“Glass Demon. There’s a warlock nearby, and he has portals with him disguised as mirrors, but we were able to dispatch the first one through the opening. Exit’s pretty good with that hammer, and the mirror is gone, too, but I’m almost certain there are others.” I finished with a hapless look into the whorls of snow. Even using witchcraft, my vision wasn’t perfect in conditions like this, and I was getting cold. It was no night to be outdoors without good reason.
Rene blinked, comically. When his glowing eyes turned to me, he said, “You’re correct. There are several more portals, but they aren’t active.”
Just then, I heard the muffled thump of a car door, and lights cut into the snow across the lake. The vehicle moved off onto the main road at a glacial pace. “That would be Plimsoll, the warlock, heading back into town.” I pulled a hand free from my glove, got out my phone, and texted Gran. “Our ride will be here in fifteen minutes. In the meantime, Rene, why don’t you tell me a little more about how a hunter might stalk a shapeshifter.”
His eyes went round at my request. “A warlock could no more hunt a shapeshifter than I could break one of those trees into kindling. He is a magician, not a stalker.”
“Would he have a gun?” Exit asked no one in particular.
“No, of course not. A hunter would, because that is his tool; it is the most important thing within his chosen craft,” Rene replied, a touch disdainfully; although to be fair, he was French. Everything he said sounded a bit snooty.
“Good to know. Exit, we’d better head to the road. I’m cold, and Gran will be here soon. Rene, thanks for the help. We’ll let you know if anything else is going to happen in your little corner of the lake.” I smiled to take the sting out of that possibility.
“You mean like him?” The ghost pointed discreetly to the tree line, and there, hovering in the night, were the eyes of Wulfric, two dull gems of red in a tall shadow.
I shivered, and it wasn’t the snow. Then his eyes faded away, and I wondered if I could survive his rescue attempt, or if I would die trying. The cold seeped into my skin, and for the first time since I began crafting the spell to save him, I realized that there was one thing worse than being dead.
I could be undead.
Chapter Twenty-One: Charmed, I’m Sure
The interior of Gran’s truck felt like a trip to the beach, even after tromping through the snow in the best gear we could buy. Adirondack winters aren’t for the faint of heart, and it was a long moment before I said anything at all. I rode in the middle, while Exit looked out the window at the snow hurrying through the high beams.
“Killed a Glass Demon. He came crawling out of an ancient mirror that the warlock uses as a portal, but Exit took care of that,” I remarked offhandedly.
Gran raised a brow but didn’t move her eyes from the road. “Do tell, Exit. Are you naturally skilled at defeating the beasts of hell?”
He snorted, then rubbed his face with one hand to warm up. “I remembered your description of Carlie’s, ahh, mark. I took the liberty of selecting a hair—”
“He snatched a hank of hair and almost pulled me over,” I corrected. “Do go on.”
“You’re embellishing. It was, at most, three hairs. Although I must admit, they were rooted quite nicely.”
I was smushed in the middle, and thus could not kick him like I wanted, so I settled for a stinkeye delivered at point blank range. Apparently, like animals who had never been hunted before, he didn’t understand the intent. He grinned, and then casually smoothed his mustache to indicate I could resume my complaint. It was a nice trick. In the horrifying event I grew a mustache later in life and a blowtorch could not remove it, I might embrace the face fuzz and adopt power gestures like that. It was something to look forward to.
“Regardless of what savagery was visited upon me by this brute, I used a hair or six to charm his rock pick, which he then threw into the mirror. That was enough to send the portal into collapse. There was another demon on the way through, but it was sent back before it could get a toehold here. It was a good throw. He’s pretty handy with that pick,” I explained.
Exit smiled in thanks, but Gran just made a thoughtful noise. I could tell she had some concerns, which meant that I should be concerned.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, watching her closely as she steered us through yet another curve. There are no straight roads in the Adirondacks; it’s as if every one of them was designed by tying a bag of flour to a crazed dog and paving the trail they left behind.
“You did very well, but we’ve only addressed the symptom. The disease remains in the fullness of its malevolence, and that is what must be done next. I won’t tolerate a warlock on our lands, and it is simply out of the question to allow demon summoning. That alone is grounds for . . .” Gran hesitated, frowning.
“Termination with extreme prejudice?” I offered helpfully.
Her frown deepened. “You’ve been reading too many of those spy novels, but yes. I’m afraid I—we—cannot allow Plimsoll to be here any longer. Nor will I shove him out the door like some wayward vermin; his potential for harming others is simply too great.”
“Extreme prejudice?” Exit’s question was hesitant. He was clearly unfamiliar with the modern euphemism for killing somebody good and dead.
“Dead. As a doornail. We can’t have him opening a portal to the Everafter,” I explained.
“Is that where faeries are from? Like the children’s stories?” he asked. He was cautiously curious, and possessed of an innate respect for the things that seemed too wild to be real. That was good, as it might serve well at some point in the future.
“Well, sort of. I mean, there are Fae who live here, but the Everafter is both a place and a thing. It’s complicated.” The truck rumbled along as silence descended.
Exit cleared his throat. “I am an engineer.”
Oops. “Right. Sorry.” I felt myself blush as I apologized. Gran may have snickered, but I was too busy formulating an explanation to award her with a stinkeye. I was busy. “Everafter is a place that is not entirely here, but it’s not inaccessible. There’s a veil between here and there, and certain beings can cross it, even easily. For some creatures, their nature means that wherever they are, they’re stuck. Unless some doofus warlock decides to invite them to our world for a picnic. It happens too often for my taste, but the event is so loud, in magical terms, that a witch is almost always around to stop it.”
“Has a witch ever not been nearby?” Exit asked. The question hung awkwardly as I waited for Gran to answer. This was her area, not mine. She was, after all, the ruling witch of our family.
“Locally? No. But there have been incidents across the world where demons, fae, or elementals have slipped the chain, so to speak.” Gran expertly steered around a fox who stood watching us from the edge of the road. It was poised with one delicate paw lifted up, as if ready to run, but the lights had locked it in place. I was grateful Gran was driving. If it had been me, we would now be airborne, screaming, and wondering how the car had launched itself skyward without a touch of the wheel. “In history, there have been . . . events. Usually a local coven will come in to clean up the mess and alter local records as needed. But not often. We’re vigilant. It’s our job as white witches to keep the dark at bay, no matter what form it might take.”
Exit mulled that admission as the world he knew got even more complicated. He asked quietly, “Would a demon ever cause a mining accident?”
Gran cut her eyes at him in a look that told me she admired his intellect. “Yes, what one do you have in mind?”
Exit pursed his lips, thinking. “There used to be a place called Two Wheels, Arizona. Silver mine, and a good one.”
“Used to?” I didn’t like the sound of that.
“The town died overnight. Rather, it drowned. A creek was diverted by falling rocks, sluiced down a dry arroyo, and filled the mine to the brim, killing every one of the nearly two hundred minders inside.” He sounded too sad to be casually in
vested in this fact.
“You know this how, Exit?” I put a hand on his shoulder. In the dim light of the truck, I saw a sad smile pull at his lips.
“Friends from school were there, and a distant cousin. He was outside the mine, so he survived, but the man I knew was gone. His family put him in a sanitarium in Albany, and he died a few years later. To the last of his days, he swore that a horned giant had pushed a massive boulder into that stream to trap those men. He hid in an ore cart just as the men were getting ready to come out of the mine at sunset. Said the very ground shook when the beast descended into the mine as the water began to rush in a torrent, down into the blackness of the shaft. The screams started shortly after, but he said they didn’t last long. No one got out, and his story was attributed to shock, or drink, or perhaps even opium, although then man was a strict Calvinist who didn’t touch so much as a drop of wine.” He licked his lips, finished with the telling of something that had, until moments ago, been little more than a family curiosity. Now, he knew better.
“I’ve not heard of it, but that sounds like a homunculus or some other demon, to be sure.” Demons could be enormous, and it would be natural for them to seek darkness immediately after gaining access to our world. They were sensitive to direct sunlight, and not good in the open. Despite their immense power, a demon was limited by poor vision and unfamiliarity with our world; I’ve heard of them wandering off a cliff in the glare of morning sun. Stories like that would be funny if you could ignore the fact that someone evil enough to summon a demon was doing so successfully. At all costs, people like that must be stopped, and witches are directly tasked with doing just that. When we aren’t making magic, we take out the trash.
“Then whether you knew it or not, you’d had a brush with Everafter in one of the most deadly forms. There are good elements to it, too, but often the two worlds just don’t mesh well,” I told Exit.
He nodded in silence, processing and revising his own personal history to include the existence of demons. And more.
We were nearly to Gran’s driveway, and as we slowed, she took a long look at me, a quizzical expression on her face. “Are those earrings silver, dear?”
I reached up to touch the simple hoop I was wearing. “Yeah, mom got them in Mexico. They’re really nice. Heavy.”
“I’ll have that one.” Gran smirked as we rolled to a stop. Her palm extended. I didn’t even ask why, but I dropped the substantial heft of the earring into her lined hand. She had beautiful hands, long and graceful, nearly the opposite of mine. I would say that my hands were serviceable at best, and some days just plain rough. That’s one of the many joys of cooking for a living; although at that moment, they were nicely free of burns.
“What’s the silver for?” Exit asked. “Do you need any more?”
“Why, do you have an earring you’d like to donate to the—what are you doing with it, Gran? A charm?” I was unsure. Her magic took many forms, even in the physical sense.
“I’m no pirate. Why would I have an earring?” Exit snorted with disgust. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a luminous, heavy coin. “This was in my pocket. A lucky coin, but I think after my long sleep, the luck may have run out.” He handed it to me before clambering out of the truck. We quickly went inside to stave off the cold, and in the light of Gran’s kitchen I saw the details of a silver dollar that had a patina of wear on it from countless hands and years.
“What is it?” I turned the coin over. It was beautiful. A stylized Grecian head and markings that were still well defined. It had been out of circulation for a while.
“1876 Morgan silver dollar, given to me by my father. He said I should always have a day’s pay in my pocket, and when he was a young man, that was a fine day’s pay indeed.” His eyes glowed with respect and memory at the recollection of his own family. Then sadness wiped it away, and his handsome face returned to the stark reality of being miles and years away from everything he knew.
“Thank you, Exit. This will help our cause considerably,” Gran said, neatly plucking the coin from my hand. It had to weigh an ounce. My palm felt odd with its weight missing, and I wondered if there was some resonance between my magic and the antique silver of a struck coin. It was an idea worth considering, but not now. I was tired, and hungry, and I had to go to work again on no sleep.
“Charm?” I asked Gran, my mood deteriorating as exhaustion took hold.
“It would have been, had we only your earring to work with. Now? It will be a talisman. Go home and get your rest, dear, I’ll call the diner and tell them to stick Louis on the grill. You won’t be disturbed. Sleep with the fuzzy beast, and when you wake this afternoon, call me. It will be ready for you to use.” She was walking me to the door with a firm hand on my elbow.
“Okay, thanks, Gran. Hey—wait, for me to use? What will it do?”
Her smile grew cold, and it made her eyes seem like distant ice. “Kill a warlock, of course.” With that, she closed the door, and I began the short walk to my house as the snow hurried past on business that was anywhere but here.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Good With Faces
I slept, but not as long as I had intended. I felt a need to be at the diner, and I’d reached a critical point regarding Wulfric. Knowing that I would soon try to bring him home left me twitchy and nervous in my own bed. Something was coming, like a distant peal of thunder rolling across the treetops. I could feel it.
A half hour later, exactly at noon, I tied my apron with a crisp knot and began cooking. The grill sizzled with an array of sliced onions and other vegetables; I was making veggie sandwiches on rolls with feta cheese. We served them with steaming bowls of barley soup, and I saw nothing but contented faces as my regulars and the odd tourist all dug in to their lunches. It was a grand feeling, and I closed my eyes momentarily, letting the noises of the Hawthorn transport me away from heartache and jangling nerves.
I opened my eyes to the midday sun and watched a sand-colored 1966 Land Rover pull up and park in front of the diner with great deliberation. I know the specific year and make, not because I’m a car freak, but due to some extensive research I did after my third vehicle in a year went to the great junkyard in the sky. I was searching for something with the weight and stability of a tank, but lots of windows so I could see whatever moose, runaway hot dog cart, or meteor was going to hit me through no fault of my own. The vintage Land Rover fit the bill, but there weren’t any within a thousand miles of Halfway when I was looking.
Until now.
I expected a swarthy Lumbersexual to debark, or maybe even a hipster who made peace with the atrocious gas mileage. I was not prepared for the sight of a dapper gentleman in a tweed suit, winter boots, overcoat, and gloves. He was somewhere north of seventy years old, impeccably groomed, and sporting the single most impressive facial hair I’d ever seen. His muttonchops were white, full, and covered the sides of a wizened face that held the hint of a suntan from stars knew where. Blue eyes glittered from deep-set sockets, giving him the presence of a mischievous gnome. His mustache was luxurious, and a tiny, neat beard covered his chin. He doffed his cap to a woman who walked by, smiled politely, and began making his way into the diner without hesitation. He was either here for the soup or to see me, and as much I love my food, I sensed there was something different about the small, neat man. He took a seat at the counter and grinned, closed lipped, directly at me as I slid another plate through the window. Placing his hat on the counter revealed a semi-circle of snow white hair being slowly whittled away by a bald pate. Sunspots dappled his head like a wild horse, telling a story of years spent in the outdoors.
Before Pat could get to him with a menu, I was through the kitchen door and standing at the counter, hands at my sides in a languid pose that I didn’t feel. This man was unknown, and that immediately made him suspect.
“Pembrose Dillingham, but I’d be honored if you called me Dilly.” He stuck his hand out with practiced ease.
His voice was reedy, high, and Britis
h. Actually, he was so incredibly British I expected him to leap up, wave the Union Jack, and declare that he’d come to return the colonies to their rightful overlords. It took me a span of three breaths to snap out of my analytical paralysis. I took his hand. It was small, strong, and covered with ridged callouses. He was a workman of some kind, despite his posh garb. Good to know.
“Carlie, it’s a pleasure. Are you here for the barley soup?” I raised a brow, indicating that was all he would get. I was rather fond of Exit, and there was no way I’d reveal anything that could place him in further danger, despite our location of the warlock who had been at fault for his long sleep. I could be pleasant, but yield nothing.
“You’re quite astute. While I have a fondness for barley, I am possessed of a keen interest in other matters, and I’ve been led to believe that you are, in fact, the person who might answer my questions.” He grinned again before hastily adding, “If, of course, you are willing. I’m no brute.” He finished his declaration with a modest sniff.
“Perish the thought.” I smiled, while taking further measure of the man. “As you can see, I’m quite busy, but I have a moment if you’d like to be direct.”
“Ahh, just so. I love your American boldness.” His enthusiasm seemed quite genuine. “Then I shan’t keep you from your tasks. I’m here, in your lovely hamlet, to find an old friend who might be in the area. His name is Roderick, and I believe he’s gone sadly astray.”
I felt my face drain of color, but kept a plastic smile locked in place through sheer force of will. Best to meet this inquiry with at least some semblance of the truth. “I have met this man. As you’ve noticed, we’re a small town, and outsiders are quite easily seen during the off season. Like now. Could you define astray, if it isn’t improper? I wouldn’t like to be party of something”—I made a show of searching for the word that would fit his speech pattern—“unsavory.” I leaned across the counter to close our distance. Let him proceed with caution. This was my town. “You can imagine my reticence, with me being one of the witches in town. We have a certain peace to maintain, and can’t invite problems inside our borders.” I finished with a wintry grin of my own. Even without pushing my power, I could sense the low-level hum of magic about him, meaning that his unwillingness to be forthcoming would be rewarded with nothing but suspicion and exceptional focus. There are no accidents in the lives of witches, but there are mistakes. I wouldn’t be allowing either in Halfway; not without ample explanation.
Halfway Hunted - Halfway Witchy Page 13
