Mercury Retrograde

by Laura Bickle

  “Give me your hands.”

  Petra opened her hands, palms up, and extended them across the table. Frankie picked up the pile of greasy chicken bones and dropped them in her hands.

  Petra grimaced. “Ew, Frankie.” She turned to find a trash can.

  Frankie’s sticky fingers landed on her wrists, stilling her. “Think about the boy.”

  She sighed. She thought about Cal: awkward, sneaky . . . but still a human being underneath it all. She thought of the mercury leaking from his eyes, knowing that he was going to die if she didn’t find him. Splinters of bones dug into her palms.

  “Now, throw them.” Frankie’s slender fingers traced the salt circle on the table.

  Petra opened her hands, eager to be rid of the sticky mess. The bones bounced on the vinyl tablecloth. Most of them landed inside the circle, a few outside. They skewed in a completely random pattern. One helluva mess.

  Frankie leaned over the table with his hands in his lap, rocking back and forth. His eyes picked out each bone. His lips worked over words, but no sound came out.

  Petra leaned in. “What are you doing?”

  “Reading the bones. Shut up.”

  She sat back. She picked up her beer, grimacing at the bone floating on top. She made to fish it out, but Frankie slapped her hand. She put the glass back on the table.

  “Hmpf,” he said, scanning the table.

  He reached for the basket the wings had come in and swept the salt and bones into the wax paper lining, as if they were trash.

  “Well?” Petra demanded.

  Frankie looked at her, his eyes sorrowful before he spoke: “It’s out of your hands. The kid is gone.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE NEST

  In the embrace of the tree, Gabe dreamed.

  He dreamed of the basilisk, of the waves it made in the grass as it moved. He dreamed that he was wading in those grasses with a spear, trying to stab it like a fish in shallow water. But he couldn’t walk; his feet had dissolved beneath him. He fell to the grass, unable to stand.

  In the sunshine, a shadow stood above him. He expected it to belong to the basilisk, come to devour him. He reached for the knife at his belt.

  But it wasn’t the snake. It was the woman from the hospital. She stood over him, freckled face dark in shadow, bits of dark blond hair spilling over her shoulders. She held a gun in her right hand, slack, aimed to the ground.

  “Who are you?” he asked. He wanted to know; she had haunted his dreams for weeks.

  She knelt and reached down for him with her left hand. It was an ordinary hand, empty and nonthreatening, with scars on the wrist. She rested it on his chest, and he felt his heart hammering under his shirt.

  “I am your undoing. Your dissolution.”

  Her fingers dug into his skin, beneath it. He howled as she ripped his heart out.

  Gold glittered in her fist as she pulled it away, a golden compass.

  His eyes snapped open.

  Golden half-­darkness surrounded him. The roots of the tree curled around him, holding him in a lover’s embrace. His hand slapped against his chest for reassurance, his fingers tracing his sternum. He was whole. He wiggled his fingers and toes, and counted ten of each. The Lunaria had been able to restore his body.

  But still not undamaged. He probed the raveled edges of his memories. He knew that woman. Somehow. She stood out in his memory, nearly as much as the fuzzy presence of his wife, Jelena. Jelena was long dust. But this woman was alive. Did she know what he was? Was that how she could hurt him? Did she somehow know the secret of the Hanged Men? Was that what the holes in his memory were trying to tell him? She had to be mortal, though—­she had scars. They weren’t the noose scars that the Hanged Men covered under their collars.

  He shook his head. No matter. Puzzles were for another time. He had work to do.

  The Lunaria released him reluctantly, as if surrendering something precious to the world. The light surrounding the tree flickered, and Gabe felt its weakness. The roots set him gently on the floor, one curling around the scar ringing his neck.

  “I will restore you,” he promised as he dressed.

  He searched for Carver’s ravens. He’d returned them to the Lunaria’s embrace, hoping that this small bit of energy would be absorbed and help feed the tree. Restoring Carver from three such small pieces was impossible, but returning him to the tree was the right thing to do . . .

  . . . or not. There was no sign of the ravens.

  He hunted among the fruit of the Lunaria, the other Hanged Men slumbering in the glow of artificial sunshine. And he spied something strange, a spot where the Lunaria’s rhizomes had woven back into themselves, making a nest about the size of a hawk’s. Gabe peered inside.

  A severed head lay within. Carver’s blank face stared back at him, his eyes black and with feathers sticking out of his scalp. Roots dug deep into his neck, curling through his mouth and over his lower lip.

  “Carver,” Gabe said.

  The head’s eyes glistened in the light as they moved right and left. Something was in there. Something that could not survive on its own.

  Gabe reached inside the nest.

  “Snake!” the head shrieked. “Snake!”

  Gabe wrapped one hand around the back of the head and the other thumb around Carver’s lip. He pulled the head free of the roots, turning it sharply, like plucking a pumpkin from a tough vine. Luminescent blood splashed back on him.

  “Snake!”

  A fragment of memory came back to him—­he saw himself in the roots of the tree, with the woman from his dreams standing before him. She reached inside the tangle of roots for him, and he heard ravens scream.

  He stepped backward, the head dangling in his hands. For a moment, he saw something gold and shiny in the fuzzy mess of his memory, but the image faded.

  Gabe reverently set the head down on the floor of the chamber.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to it.

  With a deep breath, he lifted his boot and stomped down as hard as he could.

  Petra was two hours late for work the next morning.

  She’d wanted to get to work at Yellowstone early. For the past ­couple of weeks, she’d been busily taking mineral samples from the emerging geothermal features in Pelican Valley, and she wanted to keep on schedule. Her position was a contract position, and she was conscious that she could be let go if she failed to perform to expectations. She had no boss on-­site, and her performance was measured strictly by her output. But there was no hope of getting a jump start on things today.

  She ground her teeth as she joined a long line of cars at the east gate. This time of year, in early fall, lines should have been dwindling from their summer traffic jams, at least half the levels of traffic from August. No such luck. She drained her coffee and groaned about the lack of a ladies’ room and the Bronco’s lack of air conditioning. Sig morosely hung his head out the Bronco’s window, glaring at the campers, pickup trucks, and shiny luxury vehicles. They were trapped in traffic behind a 1970s-­era van painted with wizards and dragons. “Steve’s Creature Van” was painted in airbrushed script on the back, above a rendering of what she supposed was the Loch Ness Monster, swimming through a green lake of slime with a naked damsel in its jaws.

  By the time she’d made it to the Tower Falls Ranger Station, the antifreeze was ticking away under the hood of the Bronco, and Sig had fallen asleep on the seat, belly-­up. The parking lot was full, and she had to make three circuits before giving up and parking on a wedge of grass under a tree. She had barely enough room to pop her door open against the tree, and plodded sullenly to the station. Sig followed, vigorously sniffing the vehicles in the parking lot as he went.

  Predictably, there was also a line to the ladies’ room. Petra sighed and fidgeted until finally ducking into the empty men’s room. Feeling rebellious,
she took extra time washing her hands and splashing water on her face when she was through. There had never been a ladies’ room on the oil rig in her previous job. Plumbing was plumbing.

  The door opened. She jumped to see Mike in the doorway, and splashed water on the front of her shirt.

  “Uh, hey. Line at the ladies’ was . . .” She hooked a thumb at the hallway.

  “There’s no talking in the men’s room,” Mike said, frowning sternly. “It’s a rule.”

  “Well, there aren’t supposed to be women in the men’s room, either.”

  He lifted his hand. “I should probably cite you. For something. But don’t sweat it. You got some folks waiting for you.”

  She blinked, reaching for the hand dryer. ­“People?” There was never anyone waiting for her. As a geologist, she worked alone, drilling out samples and clomping through weeds. “Did they find Cal?”

  “No word yet on Cal. My sources are being pretty quiet. And I don’t like that. Feels too much like secret squirrel business.” He frowned, eyes narrowing. “Take that for whatever it’s worth.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate it. I know that something bad’s happened to him. I just want to help, you know?”

  “Yeah. I know. Give it some time. I’ll keep shaking the tree and see if anything comes loose. And I’ll get my local network in gear looking for him. There’s an APB out for him, but there’s more that will be done for a missing kid if someone behind the blue line raises a big enough stink.”

  A boy of about nine walked into the men’s room. He looked at Mike, then Petra, then backpedaled to double-­check the sign on the door.

  “I’m, uh, gonna leave now.” Petra headed for the door.

  “Probably for the best.”

  Petra walked past the queue to the ladies’ room. She got a ­couple of glowering looks, but a few teenage girls broke free to go to the men’s room. She chortled to herself, hoping that Mike had picked a stall instead of a urinal.

  She made her way behind the information counter, to the offices in the back of the vintage log structure. It always smelled a bit like dust to her, but that was the nature of the beast. Sig had already beat her there, and was standing glumly beside the watercooler. She filled a cup for him and let him lap from it.

  “Ms. Dee?”

  She glanced up to see a man in khakis and a polo shirt staring down at her. He was thin and wiry, balding and tan.

  “Yes?” She straightened. Sig leaned around her knees to stare at him.

  “I’m Phil Gustavson, and this is Meg Howard.” He inclined his head to a brunette woman behind him. “We’re biologists with the National Park Ser­vice.”

  “Hi.” Petra wiped her hand on the side of her pants and offered it to shake. She glanced down at her coyote. “This is Sig.”

  The woman crouched down to look at Sig, offering her hand to sniff. Sig turned his head away, wary. “Nice coyote. Did you rescue him as a pup?”

  “Nah. He just turned up a ­couple of months ago and wouldn’t leave. Don’t worry. He’s had shots.”

  “Neat. I’ve never seen a tame adult that wasn’t reared by ­people.”

  “He’s a good boy.” She reached down, her fingers lingering in the soft, golden fur around his ears. “What brings you guys to Yellowstone?”

  Phil looked over his shoulder, toward the crowded lobby. “Can we talk in private?”

  “Sure.” Petra straightened and led them back to the tiny conference room she’d taken over. It was stacked high along the walls with file boxes, and her microscope and gear were spread over half the table. There was enough room remaining to open three folding chairs, and Petra settled in to listen. Sig slid under the table, and Meg closed the door.

  “We’re here for the same reason that those guys are here.” Phil gestured to the ­people outside.

  “What’s that?” She decided to be deliberately obtuse.

  “The snake.” Meg pulled a file folder out of her backpack, and slid it across the table toward Petra.

  “The snake from the news?” Petra lifted an eyebrow. They couldn’t be serious.

  “That snake.” Phil crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t look happy.

  Petra opened the file folder. It contained stills of the video she’d seen from the newscast, overdrawn with measurements and indicators of scale over color enhancements. “You think this is real?”

  “Depends on what you mean by ‘real,’ ” Meg said. She laced her long, callused fingers together. “I’m not buying that it’s a dragon or a naga or some other mythological critter. What was that other thing we saw on the Internet, Phil?”

  “Some guy thinks he can prove that it’s Quetzalcoatl.” Phil rolled his eyes.

  “Awesome. What do you think it is?”

  “Not sure. It doesn’t look like anything we’ve seen before.”

  Phil interrupted. “We thought it might be something as simple as a dumped anaconda, and worried about it becoming an invasive species, but . . .”

  “ . . . but then we did some measuring and looked more carefully. We’re more concerned that it could be something new. A new species, entirely.” Meg leaned forward, and excitement was palpable in her brown eyes.

  “Wow.” Petra leaned back in her chair. “But, um . . . did Mike tell you about the campers who were killed? And the ­people who wound up in the hospital?”

  “Yes. And that’s why we’re talking to you. We got your samples at the federal lab. They generated a lot of discussion.”

  “Oh?” Her eyebrow quirked up.

  “The stuff you sent in was all over the place. Some phospholipase enzymes, neurotoxins. Metalloproteases that cause hemorrhaging. Arsenic trioxide—­which is, weirdly enough, an impurity in gold ore. And a ton of acetic acid. Not normal.” Meg’s eyebrows had crawled nearly up into her hairline.

  “We’re working on a theory . . .” Phil steepled his fingers before him, and Petra had the impression of an academic in an office, surrounded with paper, who had just gotten the chance to play in the field for the first time in twenty years. “We’re thinking that there might be something about Yellowstone’s geology that caused a unique creature to evolve.”

  “That’s kind of, um, X-­Files.” If anyone mentioned aliens, Petra was ready to bolt.

  “You saw the scene of the incident with the campers. You know what’s normal for Yellowstone’s geological hazards, and what’s not. We want to look for the creature, and we want you to come with us to consult.”

  Petra blinked. “Let me get this straight . . . you want to me to help you guys chase a giant snake?”

  “Pretty much,” Meg admitted. “Yellowstone isn’t our bailiwick, and the park rangers have their hands full corralling the amateur monster hunters.”

  “But think of it,” Phil said. “Serpens Gustavson Howard Dee.”

  Petra made a face. She wasn’t much into chasing immortality with scientific names. But the idea . . . the idea of the unknown creature intrigued her. Irresistible curiosity tickled the back of her brain.

  “We’re mostly concerned with protecting the public.” Meg made an immediate ambition course correction. “We need to catch this thing before it hurts anyone else.”

  Petra looked down at Sig. He rested his head on her foot.

  “What do you think, Sig? Do you want to chase monsters?” Her stomach churned. She should be looking for Cal. But Mike was on the case. And Frankie said he was gone . . .

  Sig’s ear flipped over, and his gold eyes regarded her solemnly.

  She couldn’t forget the body of the little girl at the campsite, killed in her sleep. She blew out her breath. “So. When do we leave?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Bright and early.”

  After getting all the sign-­offs she needed to delay her other work, Petra wound her way out of the park to get a jump start on provis
ioning. She spent another two hours in traffic getting out to the main road, and she took the back roads to Temperance.

  The idea of following the snake made her, at turns, queasy and exhilarated. To see something like that in person would be nothing short of amazing. But she’d seen what the snake had done to the campers. Petra had always tried to follow the rules where wild animals were concerned—­she stayed the required twenty-­five feet away from bison and all the other critters in the park. She didn’t leave food in her truck to tempt bears, and she always took her trash with her. With the exception of Sig, she wasn’t interested in creating a situation in which personal space needed to be negotiated.

  “What do you pack to hunt a giant snake?” she wondered as she drifted through the aisles of Bear’s Gas ’n Go, Temperance’s gas station and deli. Sig had ditched her back at the deli counter, where Bear was feeding him slices of pepperoni in violation of every health code known to man.

  “I dunno,” Bear said. “But giant snakes are excellent for business.”

  “No kidding. How’d you get all this swag, this fast?”

  “One-­day shipping from the Internet. If you want it bad enough to pay for it, anything can be on your doorstep in a day.”

  Shelves had been cleared in many places, sold out of toilet paper and potato chips. One of the reels of lottery tickets was even gone. Bear had jumped on the snake bandwagon with both feet—­he had a display of primary-­color plush snakes parked in the window, plastic writhing pythons perched on an end cap, and snake-­shaped pens in a mug at the checkout. Couldn’t blame the man for trying to make a buck off the gullible.

  “I suggest staying the hell away from it. If it really exists,” he amended, scratching his salt and pepper beard.

  “I kinda signed on for an expedition.” Thinking of the dead campers, she was beginning to feel twinges of regret.

  Bear chortled. “Well, your odds are probably better than those of the rest of the monster hunters. For one, you’re sober.”

  “Yeah.” She wasn’t going to mention the Venificus Locus. “I was wondering if . . . you might be able to watch Sig for me while I’m gone? No worries if you can’t . . .” She could always drop him off at Maria’s, but she knew that Sig adored Bear’s cooking.