by Tess Adair
Somewhere far above her head, she heard a car whizzing by on the road. She had just enough time to appreciate the fact that she wasn’t dead before her world went black.
I worship…
Logan lost her sense of herself as she was pulled headlong into someone else. Inside another person’s body, she could see a long, thin match catching the flame of a candle on an altar. Different shapes had been drawn on the walls in chalk, but the light was too low to make them out. Another flame lit up, but the shapes remained elusive.
The scene shifted. She walked in this alien body through bright white halls flooded with fluorescent lighting, blinking in her surroundings. She saw undifferentiated tile and white walls and a row of…blue lockers. School. She was in a school somewhere. The body she wore was filled with fear and paranoia, and just a hint of rage. It turned a corner and the rage seemed to rise.
Then that world went black again. In another moment, the altar appeared again. The anger inside her host’s body had swelled to a fever pitch.
Somewhere nearby, a frightened animal made a noise. A hand—perhaps her own—grasped a butcher’s knife, raised it up, brought it down. The animal fell silent. Blood spilled onto the altar, and she felt someone else’s excitement as their summon began to work…
I worship…
Then she felt herself shift into someone new. Someone who was running. Was it someone? No, some thing. It ran, and it panted, and it smelled. It smelled blood. It smelled a heartbeat. Logan could smell the heartbeat, too.
It needed the heart. It hungered for the heart.
It ran through the woods, chasing the smell of that heartbeat. The woods grew loud with human voices and pungent with human scents. The beast knew its prey was close.
I worship…
So many smells, but it knew exactly which one. The heart it craved was drawing closer, drifting away from the other human smells. The beast waited, letting it come. Letting it walk into shadow.
Then it attacked.
It was all over so quick. Jaws and teeth and kill.
Nobody even noticed that anything was wrong.
I worship…the wolf.
Sight came back to her through a cloud of confusion. Every time she came down from a Choronzon Key vision, she suffered a few moments of debilitating disorientation as she grappled with the sudden appearance and disappearance of another person’s psyche inside her head. She took a breath and collected her thoughts. As practicality set in once more, she ran a hand over her head, just to make sure she hadn’t hit it on her way down. No obvious bumps or cuts, so that was good.
As she made her way to standing, she couldn’t feel any other obvious injuries. Her legs and arms seemed intact and capable of their usual ranges of motion. She no longer felt dizzy, though her thoughts came to her at half their usual speed. And the mark on her back still stung smartly, like someone had held a branding iron to it. But that pain, at least, was par for the course.
The memory of the vision tugged at her brain, begging to be considered. She pushed it away, if only temporarily.
The bike had rolled a few feet farther than she had. For a moment, she had to struggle to set it upright—which was something of a novel experience for her. Though the bike weighed roughly 500 pounds, she’d never once had trouble lifting it. But it wasn’t unusual for the Key’s messages to sap her of her considerable strength for a brief time. Still, eventually she got it up and rolled it back over to the road. Then she was riding again, this time with an eye out for the nearest rest stop.
As she rode, she let her mind fall back into the vision.
What could she see? A lot of darkness and shadows and vague shapes. She could see evidence of magic, but she couldn’t tell what kind or what it was meant to do. She could see a sacrifice—what kind of animal? Filtering out everything else, she focused on the sound of it—screaming, squawking—a chicken. Unfortunately, that didn’t tell her much. Among letha casters who chose to use animal blood for their spells, chickens tended to be popular, likely because they were cheap, easy to acquire, and easy to kill.
So what about the rest? The vision had pulled her into two minds—the mind of a person and the mind of the beast. What could she tell about the person? He or she spent time in a school, and while they were at that school, they felt afraid and angry—so, probably a teenager. She couldn’t say with absolute certainty, of course, but it seemed like a reasonable guess. And what about the beast? She returned to that, trying to let its instincts and senses fill her. What had it seen? Focusing in on the moment right before its kill, she forced herself to inhabit the beast in all its unseemly glory. The experience was aggressively unpleasant. She could feel its bloodlust, its hunger for violence, its rage.
But she could also see. She could see its victim—a teenage girl, maybe 17 or 18 years old, white, with dark hair and wide, terrified eyes. Wide eyes and flushed skin and young blood, rushing just beneath the surface—the smell of it—the need for more—
With a shake, Logan tore herself loose from the monster’s psyche once more, but she made sure to hold the image of the girl in her mind. That girl, young as she had been, was dead now. She had to hold onto that fact. No matter what else happened, she had to remember her.
And what about the other part of the vision?
I worship the wolf.
What the hell did that mean? Logan grimaced as she realized she had research looming in her future.
To her right, she saw a sign alerting travelers to an upcoming rest stop, and she went for it. Her bike slowed as she passed along the drive through a copse of trees. The stop appeared deserted; hers was the only vehicle around.
After throwing down the kickstand and leaving her helmet haphazardly on the seat, she went straight for the bathroom and located a mirror on the wall. Shrugging off her jacket, she pulled up her shirt and craned her neck as far as she could over her shoulder.
There it was: the Choronzon Key. At one point in time, it had been a separate physical entity; she could have held it in her hand. But not anymore. Now it was permanently adhered to her skin, a tattoo she’d never chosen, and at the moment, it was a bright, burning red.
It was a labyrinth, or it took the form of one, at least. A large teardrop spread between her shoulder blades and down her spine, intricately curving lines inside it, outlining a pathway that led to the center—though there was nothing there. It had looked about the same before it adhered itself to her. Only then, it had been made of bronze.
If anyone had ever asked her, she couldn’t have explained how she knew what to call it. The first time she’d ever seen it, the words had tumbled from her mouth before she could stop them. Choronzon Key. That was its name. That had been its name before it ever found her, and it would remain long after she was gone. She was almost certain that if she ever suffered some accident and lost all her memory, she would still know those two words. They had their own existence, independent of her. Independent of everything.
As far as she could tell from her research, nobody else in the world knew for sure that the Key existed. Well, that was no longer strictly true—Knatt knew, because she’d told him. But no one beyond that. Interestingly, when she went far enough back, she could find plenty of legend and rumor that referenced it, often recounted by dubious-to-incredulous sources. Most of it contained nothing helpful—the Key was rumored to be everything from a curse sent by the gods to a herald signifying the next savior. If anything, Logan might be inclined to believe the former; certainly nothing good had ever come to her because of it. But even if it was, what did that mean? What was the curse for?
Of course, Knatt didn’t think it was a curse, and he didn’t like to hear her talk about it like that. He believed it gave her a purpose—that it was a gift, a calling.
So he couldn’t begrudge her for answering the call, could he?
She let her shirt slide down and pulled her jacket back on, then walked back out to her bike while she pressed the button to call him.
“Yes
, Miss Logan?”
“Looks like the family reunion’s going to have to wait,” she informed him. “I just got tapped for something else.”
“You had a vision?” She could tell from the sound of his voice that Knatt was intrigued. He always seemed to show a little more interest in her when the Key was involved.
“A vision, an episode, an epileptic fit. Whatever you want to call it. Happened while I was riding, so, you know, I crashed and nearly died. Not that that matters.”
“Do you know where it wants to send you?”
“That’s your first question? You’re not even going to pretend you care about my well-being?”
“Sorry. Are you injured?”
“Nah, I’m fine.”
“Good.” He paused. “Do you need me to ask a follow-up?”
“No, we’re good. Thanks.”
“Wonderful. So, what was the vision about?”
“Well, a lot of it was pretty vague. You know, creepy voices, creepy animal sacrifice. And then something attacked a teenage girl.”
“I see. Do you know where you need to go?”
He couldn’t see her, so she let herself grimace. She could have figured that out first, instead of rushing to call him.
“Uh, just give me a second.”
She closed her eyes, still holding the phone to her ear. With an ease derived from years of practice, she cleared her mind of conscious thought and focused on the labyrinth, inviting it to lead her where it would.
North. North and west. She could see an image of herself on the bike, speeding ahead, following the feeling.
“Montana,” she said.
“Montana. Is that all? Montana’s a big state.”
The bike raced onward, until it passed a Welcome sign.
“Well. That’s a bit of a coincidence. Or it might be, anyway. Looks like I’m going to a town called Wolf Creek.”
“Wolf Creek? Why should that be a coincidence?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there.”
When she finally passed it, the sign looked just like it had in her mind. It stood solitary on the side of a deserted stretch of highway, and she saw the earliest rays of sunlight illuminate what looked like a 20-year-old paint job, complete with a dated picturesque scene of a young couple having a 1950s-style picnic in the woods. The sign marked a dip in the surrounding mountains that allowed just enough passage for the highway, steep inclines climbing toward the sky on either side. As Logan passed, she almost got the sense that she was entering another world.
She arrived early on a Monday morning, having ridden through most of the night. It wasn’t a large town; she zeroed in on the first breakfast place she could find and parked right in front of it. On her way in, she grabbed a newspaper.
When she entered, she took in the old-diner feel of the place and seated herself at the counter. To her left stood a glass-encased cake stand piled high with donuts. To her right, the same stand, but holding only a single massive cinnamon roll. In her bleary, almost delirious state, it looked far too appealing.
The waitress came over and gave her a nod.
“I’ll have a coffee please.” As her stomach grumbled, she glanced over at the top few items on the menu. “Uh, and the huevos rancheros. Thank you.”
The coffee sat before her in less than a minute, for which she was deeply grateful. As she added a little cream, she spread the newspaper out in front of her.
She didn’t have to look far. The headline she wanted was right at the top: Town in Shock over Brutally Slain Teen. She scanned the article, looking for the kind of details she needed, but they weren’t forthcoming. All she could tell at first was that the death had been violent, and it was currently suspected to be a murder. At least now she had the victim’s name—Violet Buchanan. They’d attached the girl’s school picture, so Logan knew it was her. Towards the bottom, she noticed one final important detail—all inquiries were to be directed toward the sheriff’s office. Since this town wasn’t quite big enough for a full morgue, she guessed that was likely where they were keeping the body.
She flipped through the rest of the paper to see if there was any other mention of the story, but she found nothing. When she finally set it aside, the waitress placed a heaping plate of food in front of her. She reached over for the hot sauce, but paused when she heard a tut-tutting noise.
“You might want to try it first,” the waitress warned her.
“Oh. Duly noted. Thanks.” She took a mental note of the waitress’s description in case she decided to come to this place again. White, mid 30s, average height.
She scooped a healthy mound up with her fork and bit down. The spikey sting of heat hit her tongue, and she smiled in utter satisfaction. Perfect. She had a feeling she’d already found her new favorite haunt for the duration of her stay here.
Once she was finished, she paid in cash and left a generous tip. Before heading out, she flagged the waitress down once more and asked her where she might find accommodations for a few nights.
Fortunately for her, Logan had long since accustomed herself to the sights and sounds of cheap motels. This one was right on the edge of town, backed in by thick woods on one side, with a small horse ranch on the other. Logan took her key and parked her bike right in front of the green metal door to her rented room.
She had hours yet until sundown. She planned to use it to get a little sleep.
When she woke up after dark, she felt certain that every dream she’d had during her rest had been a rehash of her vision. Violet Buchanan’s terrified eyes were haunting her.
Before she’d faded out, she’d asked Knatt to get her the address for the sheriff’s department. He’d complied, and with a town map from the motel’s tiny front desk, she’d figured out its location in relation to her. Of course, she had tried to use GPS first, but the map refused to load, and eventually the application failed completely. There were a few possible explanations for this, and at least one was magical. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen technology fail in a place recently subject to letha casting—the greater the summon, the more pervasive the effect tended to be.
She couldn’t take her bike on this one; it attracted too much attention. Fortunately for her, the town was small enough, and her legs fast enough, that she could travel on foot. She took the main road into the center of town, then slipped into the plentiful trees once she hit the populated areas.
The sheriff’s department was a small brick one-story building, lights blazing from windows high in the walls. She circled around behind, pressing deeper into the woods when she heard human voices passing by in the street. For a brief moment, with her back to the woods, she felt a chill up her spine. Unlike the chill she’d felt upon entering Adelaide and Richard’s home, this one didn’t strike her as magical so much as instinctual. She glanced back into the trees despite herself, and found nothing but the expected darkness there to greet her. The voices from the street faded, so she shook off her disquiet and crept forward through the underbrush.
The windows were higher than she liked but not impossible; the real question was how regularly the deputies locked them. She edged around to the back until she found a sizable window with no light streaming through it. Then, taking a second to gauge the distance, she crouched down and jumped.
The ledge wasn’t quite wide enough to hold her, but she threw her arms out to the side and clapped her hands to the walls, using sheer muscle strain to wedge herself in. One push on the window told her it was, indeed, locked. With a sigh, she flattened her hand against the frame and gave a hard push, her extraordinary strength eventually splintering the wood. She swung the glass up and shifted her hips to dangle her legs inside, then lowered herself until she hung from her hands. And she dropped.
A few cardboard boxes were disturbed by her fall, but they didn’t make much noise. If she had to guess, she’d say she was in some kind of storage closet. She went over to the door and placed her ear against it, listening for voices. Nothing. With a slow and qui
et turn of the handle, she pressed the door open and slipped out.
Her current hallway was dark, but the one beyond it blazed with light. Once she was halfway down the hall, she could hear the light clicking of keyboard keys. Someone was stationed at the front desk.
Then the part that repulsed her. She’d gotten used to it over time, but she never found it pleasant. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath through her nose. She was searching for the smell of chemicals and decomposition.
She found it, though not without a fight. The body had to be in a freezer, a sealed door muffling its odors. She drifted farther down the hallway and confirmed her growing suspicion: she’d have to get around the person at the desk to reach her target. It was a task that might have been easier if she had someone on hand to distract them; too bad her partner preferred to operate remotely.
Well, only one thing to be done about it, she thought.
She edged closer and peered around the corner. The deputy at the desk was a young white man with snacks arranged all around him on the desk. She peered a little closer and saw the he was typing in a chat window, and up behind it, he had a video playing. All the better for her.
With one deep breath, she cleared her mind of unnecessary noise. She could picture the trees outside, beyond the walls, and the space between them—the shadows, the darkness. She could feel the pull of that darkness, the way it called to her—and she pulled back at it. With a sudden rush, she felt it come.
It was a trick she’d mastered long ago—one of a handful of eira tricks she could perform at will. A single wave of her hand told her it had worked: as her hand moved in front of her face, she found her eyes unwilling to look at it, unwilling to see it. She had summoned shadows to her, and now she was shrouded in them. The trick didn’t make her invisible, exactly—it just made her difficult to look at. It was as close to invisible as she had ever needed to be.
