“No!” Mom shouted, clutching the back of the seat. “You must come with us.”
“It’ll be safer for you if I lead them away from Anwyn.”
“No!” she repeated, and tugged on the headrest in an annoying way. “You have to come to Anwyn, too.”
“The police aren’t after me. I’m sure they don’t know who’s driving this car.”
“It’s not the police you need protecting from, Gwen,” Mom Two added. “It’s the woman in the red suit.”
“That’s right! She’s looking for you. And you know what that means!” Mom said, tugging on the headrest.
“No, I don’t, because neither of you would give me a good explanation of just who this mysterious woman is, or why she is after me.”
“It’s better if you don’t know,” Mom Two said with a knowing look.
“You don’t know who she is, do you?” I asked with sudden insight.
“I don’t know her name, but that doesn’t mean I can’t sense danger when it’s near. There.” She pointed, and for a second I was confused as to whether she was pointing out something dangerous. “That’s the entrance to the Krispy Kreme.”
I glanced behind me. The security car was close, but not so close that the occupant could physically grab us. Two police cars were heading straight for us, however. I didn’t have the time to argue, so I simply yelled, “Hold on, everyone!” and slammed on the brakes.
The tires squealed in a satisfyingly dramatic fashion as we slid to a stop right in front of the doors. I flung myself out of the car and yanked open the door behind me, running around the car to help Mom Two get old Mrs. Vanilla out.
The security guard hit his horn and slammed on his brakes, but he was too late. Mom Two and I more or less carried Mrs. Vanilla into the doughnut shop at a full run, my mother holding the door open for us.
“Where is it?” I asked as soon as we were inside, frantically scanning the interior. A couple of people sat in brightly colored booths, while behind a long glass counter an employee stood frozen in surprise, a pot of coffee in his hand.
“I’m not sure exactly,” my mother started to say, but Mrs. Vanilla began squeaking loudly and kicking her legs. We set her down and she bolted, moving amazingly fast for an old lady. Around the counter filled with doughnuts she dashed, and into the back area.
We didn’t wait. We ran after her, the electronic ping of the door chime letting us know that the security guard was hot on our heels.
Mrs. Vanilla scurried past the doughnut-making equipment, heading straight for a door to what must be a storage room. I prayed to every deity I could think of that it was, because if it wasn’t, we were going to be in a serious world of hurt.
Mom Two threw open the door and without a look back, dashed inside, followed by Mrs. Vanilla and my mother. I hesitated for a second. The security guard appeared behind me.
“I so hope I don’t see you in a few seconds,” I told him, then turned on my heel and leaped through the open doorway into the storage room.
Only it wasn’t a storage room.
I fell with a loud thwump onto soft, daisy-spotted green grass, getting a good mouthful of it before I managed to roll over onto my back.
The stars sparkled overhead, like so many glittering diamonds scattered on an indigo cloth. They looked so close, I wanted to reach up and touch them, to let their cold, brilliant light cleanse me of all impurities.
I sat up and spat out the bit of grass, half a daisy, and a very surprised potato bug. I looked around. Although the moon was high in the sky, a quarter moon that was as bright as a full moon, closer to earth a reddish haze hung over the land, like smoke from an odd sort of fire.
Directly in front of me were the three shapes of my two mothers and Mrs. Vanilla, the last of whom was being supported by the former.
“You guys are OK?” I asked, getting up. “I guess I owe Mrs. Vanilla an apol—”
The words dried up on my tongue as Mom Two shifted, allowing me to see beyond her.
A semicircle of men in plate-and-mail armor stood looking at us, each of them holding a drawn sword.
“Oh, hell,” I said on an exhale of breath.
“Anwyn, not hell, I think,” Mom Two corrected.
As she spoke, the ranks of men swept aside like a human parting of the Red Sea. Through the opening strode a woman, tall, pale, and slender. She was clad in a black leather bodysuit and had daggers strapped to either hip. Her eyes were a dark shade of green, and she had long black hair with green extensions that matched her eyes.
She looked like she belonged on the set of a martial arts movie. “Who are you?” she demanded as she approached, making an impatient gesture toward us.
I pushed my way in front of my mothers. I wasn’t abnormally courageous, but I had no intention of letting someone who looked like she could kick Jackie Chan’s ass get pushy with my moms.
“My name is Gwen. These are my mothers. The old woman is Mrs. Vanilla. Who are you?”
“Holly,” she snapped, her gaze raking us all over for the count of three. She turned, and with an imperious wave of her hand at the nearest guy in armor, added, “Arrest them. They’re spies.”
“What?” I shrieked as the men moved in. “Wait, we’re not spies! This is Anwyn, right? The afterlife? The happy bunnies and sheep and lovely rolling green hills place?”
Two men grabbed each of my arms and more or less frog-marched me toward an array of sharp black silhouettes. I looked over my shoulder to see my mothers being escorted as well, but they didn’t appear to be in distress.
“You all right?” I asked my mother, who was immediately behind me.
“Of course. You were the only one who fell coming through the entrance.”
“No talking,” the man on my left arm said, his voice gruff, if muffled, behind his steel helmet.
I bit back the words I wanted to say to him, instead focusing my attention on where we were being led. The black shapes resolved themselves into tents, of all things. Small fires dotted what could only be called an encampment, with at least a hundred (and probably more) tents of differing sizes arranged in orderly concentric rings, with larger tents in the center and the smallest on the outer ring. There were a number of dogs roaming around, all of which appeared to be of the same breed: that of a medium-sized hound that looked like a cross between a beagle and a greyhound.
A few men and women were present as we moved through the camp, some of them wearing armor like the guards, others in what I thought of as Renaissance Faire clothing—lots of leather jerkins, cotton tunics, and leggings that were bound by thin leather cords. It had the feel of a medieval military camp, which just confused the dickens out of me.
“What is a military camp, a medieval military camp, doing in the middle of Anwyn?” I asked loudly so my mothers could hear.
“Anwyn is the place of legends. Why shouldn’t there be a medieval army here?” I heard Mom Two say before she was told to be quiet. My own guards squeezed my arms in warning as we continued to trek through the tents. A small army of dogs fell into place at our heels.
In the center of the camp was a massive tent, at least three times the size of the next-largest one and flying a couple of fancy banners. I couldn’t make out what was on the banners when we were marched past the big tent, but it definitely looked like the prime accommodation.
It was not, needless to say, our destination. The guards—they couldn’t be anything but soldiers, given the armor and the way they obeyed the woman named Holly—stopped in front of a silver tent.
My hopes of a structure from which we could make an easy escape were dashed when the tent flap was pulled aside to reveal two tall iron-barred cages. They weren’t small—the two of them filled the entire tent—but they were very much a prison.
“Right. I am not going in that,” I said as one of my guards released my arm in order to open the door to one of the cages. It was about seven feet tall, and probably a good twenty feet wide, containing what looked like a coupl
e of camping beds, two wooden chairs, and a small table. “I am not a spy, no matter what stabby girl says. I refuse to be caged like an animal.”
“Enter,” the guard said, flipping up his visor to give me a good glare.
“Like hell I will.”
He made like he was going to pull me into the cage, but I didn’t go through three years of self-defense classes to put up with being stuffed into a box. I dug my feet in, shifted my weight, and flipped him over my hip, heavy armor and all. He hit the ground with a loud crash and a grinding of metal, the dog nearest him managing to scramble out of the way just in time, but before the other man could so much as shout, I was on my nearest mother’s guard, trying to find a point of vulnerability that I could exploit.
Here’s the thing about armor—face on, there’s not a lot there to exploit. With little choice, I did what I could to disable him before intending to move on to the next mother-guarding man.
“This is intolerable!” I yelled as the door-holding guard ran over to pluck me off Mom’s guard, whom I was beating on the head with his own helm. A couple of dogs leaped about excitedly while I was hauled off the man, who now had a cut over one eye that ran in gruesome glory down his face. I tripped over another dog, apologizing as I did so. “Sorry, doggy, but this mean guard jerked me and made me step on you. Look, buster, I don’t hold with people abusing animals, so stop dragging me over the top of these dogs. Boy, there are a lot of them, aren’t there?”
I didn’t have time to continue, since my two guards threw me bodily into one of the cages, slamming the door behind me. I heard a key turn in the lock as I picked myself up and ran to the steel-barred door in an attempt to wrench it open.
Two dogs sat outside the door, panting and clearly hoping I would continue the fun romping game.
“Gwenny, dear, are you hurt?” my mother asked as she, Mom Two, and Mrs. Vanilla were placed in the matching cage. The guards didn’t manhandle them, I was relieved to note. Although there was a space of about six feet between our cages, I was comforted by the fact that they were nearby, and as safe as an unjustly incarcerated person finding herself in the Welsh afterlife could be.
“No. Just very, very pissed. Hey, you, plate boy. My mothers are old, and Mrs. Vanilla is really elderly. Give them some food and water and blankets and stuff.”
The guard said nothing, just lit a torch inside the entrance, and left, letting the tent flap drop as he went.
“Bastard,” I muttered, and began to prowl the cage to look for weakness. The dogs accompanied me. “Sorry, guys. I’m not going to play right now. Maybe later, OK?”
Oddly enough, the dogs seemed to understand, because they both turned and wandered out of the tent, leaving us alone. A few minutes later, another guard appeared, this one minus his helmet but with his arms full of blankets, with two carefully balanced jugs on top. A second guard carried a couple of long flat metal platters bearing bread, cheese, and what looked to be some sort of smoked meat.
I wasn’t surprised to find a fresh company of hounds on his heels, evidently very interested in the food.
The guards passed the food through the bars to us, ignoring my pleas to be taken to whoever was in charge so that we could clear up the situation. Thankfully, they shooed the dogs out before them when they left. So it was that a half hour later, fed, hydrated by ice-cold water that was actually very good, and with the warmth of a thick woolen blanket around us, we all settled down to get a little sleep.
“Things will look brighter in the morning,” my always optimistic mother said as she curled up with Mom Two on one of the camp beds in her cage, Mrs. Vanilla having been settled on the other. “They always do.”
I said nothing, but as I watched the torch sputter and finally die, my thoughts were as dark as the night outside the prison tent.
• • •
“See? I told you things would look brighter,” my mother said some seven hours later. I shot her a brief glare, and she had the grace to look abashed.
“I wouldn’t call a bloodred sky brighter.” My attention was momentarily distracted by the fact that the sky was, in fact, deep, dark red and striped with dirty gray wisps of what I assumed were clouds. Smoke, thick and dark, wafted upward in long, lazy curls from some unknown—but nearby—source. Every now and then, a little rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and twice my peripheral vision caught the sudden flash of lightning.
There were no clouds in the sky.
I took a deep breath, one of several that I had taken during the last ten minutes since we had been released from our prisons. We’d been given more water (which again was fresh and cold and almost sweet, it was so good), thick slabs of bread, a little pottery bowl of butter, and rough-cut slices of the best cheese I’d ever had. Three young-looking dogs who could have been siblings snuck in after breakfast was delivered and waited patiently outside my cell until I couldn’t stand their hopeful eyes any longer and handed over bites of bread and cheese. Two apples completed my food allotment, both of which I stuck in my hoodie pockets for later.
Luckily, I’d just finished using what could only be described as a camping toilet, discreetly located in the corner and hidden behind a long blue curtain that was hung from the bars across the ceiling of the cell.
“Say what you will about the accommodations,” Mom Two said as they settled in to their breakfast. I noticed somewhat jealously that they had also been given plump, juicy-looking grapes. “The food is delicious. Gwenny, don’t give those hounds any more cheese. It will give them wind. Is there more butter, Alice?”
Mrs. Vanilla made happy little noises as she ate grapes.
It was a good thing that we were all hungry, because we were given only a few minutes to eat before a new contingent of guards appeared and herded us out of our prisons.
“Who exactly are we being taken to see?” I asked my guards. I noticed with irritation that I had two of them, while my mothers and Mrs. Vanilla had only one each. The morning sun glinted off the armor they wore, which appeared to be made of pale golden-plated pieces, bound together with mail of the same color. Men and women alike wore the armor, I was somewhat gratified to notice. At least wherever we’d ended up, women weren’t treated like inferior beings. “Hey, I asked you guys a question, and I expect an answer!”
“Gwen, I don’t believe an antagonistic attitude is going to benefit us,” Mom Two cautioned from behind me.
I could have told her that I was fully aware it wasn’t the way to make friends and influence people, but that, at the moment at least, wasn’t my goal. I wanted information, and if being obnoxious was the only way to get it, then I could be VERY obnoxious.
“Dude,” I said, dragging my heels and jerking the guards on each of my arms to a halt. “I am not taking another step until someone tells me what’s going on!”
The guards picked me up with a hand under each of my armpits and simply carried me forward.
“Dammit!” I yelled, kicking my legs and trying to be as dead a weight as possible. “Put me down! Why the hell won’t you speak?”
“They are not allowed to speak to spies,” a man answered. The guards stopped and set me down in front of him, which was at the opening of a purple-and-white-striped tent. The man was also in armor, although his had fancier bits of embossing and little round medallion plates on it. Obviously, he wasn’t just an ordinary soldier. Next to him, on the ground, lay an elderly version of the dogs who had hit me up for part of my breakfast. She lifted her head when the man spoke, her tail thumping on a dark purple rug.
“We are not spies,” I said, straightening my clothing with exaggerated gestures. “I am an alchemist. My mothers are Wiccans. The old lady is just an old lady. She doesn’t talk much. Who are you?”
“Your name?” the man asked, his long, mobile face not at all what I would have pictured as someone in charge of soldiers. He looked goofy, like a young Hugh Laurie pretending to be someone he wasn’t.
“Gwen Owens.”
“I’m Gwen
ny’s mother, Magdalena,” my mom said as she came forward. She gestured to the right. “This is my partner, Alice Hill. Mrs. Vanilla is our client.”
The man bowed with a metallic rustle. “Colorado Jones.”
I stared at him for a minute. “You mean like ‘Indiana Jones’ but with ‘Colorado’ instead?”
He blinked somewhat vacant blue eyes at me. “I’m not acquainted with Sir Indiana, my lady. Is he with Lord Aaron’s army?”
“OK,” I said after a moment’s pause, “I think for sanity’s sake we’re just going to let that go and move forward. Who do I speak to about this patently ridiculous claim that we’re spies? I don’t even know who we’re supposed to be spying against, or for, and why, but I can tell you that it’s all wrong. We just got to Anwyn about ten seconds before we were captured.”
“You’re not spies?” the man asked (I made an effort to think of him by the name he’d given, but it was difficult). Relief flooded his face. He gestured toward the guards, dismissing them. “It’s all been a terrible mistake. I will inform Lady Holly that these damselles are here to help us, not harm us.”
I started to protest, but my mother grabbed my arm and gave me a look that had me biting off the words. It was better to be thought a friend than a foe.
“Witches are most welcome to Lord Ethan,” Colorado was telling my moms. “Most welcome. As for your compatriot—” He eyed Mrs. Vanilla. She weaved a little, making a creaking noise as she did so. “Yes, I’m sure we’ll find something for her to do. Everyone must have a use, that’s what the Lady Dawn says. She isn’t in Anwyn at the present, but we must still abide by her rules. You ladies may have Mistress Eve’s tent. She has returned to her home, and needs it no longer. My squire will take you there, and then to the apothecary so that you might procure whatever you need to weave your magic.”
The Art of Stealing Time t-2 Page 6
