“But, dammit, that’s what I want to do!” I said, and my voice came out harsher than I intended. At least I had my friends’ attention on me now. “Look, I know that each of you have doubts. And in my world, prophecy has the same reputation. It’s all a bunch of smoke and air, and you only understand that Person X was supposed to stab you right as you stand there with a knife hilt-deep in your chest.”
“You don’t believe that is the case here?”
“Not here, not anywhere! I’ve never believed in fate, or destiny, or whatever school of prophecy says that you simply can’t affect the universe! Maybe it’s my upbringing, maybe it’s because I’ve put together too many puzzles in my life to let this one go by. But I can’t sit back and be a passive participant in this world’s demise. Too many people…”
I swallowed, hard. I thought of Captain Vazura for a split second. Then the last bloody tear that ran down Holly’s face before Shaw ripped out her throat. My voice felt raw as I spoke again.
“Too many people have died because of the dark forces connected to the diagram on this board. Fitzwilliam thinks this kingdom is too brittle, too weak to take another effort to destabilize it. I’m no fan of Belladonna, but if her words are the only weapon we have, then I damn well want to use them!”
The room went quiet until Shaw spoke up. “I believe that hands of darkness and light hath been at work. Thou hast never steered me wrong, Dayna. I will support thee in this venture.”
“As will we,” Liam asserted. Galen nodded his agreement.
“Then the first thing we need to do is put down what Belladonna said to me about her visions, back when I first met her,” I said. “I wish I could remember all of what she said.”
Shaw made a leonine shrug. “My kind doth have near perfect recall. ‘Tis most helpful when navigating on the wing over long distances.”
So, he repeated back to me each phrase that the High Elder had spoken on that fateful day. I wrote down each statement on the board in its own separate row, and then stepped back to look at the results. I got a chill as I read the words. Belladonna’s screechy voice echoed in my ears as I did so.
The war of eons past yet stirs.
The dream horses sow the seeds of their fall.
The humans dwell upon the bones of their nemesis.
The owls imprison the sacred as they move on silent wings, ready to strike.
The greatest of the dragons passes into realms beyond the sight of all.
Creatures of the fey and the rock scheme our destruction.
One who might yet save us lies beyond the light of the hearth.
“Mayhap I was mistaken in my first assessment,” Galen admitted. “The first and fifth lines seem not to predict, but they state items that are not, as of yet, general knowledge. This ‘eons past’ conflict is definitely stirring, while Sirrahon has indeed ‘passed beyond sight’.”
“And the next line, the one about creatures of ‘the fey’ and ‘the rock’ devoted to our destruction is quite telling,” Liam mused. “Could she be referring to the mad Fayleene princeling and the ancient stone dragon we fought?”
I nodded. “Yes. That must be a reference to both Wyeth and Sirrahon.”
Shaw shook his head. “The second line ‘tis still a jumble to me. Destry t’was only created recently by the pooka. If his kind have sown the seeds of their fall, does that mean he leads to their defeat or destruction?”
“It is a troubling assessment,” Galen agreed. “At least at first blush. Yet it could mean that the pouquelaye are working on something else that will cause them trouble. This line could presage that their banishing him leads to their downfall.”
“And the humans dwelling upon bones…” Liam shivered, making his antlers quiver. “I don’t like the sound of that. Or that whoever might save us lies beyond the hearth.”
“What do you think that last bit means?” I asked, indicating everyone in the room. “I was hoping that one of you might have insight into that.”
Galen cleared his throat before answering in his typical scholarly manner. “A ‘hearth’ is the floor space in front of a fireplace. If one wishes to wax metaphorical upon the matter, the ‘light of the hearth’ likely means the bounded area where one feels the warmth of the fire.”
“Then this means…someone from outside that boundary. Perhaps someone who is from a cold climate, or has been tucked away from warmth? Perhaps someone who doesn’t use the warmth of an indoor fire?”
“Should it be so, most griffins would qualify,” Shaw pointed out. “My kind do not need fire to keep warm on all but the coldest of nights, and even so, we do not build fires ‘indoors’.”
“The same goes for my people,” Liam added.
I let out a breath and ran my fingers through my hair. My well intentioned plan to beat prophecy at its own game was rapidly collapsing in on itself. There were too many phrases that either made no sense, or could be interpreted so many ways that it was useless to speculate.
Except for one piece.
I drew a line under Belladonna’s fourth pronouncement: The owls imprison the sacred as they move on silent wings, ready to strike.
“What do the owls consider sacred?” I asked aloud.
“There are many things the Hoohan consider blessed or holy,” Galen replied. His tail swished, startled, as he added, “But the most sacred…is their Albess. And they have been most unwilling to let us see her.”
“Or to let her see us,” I said. “As to the rest…owls always move on silent wings. It’s how they operate as predators.”
“Their movements near the Grove of the Willows,” Liam observed, tapping his forehoof on the stone floor. “Could they be massing to strike somewhere? Here, even?”
Galen’s face took on a grim cast. “If so, then I would urge each of us to be discrete with our speculations. The owls see and hear a great deal within these walls.”
I nodded, and my expression was probably just as dark. “Say that our suspicions are correct. Then until we determine a way to bring the Albess back, the owls have effectively rendered us blind. We’re going to have to move as quickly and quietly as they do, or they stay in their role as the predators. And we remain the prey.”
Chapter Fourteen
Another flash-bang of white light and ozone, and Galen’s spell transported me back to my house. Half the time I ended up losing my footing and landing on my face or my butt. This time, I split the difference by wobbling so badly that I fell to my knees.
At least it didn’t hurt. I’d installed a plush Persian rug in my living room, and in a fit of inspiration I’d purchased one with a red-and-white bullseye pattern. I closed my eyes for a moment and waited for the world to stop spinning. When I next opened them, I felt steady enough to get up and note, for what must have been the hundredth time, that I really had to press Galen on making a better version of this spell.
I made my way to the bedroom, where I switched from my dress to some casual sleepwear. I made sure to carefully hang up the cloak and put away the ankle boots that I’d borrowed from Lady Behnaz. Then I headed to the bathroom to ‘shake the dew off the lily pad’, as my mom would have said. Once that was done, I pinned my hair back and removed my makeup with water and a bar of Castile soap. Then I hesitated as I reached for my toothbrush. I was still a little wound up from the events of the day. The clock was inching perilously close to midnight, and I wanted to make sure I got a full night of shuteye. One of my tricks was to drink a small glass of cherry juice before finally brushing my teeth and hitting the hay. Padding out to the kitchen, I got out a shot glass with the blue and orange Chicago Bears logo on it and poured myself a dose of sleepy time goodness. I’d just put the juice bottle back in the fridge when I noticed a blinking light from where I had my cell phone tucked in its charger.
I tried to avoid bringing my cell phone to Andeluvia. Fitzwilliam was skittish about bringing in technology from my world – after all, one of our inventions had been used to slay his father. Not to mention t
hat there was no signal across worlds. And even if there was, I suspected that the roaming charges alone would’ve punched a huge hole in my bank account.
I picked the phone up out of curiosity. The screen showed that I’d gotten a voicemail at five in the afternoon from the OME office. I didn’t recognize the extension, so I dialed up voicemail and listened to the message.
“Dayna, it’s Naomi from Administration.” Naomi’s normally brisk, impersonal intonations were overlaid with worry. “I followed up on Shelly Richardson. She last called in sick a full week ago, and nobody’s been able to contact her since. When you get this message, can you please check up on her and let me know that she’s all right? Thanks.”
My stomach took a hard nosedive as soon as the message clicked off. With one hand, I put the glass of juice in the fridge and with the other I speed dialed Shelly’s number. Her phone rang three times and then clicked over without any answering machine message.
That wordless silence scared me even more.
Sleep was out of the question now. I ran back into the bedroom, shucked my sleepwear, and threw on a pair of jeans and a fresh cotton shirt. I didn’t hesitate as I slipped on my shoulder holster and badge, and then threw my jacket on. A pair of socks and running shoes later, I snatched my car keys from their usual dish and tried calling Shelly again as I went to the garage. Still no answer. I tried again a couple minutes later as I steered my vehicle up the onramp to the freeway. Pulse racing, I forced myself to put the phone down. Instead, I focused on keeping my car in its lane and a mere twenty miles an hour above the speed limit.
A bright wedge of moon hung all alone in the sky. Even at the witching hour, the city lights were bright enough to outshine and blot out everything else save for Mercury and Venus. At least the day of the week was in my favor. On Friday or Saturdays, the freeways could be backed up until the wee hours with people going to or coming from parties and concerts. But tonight, the traffic on the roads moved along smoothly.
I screeched my way off the I-5 and through a maze of suburban homes done up in stucco and Spanish tile until I spotted her place at the very end of a cul-de-sac. Shelly lived in a ranch-style house that I could only describe as ‘cute’. She’d picked out a look for the place that resided somewhere on the color spectrum between ripening nectarine and melted butter. To protect both windows and the porch from the scorching summer sun, she’d installed a set of peppermint-striped cloth awnings.
Those same cheery awnings cast eerie shadows now.
I pulled up into the driveway and shut off my car’s motor. The night swallowed up the sound of anything but my footsteps. All the windows were dark, so I relied upon the light from a nearby streetlamp to make my way up the footpath of decorative stepping stones towards the door. I switched over to using my phone to light the way as I moved under the awning.
Something moved stealthily to my left and heart leapt into my throat. The breeze had nudged Shelly’s hanging porch swing into motion. I muttered a curse then grabbed the bronze door knocker and gave it a series of raps.
No answer.
“Shelly?” I called out.
Only the wind answered.
Something deep inside me turned to ice, slip-sliding all the way down my spine. Dropping the knocker, I used my fist to pound on the door, calling out Shelley’s name again and again.
I’ve seen enough slasher flicks to know what comes next, I thought sardonically. The door will swing open with a spooky creeeeeak so I can go inside to get hacked up by an ax murderer.
After I’d given the door four or five hits with my fist, it swung halfway open with a spooky creeeeeak.
The hallway beyond was pitch black and dead silent.
Yeah, that sent the prickles up my arms.
I had to go inside. I wasn’t about to let my friend’s disappearance go on for one minute longer because I got the heebie-jeebies over a creaky door. But before I went in I shone my phone’s light on the door’s frame, as well as the knob’s face and strike plates.
Everything was intact. No sign of forced entry. I took a deep breath, reached around inside, and tested the knob’s action. It moved freely, so it had been left unlocked.
Shelly lived just outside the city limits but still within spitting distance and aggressively urban. No one here left their front door unlocked after midnight.
I reached inside again and patted around blindly on the wall next to the door. If there was a light switch in there, my fingers weren’t finding it. I reached inside my jacket and pulled out my gun.
If there was an ax murderer waiting for me inside, I was damn well going to make him work for his kill.
Next I tried opening the door further, but it jammed on something lying on the floor. I turned to the side and squeezed through the gap. The air smelled stale, and as soon as I took another step, the maggoty stench of rotting meat filled my nostrils.
I clamped down on my thoughts before I gave in to panic.
That’s something else they never show you in the movies, I thought crazily. The investigator usually stumbles upon the body on-camera. Or at least the soundtrack buzzes with the sound of carrion flies. But in reality, it was usually the smell that you encountered first.
The smell of meat. Of decomposing flesh.
“Shelly?” I called out, trying to keep the quaver out of my voice. “Shelly, this is really creeping me out, so speak up if you can hear me!”
No reply.
I cast my light about the room, making jumpy shadows wherever the beam touched. The familiar shapes of a television, a floral patterned couch, and a cherry wood book case slid across my vision. Then I spotted a light switch on the wall off to my right.
I all but leapt towards the switch and flicked it to the ‘up’ position. A set of recessed ceiling lights winked on, set dimly enough so that I only had to blink a couple of times to clear my vision. I stuck my phone back into my pocket, but I kept my weapon out and ready.
Edging back towards the entrance, I risked a glance down. A shapeless, multicolored hump lay slumped or jammed immediately behind the door. It took a full second of staring for my fear-addled brain to recognize that it was a pile of unopened mail. Shelly had a mail slot in the lower third of the door, and the postman had been shoving letters and junk mail though, causing them to build up on the other side.
It was a lot of mail. Enough to make up a week’s worth, at least.
I forced myself to open each door along the long, long main hallway of the house. At each room, I’d fiddle for a light switch and then peek in, gun clenched white-knuckled in my hand. As I cleared each room, I left the lights on behind me. A thrifty homeowner like Shelly might complain about the power bill later, but right now I was beyond caring.
The rotting meat smell grew thicker and nastier as I worked my way towards the rear of the house. It ratcheted up from a two on my Chrissie Scale of Stinkiness and was working its way up to a five when I saw it.
A wave of ants crawled up from a notch by the baseboard and along the floor towards the final room, which was a grand French country style kitchen. The ants and a few other larger, flying bugs had worked their way across the kitchen tile and up the front of one of the counters. They were having a grand old time chowing down on the boiled-till-it cracked contents of a beef roast sitting in a long cold crock pot.
I leaned against a wall and let out a breath. I’d let my expectations and my worst nightmare scenario completely rattle my nerves. Nothing I had seen pointed towards violence. If anything, it felt like the house had just been abandoned in the middle of dinner prep. That made the whole thing feel like the mystery of the Mary Celeste. I’d take that over finding Shelly’s dead body on the floor.
Only one last detail nagged me. One thing out of place. Off to the side of the kitchen lay a small dining nook. A chair had been left out at the table, as if someone had gotten up and never come back.
Holstering my gun, I went over and took a closer look. A single sheet of paper lay on the placemat. A p
epper shaker in the shape of a crowing rooster had been positioned to hold the sheet in place.
The handwriting was in pencil, and it was shaky. Jittery, as if the writer had been hopped up on stimulants. But I recognized the high loops and dips of Shelly’s cursive script. She had left only one sentence for me to guess her ultimate fate.
I can’t take it anymore…I need to help.
Chapter Fifteen
This should have been thrilling.
For the first time, I entered the throne room as Dame Chrissie. The blue-white light that came from the alcoves on the way up to the throne now mingled with orange flickers. The flickers came from the room’s hearth, a car-sized opening carved into the shape of a dragon-like maw. A roaring fire crackled away, driving back the cold.
I should have welcomed the warmth. Winter was descending on the Andeluvian capital with a vengeance. Frost rimed the edges of the windows and I’d been able to see my breath in the antechamber.
But inside, I still felt chilled to the bone.
As soon as I found Shelly’s note, I’d dialed 911. The beat cops who responded recognized me and were extra careful about not touching things as they looked through the rooms of the house and did a sweep around the outside. They didn’t find anything new. In the meantime, given the blessed absence of a body, I took note of what Shelly had left behind: the putrid pot roast, her car, her key ring, purse, and phone.
The last day I’d seen her, Shelly had looked as if she’d lost ten pounds on the meth-head diet. She’d had circles under her eyes like dark bruises. Her voice had trembled as she told me about how her sleep had been disturbed.
I just can’t…it just ain’t restful at all. I keep havin’ variations of the same dream, over and over again. You’re in most all of them.
I kept showing up in her dreams because I’d brought Destry in for her to examine. And the pooka, in a desperate bid to protect me, had ensorcelled Bob McClatchy with a mind-bending spell. That spell had shown me just how powerful a pooka could be, but it had also put a kink in Shelly’s thoughts. Because I hadn’t acted fast enough, that kink had sent her over the edge.
A Perjury of Owls Page 8
