Stockton was insane, suffering from some kind of delusion. And I'd fallen for it.
Before I had a chance to call him on it, he pulled something over his head: a locket on a chain that he'd kept hidden under his shirt.
Handing it to me, he said, "Put that on. The next time he walks by, tell me what you see."
It seemed like a simple piece of jewelry, not particularly impressive. The metal wasn't silver. Pewter, maybe. It felt heavy. The locket was a square, an inch or so on both sides, and cast with patterns of Celtic knotwork, worn with age.
I fingered the latch. "What is it?"
"Don't open it," he said. "It's got a little bit of this and that in it. Four-leaf clover, a bit of rowan. Cold iron."
Some kind of folk magic, then. Now, was it the kind of folk magic that worked, or the kind that was little more than a placebo against the nameless fears of the dark?
I put the chain over my head.
I had to give Stockton credit for being more patient than I was. He was used to waiting for his stories, and he was good at it. We had no guarantee that Smith would pass within our view again. But he did.
And he glowed. His skin wasn't skin anymore. It looked almost white, shimmering like mother-of-pearl. At first I thought he'd gone bald as well, but his hair had turned pale, almost translucent. He looked completely different, but I knew it was him, because he wore the same clothes, and had that same meticulous bearing. For just a moment I saw his eyes, and they were far too large, and dark as night, dark enough to fall into and never climb out again.
I almost shrieked, but Stockton grabbed my arm and pinched me to keep me quiet. Then, Smith was out of sight again. My eyes remained frozen wide open.
"Holy shit, he's an alien!" I hissed.
"Um, no." Stockton donned a not very convincing Irish brogue. "In the Old Country they called them the Fair Folk, the Gentry, the Good People, the Hill Folk—"
"He's a fairy?" I couldn't decide which was more completely outrageous.
"Don't say that word, he'll hear you. Give that back." He held his hand out for the pendant. Reluctantly, I returned it. "Nobody was ever able to get close enough to confirm any suspicions until he came to testify. I'm lucky I was in the right place at the right time to see him."
I had to work to keep my voice a whisper. "You can't be serious. That's—it's all stories, folklore—"
"Pot calling the kettle black, anyone?"
Just when I thought I'd heard everything, just when I thought the last mystery had been revealed and that I couldn't be shocked anymore, something like this came along. I'd never be able to blow off another story as long as I lived. Flying monkeys? Oh, yeah, I could believe. Stockton was right. I should have known better.
Maybe I should chase a few more rainbows looking for pots of gold.
"How did you know?" I said to Stockton.
"I didn't," he said. "My grandmother gave me the locket. For protection, she said. And, well, I couldn't say no to Grandma. She sets out milk for the brownies, even in the Boston suburbs. What can I say, I believed her. But I didn't know Smith was one of them until he walked into the room this afternoon. I have to tell you, I didn't expect the charm to work like that."
Jeffrey said, "I didn't know what I was looking at. I can't see through the disguise, but I can see the disguise. Interesting." He sounded far too academic about it.
Theoretically, having an answer to one question—what was he?—should have brought us closer to answering other questions. Like, what was he doing with his church? Why was he drawing vampires and lycanthropes to him, and what was he doing with them? Why would an old-style Celtic folklore elf do these things?
Activity within the camp increased. Smith was out of sight again, but people were gathering and filing into the tent. Based on what details I could make out from here, the people looked ordinary, commonplace. Like any fringe church community going to a service. People walked with their heads bowed, their hands clasped. I normally wouldn't see this kind of patience, this kind of humility, from these groups of people.
They almost looked tired.
I expected the guards to circle back around any minute. They didn't right away, because they remained at the other side of the caravan, by the entrance, helping to escort in the new recruits.
They might be clever enough to count the number of people come to join them, versus the number of cars parked on the road, and realize there were too many cars. We couldn't stay here all night, twiddling our thumbs.
I wanted to break up the caravan. This was a cult and Smith was using people. He had some kind of ancient power, and he was dangerous.
"You know about this stuff," I said to Stockton. "How do we break his power?"
He looked panicked for a moment. "I don't know that much. I know what my grandmother told me. I know a few little charms, the four-leaf clover, the iron. Maybe if we threw iron filings at him."
"Would your grandmother know what to do?" I said. "She knew the locket would work, right?"
"I don't know that she ever thought I'd actually run into one of these guys."
"Could you ask her?"
"Right now?"
"You have your phone with you, right?" Hell, I had my phone with me. I'd call her.
"Well yeah, but—"
"So call her." And maybe after that I could talk to her and learn where her belief came from. Did she leave milk for the brownies because her family had always done so, or did she have a more immediate reason?
Stockton pulled one of those fancy little flip phones out of his front pants pocket. I was glad to see he'd had it turned off for our escapade.
The thing lit blue when he turned it on. He searched the menu, then pressed the dial button.
He sat there, listening to the ringing, while Jeffrey and I watched. It had been such a great idea, I'd thought. But she probably wasn't even home. I was getting ready to suggest that we call it a night, leave, do some research, and have a couple of beers while we came up with a plan to confront him tomorrow.
Then Stockton said, "Yes? Hello? Gramma, it's Roger… Yeah, I'm fine. Everything's fine… What do you mean I only call you when something's wrong? No, Gramma… Mom and Dad are fine, as far as I know… I don't really remember the last time I talked to them…"
I was used to being the goddess of phone conversations. I wanted to grab the phone out of his hand and make his grandmother get to the point. Ask her the right questions. Then I imagined trying to explain to her who I was.
"I'm sorry, Gramma, I can't really talk any louder… I said I can't talk any louder… I'm sort of hiding… That's what I wanted to talk to you about… You know those stories you're always telling? About the Fair Folk… Yes, Gramma, I crossed myself—" He quickly did so, in good Catholic fashion. "Some friends and I seem to have come across one who's doing some not very nice things… What kind is he?… I don't know… Seelie or Unseelie? I don't know that either… No, Gramma, I do pay attention when you tell stories…"
"Unseelie are the bad guys, right?" I whispered at him. "I bet he's Unseelie."
"Neither one is very good," he said, away from the phone for a moment. "Yeah, Gramma? I'm pretty sure he's Unseelie… That's right, it's pretty bad… What would you do? Pray?" He rolled his eyes. "What about getting rid of him? Will he just go away? No… okay… okay, just a minute." He took out a mini notepad and pen, and started writing. A shopping list, it looked like. "Okay… Got it. Then what? Really? Is that all?"
Patience, Kitty. Back in the caravan, people had entered the tent. I couldn't see anything now, or sense anything, except that a large group of people had gathered.
"Thanks a lot, Gramma. This is just what I need. I have to go now… Yes, yes I'm coming for Thanksgiving this year. No, I'm not bringing Jill… She broke up with me six months ago, Gramma." He held the phone an inch away from his ear, closed his eyes, and gave a deep sigh. I could hear the woman's voice, slow and static-laden, but not the words.
This was ridiculous. I wanted t
o throttle him.
"I have to go now… goodbye, Gramma… I love you." He clicked off.
"What did she say? What do we do?" I said, forcing my hands to not grab his shirt and shake him.
"We go grocery shopping."
"What?"
"Bread, salt, some different herbs. Unless you brought any of this stuff with you?" He showed me the list he'd written: verbena, Saint-John's-wort, rowan.
"Can we even find some of this at the local supermarket?"
He shrugged. "Once we get the stuff it doesn't sound like it's that hard of a spell. We just walk around the camp, sprinkle the stuff on the ground, and poof."
"Poof?"
"Poof, he's banished back to underhill, or wherever the hell he came from."
Wherever the hell. Apt phrase, that.
"So we go to the store, get the supplies, come back, and that's that. Easy," Jeffrey said, grinning like we were planning a school prank.
Stockton put the list back in his pocket. "I think I remember seeing a convenience store a few miles back, at the last intersection. They'll have some of this stuff. She didn't say we need all of it, these are just the options. Why don't you two wait here and keep an eye on things while I go get the stuff."
"Sure," Jeffrey said without hesitation. Stockton was already turning to go.
"Wait!" I tried to keep my voice down and sound desperate at the same time.
"You have a better idea?"
"I go get the stuff and you wait here?"
"I'll be back in half an hour, I promise. Here, hang on to this." He gave me the locket charm, then ran along the shelter of the trees, back to the road.
I had a bad feeling about this. "Split up," I muttered. "We can take more damage that way. You know we're stranded here once he takes the car."
"Calm down, it'll be okay. Smith's wrapped up in whatever he's doing in there and the guards haven't spotted us. We'll stay here, keep our heads down, and be fine."
"You're entirely too pleased about all this."
"Of course I am! I've never done anything like this before. I'm usually cooped up in a TV studio or a book signing. But this—running around, investigating, spying. How cool is it?"
How did I get myself into these situations? "So, Jeffrey—you want to be a guest on my show?"
"Um—just what exactly would that involve?"
Inside the caravan, nothing happened. If this had been any other church's revival meeting, there would have been singing, shouting, praying. I wouldn't have minded hearing some speaking-in-tongues.
But there was nothing, except Jeffrey and me sitting in the dark and the cold, under a tree, waiting.
Enough time passed for me to think that Stockton had set us up. Somewhere, hidden cameras recorded us, and any minute now actors dressed as bogeymen would leap out of the woods, screaming and carrying on. I'd freak out, adrenaline would push me over the edge, and I'd turn Wolf, because that was what happened when I panicked in a dangerous situation. Stockton would get it all on film and broadcast it in "A Very Special Episode of Uncharted World: Kitty, Unleashed." I didn't know what Jeffrey would do. Get out of the way, I hoped.
Except the caravan of the Church of the Pure Faith was parked in front of us, and I wasn't going to take my eyes off them. The bogeymen would have to wait.
Jeffrey tapped my shoulder and pointed at the road. A car pulled up—Stockton's. The headlights were off, to draw less attention to it. I hissed a sigh of relief.
A few minutes later, he rejoined us, carrying a plastic bag. "Hi. Anything happen while I was gone?"
"Nothing," I said. "They've been quiet."
"Too quiet," Jeffrey added happily.
Stockton pulled items out of the bag: a loaf of sliced sandwich bread, a shaker of salt, a bottle of Saint-John's-wort herbal remedy, and a pill crusher.
"I figured we'd crush the pills up and sprinkle the powder," he said. "I don't think you can get Saint-John's-wort any other way these days."
I deferred to his supposedly greater knowledge, because I didn't have any better ideas.
"Jeffrey, you take the salt. Kitty—" He handed Jeffrey the salt, and me the loaf of bread. While he took the pill crusher out of the package and dug into the Saint-John's-wort, he explained. "We start at the north end of the caravan. Just sprinkle this stuff as we go, and that's that. Which way's north?"
The moon, a little over three-quarters, was rising. That marked east. I pointed to the left. "There." It was just off from the entrance of the caravan.
Stockton exhaled a deep breath. "Right. Here we go, then."
The reporter led us. He had the bottle of pills in his jacket pocket. Two at a time, he grabbed pills from the bottle, put them in the crusher, turned the knob until it crunched, then emptied the powder out on the ground. Jeffrey followed behind him, sprinkling salt. I tore the bread into pieces and dropped them. Just call me Gretel.
Stockton was whispering. I had to listen closely to understand the words.
"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name…" Prayer. A bit of verbal magic to bind the spell.
We walked around the caravan, clockwise, far enough away from the wire boundary to avoid drawing attention. Even the guards had gone in to Smith's service. I crumbled bread, afraid to say anything. Jeffrey pursed his lips in a serious expression, watching Stockton and the ground ahead of us. Stockton developed a rhythm, pill-crunch-sprinkle, his lips moving constantly.
Completing the circle seemed to take forever. We moved methodically, and therefore slowly. We didn't even know if this was going to work.
Finally, we returned to the north side of the caravan. We passed the entrance, which was blocked off with chains secured with padlocks, making the place look more like a prison than a religious camp. Stockton reached the spot where the trail of bread crumbs began. I closed the circle.
"… and deliver us from evil. Amen." He sighed and licked his lips.
Nothing happened.
"What's next?" I said, trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice.
"I don't know," Stockton said. "That was supposed to be it. I can't be sure I even did it right. I mean, who knows what other shit is in those pills."
That was it, then. We did what we could. Maybe we could go back to town, do some more research, and try again later.
"No, no. Something's happening. The light's gone all funny."
Jeffrey didn't elaborate. From my perspective, nothing had changed. Who knew what he could see?
Then, inside the caravan encampment, two figures approached the entrance. They were large, male, and stalked with long, smooth strides, predators in hunting mode—Smith's werewolf bodyguards.
"Guys?" I said, backing away. "We might want to get out of here."
The two bodyguards put their hands on the chains of the gate and hopped over, leaving the chains rattling. They continued on, right toward us.
Drawing together instinctively, we moved away quickly, stepping back, unwilling to turn away from the werewolves.
They crossed the line of the circle we'd made, then stopped.
For a moment, outside the circle marked by the bread crumbs, they stood frozen. Then one of them stumbled, as if he'd lost his balance. The other one put his hand to his head and squinted. They looked around, expressions confused, like they'd just come out of hibernation. They glanced at us, then at each other.
"Oh, my God," one of them murmured.
"Spell broken," Jeffrey said.
I moved toward them slowly—let them get a good look at me, get my scent, prove that I wasn't a danger. "Hi. Are you guys okay?"
"I don't know," said the one who'd spoken. "I—we were stuck. What happened? I'm not sure what happened."
They both looked back at the gate, their faces long and sad, nostalgic almost. The chain they'd jumped over a minute before was still swinging.
"Do you want to go back?" I said.
The other one, shorter, quieter, said, "It's not real, is it?"
"No," I said.
"Shit," he muttered, bowing his head.
Now all we had to do was get everyone else to leave the caravan and cross that line.
I wondered what would happen if Smith crossed that line.
A crowd had gathered, Smith's congregation leaving the tent and filling the space behind the gate. Dozens of them stared out with earnest, devout gazes.
At the head of the crowd stood Smith himself. Surrounded by his people, he seemed small, slight. I still had Stockton's charm in my pocket. I put it on. He appeared otherworldly, his gaze blank and inhuman. He frowned, burning. Lines seemed to form around him, tendrils that joined him to all the people around him, like tethers, leashes. Two broken lines stretched in front of him, wavering, unanchored.
One of the men, the one who'd spoken first, stepped toward Smith. I ran forward, slipping in front of him, blocking his way.
"No, don't go back. Please."
Smith called out from behind the gate. "You are keeping them from peace. I can give you peace."
"Kitty, don't listen to him!" Jeffrey called.
But his words hadn't affected me. I didn't have to listen to him. The charm protected me.
Jeffrey stood a few yards up the hill from me, his hands clenched, looking worried for the first time all evening. Stockton was nearby, his camera up and filming. At least we'd have a record of this, however it turned out.
I had to draw him out—without seeming like I was drawing him out. He was probably already suspicious. Of course he was.
I approached the gate. "Kitty!" Jeffrey's voice was tight with fear. I waved a hand, trying to tell him it was okay. I had a plan. I hoped.
At the line, I stopped walking and tried to look pathetic and indecisive.
One of his followers started unlocking the chain. Smith never touched the metal. Steel contained iron, which was poison to his kind.
Once the people around him had pulled the chains away, Smith moved forward. I couldn't look away; his gaze trapped mine. I tried to make it a challenge. Wolves stared when they wanted to make a challenge.
"You're curious, aren't you?" he said.
I nodded. I had to keep him moving forward.
"But you hesitate. You're afraid."
Kitty Goes to Washington kn-2 Page 14
