The Ledberg Runestone

by Patrick Donovan

  “I’ll say.”

  I didn’t want to tell him any more. I’d borrowed the money to help him get his garage back up and running after an electrical fire had burnt up a good chunk of his tools. I never told him it was from me. Instead, I’d made one of those online funding campaigns for him and deposited the money there. As far as he knew, it was just some Good Samaritan out there in cyberspace.

  “I appreciate you doing this for her, Pop,” I said, setting my empty cup on the table.

  “Oh, I know you do. Seems to me I got quite a bit of work around here that needs doing, we’ll start there.”

  “I guess I owe you that much,” I admitted.

  “Oh, yeah, you do.”

  “I need to get moving, Pop. I’ve got some things I need to take care of.”

  “Uh huh,” he said, sipping his coffee again.

  “If she needs anything, call me?”

  He didn’t say anything. Instead, he stood up and trudged off down the hall and opened the linen closet. I took that as my cue and slipped out.

  I needed to get home so I could start figuring out how I was going to rob one of, if not the most powerful supernatural player in the entire city.

  Chapter 10

  My trailer is a little singlewide shanty set in the back of a park filled with others single wide, rusted-out shanties. There’s no underpinning, the pipes break at least six times in the winter, the roof is all but covered in rust spots, the grass is overgrown by a good six inches, and the three steps leading up to my front door are rickety and constantly threatening to fall apart. It tends to be a little too warm in the summer and not quite warm enough in the winter, but it’s home. All in all, aside from the small garden of herbs I maintained in the back yard, it was pretty standard fare for the park I lived in.

  I parked under the willow tree that made up the expanse of my front yard, grabbed the bottle out from under the seat, and trudged up to my door and inside. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to get something to eat. I wanted a shower.

  Inside, it was a lot like outside. The carpet was threadbare and worn through in spots. The entire place smelled a little bit like cat piss from a failed experiment in pet ownership last spring. The furniture was all second-, third-, fourth-, and fifth-hand, most of it displaying upholstery patterns that would have been popular right around the same time that the girls in the porno posters decorating the Poor Confederate would have been considered en vogue. Like most trailers, everything was essentially connected. A small kitchen was separated from the living room by a counter top and sink. A hallway led to my bedroom, a spare room, and a bathroom.

  Say what you will, I was pretty damn fond of my estate resting atop its cinderblock throne.

  I poured myself a glass of water, setting the half-empty bottle on the counter top amidst a veritable army of dirty dishes and wandered towards my spare room, grabbing my old army surplus backpack from beside the couch as I went.

  The spare room in my trailer was my happy place. It was bare of furnishing, save for the two levels of shelves that lined each wall and a nightstand tucked in one corner. The shelves, from start to finish, were filled with jars. Mason jars, mayo jars, those little flip top airtight jars, pretty much every type of jar was represented. Each one of them was filled with a different herb, each one grown, tended, and harvested by yours truly. Several were indigenous to other countries and had taken more than their fair share of time and care to get right. I had everything in here from condiments to lethal poisons like belladonna and nightshade. The table, covered with a thin cloth, was lined with crystals. Most of them were cheap, new-agey crap, but they too served a purpose. Crystals, stones, and the like could be used in shamanic magic to hold spirits, to create what are called “fetishes.” They were one-time tricks and, for the most part, the effects only lasted a few seconds. Those few seconds, though, could be damned impressive.

  I started browsing the shelves, pulling jars down and shoving them into my backpack. So far, my plan involved casing out Mama Duvalier’s, once I found the place. Given her reputation, I wasn’t going there with anything short of a magical arsenal, even if said arsenal was little more than a few spells and a couple of spirit fueled party favors.

  I wasn’t sure if it was the beatings, the crazy ladies in parking lots, or the big scary people throwing me across two lanes of black top and playing linebacker with my truck, but I damn near jumped out of my skin when I heard the knock at my door.

  I stood in the center of my little war room, heart pounding against my ribs, and waited.

  The knock came again.

  I walked as lightly as possibly to the window, peeking out from behind the Star Wars beach towel that was proudly serving double duty as a curtain.

  Sam stood outside my front door, checking his watch. After a rather massive sigh of relief that it wasn’t someone else harboring the intent of doing me bodily harm, I knocked on the window, got his attention, and motioned him inside.

  Sam came in, wandered his way down the hall, took a spot leaning in the doorway and watched me pluck out another two jars and add them to the bag.

  “Came by to check on you,” he said.

  “Could be worse,” I admitted.

  “Could be better, too.”

  I grabbed another jar and put it in the bag.

  “I have a feeling I’m not going to like the answer to this question, but what are you doing?” he asked.

  “Inventory,” I lied.

  “Inventory? Looks to me like you’re going to do something stupid, Jonah.”

  I gave Sam a quick sideways glance.

  “Guilty,” I admitted.

  “Okay, next question. How stupid are we talking here? The I-made-a-sex-tape-with-my-best-friend’s-boyfriend’s-sister stupid, or are we talking the-reason-you-walk-with-a-cane stupid?”

  “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

  “Never. I’m going to remind you of it until the day you die. Now, which is it?” Sam asked.

  After a minute passed and I opted to not answer, Sam made the correct conclusion.

  “Right. Walking with a cane stupid it is, then.”

  I grabbed a few select stones from my table and added them to the bag. As if on cue, my leg shot through with a quick jolt of pain and I had to lean a little heavier on my cane. I’d met Sam five years ago, when I was eighteen and he was seventeen, living on the streets, and for all intents and purposes, eating out of trash cans. I’d stumbled across him while I was running around, pretending to be a hero. I’d had a few victories under my belt, a few wayward spirits sent back across the veil. I was arrogant, though, and we bit off more than we could chew.

  One of the Fae was kidnapping girls off the street and stealing parts of their souls. Turns out, his big scheme was to use them as fuel for a spell that would erase his immortality and make him human, all so that he could commit suicide. One of those girls happened to be a friend of Sam’s, one of the kids he looked out for. So, Sam and I, loaded to the gills with testosterone and bravado, walking examples of the phrase “more balls than brains,” tracked him down. We’d had the intention of saving the girl. When the dust finally settled, I ended up with a shattered femur that took four surgeries and a lot of pins and screws to repair. Sam ended up with a broken jaw and a few broken ribs. We’d survived. The Fae in question didn’t. Unfortunately, neither did the girl.

  She died bloody.

  I decided then to stop pretending I was something I wasn’t: a hero. It was also around that time I started drinking. If I were one for introspective musing, I would consider it to be an important turning point in my life. Mostly, I just tried not to think about it. Ever.

  “Jonah,” Sam said, “What’s going on?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Okay,” Sam said, vanishing from the doorway. He came back a moment later with one of my kitchen chairs. He set it where he stood and sat, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “I’ve got time. I just wanted
to be more comfortable while you tell it to me,” he said by way of explanation.

  So I related everything back to him. I started with Lysone and our first meeting. Then I rehashed the incident with the Carvers, segued into another meeting with Lysone, then my trip to Abandon, and then the big scary man who put the dent in the side of my truck that my father would raise all kinds of holy hell about when he saw. I told him about Melly and Cash, then finally ended with my genius plan to assault what was, in my estimation, roughly the Death Star. When I was done, Sam was staring at me, his mouth hanging slightly open.

  “Jesus,” Sam said.

  “I doubt he’s involved.”

  Sam gave me a flat stare.

  “Well, what can I do?” He asked.

  I shrugged.

  “Nothing, really.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “There’s nothing you can do, Sam. I’m sort of stuck in this mess, man.”

  “Doesn’t mean you have to fly solo,” he said.

  “Actually it does,” I said. “This is my mess. I’m the one that has to clean it up.”

  “You’re going to get yourself killed,” Sam said, standing up. “Jesus, look at yourself. You’re beat all to hell and I’m not even going to ask how much you’ve had to drink.”

  I glared at him.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped. “I’m going with you.”

  “The hell you are,” I said.

  “Really? You’re so drunk you can barely stand. What’s worse, I don’t even think you realize it. You spend so much time in a fucking stupor; you don’t know what you’re going to do when you get there. Hell, how are you going to drive there, for that matter?”

  “With both hands on the wheel,” I said.

  “I’m serious Jonah.”

  “So am I,” I said.

  “Then like I said, I’m going with you.”

  I looked at Sam for a long minute. He was my best friend. Hell, he was my only friend. I had no doubt that if he came, he’d fight tooth and nail right alongside me. We’d faced scary shit together before. Hell, if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have a “rest of my life” to be stuck using a cane for.

  “Fine, but we’re taking my truck.”

  “Done,” Sam said.

  “Keys are on the counter. Give me another minute?”

  Sam nodded and went to get my keys. Once I had a minute of privacy, I grabbed a jar off the shelf and dumped some of the contents into my hand, then closed the jar and tossed it into my bag as well. I bit the inside of my cheek, hard enough to draw blood, and spit a small amount into the powdered herb in my palm. I gave a slight push of will, activating the inherent magical properties within the herb. The infusion of power sent a small tendril of steam rising from the dried root as the blood evaporated, fueling the magic. When Sam appeared in the doorway again, I blew the powdered herb into his face.

  The Valerian burst out of my hand into a cloud, sparkling with small bits of energy. As far as magic goes, it was pretty basic stuff. Valerian root has a natural sedative property, the addition of my blood only served to intensify it, amping it up to the level of a fast-acting, pharmaceutical sleep aid. Sam coughed once and started to sway as the magic took hold. I took a few steps to catch him before he fell on the floor. As it was, all I really managed to do was catch him and send both of us into a slow topple to the carpet.

  He was my best friend. I’d failed him the last time because I wasn’t good enough. All we had to show for our little adventure were some pretty gnarly scars and some even more gnarly nightmares. He’d lost someone that he’d cared deeply for.

  I’d learned a lot since then. Not enough to go toe to toe with someone like Mama Duvalier, assuming the rumors were true. I just hoped that if it came to blows, I’d be able to hold my own long enough to get away. I sure as hell wasn’t going to drag Sam into a mess where I could get potentially get him killed, too. That was the sort of thing I’d never come back from.

  I pulled myself back up to my feet, made sure Sam was as comfortable as he could be sleeping on my floor, grabbed my bag, stopped and got the bottle off the counter, locked up behind me and started the trip to Mama Duvalier’s.

  Chapter 11

  In Asheville, if you know what to look for, you can find the things that go bump in the night. Thankfully, most people don’t know what to look for. Usually, it’s a few scratches on a wall or a glyph of some sort hidden in some street art. Most people don’t believe enough in the supernatural to start searching for their local vampire nest, witch, or pack of werewolves. The ones that did, well, silence for the bad guys is best achieved by eating the curious.

  Maggie Valley was a different animal altogether. There were a few family-style tourist traps, like the Ghost Town in the Sky, but for the most part, it just wasn’t populated enough to warrant any of the night (or day) time predators to take much interest in. As far as I knew, the supernatural community of Maggie Valley was pretty much Mama Duvalier.

  I’d made sure to take the back roads to get here, avoiding the highways and any state troopers that might be inclined to take an interest in yours truly. Truth be told, now that I was here, I had no idea where to even start. I had a few mundane options, though I can’t say any of them were very likely to yield any sort of viable results. Asking around town risked Mama Duvalier finding out that I was on the hunt for her and I wasn’t exactly game on tipping my hand. I could drive around until I found something that may or may not be indicative of her presence, but that would be about as effective and timely as going door to door.

  That left breaking out a little bit of the old-fashioned mojo as my only viable option. I could cross over to the spirit world, but while my soul was snooping around, it would leave me essentially comatose for however long I was on the other side. It was also my last resort, as far as I was concerned. If something happened to my spirit while it was out tripping the light fantastic on the flip side, it would be the same as dying, essentially. Sure, my body would be alive, assuming someone found it before I starved to death, but no one would be behind the wheel. I could try a spell, but any sort of casting I could do to find her would mean either exposing myself or having the spell fizzle out if she had any magical countermeasures in place, which was likely. So, I was going to have to bring in an outside consultant. A really, really outside consultant.

  I had all of the necessary reagents for a summoning packed away in my bag already. Summoning a spirit is easy. Any chucklehead can summon something. It may not be the strongest spirit to ever step across the threshold between worlds, but it’s doable by most folks with a little patience and a little time. Even though they’re easy, it takes a bit of know and artistry to make it all go nice and smooth. It takes the right mix of herbs and a bit of blood, mixed into an ink to create the circle and sigils required to do a proper summon.

  The real artistry was in painting the intended spirit’s sigil. Spirits didn’t have names, at least not in the way people thought of names. Some of them used names, but they didn’t really own them. You can’t really stand in the middle of a circle and say “Frank” over and over again, and hope that something would show up. Instead, a spirit is called with a sigil, a sort of picture writing that is unique to them and them alone. You screw up painting the sigil and the summoning could completely fizzle out. Worse, you could summon some madness-inducing tentacled horror that would find such a calling damned inconvenient and annoying.

  I drove around until I found a place that I felt was fitting for the spirit that I wanted to summon. In this case, it was the dumpster behind a tourist trap seafood restaurant. It took me almost an hour to clear the pavement off, paint the circle and sigil, and prep everything for the summoning. I could have done this just about anywhere but it was a sign of respect to at least try and find a place where the spirit would be in its “natural habitat,” for lack of a better term.

  I took a long moment to collect my thoughts and grabbed a quick sip off the dwindling contents of my fif
th, and then struck a match, tossing it onto the painted sigil. The herbs in the ink, mixed with my blood, flared up almost waist high as the magic contained in them was released in a sudden torrent. When they finally died down, a rat spirit sat in the center of the circle, directly on top of the sigil. It looked, for the most part, like a normal gray furred rat. Well, a normal rat that just so happened to be roughly the size of a Doberman Pinscher. It stared at me, head tilted almost comically to the side. Its right ear, which was every bit as large as my palm, was scarred and tattered, the physical memory of a scrap from days long past. Its tail, roughly as long as my arm and as thick as my wrist at the base, was a grayish pink that reminded me of corpse flesh. Perfect, ink-like black eyes examined my face with a level of intelligence that went far above and beyond what you see in most people, let alone rodents.

  “Moki,” I said flatly, by way of greeting.

  Gretchen had worked with Moki for years. When I was a kid, he was the spirit that used to watch over me when she couldn’t. He’d served as a guardian for me in the spirit world, protecting me from things I never even saw. That said, he wasn’t really what I’d call a friend. Actually, I was pretty sure he still considered me more of a pain in the ass than anything.

  “Boy, you look like about ten pounds of crap in a five-pound bag,” Moki said, his voice accentuated by a long southern drawl.

  Yep, he could talk. At great length if given the opportunity.

  “Wow,” I said. “You’re a peach.”

  The rat spirit’s ear twitched.

  “I need your help,” I said, after a moment of silently staring at each other.

  “What else is new?” he sighed.

  “I’m serious,” I said.

  “Me too. What do you want, Jonah?”

  “I need your help. I told you that.”

  “Obviously. The hell you want?”

  “I’m looking for something.”

  Moki stared at me for a moment and I suddenly felt like that kid who got called up to the blackboard in Math class and had absolutely no idea what the answer to the problem was.