Every house marched down the street, repeated on every third or fourth lot. The Army didn’t get it, but neither did most HOA developers. That’s where old Army engineers went when they mustered out of the service. They joined corporations, intent upon filling the landscape with blandness.
Nunez had to point out the Captain’s home. Even the MPs got lost in the crushing similarity, but Nunez has a sixth sense. Ramirez purposefully gave him the wrong directions to a club one night, but he still managed to beat us there and had a table waiting when we arrived. It was uncanny.
Most of the officers on the street had young families, but the Captain was unattached. He’d turned his home into an unofficial office and officer’s lounge, lots of comfy chairs that a wife would throw out and a big screen dominated the living room. His kitchen served as his second office. A too-big table jammed into the breakfast nook was piled with papers, while the counter itself was crowded with pads and pens and surrounded by five-high backed barstools with hardly any room between them.
While the rest of us raided the kitchen, the Captain pulled Mac into a back room to speak privately. Giggling, Ramirez sprawled across one of the comfy chairs and started channel surfing. Nunez made coffee and sandwiches and I wolfed mine down while we waited.
We stood and saluted when the Captain returned; all of us except Ramirez who appeared to be enjoying the morphine a little too much. He waved us back to our seats and poured coffee into a thick brown mug.
Blowing at the steam rising from the cup he called out to Ramirez, “I see you’re still trying to fill my head with gray hair.”
Ramirez looked up, rolling his eyes, “just doing my part, Sir.”
“Just how much morphine did they give him?” he asked. “Enjoy it while you can Corporal, Mac’s calling in a mender.”
While Ramirez groaned from the living room, the Captain took a seat at the bar. “From what Mac told me, I’m glad to see that the rest of you are all right. That wouldn’t have been the case if it weren’t for the quick thinking of Nunez and Le Mort. Good job.”
“It was mostly Thorn, Sir,” Nunez said. “If it weren’t for him, none of us would have gotten out of the Humvee, let alone survived the next attack. His circle knocked that spirit back long enough for Stevens and me to do this,” he said producing a hastily hammered ball of lead from one of his pockets.
The Captain stared at the lump in front of him, but didn’t move to touch it. “Mac said that you’d sealed the amulet. That’s it then?”
“Yes Sir.”
“And you’re sure that it’s sealed?”
“Nothing came after us this morning, but we can’t be completely sure Captain,” Stevens said. “Thorn’s fires may have hurt it or it might not be able to travel during the day. We can’t know for certain because we don’t know enough about it, but we’re pretty sure it’s sealed.”
“I don’t like pretty sure,” the Captain mused. “Is there something you can do to make damned sure?”
“Not without the proper rituals,” Stevens replied. “It’ll take some time, but I think Mac could lock it down in a couple of hours.”
“Salt,” I added.
“What’s that, Private?”
“Pour a circle of salt around it,” I said. “Spirits can’t abide the touch of salt. It won’t seal it, but it should contain anything that’s trying to use it for a focus, at least until Mac can work something more permanent.”
Stevens nodded. “It’s a good stop-gap,” he said rooting through the Captain’s cupboard and returning with a shaker. He screwed off the top and started pouring a thick circle around the lump of lead. “Don’t touch it Sir,” he said. “The circle’s got to remain undisturbed until Mac can work out something stronger.”
“And you’ve got to do it on my kitchen counter?”
“No time like the present,” Stevens replied.
“All right then, that’s one problem solved—
Mac rushed into the room, “we’ve got more,” he said. “MPs just arrived at the front of your house and they don’t look like they’re here for the coffee.”
Sighing, the Captain stood and headed toward the front door. A few moments later we heard soft arguing. Even military police try to be deferential to officers, at least officers they aren’t there to arrest. A few moments later the Captain reappeared.
“You two certainly make friends fast,” he said as he came back into the kitchen. “The OSS has lodged a formal complaint, something about interfering in an ongoing operation. There’s a hearing scheduled for 1800 tonight and gentlemen I need answers before that starts. Thorn, I’ve been ordered to confine you to quarters. The MPs will escort you back. Ramirez, you have an appointment with the mender first and then the same goes for you. Stevens, see what you can dig up about Sheriff Ratcliff and his little jail. Nunez, I need everything you can find on the Santa Muerte. Mac, you’re with me. Everyone else, dismissed.”
As I stood to leave, Mac handed me the baggie that originally held the medallion. It was smeared with blood and several stray hairs still clung inside. I had to hand it to Nunez, even under fire he’d thought to preserve it. “See what you can find out about Mr. Ortiz,” Mac said.
“He’s dead, Sarge. What do you expect me to find?”
“Probably nothing,” he replied. “I know you’re not a necromancer, but maybe your witchery might dig something up that sorcery can’t. It can’t hurt to try.”
Yeah, sure, I thought as I headed out to meet the MPs. It can’t hurt to try. I wondered how many tombstones bear that inscription. At least I couldn’t get into any more trouble sitting alone in my room. You’d think I’d know better by now.
Chapter 10
Fort Benning, Sunday 13:00
Thorn’s Quarters
The MPs escorting me back to my quarters were polite, but firm. Until I was summoned, I wasn’t to leave the cinderblock hut I’d been assigned. At least they didn’t stand guard at my door. Instead they parked their Humvee at the mouth of the private cul-de-sac the rest of the base called the Freak Show and stood guard from there.
Privacy was one of the few advantages Company life offered. Instead of the communal living most soldiers endured, each of us was assigned our own separate hut. In its infinite wisdom, the Army surmised that embedding sorcerers alongside regular soldiers was dangerous. When you’re working magick, you need a little elbow room.
Being confined to quarters is a step up from being jailed, but not a big step. Although slightly larger than the cell I’d occupied with Ramirez, my room was practically as stark. In the year since I’d been assigned this hut, I’d done little to make it home. Home was someplace else, somewhere else, where I was free to come and go as I pleased. Home was a myth.
Whereas Ramirez had beer posters signed by the models tacked up on his walls and Stevens festooned his quarters with pictures of his family, I had nothing. The small TV had never worked and I’d pushed it into a corner next to a slightly comfy chair and used it as an end table. In fact, except for the Company standard altar sitting in the middle of the room, it looked much like a college student’s apartment the day before everyone arrived on campus. At least the bed was comfortable. I knew a lot of soldiers that didn’t get that much.
There were practical reasons why I didn’t personalize my living space. I told myself that if I bolted tomorrow, nothing I left behind would be personal enough to track me, but that wasn’t absolutely true. Even if you’re paranoid you can’t help but leave traces lying around. There will always be stray hairs on your pillow case, dirty clothes you’ve worn. I once used a sorcerer’s toothbrush to track him back to his bolt-hole, so at best I was just making things difficult, not impossible.
Now that the OSS was involved even that was pointless. They had vials of my blood locked away in their vaults. With blood as an anchor, even a punk-ass wannabe could get a fix. The time for flight had come and gone, if it had ever existed at all.
I threw myself down on my bed and closed my eyes. G
iven the right set of skills anyone can be found this side of the grave.
I sat up and reached into my pocket with that thought still echoing in my head. Juan Ortiz was dead so why had Mac given me the baggie and told me to find him? Only necromancers have the ability to cross the River Dark and return. Mac knew that already, so why ask?
What if Ortiz hadn’t crossed the river yet? He’d been killed twelve, thirteen hours ago, certainly less than twenty-four. I might still have enough time.
There’s a step beyond scrying that I’d attempted only once before. A few days after my sister Emily died, I found the ritual for the Ghost Walk in my father’s Book of Shadows. It was encrypted, as were all of his spells, but I’d broken his cipher years before. At its most basic the Ghost Walk projects your spirit into the location you’re viewing, but it has another benefit as well. While your spirit roams free, you can speak to others no longer bound to flesh.
I’d failed when I’d reached for Emily. She’d been dead too long and had already crossed over. But Ortiz might have resisted his summons across the veil. People who died violent deaths often lingered by their bodies, unable or unwilling to accept what had happened. I might still be able to reach him, but it was dangerous.
My father’s Book of Shadows listed the hazards. Foremost of those was that the tether between body and soul could become strained and snap. More than one walker had strayed too far and severed the connection. Another was that any nearby spirit would be drawn towards my recently vacated shell. If I didn’t set up the proper defenses, I could return only to find myself repulsed by my body’s new occupant.
And the dangers weren’t limited to the spiritual. While walking I was just as susceptible to iron, salt, and silver as any other spirit. Even sunlight would burn me away like a morning mist. People don’t realize that there’s a reason our souls are encased in homes of flesh and blood. Our bodies are our soul’s best protection. If I did this, I’d be stripping all of that protection away.
Fuck it. Life’s a hazardous job. I got off my bed and started rifling the drawers of my altar, searching for the right ingredients. The Ghost Walk wasn’t the sort of spell that lent itself to shortcuts. You either went all in or you didn’t come back out.
I pulled out two beeswax candles and anointed them with a vial of Juniper oil from the same drawer before setting them in obsidian candlesticks. The candles were quickly followed by my scrying bowl, matches, and my athame.
The ritual blade was about eight inches long and hammered from raw iron. I’d spent a year and a day under the watchful eye of my father during its construction. The pommel was carved from the antler of the first stag I’d hunted. We’d shaped it throughout a long winter, stained it black and crosshatched it so it wouldn’t slip in my grip. After we’d finished, we’d bathed the knife in moonlight for thirteen full moons. It was as much a part of me as my own fingers and normally I carried it with me everywhere. Thankfully, I’d made an exception before the jaunt to Leo’s. I wouldn’t have wanted it soiled by mundane hands.
I kissed the blade before setting it alongside the other ingredients and continued searching through the drawers, pulling out anything I thought might be useful. I added a piece of rough amber to the growing pile and a chunk of natural chalk before I found the incense I’d been searching for.
I’d been saving the sticks of aloeswood for a special occasion. I lifted the sticks to my nose and inhaled deeply. They were sweet and woodsy, the aroma reminding me of dusky meadows and better days. This was the good stuff, not the cheap commercial grade crap they sell in head shops. These sticks were lovingly molded by Shinto monks for ceremonial use. Even unlit, I could feel the prayers infusing the resins.
I gave everything a final look-over before adding the bloody baggie from my bed. All I needed now was salt and water. I found a one-pound bag of salt in a cupboard at the back of the room and grabbed two bottles of Midnight River Spring Water as well. Though I was doubtful of the water’s true lineage, I had used it before with good results. Besides, the water from the kitchen tap had been distilled and chemically altered into urban blandness.
Once everything was assembled, checked and double-checked, I stripped out of my clothes and began the preparations. Wiccan rituals are best performed sky-clad, but it’s not something I can usually do. The last thing the other members of my unit want to see is me prancing around naked. And the last thing I want is to hear their jokes for the rest of my enlistment. Soldiers don’t let shit like that go.
Once I was naked, I dithered about the bloody bandage around my hand. If I left it on I wasn’t technically sky-clad. Theoretically it shouldn’t matter, but this wasn’t a ritual to play with technicalities. On the other hand, if I bled all over the ingredients, it would do more than just make things messy. As I’d already experienced, blood was a powerful fuel where magick was concerned.
In the end I decided to remove it and take my chances. Underneath the dirty bandages my hand was completely healed. There wasn’t even a scar, just a pink line of new skin stretching across my palm. I flexed it, running my fingers over the fresh skin. It was tender, but it had healed. In a few more days I doubted that the new skin would even be distinguishable from the rest.
Whispering my thanks to Cernunnos I picked up the bag of salt and marked out a nine-foot circle on the floor. Once I was satisfied that there were no breaks that a wandering spirit could slip through, I set the bag down and began the real work.
Behind the line of salt, I drew another circle in chalk and a third circle behind it. In between the two chalk circles I inscribed my patrimony. It’s an unusual thing to do and one that I rarely bother with, but today wasn’t the day to do any skimping. Family. Clan. Tribe. I added each as I moved around the boundary, adding sigils for the three aspects of the Goddess and the two for the Horned God my father taught me.
When I finished, I sat back and examined my work. It was clean and I could already feel the energies sweeping clockwise around the room. The wards I built were the strongest I’d ever constructed. I hoped they’d be enough.
Turning back to the altar I centered the bowl and lit both candles. “Dark Mother Hecate, Mistress of the midnight roads, I beseech you. Come to my aid,” and drew an invoking pentagram above her candle with the tip of my athame. The flame leapt upwards, extending six or seven inches for a moment before returning to its original height. Huh, that was new.
Turning to the other candle I repeated the procedure, only this time calling out to the Horned God and requesting his assistance. The flame did the same growing and dancing jig in the air before settling down to a normal height. At the very least I’d gotten their attention.
Three more steps before this gets really fun. Lighting the incense, I stepped away from the altar and moved to the eastern quadrant where I began the ritual in earnest. Calling out to each of the Watchtowers I moved clockwise around the inner circle, asking for their blessing. I took my time, making sure that I felt each respond before moving to the next.
Company training focused on speed and stealth. Tear the meat from the bones and drill down to the bare essentials. Spending an hour on intricate rituals in the field wasn’t only impractical, it was suicidal. Hell, you can’t spend five minutes crafting a charm in a firefight. You stick with what you’ve got on hand, maybe a few cantrips you readied earlier or an enchantment waiting for the final push. Anything else buys you a one-way ticket across the River Dark.
Here though, haste was the enemy. You don’t rush ritual. All the layers, the complicated sigils and formulas were developed for a reason. The blessings I asked for, the guardians I awoke, they were my fail-safes. This wasn’t a spell I’d used hundreds of times before. I needed to squeeze every drop of goodwill I could into the ritual before I took the plunge.
Crackling energy swept around the circles as the last of the Watchtowers arrived. I was ready now or at least as ready as I was ever going to be. I moved back toward the altar and concentrated upon the crafting of the spell. It had
to be clean and direct to the point. There was no place for ambiguity.
I plucked the amber from my altar, cradling it with my left hand. It was a raw piece, unpolished and rough on the underside. It was warm, like coagulated honey and without the imperfections you sometimes see in natural specimens. There were no occlusions or air pockets, nor insects trapped inside. It had been part of a piece that had, I don’t know how I knew that, but I did. Though small, this piece had already taken life. I shuddered as I set it inside the scrying bowl, hoping it wouldn’t add my spirit to its body count.
The initial movements of the Ghost Walk are simple enough. I started with the Opening of the Way and focused my intent upon the amber. It would be the magnet that would draw my spirit from my body. The trick was to use that pull to sling your spirit in another direction, like a rock sliding around the sun.
I added the water once I felt the stone respond. This would be the medium through which I traveled. The images I’d pull from the water would provide my destination and an escape from the amber’s gravitational pull. The only thing lacking was an anchor to guide my journey.
I squeezed a drop of Juan Ortiz’s blood from the baggie and added it to the swirling water. In the context of the ritual, he and I were now bound together. Wherever he lay, I would follow. Heart pounding, I guided my hands through the interwoven glyphs of the opening stanzas.
A well-crafted spell is like a piece of music. In fact, music itself is a form of magick. Don’t scoff; remember how the perfect song led to your first kiss? Think about the martial beat the drives armies into killing frenzies or how every song on the radio reflected your broken heart. Music and magick have been intertwined since the beginning of time and still are in Wiccan communities.
I didn’t have a trio of musicians to guide me through the architecture of this spell, but I wasn’t lacking for music. My heartbeat was the baseline; my breath the mournful sigh of clarinets and the intricate gestures I wove were the flourishes of strings. It built slowly as is the nature of things, a trickle of energy so soft that I nearly missed it, like flutes under a gentle breeze.
The Dead Pools Page 6
