Halfway Hunted - Halfway Witchy

by Terry Maggert

  I had a job to do, even if it scared me to within an inch of my life.

  I could not cross Wulfric’s land without his being aware of my presence. How he would react was, in a word, unknown. He was less than human, and more than a rabid dog. He was hurting, and alone, and slaved to a bloodlust that was chipping away at the man I loved with every passing heartbeat.

  Gus wriggled upward in a half crawl to put one massive paw on my cheek. When I opened my eyes, he was regarding me with the patient bronze gaze of a feline who knew his place in the world. The rusty bumble of his most satisfied purr acted like a lullaby, slowing my heart and letting me begin to take those deep, cathartic breaths that tell your mind the body is going to sleep whether you want to or not.

  The dreams began almost immediately, just as I knew they would. I saw the mountains at a distance, then a frenzied rush as my dream self was whisked overland to the edge of Wulfric’s territory. It was the creek, hemmed by the lock and frozen to a bluish light in the winter dusk. I felt like it was—the future? It was, I decided. I was seeing some kind of possibility, but for what purpose, I couldn’t guess. Exit stepped into my vision, sporting a beard. He smiled, gesturing grandly that I should precede him on the path. His lips moved, and I leaned into my dream, straining to hear what he was trying to tell me. My nails began to cut semi-circles in the skin of my palms. His words were so close, but weak and at the periphery of my senses.

  Stop straining, Carlie. I reached through the dream to admonish this future self, who pulled at the bridle with an obvious lack of discipline. Let it come to you. Looking at Exit’s mouth, I watched carefully, forcing the sense of panic to subside. I mastered my presence and listened.

  Exit cocked his head at me and dropped his arm, which had been held at a gallant angle as he bid me to cross the frozen water. His eyes darted past me, and I knew that the danger was behind us. Whatever it was—no, whoever it was, they were to the east. They were—not here yet?

  Exit nodded, meaning that at least on this plane of thought, we were connected. That was good. There was no need for words. No fury at the inability to hear. Just our thoughts, flared into stark fear by the arrival of someone who had—

  And then it clicked. It was a person—no, people, I thought, and Exit nodded yet again, his smile growing with encouragement as I took the reins of my power and shaped it into information. Truth. Knowledge of the past and the future.

  It is a hunter, I mused. Exit paled, then nodded once, crisply. The hunter harmed you, but it was not he who controls the magic. There is another. There are two. Again, the nod, but this time Exit’s face bloomed with rage. Memory was returning to this aspect of the man who had given a century to the cold earth.

  He pointed into the mists of my dream, and they parted obediently under the force of his anger. Between two walled columns of nondescript gray sat the crumbling remains of a chapel, covered in moss and detritus from the trees crowding its low stone walls. A forgotten place, and it was nearby. I could feel it. Exit’s finger trembled as he pointed directly at the worn front doors, pulled tightly against the elements.

  Something was inside.

  We go to the church, I thought, and Exit’s face broke into a smile that was both harsh and hungry. Yes, he nodded.

  I let myself slip beneath the next level of sleep, Gus’ purr fading from my awareness. To the old church, then, but not before I slept.

  My last thought before the quiet was another prayer, but it was not only for me. It was for whatever waited in that holy place. If it was Wulfric, I would give my own heart before sending him from this earth, but if it was something else?

  I would give no safe haven. Exit would see justice, and he would see it soon.

  Chapter Twelve: Hitch in My Giddyup

  It was a beautiful morning, cold but clear, and blooming with the colors of an early pink rose in the east. Exit tromped dutifully alongside me as we walked back from the diner after our fill of waffles and coffee. He was suitably impressed with the quality of both, which was good. His interrogation of me was bad.

  “Just to clarify, we went to breakfast to give your grandmother time to prepare for a journey in her truck, correct?” He was asking in a maddeningly polite tone.

  “Yes.” I ground out the word, concentrating on the weary squeak of my boots on the crispy snow. It had been near zero for several days, and the ground was rock hard and covered with that rare brittle layer brought on by the true heart of winter.

  “And despite being an adult, you can’t operate her truck because you’ll crush it? Is this a function of your magic? I thought your Gran was a witch of considerable power? Does that mean that you must gain skill before you can control your, ahh, spells, so that you don’t destroy vehicles like some maelstrom?”

  Exit’s running questions finally broke my concentration. I stopped dead in my tracks, turned to him, and noticed that his quizzical grin faded when he saw my face. Good. I was cold, and losing my waffle buzz by standing outside getting ready to explain one of my ongoing problems yet again.

  “My magic doesn’t smash cars. My luck does.” I exhaled a huge plume of breath that was a physical manifestation of my irritation. When he wisely stayed silent, I mellowed a bit and offered some detail. “Look, I don’t know what it is. I’ve had to pay the neighbor kids to take me places for the past three years if Gran’s busy. I’m not a bad driver. But the planet conspires to destroy anything I drive. I’ve hit a moose. I’ve been hit by a breakaway hot dog cart. I once had a garbage truck push me into the curb and pop both tires. So, after it became obvious that I—”

  “Am cursed?” he asked, helpfully.

  “—had an issue with cars. I stopped driving them for the good of humanity. And moosekind, if that’s what they’re called in a group. I don’t know, I’ve never seen more than one at a time, but—regardless, I don’t drive. So that’s why I came to get you at Gran’s, and that’s why she told me to take you to breakfast while she gets ready. She probably thinks my presence will curse the truck before we go.” I frowned, turned on my heel, and began clomping toward Gran’s once more, hoping that Exit was satisfied with my explanation.

  “I understand. We had an engineer like that. His name was Burton. Nice fellow, quite good as an engineer, but utterly terrible at cooking. He could simply look in the general direction of the chow line and the dinner would run screaming in the other direction,” Exit said with a smile in his voice.

  I laughed, and then laughed again because Exit sounded less lost and more grounded. He was warming to the idea of our quest, despite the temperature outside. “What was the worst meal he ever made?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. The one that killed him,” Exit said without ceasing our walk. We were near Gran’s, but he didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by the distant loss of Burton.

  “Umm. Okay?” My voice was small, unsure what to think of the glib recitation about burton’s death.

  Exit looked at me sharply. “Oh, my apology. I should explain, his last meal was—well, I’m sure it wasn’t any worse than any of the other things he’d cooked while in the field, but his final attempt at cooking drew the attentions of a rather aggressive bear.”

  “Stars and sky.” I gulped. “He was eaten?” This story just kept getting better.

  “Oh, not at all,” he said with a great deal of cheer. He really was quite a poster child for having a stiff upper lip and all that. “He ran from the beast and climbed a massive pine that overlooked the ravine where they were taking samples. I’ve seen the place, quite breathtaking.”

  I didn’t even know if I should ask, but I did. “He, ahh. He fell out of the tree?”

  “Hah! Not Burton. No, a skilled woodsman he was, in addition to being a fine engineer and miner in general. No, the tree he climbed was hit by lightning, killing him, the bear, and a family of hawks instantaneously. It was quite a sight. I’d never seen a bear look both surprised and crispy at the same time.”

  We stepped onto Gran’s porch, then k
nocked snow of our boots before stepping inside. I took Exit’s arm. “Do me a favor. Don’t ever tell me stories about the olden days, okay?”

  “I’ll do my best.” He nodded sagely and bowed toward the door, ever the gentleman.

  We drove for less than five minutes before Exit could stop marveling at the interior of Gran’s truck. To be fair, it was an absolutely flawless pickup, and you could eat off of the seats, but when he began to fiddle with the radio, she adopted her Teaching Voice and told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to touch anything else.

  “Yes ma’am.” Slightly abashed, he pointed to the needle, which still floated above his left palm. The point wobbled slightly, then began a slow turn. “I think we need to look for another road, perhaps?”

  Gran frowned thoughtfully at my indicator, then nodded. “Agreed. Carlie cast a strong spell, there.” Her voice took on the distant notes of someone sifting their memory for a side road. Gran knew every road in the park, and some that hadn’t been used in decades. She was, in every sense of the word, a local.

  I’d explained my dream to both Gran and Exit in as great a detail as I could muster. We searched online, but found only one mention of an abandoned church or chapel within the park proper; there were precious few mentions of it, and only a single image from a travel blog that hadn’t been updated in over ten years. I had a strong suspicion that the church was on another property, which opened us to the possibility of being forced to explain our purpose for visiting. But, like any harebrained scheme of my making, we would figure that part out on arrival. If necessary, Gran wasn’t above casting a helpful spell or three, and I had my charm bracelet fully charged and ready for whatever might happen. Exit, to his eternal credit, offered to box the ears of anyone that might get in our way. I knew that nothing short of the Grand Canyon would stop him from finding Reina, and even then, he’d find a way across the gulf. His gallantry knew no limits in when it came to the search for his wife.

  “Right, Gran?” I asked, as she slowed the truck to a crawl. We’d driven far enough west that I didn’t recognize anything, but her confidence was unshaken. The needle still bobbed brightly in Exit’s hand, only deviating on three occasions. Now, though, it veered sharply north, and there was nothing to be seen except the spires of a dense winter forest.

  “I . . . think—ahh yes, there it is.” Gran cut the wheel sharply and drove forward into a gap between a stand of sugar maples. Wherever we headed, it wasn’t an official road. In fact, there were snowmobile tracks, but nothing else. We were definitely off the map.

  Gran kept the truck at a crawl until we began to emerge from the maples into an alley of raggedy saplings. I saw a column of smoke and pointed; there was someone home, whatever that might mean. The building that awaited wasn’t an abandoned chapel. In fact, it wasn’t even a building, really, but a dilapidated single wide mobile home that had been built onto with childlike enthusiasm. No less than three strange wooden turrets poked up from the flat roof, each of them topped with a weathervane of wild design. There was a flying pig, a butterfly with the head of a dog, or a wolf—I couldn’t be sure, but the last one was the showstopper. On the tallest and most rickety looking turret, a weathervane shaped like a coiled snake turned lazily in the shelter of the saplings. The creature’s mouth was open to strike, and the tongue acted at the directional. A flat, broad rattle on the tail was less decoration and more functional, but the entire piece was covered in that sickly green patina that copper yields to under the press of time. All three weathervanes squeaked in unison; the chorus set my teeth on edge and made me load a spell to my tongue without thinking.

  “Huh.” Exit’s remark was casual, but he never took his eyes from the trailer. It was hemmed with trash, and a dull orange light shone from the narrow windows. “I daresay that doesn’t look too inviting, now.”

  “Not in the least.” Gran killed the engine and we all sat, listening to the engine tick as the weathervanes continued their squeaking dance overhead. “The needle hasn’t changed its direction?” Her question was hopeful resignation. I could relate. There was nothing about this place that made me want to go inside, or even knock on the door. But needs must, so I nudged Exit’s hip and we all got out of the warm interior, instantly regretting it and wondering just what exactly we’d gotten ourselves into.

  “You can put the needle away, I think.” Exit looked relieved to slip the device into his pocket, then he flexed his hand experimentally to get the measure of his motion. He’d essentially been a compass for two hours, so I waited next to Gran while he rubbed his big hands together.

  Gran took the lead, stepping delicately over an array of cans and bottles that had to go back forty years. It wasn’t a trash heap; it was an archaeological dig waiting to happen. She pressed her lips together, then looked at us and whistled sharply in the general direction of the trailer.

  There was no response, save the wind and those irritating squeaks from overhead. Somewhere, a partridge beat its wings together in a thrumming retreat, then the woods too were quiet. My witchmark was afire, so I let a spell rest just behind my teeth, my arm cocked to hurl something bright and nasty from my charms. I could tell that Gran was ready as well. Exit merely stood there looking tough and capable. It was a good look for him; the suspenders helped.

  “When in doubt, knock,” Gran said with a shrug. She stepped onto the wooden steps, which bowed under their own weight.

  “Be careful,” I hissed. When she shot me a look, I said, “Sorry. I feel like we should be whispering.”

  “I agree.” Exit’s whisper was comical. He was more suited to booming commands in a mine, I thought.

  Gran knocked quickly but firmly and, to our surprise, the cheap door swung inward without a sound. She stepped back out of sheer instinct, but rebuffed her nerves and grabbed the frame to peer inside. After a good long look, she turned and waved us forward.

  “Nobody home, or at least not in the living room-kitchen-foldout-couch area,” she reported with a grin.

  “Sounds charming. I can’t wait to see the duvet covers.” I motioned that Exit should precede me, which he did with a look of open curiosity. I surmised that mobile homes must have been a recent technical development, and not one that he’d have seen. I reminded myself to ask him what he thought of our advances in housing once we took the grand tour.

  Inside, I stopped short, because of all the things I had expected, clean and well-lit were not among them. “This is . . . ” I fumbled for a description, then sputtered, “Kind of cozy?” The smell of home cooking was present, adding even more cheer to the odd little setting.

  “Yes, it is,” Gran drawled.

  Exit spun in place, his head mere inches from the ceiling. Naturally, I didn’t have that problem, meaning that, for all their faults, the mobile home company took the needs of the vertically challenged into account when designing their more popular and affordable models.

  There were three lamps, one overhead light in the kitchenette, and everything was in a cheerful, warm bath of light. The interior was immaculate. I started to feel some guilt about the condition of my own kitchen when I saw the gleaming sink, orderly counter top, and overall impression of care. Adding insult to injury, a hot meatball sub sat uneaten and inviting on the countertop. I couldn't make spaghetti sauce without my kitchen looking like a crime scene, and I’m a professional. A glass of whiskey sat next to the sandwich, cubes melting into pale amber oblivion, and not so much as a speck out of place. Someone lived here, and they took great pride in the cleanliness, not to mention their collection of natural art. The walls were covered with black and white pictures of scenes taken in and around the park. I recognized many, but a few were new to me. Gran was leaning in to look at a photo taken near the old train trestle that spanned a gorge just north of Halfway. Even to my amateur eye, the pictures looked professional. There was a keen sense of composition and motion in them.

  Exit pointed to a lake scene. “That’s the mill pond at Tahawus; or at least it was.�
��

  “Past tense?” Gran asked. “It’s abandoned now. How would you know if the pond had changed? Or did it change in your lifetime?”

  He was nodding in agreement, but never took his eyes from the image. “See this berm? Collapsed in a minor earthquake some years before I came here. I saw the aftermath, but trees were already reclaiming the little slope where the spill went down.”

  I’ve been told that the scariest noise in the world is a dragon clearing its throat. With apologies to dragons everywhere, I disagree. The sound of someone working the action on a shotgun is much scarier, especially when you’re in that someone’s trailer in the middle of the forest. And they’re standing behind you. And you sort of freeze and wonder if you’re going to pee your pants. You know, that kind of noise.

  “Why are you in my house without an appointment?” The man’s voice was a bit more mannerly than I expected, but we all remained completely still. It wouldn’t do to have an accident based on nerves, and, technically, we were trespassing.

  “The door was open. I apologize for the intrusion,” Gran said in a tone that implied we’d just dropped by to leave cookies after church. I wanted to sound that calm, but was still seriously considering the benefits of blasting a hole in the floor with a spell and then digging my way to safety.

  “Is that so?” he said, then I heard the gun being placed on the countertop behind us. “Well, turn around then, or this will be an exceedingly awkward conversation.”

  We turned as one, but slowly.

  He was about fifty or so, with a salt-and-pepper beard, close cropped silver hair, and a pleasant, broad face. His clothes were tidy, just like the interior of the trailer. A blue and gray flannel shirt that looked ironed was tucked into similarly crisp looking tan work pants; the kind people wore when they would be doing something that required lots of pockets and loops. His boots were meant for hiking, and there was a ring of moisture around their leather uppers that told me he’d recently been outside in the snow. He was a big guy, who looked like he knew his way around a bar fight.