The Summer Country

by James A. Hetley

  Question: who's the real paranoid here?

  Brian looked better today: bruises already yellowing, swelling going down around the stitches. He was moving more easily, walking again, breathing normally again. It made Maureen's skin crawl, just thinking about it. Uncanny.

  It brought up major questions, though. When the man got healthy, what was she going to do with him? She wasn't equipped for living with a man. Physically, maybe, she had the usual female equipment of tits and ass, but mentally?

  Move back to Jo's, her being shacked up with that lyin' cheatin' no-'count guitar player? Find a third apartment with Brian's money? Trust the lock on her bedroom door? Crazy little Maureen was sharing an apartment with a man she'd met three days ago. A man she'd called a rapist. A man she'd threatened to kill.

  Maureen's got a problem. Maureen's having flashbacks again.

  Girl, six-pack of pre-mixed formula and box of disposable diapers, pack of condoms. Looked to be maybe sixteen, maybe not. Condoms? Now? Better late than never. Maureen counted out change.

  "Have a nice day."

  At least that's one thing hanging around with Jo had taught her. You'd never catch Jo without a condom in her jeans pocket.

  Maureen's fingers danced their dance across the cash register, her eyes shifted from flickering gray monitors to prurient magazine rack in their paranoid patrol, her mind wandered the alleyways of sexual relationships. Maureen and men. Maureen and Brian.

  Brian was behaving himself. She didn't know whether he was a nice guy or just a louse too badly hurt to show his true colors. He wasn't Buddy, anyway. She'd felt no sign of that suspicious warmth of his "glamour." He acted the proper British gentleman, not a word or gesture or touch out of place.

  They played chess with an old wooden set she'd found when they moved out of Jo's. He was an unconventional player, brilliant but erratic. Sometimes the two of them combined for a grandmaster game, sometimes a total debacle. He tended to ambushes and sudden overwhelming power concentrated on a single point. She went in more for feints within feints within feints, with minor pieces or even pawns turning into devastating weapons when you least expected.

  A shrink would have a field day with their different playing styles.

  Sometimes, he'd overlook a simple mate in two because it was too obvious. Apparently his military life had been like that, flashes of brilliance mired in the retreat of a dying empire. The politicians called them victories, but most of his career sounded like one disaster after another. According to him, even the Falklands had been a total fuck-up. But you couldn't blame the bishop for being on the wrong diagonal when he was needed.

  They watched movies, by preference old movies on the cable channels. Maureen liked knowing the ending ahead of time. Just like with chess, it helped her little problems if she knew the rules. Brian seemed to want a bit of predictability in his life, as well. Maybe he hadn't had enough of it.

  They'd only spent a couple of days together, but time with Brian was strange. It went fast, and yet seemed far longer than it was. Seemed like they'd done too much to fit into the hours and there were too many hours to fit into the days. Maybe that's where the fast healing came from.

  Whatever it meant, she was getting used to having him around.

  He was a good patient, too. Never complained when his inept nurse fumbled re-bandaging or grabbed hold of the wrong piece of man when helping him out of a chair.

  Twelve ninety-five for gas. She wiped the license number she'd automatically memorized when the car pulled up to the pump. If a car pulled out without paying, she either had the fucking license number or she ended up buying the fucking gas herself. Incentive plan.

  She made change. "Have a nice day."

  Half-gallon of milk and the Record Eagle.

  "Good evening, Maureen."

  She jerked, almost knocking over the sign showing the Megabucks winning number. She'd been watching the gas pump, out the window. Quit jumping like a Vietnam vet hearing a car backfire, you silly bitch!

  But she didn't know anybody in the store. Maureen's eyes snapped into focus. Sleek dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin: Fiona.

  No.

  It was her shadow, the other elegant cobra from the strip club: Sean. If he let his hair grow long and wore his clothes cut for a slim woman, he could pass for Fiona's twin sister.

  He wore Fiona's face, molded into a kind of androgynous maleness. Fiona had said something about sterility. Brian had mentioned XXY chromosomes and the hybrid problem. Didn't that mean impotent? Maureen couldn't remember.

  Where the hell had he come from? He hadn't walked in the front door. And then she remembered Fiona in Carlysle Woods, appearing and vanishing without a trace. Frigging magic.

  Alarm bells jangled in the back of her brain. Sean and Fiona--Brian said they were behind his beating. Brian said they were dangerous. They had never hurt her, though. Besides, something whispered in her head, you're safe here. Magic only happens in the alleys and the shadows. This is Quick Shop, the least magical place on earth.

  What was so dangerous about magic? Fiona had laughed when told Brian said the Summer Country was dangerous. And the real world wasn't all that safe. Maureen had seen Brian kill a man about four blocks from here.

  Well, maybe not a man, according to what Brian said.

  Magic can't exist under fluorescent lights and monitor cameras. This tacky atmosphere would drive a stake through the heart of the strongest vampire. You're safe here. It didn't really sound like her critic, but the voice was as persuasive as the Snake in Eden. The alarm bells faded as if stifled in wads of cotton.

  Her deep-rooted fear of men, of everyone, started to look laughable. This Sean, sterile, he couldn't be a threat. He'd be sort of like the harem eunuch--you could trust him around women. No chance of a glamour there.

  Her automatic pilot counted out change for the milk and paper. "Have a nice day."

  Their hands touched. Smooth. Warm. Electric. Like the touch of Brian's hand when they'd walked away from the fire. That had been nice.

  "We need to talk," he said. "You shouldn't be afraid of us. When do you get off work?"

  His voice had Fiona's soft Irish lilt but in a slightly deeper register. Soft Irish whisky, it really was, golden and smoky and magic on the tongue, with a gentle liquid fire soaking straight into the throat and never even reaching the stomach. Brian's voice was gin, cheap gin. It would get you drunk enough, but you wouldn't enjoy the process half as much.

  "It's past time for my break. Wait while I get the night manager out here to cover the register. We can talk outside."

  She pushed the call button, one short dash that meant no trouble. One time she'd jammed the damn thing, gave the long buzz that said, "Call the cops." White cars and blue lights like you wouldn't believe. She'd smoothed it over with free cups of coffee and some outdated donuts that only would have fed the dumpster in the morning.

  Fred came out, glanced over the monitors, and punched his code into the register. He didn't even try to crowd her tits or brush his hand across her ass behind the counter. She felt calm and safe, as if Sean was guarding her against such threats. She grabbed her jacket, swinging it carefully so Fred wouldn't notice the lumpy weight of the Smith in the right pocket.

  Sean took her arm, like a gentleman leading his lady onto the ballroom floor. It was a soft touch, a warm touch, a friendly touch--not something threatening. Faint unease raised memories of how Brian's glamour had felt the other night, how that slow gentle warmth had grown into frightening passion.

  Why be afraid of passion? Most people seek it out.

  Besides, Sean's a sterile hybrid. He's no threat.

  The cold wind bit through that glow as soon as they stepped outside, an Alberta Clipper straight down from the Arctic Circle. She wiggled into her jacket and turned her back to the polar ice-cap. Maine faced another month of winter before she could even begin to think about sun and birds and green, growing things.

  And Mud Season. And then bugs. Someday she
was going to move to a place where the weather was designed with people in mind.

  "Fiona asked me to talk to you."

  Maureen jerked her thoughts back from their vague wandering. Brian had told her this man was dangerous.

  Sean didn't look dangerous. He stood in the frozen slush, wind tangling his hair, looking like an ad for some designer line of clothing: a Spanish Don, somebody like Ricardo Montalban about to climb into a big Chrysler with butter-soft leather upholstery and a walnut dash. Even the garish orange glow of the streetlights suited his sleek dark beauty.

  "So talk." Maureen forced a hostile tone, fighting against the voice of the serpent. "What does Fiona want with me? Want me to poison her brother, perhaps? He's too big for me to beat him up."

  Sean laughed, with a deprecating wave of his free hand. "Nothing so crude. She just wants you to remember that you have a home waiting for you with your people. A warm, green home in the Summer Country."

  He gestured at the ice, the cold glitter of the winter stars, the tawdry beer signs flapping across the Quick Shop front. Maureen read the sweep of his arm. The store was flat-ass ugly: Marlboro's ragged vinyl banner, the stack of gallon bottles of windshield-washer fluid sadly depleted by the recent siege of slush, the dumpster overflowing wet cardboard into the piles of filthy snow left by the plow-truck. His arm swept on, to include the whole tattered, icy, dirty, dangerous, nasty scene of city winter.

  Summer Country. The image was seductive, like the travel-agency ads for Cancun or St. Thomas, the cabin-fever getaway specials they trotted out right after a big storm. Somewhere around Groundhog Day, when the mercury in the thermometer congealed down near thirty below, half the State of Maine flew south. The other half wished they could.

  "Why'd you guys attack Brian."

  Sean shook his head. "What makes you think it was us? Believe me, Fiona doesn't want him damaged."

  For an instant, the golden warmth slipped, and Maureen caught a flicker of rage across Sean's face. She felt the sudden chill of danger and peeled her arm out of his hand.

  "Not damaged? Just weakened? Weakened to the point where she can control him?"

  He moved closer to her, bringing the warm glow back into the night. Sean might be dangerous, but not to her. Maureen focused on his eyes, the beautiful depth of his eyes in the light spilling out from the store windows. Anyone, man or woman, could fall into those eyes and drown.

  "Brian is a ruthless man, Maureen. He has many enemies. Remember what he did to Liam. Brian has killed many Old Ones with many friends. Any one of those could be hunting him for revenge. Fiona wanted me to warn you. You are in great danger, living with Brian."

  "And I would be safer in the Summer Country?"

  Sean brushed a finger gently across her cheek, leaving a taste of delicious fire behind. "Safety is relative, my dear. Laws protect you in the world of men. We do not have laws in the Summer Country. We have customs."

  The palm of his hand was impossibly soft and warm and gentle, caressing her neck. "You are a beautiful woman, Maureen, a powerful woman. When you come to the Summer Country, your beauty and the power of your blood will defend you. Men will fear you and adore you, laying their hearts at your feet. They will protect you, each from the other. There is strength in jealousy. This is our custom, strength balanced against strength."

  His face floated, inches from her own--soft, dark, handsome, hypnotic. "We are not barbarians in the Summer Country. No man will take you against your will. Come with me, Maureen. Come with me to your own homeland."

  She smelled the land on him--the warm earth, the green grass, the peat fires, the slow river-waters flowing smooth and tannin-dark across the water-weed. The word pictures flowed through her head using Grandfather O'Brian's voice, the voice of safety. Sean's lips burned against hers without any trace of the cold north wind. Maureen fell into the kiss, losing herself, barely conscious of his hands drawing her body against his.

  Something in the back of her head screamed terror and warning, but it was weak and far away. Her pulse buried it under the rushing, throbbing heat in her breasts and belly.

  * * *

  Jo blinked again. Maureen had been right there. Maureen, kissing a man. And then Jo had blinked with shock, and the two of them were gone.

  She must have stepped back inside the store. It could have been a minute rather than a second, Jo's surprise being what it was.

  Jo pushed through the icy wind and into the Quick Shop. Just checking, she reminded herself. She owed it to Maureen, she owed it to herself, to make sure everything was fine. She hadn't seen her sister since the morning she moved out. They hadn't ever thrashed things out about Buddy, either. There'd never been a chance.

  The greasy little man behind the counter looked up and jumped. Jo had seen that look before: Maureen walked out and Jo walked in, different clothes on the same woman with no time to change. Sometimes they used to do it for a joke, just like real twins.

  "Where's Maureen?"

  The man's eyes narrowed as they groped their way up and down Jo's body. Fucking slimeball, she thought. Come out from behind that counter and I'll kick you in the cojones. Freebie, special for Maureen, just for having to work with you.

  "Stepped outside a minute ago. She never told me she had a twin sister."

  "She doesn't."

  Jo pushed back through the door, right into a gust of wind that might as well have been liquid nitrogen. Her teeth felt like they were going to crack from thermal stress. Maybe Mo had ducked around the corner, hiding out in the shadows and a bit of shelter.

  Smooching.

  Maureen? No way in God's green tomato patch. Something was wrong here. The whole scene, wrong. It stank like a week-old road-killed skunk. If that Brian character had tangled her up in trouble, Jo would skin him alive with her fingernails.

  She'd been right to check on Mo.

  Jo closed her eyes. There was a trick they used to do, she and Maureen, it played hell with games of hide-and-seek: find the sister. Get calm enough, quiet enough, and listen to the chunk of brain just on top of your spinal cord. If Maureen was anywhere within a couple-hundred yards, Jo could find her. And vice-versa. In some ways, they were twins. Nothing mystical or magic: her back-brain probably just knew how Maureen thought, where she was likely to go.

  The wind nipped at her and she drifted along with it, around that hypothetical corner into a calm eddy. No Maureen.

  She quieted herself, relaxed, slowed her breathing. Slow, in through the nose, out through the mouth, like the stress meditation they taught her when coping with insanity was driving her insane. Count heartbeats against the breath, inhale four counts, hold the breath four counts, exhale eight counts. Nothing existed except her breathing.

  Center my self in peace.

  Part of me is missing. Where is she?

  A faint echo returned, at the edge of her sister-sonar: Maureen, that way, around back. She might be embarrassed as hell, Jo catching her making out with a man. Tough shit. Jo wouldn't be able to sleep tonight if she didn't track her sister down.

  Eyes closed, Jo turned and took a careful, sliding step. The feeling strengthened as the air fell still around her. Careful, careful, there was ice underfoot. Another step brought a touch of warmth to her face, and she opened her eyes, expecting an unseen vent.

  Sweat jumped out of her spine and froze there.

  She stood in formless dark. Phantoms played with the corners of her eyes, then disappeared when she flicked her vision after them. Faint whispers echoed sight in her ears, voices and words just beyond or beneath understanding. The damp coolness of a cave hung musty around her, mixed with some sense of graveyard earth. Under the Sidhe hill, she giggled hysterically to herself, a waking dream.

  She was going crazy. She was following her sister straight into the loony bin.

  Jo snatched at her only way out. Where was Maureen?

  Calming breaths, again. In. Hold. Out. Relax back into the center. Open herself to the void. Seek the emptiness in
her mind. Seek the peace.

  Maureen was that way. Now Jo was trying to save herself instead of her sister. Too late to back out now--she didn't even know which way was out. She was committed.

  Another cautious step and Jo felt the ground firm beneath her feet, spongy with turf rather than the crusty winter muck coating Naskeag Falls. She opened her eyes again.

  Grass. Trees. Green, rolling hills. Blue sky. Sun.

  This isn't real. She blinked and shook her head like a horse tormented by flies. The impossible world mocked her confusion by continuing to exist.

  Jo shivered even though she was no longer cold.

  She stood by a fieldstone wall that separated pastures from ancient woods. The breeze caressed her cheeks, wiping the bite of winter away and bringing the sweet warmth of spring to her nose. Dazed beyond fear, she slipped off her gloves and ran cold-reddened fingers over the moss on the stone. Damp. Velvet soft. Coolness that felt warm by contrast with her touch-memory of Maine ice. She brought fingers to her nose and drank in the sour wet smell of lichen eating stone.

  It was real. Either real or delusions strong enough to make Maureen's look like sanity.

  Starch leaked out of her knees. She settled onto a rock, grateful for its gritty reality under her butt. She'd always thought little Mo's babble about wizards from Grandpa's Summer Country proved she was ready for the butterfly nets.

  Black dots swirled across her eyes and she fought them down, continuing to breathe slowly against an urge to just give up and faint. She'd always hated those tight-corseted females who gave a theatrical groan and collapsed under a little strain.

  Jo gritted her teeth and forced the world to settle on an even keel. Jesus H. Christ, Maureen, what have you gotten into now?

  Jo scanned the forest edge, picking out oak and birch and a huge glossy holly that dominated the field's corner like a god. This forest was old, radiating age like Stonehenge or the Sphinx. That pasture oak, it had to be older than Columbus.

  This was no place in Maine, with old-growth forest right up against a pasture wall. The oak would have been firewood sent up a chimney a century ago. And she'd never seen lush grassland like this. Maine pastures tended to look like a terminal case of mange: bald spots of granite mixed with drifts of scrub juniper too tough and prickly for grazing.