Japhet stared at him, going to no trouble to conceal his irritation. This is not like Mort. Is he becoming more independent than is comfortable for us? "Why didn't you tell us before?"
Mort said, submissively, "As I have said, I was busy dealing with these silly humans. That blast of energy you felt, it attracted my attention as well. I went to investigate, and keeping a safe distance I spied three Seleighe elves I recognized from Avalon. Two young elves, and a mage. Odras, I believe his name is."
"Odras!" Nargach exclaimed. "But he's…"
"He's what?" Japhet asked. He sounds like he knows this Seleighe.
"He's in the employ of Avalon," Nargach continued, but Japhet suspected this was not his original thought. Something to pursue later, perhaps. "I'm not very impressed with his talents. If he had stumbled across something powerful, which apparently he has, he probably doesn't have the skill to make use of it. I would call what we felt an anomaly, and something we shouldn't concern ourselves with."
"I know where they are," Mort said smugly.
Japhet considered this carefully, but quickly. Only three Seleighe, and one is a mage. We outnumber them. If we attack, their mage will likely attack Nargach first, and perhaps kill him, which would solve one problem for me. And it would avenge me, for the time being. This last consideration seemed the most gratifying, and it would reassert his power in his little clan. Leading victorious battles had a way of doing that.
Japhet smiled broadly, an unfamiliar contortion on his Unseleighe features. "Show us, my little servant," he said to Mort, barely able to restrain his elation.
The clan was clearly pleased at this turn of events; at last, it was something to do. Kill Seleighe. Before they left, however, Japhet suggested a few arrangements should the campaign go as badly as the last one had. Even Nargach agreed it was best to leave a magical escape route, which had saved their hides in their recent defeat in Avalon.
First he instructed Nargach to set a trap of imprisonment on the cabin, should the Seleighe come and try to rescue the little human fungus in there. The spell was carefully laid and tuned to freeze any Seleighe in their tracks should they come near the cabin. Then, a short distance down the dirt road, Nargach drew up the power to create a Gate.
It had started out as a simple job of organizing the contents of the shed a little more efficiently, so that he didn't bump into the old Indian motorcycle every time he moved; he didn't want to risk dinging it up any more than it already was under the inch-thick layer of dust. When he removed the cover, he stood in absolute awe of what he found underneath.
What he remembered as an old, dirty and neglected non-running machine was now an immaculate 1946 Indian Chief, with whitewall tires that were actually white]. Its fire engine red paint shone even in the shed's dim light, as bright and glossy as the day it rolled off the factory floor. When he pressed the front tire, he expected the rubber to collapse under his hand, but the tire was firm and fully inflated. The skirted fenders curved gracefully around the top half of the wheels. Hadn't the first one been removed, and sitting in the corner? He checked the oil, full and recently changed. The tank was also full of gas, when before it had been drained. And this smell. New oil, new paint, new rubber. New motorcycle? But how can this be?
Then he remembered Grampa's parting words: You will also have a gift, a red Indian gift. The message made no sense then. It made perfect sense now.
"But do you run?" he said to the beautiful beast.
Wolf eased it carefully out of the shed, flinching every time it came close to touching something unclean. In the shed it was a gorgeous machine, but in full sunlight it was a dazzling work of art.
And it started right up.
"Monkakchi!" he muttered. "Goddamn."
In a daze, he slipped out of the awkward konsainta and found jeans and his old boots. In the pile of stuff he had salvaged was an old't-shirt, and a thick jean jacket He also found a pair of old riding goggles. Once everything was on, he turned to regard the two-wheeled miracle. The Indian purred as it idled, with hardly a vibration through its leather saddle seat as Wolf parked his bony posterior on it.
Though he had never ridden an Indian before, he knew the shift pattern, the brakes, everything about it. But I'm still an injured rider, he reminded himself. Nothing fancy, now.
He eased the clutch out and rolled down the dirt road, then eased to a careful stop at the highway. In spite of his recent wreck, the asphalt beckoned once more.
Just a short ride, he thought eagerly as he rode out onto the highway.
He rode perhaps a mile down the highway, shifting through its four speeds as if it were his old Harley. It was a bit wider and longer than what he was accustomed to, so it was a challenge to make a slow, wide U-turn on the highway, using part of the desert to accomplish the feat. But he brought the Indian back home in one piece, after riding maybe two miles on it, and reaching the phenomenal speed of 48 miles per hour.
He parked it alongside his mattress in the shed, half tempted to lay her down on the mattress beside him so he could sleep with her. Then he remembered Wenlann, and her promise to come see him.
I'm in no shape to entertain ladies. I've got to rest up, heal up, and get better. I've got a motorcycle, and a real potential girlfriend, all tm the same day. Life is good.
He drifted off listening to the cooling Indian engine go tic tic tic, & lullaby that sang him to sleep.
Danger, Thorn sensed, at the edge of his domain. Wolf is in danger. The screaming warning brought the image of a black van driven by a very dangerous person.
Thorn set off in haste, pushing Valerie to her limits, but when the distance to Wolf shortened, a fog of haze and confusion greeted him; it was like trying to ride through a snowstorm, against a sharp wind, with no dear road ahead.
Then he remembered the pain Wolf was in. Pain did this, made this storm happen. Yet the impending danger, no, doom, that was about to befall Wolf kept him going. He had to find him, it was his duty. Through the storm Thorn caught the outline of the shed, and of another vehicle. The black van. They were going after Wolf.
Wolf, wake up! Thorn shouted against the storm, but could not penetrate it enough to reach his charge. He tried riding Valerie past the dangerous people who were now carrying Wolf into the van, but was simply not skilled enough to reach through the levels without Wolf to lock in on. These are the people who killed his grandfather. They must be considering the same with Wolf.
He was helpless to do much except observe the van's progress. Then up ahead, a cabin. The dark power of the Unseleighe lurked in this dwelling.
Contact the Seleighe. He turned Valerie around and rode downwind instead of against it. As his speed increased, the storm receded behind him.
Petrus had gone out of his way to show how angry he wasn't by lying back on the bed and turning on the TV. Maybe there was some local news about the Satanic group. Wenlann lay down on the bed next to him, not saying a word, and promptly went to sleep. Her deep breathing not only made his heart ache for her even more, he felt the beginnings of his own fatigue coming on. He was ready to doze off, sitting up in the bed, when Odras rolled past the window and parked his beemer steed, then entered the room with a flourish.
"It works," he announced proudly. "We can Gate when and wherever we want to without tapping into stored Node reserves."
"No foolin'," Petrus replied, too tired to say more. Odras sat cross-legged on the floor in the corner of the motel room, closed his eyes, and became absolutely still. This was a routine Petrus had observed many times before. He's meditating.
Petrus had been dozing for half a candlemark or so when the roar of a motorcycle just outside their open window jolted him awake. Still groggy, he grabbed his sword, and was at the door before someone knocked.
Odras came awake also, and peered out the window.
"I don't recognize this rider, but he appears to be unarmed."
"Appears" isn't good enough, thought Petrus, holding the sword behind the door as he opene
d it.
"Good afternoon, hon," greeted the rider, clad in a one-piece leather riding suit similar to Odras'. Petrus didn't recognize her immediately because her bluish white hair was pulled back, a style suitable for wearing helmets.
"Mattie?" Petrus asked.
"I just thought I would drop these off before I left," she said, balancing a Tupperware container on a red Shoei helmet.
"How sweet of you," Wenlann said, joining Petrus at the door and accepting the gift.
"Please, come in," Petrus offered, once he had regained composure.
"No thank you, sweet," Mattie said, returning to an idling sport bike, a sienna red BMW R1100RT. "I was just on my way out for a little spin, then it's off to the quilting bee at the church. If you need anything, just call the front desk."
Petrus watched, thunderstruck, as she tucked away a bungee net, then put on the helmet. She mounted the sleek machine and pulled out of the parking lot, hunched over the cycle like a nineteen-year-old kid. But when the bike hit asphalt she was gone in an instant. The roar of the 1100 dopplered away like a receding bullet.
Petrus stood at the door for some time, stunned. Wenlann's laughter shook him from his trance.
"Here. Have some oatmeal cookies," she said, offering the opened gift. They're still warm." He bit into the gooiness with pleasure, as Wenlann remarked, "The look on your face."
"Humans," he said, around a mouthful of cookie. "Never a dull moment."
He was about to suggest dinner when the roar of another, quite different motorcycle drew closer.
Thorn.
Petrus and Wenlann were both outside by the time he pulled Valerie up on her center stand. Thorn's expression told them right away the news was bad.
They have Wolf," he said breathlessly.
"Who does?" Petrus asked.
The Unseleighe, you fool," Wenlann said, distressed.
Thorn nodded. "Yes, the Unseleighe. And Damien, the Satanists. The ones who killed his grandfather. They abducted him and took him to a cabin."
"Oh, great," Wenlann said. "I knew we shouldn't have left him alone!"
"Are you certain they were Unseleighe?" Odras asked, stepping out of the motel room.
"No doubt. I've met them before, I know what their power feels like. They have made that cabin their own."
They must be planning on staying here a while, then," Petrus said, trying to take control of a situation that was becoming quite uncontrollable. "Five Unseleighe, one a mage. One, Japhet Dhu. The humans we can handle easily. And three against five? The odds could be better, but… Odras, are you with me?"
"Certainly," the Mage replied. That is, if you insist on this course of action."
Petrus studied him, and in the mage's relaxed, ambivalent look saw that he didn't really think going after the Unseleighe was such a good idea.
"I know they have humiliated you," Odras said, apparently sensing his indecision. "And granted, the human Wolf is in a great deal of trouble. But we are only three. Even in the best light the odds are not in our favor."
"All right, then," Petrus said. "We will go and verify the location. Wenlann, would you stay and try to contact the King on the net, and tell him we're ready for reinforcements?"
Thank you," Wenlann said, more to Odras than to Petrus, and went back into their motel room.
Petrus turned to the Rider Guardian. Thorn, would you kindly show us the way?"
Chapter Fourteen
With a start Lucas awakened and tried to sit up. It was dark. He couldn't move: he was bound by something strong and sticky. He tried yelling, but a strip of tape turned the shout into a mrwwwmph.
Rolling onto his side, he faced a long, horizontal slit of light. As his panic subsided, he realized he was looking at the bottom of a door. He heard nothing except for a whistle of wind coming from somewhere above him. He lay there for an eternity, willing his breathing to slow down.
He lay on a mattress, which had a cloying, metallic odor. Like someone had soiled the mattress, or had even bled and died on it. His stomach roiled at the thought. He closed his eyes, and with everything he had, summoned calmness. As he relaxed, his heart hammered a little less at his ribcage. Okay, let's try this again. A second attempt at sitting up succeeded, but something around his ankles hindered his standing up.
He rolled over on his knees and rocked back until balanced on his feet. The strip of light now illuminated his Nikes, and he saw duct tape wrapped around his ankles. The door was not that far away, but required careful hops to reach it. He lost his balance, and shoulder and head slammed loudly into a metal door. He froze, waiting to see what, if any, response the sound would get. Nothing stirred. Righting himself, his hands brushed against a doorknob. He turned it, but it didn't yield. Locked. Great. The doorknob was smooth and featureless. The lock was on the other side. Inching his way along the wall his arm connected with something sticking out of the wall.
A switch. Light flooded the room when he pushed the switch up with his arm.
He wished he hadn't.
Lucas screamed against the tape over his mouth, and backed into a corner where he collided with a work table. But his eyes were on the ceiling and opposite walls; any calm he'd achieved earlier was gone, as he started to hyperventilate through his nose.
Why don't they just kill me and be done with it? he thought as he tried to push himself deeper into the corner.
The mattress was indeed blood-soaked, the stains having dried to a blackish brown. In the far corner was a board set up on two cinderblocks, upon which were the bare skulls of what looked like dogs, cats and people. At least five full human skulls grinned silently at him, some small, as if from children, and some with an occasional patch of flesh or hair still intact. Hanging on the walls were several metal wires, with bones strung on them like a necklace. On the cinderblock walls were pentagrams, baphomets, inverted crosses, and other symbols he didn't immediately recognize, all drawn in blood.
Dear God, Lucas thought, wondering what, if anything, might save him from this. Wind blew through a tiny rectangular window overhead, and beyond it was the darkness of nightfall. The table he was leaning against had a few odds and ends on it. There were a few gallon cans of paint, a jug of mineral spirits, some paint brushes.
Then his eyes caught a square can of something marked "solvent," and he had an idea. He hopped over to the other end of the table, tipped the can over with his nose, to where it was hanging over the edge of the table. With difficulty he bent over and reached up with his bound hands.
A truck or something pulled up outside, followed by a loud slamming of doors.
"Shit," he muttered, almost dropping the can. He had it in one hand, but it was too big to fit in his hip pocket. Instead he slipped it down the back of his pants, inside his briefs, and pulled his long't-shirt back over his backside. He hopped back over to the light switch, turned it off, and fell back on the mattress.
A door some distance away opened with a loud squeak.
"Finally we've got the sonofabitch," he heard someone say, followed by the sounds of shuffling feet, as if a two or more people were carrying something heavy.
"Leave the handcuffs on," the voice said again.
"What about the little shit in there?" That was Satanic Panic.
"Check him."
Lucas closed his eyes and feigned sleep. The door opened briefly, then closed.
"He's still out," Panic said. "You gonna give me the bag now or what?"
"Here," said the voice, then came the rustle of plastic. "'Same as the last. Be careful with it."
"I'm always careful," Panic replied, and giggled like a schoolgirl.
The door opened again, and an engine started. Lucas waited until the van was long gone. Whoever or whatever they had brought in wasn't moving. He got back on his feet, turned the light back on, and began peeling the tape off his mouth using the corner of the table. Nearly all of it was off, the long strip hanging off his right cheek, but he could finally breathe freely through his mouth. T
hen he studied the window at the top of the wall, a horizontal strip of space that looked about six inches high. If he pulled the table over, he would be able to get up to it. But first he'd have to get unbound.
Before trying the can of solvent he tried the worktable's corner to free his hands. Lucas hacked away at the tape, cutting his hand a few times in the process. The blood running over the tape made it slick, and well nigh impossible for the table corner to gain purchase. Then he heard something outside, and froze.
Something was just outside the window. Then came a long throaty growl, the kind of sound that only comes from very large animals. The sound shook the glass in the window and reverberated against the cinder block walls like a mufflerless motorcycle. A mountain lion. Had to be. It was huge.
It wasn't leaving. What is it finding so attractive? Perhaps it was the blood on the mattress and walls, not to mention the fresh blood on his hands. But he wasn't ready to die yet. He considered the stuff on the table, wondered if something there would hide the smell of the blood. The mineral spirits might make this an unappetizing buffet after all. The solvent was still in his pants, cool and clammy against his left buttock. I could use the table corner to open it…
In the midst of putting this plan to action, he heard the cat scream again. Then another wild animal sound: A wolf, in the room next to him. What is this, a goddamn zoo? he thought, staggering backwards, away from the sound. Maybe I don't want out of here after all. The metal door holding him in looked pretty stout. Now he was glad it was. The Wolf's bark rattled his diaphragm.
Big dog, big cat. Great, maybe they'll fight it out and leave me alone.
The ruckus sounded like the mountain lion and wolf were trying to disembowel each other. The fight traveled outside, as he heard a distant version of it from beyond his window. Soon, the fight faded to silence.
Then he remembered, The others. Panic. Whatshisface. They're going to be back.
Theu will kill me.
In the darkness Japhet Dhu and Nargach observed the lone Seleighe through the motel window, keeping their distance from a set of subtle but effective wards protecting the room. Nargach had muttered something about this being the work of Odras, but had failed to elaborate if this was a problem for him or not.
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