Mercury Retrograde (15 page)

Cal had no idea of how she was possibly able to make that kind of logical leap, but she grasped his hands and pulled him to his feet. “Rejoice with the Serpent!”

Someone pulled out a drum, and the Sisters began to dance around the fire. Cal waddled clumsily among them. Some knew the cha-­cha, three were working on a line dance, and there was more than one belly dancer in the group. Bel was one of the belly dancers. As she moved, the fire played through the translucent snakeskin, giving it fire and volition of its own. Other women picked up the tail, and Cal had a weird memory of being in a school parade once upon a time.

Once upon a time . . . when the world wasn't fucked.

Once upon a time when his chances of survival were greater than a mosquito in a bat cave.

Dallas grabbed his sleeve and drew him into the inner circle of the dance, showered in sparks and glitters of silver jewelry.

Once upon a time was over, so he might as well dance.

I
t was getting awfully crowded on the trail of the basilisk.

Gabe swore as he scanned the horizon. He'd brought as many of the Hanged Men as he could wake (and they had been more sluggish than usual; he blamed the winding-­down of the Lunaria for that). They'd ridden on horseback to the remote location where he'd last seen the creature; he'd hoped that the snake would remain to feed upon Petra's traveling companions. In a perfect world, the snake would be full and lumpy and sluggish . . . and easy to shoot.

But the field and the edge of the woods were crawling with ranger vehicles. The raven that he'd sent out to spy on them showed him that yellow tape was tangled in the bark of the pine trees, and radios crackled over the flash of red and blue light in the darkness. Men and women came in a steady stream, their hands covered in gloves and faces by gas masks. Some wore the same type of plastic suit that Petra's traveling companions had been wearing.

“Damn.” Petra and her companions must have filed some kind of itinerary and missed a check-­in.

“What now?” One of the Hanged Men, Mitchell, was alert enough to ask as he fidgeted with the reins. Mitchell was nearly as old as Gabe, and was one of the ones who still remembered how to speak.

Gabe was silent for a moment, thinking how best to manage this without being seen by the rangers. If the Hanged Men were discovered for what they were, then this mission was pointless. They had to stay hidden.

He checked to make sure that his pistol was loaded. “We make some noise. Just don't shoot anybody.”

They left the horses at the sheltered edge of the clearing. Half of Gabe's men fanned south with Mitchell, around the cordoned-­off scene, while Gabe took the remaining handful north, creeping through the crickets and the grasses to outflank them.

Minutes later, gunshots sounded from the south.

The rangers shouted and swept spotlights into the darkness. A vehicle moved, shining headlights to the source of the distraction. Shadows ran away from the scene.

And Gabe and his men rushed in. They sprinted into the pine forest, ducking under the yellow tape. He hoped that if the basilisk had been driven off, then at least it had left a trail. Gabe's men needed little light to see, but the moon was strong and clear, streaming through the branches above.

The basilisk had left something behind. A half-­chewed, plastic-­wrapped body lay on the ground, like leftovers on a picnic table. There was no sign of the one that had been dangling in the tree. Maybe the rangers had taken it down, or perhaps the snake was digesting it. Gabe sidestepped the blackened bits of pine needles and the yellow bark burned by acid.

He scanned the dark for any evidence of a trail. The rangers had left fluorescent plastic markers where bullet casings had fallen, scattered on the ground. One of the markers had been placed beside a pine tree—­and it was stained with something other than acid. He could make out a crimson smear on the soft bark. It wasn't Gabe's blood—­Gabe's blood turned a phosphorescent gold, like a firefly, after dark. Petra hadn't been bleeding, and the members of her traveling party were too far away for the blood to be splashed and smeared by the snake here. This had to be from the snake—­likely grazed by a stray bullet. But there was no telling which side of the snake it had come from.

Gabe took out his knife and scraped the bark from the tree.

“Drop it and put your hands up!”

Gabe glanced up. A man in hip-­wader boots, a forest ranger uniform, and plastic gloves was aiming his ser­vice gun and a flashlight at him. The guy looked familiar—­he had seen him with Petra before. The name
HOLLANDER
was embroidered across his chest pocket.

Gabe's fingers tightened around the piece of bark and the knife in his hand. He wasn't giving it up.

“I said, drop the weapon. And that evidence, too.”

“I can't.” Gabe stood.

The rest of the Hanged Men slipped around the trees, guns lifted. Gabe waved them back. In the moonlight, Gabe guessed that Hollander could only see silhouettes and perhaps the glint of moon on metal, but nothing more.

But Ranger Hollander turned, aiming his gun at the Hanged Men. “Drop it, gentlemen. You're tampering with a crime scene.”

Gabe didn't want to have this confrontation. He stepped back. “I don't want any trouble.”

“Then quit screwing around with my crime scene and drop the weapons.”

More rangers were closing in—­flashlights bounced over the trees and swept over Gabe's knees.

“Gun! Gun!” someone shouted.

And someone opened fire.

Gabe felt a bullet collide with his shoulder. The bullet wasn't magical. It wasn't wood. It passed through the material of his shirt, skipped along his skin, and deflected into the pine needles.

There was no point to this confrontation. Against mortal men with ordinary weapons, the Hanged Men would be immediately victorious. But the murder of rangers in a park would call more trouble down on his head than even the snake could manage.

Among the bright muzzle flashes and crazed sweeps of flashlight, Gabe and his men retreated, melting into the darkness. The rangers tried to pursue, but Gabe and his men didn't need their light so see by, and they slunk away.

He had what he needed.

As he snagged his horse and rode away with the others, he was reminded that there were no such things as easy choices.

When Gabe was living, things had been easy. Choices were black and white then, living and dead, night and day. Since he'd been dead, everything had washed out to a curious shade of grey, and there were never any good answers.

He returned to the Lunaria with the blood of the basilisk—­what little there was. The Hanged Men followed him, waiting silently for him to offer the blood to the Lunaria. The blood would either save them or kill them, depending on which side it had come from. He held their unlives in their hands, with this small piece of bark stained with magical blood.

Their judgment weighed on him, thick as shadows.

But the decision had already been made. Life over unlife.

Without comment, he let himself into the chamber below the Lunaria. As he descended, he felt the roots of the tree inquiring, tugging at his shirt. The tree could taste the magic, just as much as he and the rest of the men could. None of them could tell whether it was a destructive or a creative power—­only the magnitude of it. It was thick magic, this little sliver, and the Lunaria was curious.

Gabe twisted away from the tree's probing and headed down the tunnel to the Stella Camera. If he had more of it, he'd consider using Sal as a guinea pig. He'd steep it into a tea and feed it to him, see if he recovered or withered before proceeding. But Petra had no time. Sal and the Lunaria had more, whether it was weeks or months.

And she was alive. That was worth preserving.

The moon had sunk beyond the opening of the well, and the Star Chamber was soaked in darkness. With his preternatural vision, he could see Petra's silhouette off in the center of the pool, like a leaf on a puddle.

The coyote had fallen asleep on the shore. He didn't open an eye as Gabe's feet crunched in the salts on the edge of the water.

Gabe stripped off his oilskin, gripped the piece of bark in his teeth, and waded in. He swam out to the dark shape on the water, letting the heavy salt support him as he reached her.

He hoped that she was still alive, that he hadn't been too late. Her flesh was the color of a dark bruise, and the skin on her throat had an alarming stickiness about it. But her chest rose and fell shallowly, the gold pendant on her collarbone shining softly in the dim.

Gabe gently opened her mouth, slid the piece of bark under her tongue. He closed her jaw tenderly.

And there was nothing left to do now, nothing but wait.

S
troud was here.

Petra reached for the sword. But the red-­hot metal scalded her hand, sizzling the black tar on her palm. She gasped and clutched her hand, stepping back. Sig flung himself between Petra and Stroud, barking furiously.

“Hello, Petra,” Stroud said smoothly. A cold smile crackled over his craggy face. “You didn't last long in the material world.”

“It figures you'd be down here. In hell.”

“And doing my damnedest to figure a way out.”

Petra backed toward the opening of the tunnel. She reached down for Sig to pull him away. Stroud might be alive in the spirit world, but maybe she could outrun him.

Stroud lunged for the sword. His hand glinted silver, like he was wearing an oven mitt. She'd seen that trick before. He snatched up the freshly-­forged sword and advanced on her.

“Maybe I could trade you for a way out. Your spirit might be worth something to . . . something. Despite your current state of . . . well, disarray.” He looked her over head to toe, at the black gunk covering her.

Sig was having none of it. He pounced on Stroud, flinging him to the floor. Metal hit the ground with a ring—­Petra couldn't be certain if it was his fist or the sword that hit first. Unwilling to abandon Sig and flee, she rushed behind the stone slab to find Sig standing on Stroud's chest and snarling. She stomped and kicked at the sword, succeeding in knocking it away from his fist . . .

. . . but her boot got stuck in Stroud's mercury hand.

Stroud howled. Petra figured that anything that caused Stroud pain was a good thing. She ground down harder with her heel, and the slick metal smeared under her foot. Like dragging her foot out of a fresh cow patty, she struggled to free her boot. Stumbling back, she was shocked to see Stroud writhing around his hand, which was stuck to the stone floor like a smeared bug on a windshield.

“Sig!” she shouted.

Sig backed away from the melting Stroud. They retreated back down the corridor to the intersection point among the roads.

Her father was still there, sitting at the center, tracing the symbols on the brick like a child doodling in a coloring book.

“Dad,” she panted. “Stroud is . . .” She hooked a thumb back over her shoulder.

“Yeah. He's been around. You might want to avoid him.” He made a face, the same one he used to make when his in-­laws were in town.

“Dad!”

“He's not going anywhere.” He looked up at the ceiling and squinted. “But you're running out of time. Unless you want to spend an eternity trapped here with him and your dear old dad . . . you'd best get a move on.”

She threw up her slimy hands in disgust and picked another tunnel.

In this one, she could strongly hear the sound of water. Perhaps there was an underground river? She minced through ankle-­deep puddles to move forward, and was conscious of the sound of water ringing through the fissures in the rock above her. Water sluiced in sheets along the walls, and she was mindful not to touch them and wash away what remained of her oozy skin.

The tunnel dead-­ended in a wall of water, a small cataract. A low pedestal hewn of basalt stood in a puddle, and on the pedestal perched a glass chalice. Within the glass chalice, a goldfish swam.

“This is it,” she told herself. Her father had told her to follow her heart. “Water is all about the heart and emotions and that touchy-­feely stuff, right, Sig? This is all symbolic. I suck at this symbolism stuff, but this
has
to be it.”

Sig cocked one ear, seeming to agree with her train of thought.

She set the lantern down. Crouching, she reached out over the puddle to pick up the chalice. It felt cool and shone clear as crystal. She was careful not to spill any water or disturb the fish, holding the chalice in her filthy cupped hands. The fish swam in a clockwise direction, slowly. It was kind of hypnotic, really, the way the glass reflected light on its gold skin. It looked a lot like the fish she'd won at a carnival as a little girl. That fish had lived for over ten years in a bowl on her dresser, surviving three moves and numerous toys dropped in the water. What had she named that fish? Jaws? Remembering gave her a warm fuzzy feeling that she hadn't experienced in a long time.

A coyote face took up her field of vision. He pressed his muzzle into the chalice and devoured the fish.

“Sig!”

She jerked the chalice back, sloshing water. He just leaned in and began to slurp noisily out of the chalice.

“Jesus, Sig.” Defeated, she set the chalice down on the floor of the cave. Sig grunted his approval and licked it clean.

“Well, I hope that was awesome for you.” She sat down on her ass, dejected. She was certain that the chalice had been her key out of the underworld. “That was really an asshole move, my friend.
You
may not be stuck in the spirit world, but I don't want to be.”

Sig snorted and trotted from the cavern.

“I sure hope eating that fish did something for
your
spiritual development.”

After a few moments, she climbed to her feet to follow him, feeling more than a little pissed off by how the universe had been treating her, lately. The idea that she was personifying the universe as something that was singling her out for extra-­special negative treatment disturbed her, too. It showed her how truly out of touch her rational thought processes were becoming.