapped around hers, her body pressed up against me.

  But it wouldn’t, couldn’t last. It was only a matter of time before I had to walk away, and if she followed me it was only a matter of time before one of the monsters I hunted killed her. I extracted my hand from hers and stepped back.

  Miranda looked down and cleared her throat. “Okay, I think I get it.” She stretched out her hand and furrowed her brow. She rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck, then extended a hand toward the snow. She strained visibly, her face contorting, but the magic refused to come. “Darn it.”

  “It’s okay. There aren’t a whole lot of people who can weave magic without some kind of focus item.” It would have been really interesting if Miranda had been one of those people, though. “Here, give this a try.” I crouched down and drew a quick sigil, a stylized flame inside of a circle. “This symbol had been used for hundreds of years, so there’s a lot of shared consciousness behind it, but it’s also very simple.”

  “Baby’s first explosion?”

  “Something like that. I know at least a dozen people who cast this as their very first spell. Before they figured out wards, even, so it should be a piece of cake.”

  Miranda frowned at the sigil. “If you say so.” She extended her hand over the emblem and scrunched up her face again.

  “Easy. Don’t try to force it. Don’t push the energy at all. The Æther wants to do your will, you just have to let it. Feel it inside you, building up right behind your navel, and feel it bubbling up, all by itself.”

  “Okay.”

  “And when it starts to move, just give it a little suggestion, let it know where you want it to go, what you want it to become.” I could feel the Æther swirling around us. “Okay, dial it back a bit. This is a finesse thing, not a–”

  A white-hot flare exploded before us.

  I shoved Miranda away and raised a fast ward. The spell had gotten completely away from her, and I had no idea how big the resulting blast was going to be. Shielding us wasn’t good enough; we’d be fine, but the blowout might take the entire house behind us. So instead of creating a ward to keep us safe, I wove a barrier to keep the fire contained. A blue shell formed around Miranda’s spell, rippling like the Caribbean Sea.

  Miranda’s spell raged inside its prison, roiling and seething within its confines. I extended both hands forward and grimaced, adding more willpower to the ward. The fire couldn’t go up and out, so it went down instead. The asphalt inside of the ward turned to oily tar and started to burn.

  “Miranda? Any time you want to stop would be great.”

  “Oh! Shit, I’m sorry! How do I turn it off?”

  “Just stop thinking about it!”

  She cocked her head at me. “Like ‘don’t think about pink elephants?’ When you tell me not to–”

  “Miranda!”

  “Sorry!” She made a motion with her hands, like she was sweeping everything off a table, and the fire evaporated like it had been blown to pieces by the wind.

  I released my ward and a tide of hot air washed over us. “Well. That certainly was something.”

  “Hey, at least I managed to cast the spell.”

  I looked down at the puddle of driveway. It would probably solidify again in an hour or so. Probably. I pursed my lips and nodded. “Yep. You certainly did.”

  “So now I just have to learn to control it better.”

  “Just?”

  “It’s not like anybody died!”

  “That’s because I managed to contain your small nuclear detonation with a hastily thrown together yet very well-crafted ward.”

  Miranda grinned at me, emerald eyes flashing. “Then you’ll just have to stick around while I learn.”

  “Maybe next time we’ll try it in the middle of a lake.”

  “Because burning a hole in the bottom of the boat would be better than melting the driveway a little?”

  “Okay, good point. Maybe in the middle of a desert somewhere. Sand is really pretty when it’s been fused into glass.”

  “Can I try again?”

  I grabbed the shovel and heaved another load of snow aside. “No. No you cannot.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “Neither is getting burned alive.”

  Miranda stuck her tongue out at me, grabbed a shovel, and helped me clear out the rest of the driveway. Ethel stuck her head out a half hour later, telling us to come eat.

  Once breakfast was done we headed back into the cold. We finished digging out around noon. Not long after, a pickup truck with a plow attachment came down the road, carving a narrow path through the overwhelming snow. It took the guy forty-five minutes to finish Miranda’s block. I hoped the guy was getting overtime.

  I settled back in with my research. Someone knocked on the door around a quarter to two. Miranda pulled the door open, revealing Sheriff Skerrit, wearing a big, furry parka. The collar was zipped all the way up, and his walrus mustache peered over the top. “Miranda,” he said as he shook snow off his coat. “Mrs. DuBo
is.”

  “How are you today, Sheriff?” Ethel asked.

  “Fine, fine. Bit chilly is all. Just wanted to stop by and make sure everybody is all right. We got quite the pounding last night.”

  “We certainly did, Sheriff,” Ethel said, “but we’re managing just fine. We have the fireplaces to keep us warm.”

  “Good. The boys tell me they should have the power back on before nightfall, but just in case we’ve got generators set up at the schools and the fire hall. If it gets too cold, you come on down.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff, we will. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

  “That’d be wonderful, Ma’am.” The sheriff glanced over in my direction and frowned. “I thought you was leaving town?”

  I close my books and leaned back. “So did I. Fate had other plans.”

  “Hmph. Well, as long as those plans don’t involve leveling any more buildings.”

  “I’ll try to behave myself.”

  “I would hope so.” He looked uncomfortable for a moment, like he was having some kind of internal debate. “Say, we were digging through the rubble yesterday, and found the damnedest thing.”

  “Do tell.”

  “We found this book, really old, leather with a funny emblem on it. And it was on fire, except it wasn’t burning.”

  I leaned forward. “That was the book that brought that creature to Mirrormont,” I said.

  The sheriff frowned. “I figured as much. Here’s the thing. I don’t cotton much to Satanic literature, and I really don’t know what to do with a book that doesn’t burn when ya toss it in the fire. So I was wondering if you might have a means of, you know, properly disposing of it.”

  That was a big relief. I didn’t want to just leave the Asatru’s book laying around, and it would have taken me forever to scour Mirrormont looking for it. “I do.”

  “Good, good. Well I’ll drop it off here as soon as I’m done making my rounds.” The sheriff frowned again, his mustache wiggling. “And, uh, if you aren’t terrible busy, we have a lot of elderly folks in town, and we’re trying to get in contact with all of them, just to make sure they’re doing all right. We’ve got pretty much everyone out there, trying to dig their way up to the houses. We could use another strong back.”

  I nodded. “Sure. Do you have a list or something, or do you just want me to start next door and keep going?”

  “Nah, I got a list. Keeping it coordinated.” The sheriff took out a pad of paper. “Here, this one’s closest to you, and there are a few more nearby. Phones are all out, so if you could check in at the station when you’re done …?”

  “Will do, Sheriff.”

  “Much obliged. Ladies.” The sheriff touched his forehead like he was tipping a hat, then departed.

  I looked at the address. Miranda read over my shoulder. “That’s only a block from here. Want some company?”

  “If Ethel doesn’t mind being alone for a while.”

  Ethel glanced down at the floor. “No, no, I’ll manage just fine. You kids have fun.”

  ***

  Miranda and I bundled up and grabbed our shovels. We hiked in the road, which had been plowed, rather than on the sidewalks, which were still buried beneath two feet of snow. It still took us nearly twenty minutes to reach our assigned house, a tiny little cottage with gray siding and red shutters. A white picket fence stretched up out of the snow like grasping fingers.

  Miranda stuck her shovel in the snow and started digging where the walkway to the front door should have been. “I don’t suppose we can just magic our way to the door?”

  “Nope. Too many people might see us.”

  “You weren’t worried about that at the church last night.”

  “I was more worried that a blood-lusted snow witch was going to cut their spleens our with a rune-covered sword. And there’s also the chance that you’ll sneeze and blow up the whole neighborhood.”

  She looked over her shoulder at me and scowled. “Jerk.”

  I loaded up a shovel full of snow and threw it aside. “All part of my charm.”

  We dug for nearly an hour. I took off my coat about twenty minutes in, and Miranda tossed her ski jacket aside a few minutes later. We were both sweating by the time we reached the front door. Miranda rang the bell.

  “One moment,” a voice called from inside. Tiny feet shuffled across the floor and a series of locks clicked, then the door swung open. Francine Lockhart peered out at us. “Why Caden Lyndsey, how lovely to see you! What brings you to my humble home?”

  My arms fell limp. I just stared at her, my mouth hanging open.

  Fortunately Miranda stepped up to bat. “Sheriff Skerrit asked us to stop by, Mrs. Lockhart. We just wanted to make sure you were getting along all right, what with the blizzard and all.”

  “Oh my, yes, quite the storm, wasn’t it? Rather unnatural, wouldn’t you say, Caden?” She gave me a conspiratorial wink.

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Lockhart. Miranda knows about everything that’s going on. You don’t have to speak in code.”

  “Oh lovely. I was never much for skullduggery. Let your yes be your yes and your no be your no, that’s what I always say.” She stepped back and pulled the door open wider. “Won’t you join me for a cup of tea?”

  “Oh, no thank you, Mrs. Lockhart,” I said, but Miranda worked her hand beneath my sweater and pinched my side.

  Miranda smiled sweetly at her. “We’d love to, wouldn’t we, Caden?”

  I sighed like the weight of the world was pressing down on me. “Of course we would.”

  Mrs. Lockhart’s house was decorated with dozens of angels. Tiny dolls, sculptures, paintings, and commemorative plates sat on every table, rested in every nook, and adorned every wall. The only thing competing with the angels were the doilies which covered almost every flat surface in the house.

  We were led into the living room, where a pellet burning stove gave off a soft glow. A picture of the Mashiach hung over the fireplace–the same picture everybody’s grandmother has, the one with blue eyes and long, blondish hair, which was a completely unrealistic representation of a Semite from two thousand years ago. Francine cleared her knitting off the coffee table. “Please, sit. I’ll just be a moment.”

  She disappeared into the kitchen. Miranda sat on the couch and folded her hands, then grinned up at me. “Gonna sit down?” I scowled at her. She laughed. “You should have let me light the snow on fire.”

  “I should have let the marauding nudists set your house on fire.”

  “But then my grandma would be homeless!” Miranda’s eyes gleamed. “You wouldn’t want my grandmother to be homeless, would you?”

  “She could always come and live with the crazy church lady.”

  “Be nice, Caden,” Miranda said, smirking. I was so glad that she was enjoying my discomfort.

  Mrs. Lockhart came back, bearing a tray with a teapot with three tiny china cups and a folded-over piece of cloth. She set the tray on the coffee table and began to pour. “It’s so nice of you to check in on me. I expected to be all by myself until spring.”

  I accepted the cup she offered me. It was the size of a thimble, and I was worried about breaking it, maybe by looking at it too hard. “Thanks. The sheriff has a whole crew out checking on people, actually. It’s just coincidence that we ended up here.”

  Francine gave one of the minuscule cups to Miranda, poured for herself, then sat down. “I don’t believe in coincidence, Caden, and with your history, I have to believe that you don’t, either. You were meant to end up here.”

  She was right. I really didn’t believe in coincidence. I had a knack for showing up where I was needed, completely aside from my visions. The frequency with which that happened made me think that someone was watching over me … and that both pissed me off and scared me stupid. It pissed me off because I had dedicated years of my life to a false master, and now that I was free I’d rather die than bow down again. And it scared me because that master was a god, powerful enough to make
my life miserable and subtle enough that I might not even realize it was happening. The Mashiach sending one of his handmaidens to see me was one thing, but him sending me was another matter entirely.

  “So,” Francine continued, “are you finally ready to accept the Lord’s offer?”

  Miranda sat forward. “Offer? What offer? Did he offer you your job back?”

  Francine smiled. It wasn’t a smirk, but it was pretty damn close. “Caden may be on sabbatical, Miranda, but the gifts and callings of the Lord are given without repentance. I was referring to something more specific.” She unfolded the cloth on the tray and held up a knife.

  Miranda reached for it automatically. “Is that that thing? That knife that can kill demons? God, it’s beautiful.”

  Mrs. Lockhart handed her the blade. “This, my dear, is the Exorcist’s Dagger.”

  “Be careful,” I said. “I have no idea what that will do to a mortal.”

  “Oh hush, Caden,” Mrs. Lockhart tutted. “This blade was cast in the name of God.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  Miranda examined the dagger. The light glinted off the etchings and fractured into rainbow shards. “How does it work?”

  “It’s been blessed, Miranda. The power of the Mashiach lives inside that blade, giving it power to pierce the darkness.”

  Miranda waved the dagger in the air. “Cool.”

  “You’re going to need that dagger, Caden,” Mrs. Lockhart said. “You are facing forces far beyond your ken. You’ve had great success turning back unclean spirits and battling demons, but the thing coming to Mirrormont is beyond any enemy you have ever faced. It may be a face of the Devil himself.”

  I shook my head. “No, Wotan is just an antecedent of Odin. Same general personality, but not as well known or as powerful. Lucifer is actually a refinement on the Hebrew–never mind. The point is, I’ve gotten this far without your god’s help, and I’ll figure out a way to kick Holda’s ass, too.”

  “Caden,” Mrs. Lockhart said with a sigh, “the Lord has been with you every step of the way. If only you had eyes to see. You wield the fire of heaven and see with the eyes of a Prophet, but still you insist that you wage war with your own strength. The Lord loves you, Caden. He called you, he anointed you, and he has never turned his back on you, even when you turned your back on him.”