by Laura Bickle
“At sunset.”
He reached for her and kissed her soundly. Petra smiled against his lips, feeling the buzz of that dark sunshine against them.
“Up you go,” Gabe said, gathering Rust’s reins.
Petra stepped into the stirrup and swung her leg over. She called for Sig, and Rust began to walk north, toward Sal’s house. She noticed that a raven followed them, circling in broad arcs above.
Sal’s sprawling house was at the edge of the property closest to the main road. The Rutherfords had been here since Gabe’s time, and the house looked as if it had been the crown of a rustic empire since then. It was a timber lodge, the roof oxidized green from the rain. In its scale and rustic style, it was a house that was meant to be seen.
A green Forestry Service Jeep and a county sheriff’s car sat in the driveway. Petra wondered if the deputy had come with Mike, or if Sal had called them. Sal was related to the county sheriff, and the sheriff’s deputies were as useless as possible when it came to enforcing laws against Sal. She couldn’t imagine Sal taking too kindly to Mike showing up on his doorstep, with or without a warrant.
“Well. Speak of the devil, and she shall appear.”
Sal sat on his porch, which had been outfitted with a ramp. He was perched, pale and pasty, in a motorized wheelchair, with one hand on the controls and the other around a mug of coffee. A pair of deputies in uniform sat on Adirondack chairs beside him.
The raven perched on Sal’s copper gutter, watching closely.
“Petra!” Mike Hollander fairly sprinted down the ramp to greet her. “We’ve been looking for you. Your tracker signal stopped somewhere in Sal’s back forty.” He glanced back and gave Sal a dirty look.
“I told you I had nothing to do with that girl.” Sal glowered. He finished his coffee, shook the empty mug, and one of the deputies got up to take it back into the house. He returned in moments with a full cup. Clearly, the deputies were used to hanging about in Sal’s kitchen.
Petra clumsily climbed off the horse, not exactly sure which leg came over which side first. Rust huffed and trotted away, not seeming to want to have anything to do with Sal.
“I don’t remember much of what happened.” That was true, and it was the jumping-off point of the misdirection. “The snake attacked, and Phil and Meg were down. I got hit with some of the vapor . . . I got as far away as I could.”
Mike stared at her face as she spoke. She expected that he saw some of the fine lines of the venom still beneath her skin, since dark shadows still crossed the backs of her hands and her arms.
“There was a horse . . . I climbed up on him and passed out. I woke up in Sal’s field.”
Mike was scrutinizing her, and she could see him itching to ask about the shirt she wore, which was obviously too big for her.
“I guess the horse belonged to one of Sal’s employees. And Sal’s men were kind enough to offer me some clothes and a place to wash up.”
It was true. All of it. But there were enough omissions to satisfy the local police and give Sal cover. Which, by extension, was good for the Hanged Men. But it sure wasn’t going to be good enough for Mike.
“See. It’s a simple misunderstanding,” Sal drawled, as a deputy handed him a fresh cup of coffee.
Mike nodded. “Thanks so much for your time, Mr. Rutherford. We always appreciate it.”
“Anytime, young man.”
Mike grasped Petra’s elbow and headed for the Jeep. Sig was already enthusiastically pissing on Mike’s tire, as if he’d been holding it in all night.
“You know, you could have called,” Mike said.
“I lost my cell.” She gestured at the house. “I was heading back here to see if Sal would let me use his landline.” The raven on the gutter cocked his head and watched her as they piled in the Jeep. Sig bounded into the backseat and began to root around in Mike’s gear.
Mike started the Jeep and put it in reverse. He backed out of the driveway and had made it out to the main road before he spoke again.
“I am pissed at you. But also happy to see you.”
At least he was in touch with his feelings. “Mike, I’m sorry. I . . . did you find Phil and Meg?”
“When you missed your call-in, I hit the GPS trackers. We found Meg at the edge of the pine forest. She was in the same shape as the campers at the campsite—decomposing, but torn all to hell like a dog’s chew toy. We haven’t found Phil yet.”
“Phil’s dead,” Petra said, pressing her fingers to her upper lip. “He . . . the snake dragged him up a tree. There wasn’t a whole lot of him left.”
“We saw a good deal of blood,” he said quietly. “I tried to ping his tracker. I got a few blips, but it died for good about a hundred yards from the site. I’m guessing that it got eaten? Or maybe crushed beyond repair.”
Petra stared down at her hands, still mottled from the venom. “Look, Mike. I didn’t intend for this to go all wrong.”
He blew out his breath in frustration. “I’m not mad at you. I just . . . I know I should have been there. And I let all you guys down. It was a shitty idea, and I should have put a stop to it.”
“You couldn’t have prevented it,” Petra said. “And you could have gotten killed.”
“Well, I’m sure as hell gonna prevent any more fatalities. The park is closed. The official reason we’re putting out is unusual seismic activity. When I called up Meg and Phil’s chain of command, it sounded like they’re gonna send out the rest of the ghost squad.”
“More biologists?”
“Yes and no. Turns out, Phil and Meg were active duty Army. Toxicologists.”
“You were right. And that stun gun they had didn’t look standard issue.”
“Yeah. So you can well imagine that the Feds are mighty pissed. There will be boots on the ground soon, and they’ll hunt that snake down.” Mike squinted into the sunshine. “They’ll want to talk to you, about what you saw.”
“Of course.”
“And you might want to work on your story. They might not buy the idea of a unicorn coming out to save you.”
She grimaced and turned away. It had sounded like an excellent idea at the time, but was sounding lamer and lamer, the more Mike gave her the business about it.
She asked to go home, but he drove her to the hospital. After a thorough argument, she consented to an exam, with the condition that she would call for a ride home when she was through. She argued that there was no point in him waiting in the ER when he’d been up all night with no sleep, and he grudgingly agreed that he had work back at the station. It wasn’t like she had wheels or a horse to wander away with. He did, however, distrust her enough to hover over her until she’d been officially admitted with a hospital bracelet. She made him promise to drop Sig off at Maria’s house while she was tied up. He agreed, and left her in an exam room, satisfied that she seemed confined in someplace abominably uncomfortable.
“Oh. You again.” Dr. Burnard pulled aside the hospital exam curtain to greet Petra.
“Hi.” Petra swung her legs on the edge of the bed. “Do you live here?”
“More or less.” Dr. Burnard flipped over the notes on her clipboard. “So . . . you managed to get involved with every weird case on my record.”
“It’s a gift.”
Petra gave her an abbreviated and well-edited version of coming into contact with caustic vapors in the course of her duties that might or might not have involved a giant snake. Dr. Burnard examined her skin and eyes, listened to her lungs and heart, and ordered blood drawn.
“Is there any news of Cal?” Petra asked quietly.
Dr. Burnard shook her head. “No. Not a thing. Though there have been a lot of folks who have asked, including Cal’s Army recruiter.”
“What?”
“Cal’s Army recruiter came by to check on him. I told him that Cal would n
ot pass anybody’s physical, on any day of the week.”
“Cal isn’t an Army type of guy.”
“Well, he might want to be clearer on that if he ever turns up outside of a body bag. Those guys are persistent.”
Petra sat back and mulled that while her blood was being drawn. Did Phil and Meg hear about Cal’s case while they were here? Or had the military run across this through the course of their preliminary investigation of the scientists’ deaths? It was as she’d suspected: bad news for Cal, and it was bad news for anything supernatural lurking in the shadows of Temperance—including Gabe and the rest of the Hanged Men.
They had to get the basilisk and put it to bed before anyone else got it. Of that much, she was certain.
Petra spent the late morning watching shows on home remodeling on the television in the waiting area. Apparently, no one on cable television ever checked for load-bearing beams, duct work, or electrical wiring before knocking walls down, willy-nilly. She’d been ravenous, and she’d devoured two bowls of cereal, an apple, two cups of coffee, and three cups of Jell-O before Dr. Burnard came back.
“Let’s discuss your results.” The doctor led her to a private exam room and closed the door.
“Okay.” Petra was feeling better; the marks on her skin were fading, the Locus had verified that there was no alchemical funk remaining in her blood, and she was ready to get on with things. She sure as hell didn’t want to discuss magic and the blood, breath, or venom of the basilisk.
“You appear to be in a mildly hypercoagulable state. Which is not unexpected—when cobra venom comes into contact with blood, it clots and causes blood to turn into some pretty gelatinous goo.”
“That’s a scientific term?”
“For our purposes, yeah. So I’d say that you got exposed to something extremely unusual, but you’re processing it out well.”
“Awesome. Can I go home?”
“Not yet. We have to talk some more about your blood.” Dr. Burnard pulled up a chair and sat opposite where Petra perched on the bed. Warning bells went off in Petra’s head. That was the kind of thing physicians did when they donned their bedside manner hats, and she didn’t like it.
“In your last blood test, I commented on an elevated white cell count.”
“Yes, and you told me to follow up with my regular physician.”
“I’d like to do a couple more tests now. I’d like to check your lymph nodes.”
“Um. Okay.”
The doctor checked the lymph nodes in Petra’s neck, under her arms, and groin.
“So. What’s up?” Petra perched on the edge of the table while the doctor stripped off her gloves.
“I think you came out of the poison thing pretty well. You’re breathing nicely, not having any respiratory distress or undue pain. The rest of your numbers are similar to what I saw when you were last here. Your white cell count is a little higher, though.”
“You mentioned that it could be an infection or a cold or something.”
“Yeah. Your lymph nodes are swollen. You need to make an appointment to get that checked out. I’ll write you a referral.”
“Thanks.” Petra took the sheaf of paper she was given, and called Maria’s house from the nurse’s desk. She’d have to figure out how to get a new cell phone. Maybe she could pick up a throwaway phone up at Bear’s store.
“Hello?” It was Frankie, voice slurred by sleep or drink; she wasn’t sure which.
“Frankie, it’s Petra.”
“Hey, congrats.”
“Huh?”
“You made your way into the spirit world. Nice work. And it seems you got back all right.”
“Mostly. I . . . I was wondering if maybe Maria might be around to pick me up? I’m at the hospital.” She felt vulnerable now, without Sig and her truck and even her own clothes. The only clothes she had were Gabe’s soft but ill-fitting jeans and flannel, unless she felt like parading around in a drafty hospital gown.
“Maria’s at work, but I’d be happy to come get you.”
“Frankie, no.” He was likely drunk. “I’ll just call Mike . . .”
“No worries. I’ll be there in a jerk.”
And he hung up.
Fuck. She was contributing to Frankie’s rap sheet.
She waited on a bench outside the hospital, watching people go in and out. Many seemed in much worse shape than she felt, and she tried to cheer herself on: Gonna get ready to battle the basilisk. The Lunaria will be safe, and the Hanged Men will be recharged for another hundred and fifty years. Yeah. Everything’s gonna be just fiiiiiine.
Frankie drove up to the patient pick up area in Maria’s Explorer. Sig sat in the passenger’s seat, seemingly taking his job as navigator very seriously. Frankie popped open the passenger’s door.
“Climb on in. Sig and I were discussing the merits of potato soup for lunch. Do you like potato soup?”
Petra climbed in. “You know, I would love some potato soup.”
“Excellent. We can discuss the mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”
Frankie seemed sober, actually. He didn’t drive through any stop signs, go over the speed bumps too fast, or ignore the lights. He stayed in his lane the whole trip back, didn’t go over the speed limit, and didn’t leave his turn signal on. Petra began to relax. Sig crawled on her lap, and she stroked the coyote’s ears as she stared out the window.
“You saw your dad.”
“I did.”
“And you clearly made a good choice, one that got you back to this place.”
“How is it that my father is stuck there, but you can pass back and forth at will?”
Frankie tapped his head. “Years and years of accumulated crazy will do that. And some tequila worms. It’s a talent.”
“There’s got to be a way to get him back.”
“You’ve taken the first step. You’ve found him. With a proper soul retrieval, he might be able to come back.”
“I hope so.” She leaned on the window, her gaze miles away.
“You’re going to hunt that snake, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“With Sal’s vultures.”
“With his ravens, yes.” Frankie hated the Hanged Men. If he knew how closely she’d been involved with them, he’d take a swing at her.
“Stay away from them. Those boys are inhuman.” He chewed his bottom lip, and his chin jutted out. Petra knew they had done terrible things to him, on Sal’s orders. There was no making peace between them. “Not that you’ll take that advice anytime soon.”
Petra said nothing. She could lie to Mike, but there was no use lying to Frankie.
They arrived at Maria’s house. Petra had never been so relieved to be there. Frankie invited them in and began to poke at the soup in the Crock-Pot. Sig flopped down in the middle of the colorful carpets of the living room floor, to the chagrin of Pearl, Maria’s cat. Pearl climbed up on the top of the couch and stared daggers at him, which he ignored.
The screen door banged open, the bells tied to it jingling. “Hi, there!” Maria’s face broke into a grin at seeing Petra. “I had a feeling to come home for lunch. How are you?”
She dropped her briefcase and extended a hug for Petra. Petra took the hug and held on tightly.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Maria sat her down at the kitchen table, rubbing Petra’s flannel sleeve. “You look like you went three rounds with Mike Tyson.”
“Yeah, that’s not . . . I mean . . . There’s a lot of stuff going on.” Petra took a deep breath and filled Maria in about her search for the giant snake that left bodies in its wake. The words came out in a tumble, and she was certain that she made less sense than Frankie on a bender.
“Okay. Giant snake. You went looking for it. Of course.” Maria remained still, blinking, seeming to absorb what Petra had sai
d. She wasn’t shrinking back in disbelief, just seemed to be processing the knowledge that a giant magical creature was wreaking havoc in the backcountry. Since Maria hadn’t suggested a voluntary psych hold, Petra was assuming that she believed her.
“The snake killed two people in our scientific expedition, but didn’t kill me, thanks to some woo-woo that I still don’t get. Gabe and I are going after the snake tonight,” Petra blurted. “We have to find it before the military guys do . . . the snake’s blood is key to the Hanged Men’s survival. It’s just a fucking mess.”
Maria took Petra in her arms. “Oh, honey.”
Petra couldn’t help it. Confronted with so much sympathy and acceptance, she broke into tears. The one thing she couldn’t stand was people being nice to her. Maria held her while Frankie rubbed circles on her back, until she’d cried herself down to dry hiccups.
“Here.” Frankie slid a coffee cup with three fingers of whiskey in it across the table. “You need this more than I do.”
She downed the whiskey and the potato soup. Maria called off work for the afternoon, over Petra’s objections, saying: “We need to take care of you. We need to prepare you for tonight. I’m going to draw a hot bath for you, stuffed full of herbs and potions to get your circulation going. Then, you’re going to take a nap. I will find some women’s clothes for you. And, finally, we’ll figure out what provisions you’re gonna need to fight the snake.”
Petra nodded. She was unused to having anyone take care of her, but after last night, she realized that some part of her craved the simple kindnesses that humans gave each other freely, without expectation of return.
In the sun-drenched cottage, Maria and Frankie spoke about her in low, unintelligible tones as Petra soaked in a hot bath stained the color of tea with fistfuls of herbs tied up in cheesecloth. The herbs and the oils soaked the pain from her muscles, and she felt softer, more alive. Maria provided her with a pair of jeans, a clean T-shirt, and socks and underwear. Grateful, Petra dressed and fell asleep in Maria’s bedroom, which was decorated with beautiful wallpaper of birds and a mountain of crocheted blankets and hand-pieced quilts. Maria’s bed smelled like lavender, and she fell asleep within one or two breaths.
