Mercury Retrograde (17 page)

“Gabe, shut up.”

“You're worth it.”

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. He tasted like sunshine with a rim of something metallic, something utterly fascinating. It warmed her, trickling down her throat to her chest, full of promise and a stillness of the certainty of time.

S
he was so close.

Bel could feel it.

The knowledge hummed within her, singing along her spine and gathering behind her eyes like unshed tears. This moment. It was the culmination of everything she'd sought, the long journey and all the blood and all the interminable miles of road. She reached out with her senses, and they brushed up against the Great Mother. She was curled up here, waiting.

Bel stood on the edge of a seething mudpot that had formed by Raven Creek, sinking to her ankles in silt. It burned even through the leather of her boots, pressing around her calves with scalding intensity as it mingled with cold creek water. The mud steamed around her, twisting in pale tendrils around the snakeskin she wore. Her breath made ghosts in the chill predawn air.

Ahead, the mouth of a cave rose from the sea of mud, erupted from deep within the earth. The rock of it was sharp and new. Air, earth, fire, and water had gathered here, in this spot. Hot gases from the underworld sighed with the sound of a dragon inhaling, exhaling . . . And it paused, as if the earth itself were holding its breath, waiting with Bel.

“Great Mother, Medusa. We have come to serve you.”

She was conscious of the Sisters of Serpens behind her, gathered at the shore of this sea of earth and steam and bubbling water. She could sense the pulse of their fear, their weakness.

She opened her arms, unfurling her hands in supplication. Her rings glittered in the light, and her heart hammered in anticipation.

Something moved in the mud, back at the mouth of the cave.

“Great Serpent, come to us, your faithful servants.”

A pair of yellow eyes glowed in the dark and rushed forward. Bel sucked in her breath. Gasps sounded behind her, and she heard Cal whimper.

The serpent skimmed forward, whipping over the surface of the mud. Her dark green body was easily thirty feet long, with a golden crest of feathers flaring above her eyes. She had taken the form of a basilisk in this plane of reality. The Great Mother reared up before Bel, looming easily four feet above her, in the posture of a cobra, regal and timeless. She was atavistic in her beauty, untouched by the civilizing influences of men. She pulsated pure id, beyond good and evil and any human constraints.

She
was
.

A smile split Bel's face, and her heart sang. “Great Mother, you are magnificent. You honor me with your brilliant presence.” What had this magnificent serpent seen, in all her time on this Earth and in other planes? What did she know? What had she brought back?

The basilisk lowered her head a foot, inspecting Bel. Her tongue flickered beyond her mouth, and Bel glimpsed her fangs, embedded in a head larger than a pumpkin.

“We have brought you a sacrifice.”

Footsteps slogged through mud behind them. The basilisk looked over Bel's shoulder, twitching in alarm.

Bel didn't look back, but lifted her hands to the serpent, cupped as if she were offering it water in a bowl. “Please accept this offering.”

The bravest of the Sisters slogged forward, carrying the large military duffel bags they'd tied to their bikes. They dumped the contents of the bags into the mud at Bel's feet: three bodies, the three young men who had tortured the snake to death. They were curled in on themselves to fit the bags, sawed and twisted and broken. But they were meat.

The Sisters retreated, but Bel remained, rooted in place. This was the most sublime moment of her life. Her body hummed so loudly with magic she was certain that the basilisk could hear it. It sang from her heels to the crown chakra at the top of her head, completing a circuit in the mud and steaming air.

The snake peered at each body in turn, flipping at them with her tail, the way a cook might test pancakes with a spatula to see if they were done.

Bel dared not move. She hoped that the Great Mother Goddess would find these acceptable. If not, she still had Cal. She glanced back at the bank. The boy was held fast in the grip of two of the Sisters. He wasn't going anywhere. She'd cast him to the mud, without any hesitation, if the Mother preferred live food.

The serpent lunged at Bel.

Bel held her ground, expecting in that split second to fulfill her duty to the Great Serpent by becoming breakfast. But the basilisk sunk her teeth into the body floating at Bel's feet, splashing hot mud against Bel's jacket. The basilisk dragged the body away, back to the darkness of the cave. Waves of hot mud lapped at Bel's boots in her wake.

She grinned, elated. The Great Serpent had accepted the sacrifice. The Sisters of Serpens were now her servants, aligned with the will of this irresistible force of nature.

And they would be unstoppable.

 

P
etra dozed against Gabe's chest. She'd been conscious of Sig kicking her a few times in his sleep, but Gabe seemed to sleep less fitfully than the coyote did. Pressed against her ear, she listened to the hollow buzzing of his blood, like a radio tuned between stations. It was soothing, in its own odd kind of way. Once in a while, that steady pulse would be punctuated by something that sounded like the flutter of wings.

She wondered how much longer he could last, how much longer the tree could. She felt such sorrow at the idea that he'd sacrificed the tree for her, and a marrow-­deep unworthiness. Yet, she also wondered what that meant for her. She could no longer taste the basilisk's blood on her tongue, and she knew she had gotten barely enough of it to drive off the venom—­her father had said so. But she was pretty sure she'd be checking the bathroom mirror to make sure that she wasn't sprouting scales anytime soon.

And she wondered about Gabe. She took him at his word, that his fractured memory had returned, that the regeneration was occurring more slowly. Still, what was to keep him from forgetting her again in a few hours? From dissolving slowly from her sight and her world, like he had before? And what if he couldn't remember the rest of the Hanged Men, forgot himself? Forgot how to pretend to breathe?

She felt him shift a bit beneath her. She turned over, pressed her chin to his collar, and asked, “Could it happen again?”

“Could what?” He kissed her temple.

“Could you lose your memory again?”

His mouth thinned. “I don't know. If the tree dies . . . I would think that we'd all begin our processes of disintegration, somehow.”

“We can't let that happen,” she vowed. “We have to find the basilisk and get more of its blood.”

“ ‘
We
' are doing no such thing.” He tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. “You are going to go home and recover from the venom. I'm going to gather the rest of the Hanged Men and find the snake.”

“Nuh-­uh.” She pulled the Locus out of her pocket. “I can track the basilisk better than you can. Ravens or no. And that thing's killing scientists, campers, and probably random picnickers by now. I'm going with you.”

He blew out his breath in frustration and stared up at the ceiling.

She settled back on his chest, placing the Locus on his collarbone. “I'm glad that's settled.”

“You are impossible.”

“But I'm rational. You can't argue with reason.”

“I might take issue with that.”

Daylight had begun to cast a pink glow inside the Stella Camera. A thin, pearly mist from above had sunk down over the pool, casting a weirdly reflective softness into the room.

A shadow flew in. Petra started, and a raven landed beside them.

It stared at Gabe hard and began to caw an alarm.

“What's wrong?” she asked, scrambling to catch the compass as Gabe sat up.

“Something,” Gabe said, reaching for his gear. He turned his head away from her and opened his hand. A mass of feathers arose from his palm, forming a raven of its own. That raven took wing and flew up to the hole in the ceiling with the other.

His gaze was distant, as if following something she couldn't see. Petra started pulling on her waterlogged boots. They were crusty with salt, but hadn't shrunk.

“There are police at Sal's doorstep,” Gabe said, frowning. “They're looking for you.”

“Why would . . .” Her brow creased. “Oh, shit.”

She reached into her pile of wet clothes, into one of the dozen pockets of her cargo pants for the tracker Mike had given her. She held it in her palm. “Mike Hollander gave this to me before we went to track the snake. The water certainly killed it, but it likely tracked my location here.”

Wordlessly, Gabe climbed to his feet and gave her a hand up. “We'd better concoct a convincing cover story.”

With Sig plodding sleepily in their wake, they wound through the tunnels. Petra lost her sense of direction more than once, but Gabe's sense was unerring. He gripped her sleeve as they walked through the darkness, and she followed the firefly-­like brightness of his eyes.

They climbed to sunlight in a pasture, as Gabe pushed open a sod-­covered door in the ceiling of a tunnel. Horses grazed in the bright morning, and Sig was enchanted by the sight of them. Once lifted to the surface, he immediately lowered himself to his belly and began to skulk through the grass around the horses.

“Sig, you're going to get kicked,” Petra muttered as she and Gabe climbed out.

But the stalkees ignored him. Gabe whistled, and a sorrel horse came to him, his mouth full of grass.

“You remember Rust,” he said.

“No?” Petra reached out to touch his speckled nose. Rust let her, chewing thoughtfully.

“He brought us here. He's secretive and fast.”

“Very good qualities for a horse in your company.”

One of the Hanged Men approached, holding a saddle and bridle. He handed them to Gabe and did not make eye contact with Petra.

She stared down at her sodden boots, feeling guilty as Gabe saddled Rust. And she wondered if the Hanged Men would ever mutiny against Gabe. She had the impression that they needed him to interface with Sal and the outside world, on some level. But she realized that she knew very little about them, as individuals.

“Thank you,” she said.

The Hanged Man had turned to go, but he stopped and looked back, startled. He tipped his hat at her and nodded. Maybe they weren't used to being talked to.

“Can you ride?” Gabe asked her.

“I can drive anything with wheels. I don't know anything about horses,” she admitted.

“You won't be on him long, and he's a good horse. Pull right or left to turn, and back with the reins to stop. He'll figure that out, so you don't need to think about your feet.”

“You're not going up to Sal's house with us?” Her brow creased.

“No. Your friend Hollander and I already had a run-­in last night. I'm hoping he didn't see me clearly, but it's not wise to tempt the deductive skills of cops.”

“Do I want to know about that?”

“No. It's better if you act surprised—­both to see him, and when he tells you about last night.”

“I'm sure I will be.” She lifted an eyebrow, certain it was one helluva story. “I'll see you at sunset, then?” She patted her pocket to make sure that Gabe hadn't lifted the Locus from her. It wasn't like he could work it, anyway . . . but she didn't trust him not to try to put her on the “fragile items” shelf.

“At sunset.”

He reached for her and kissed her soundly. Petra smiled against his lips, feeling the buzz of that dark sunshine against them.

“Up you go,” Gabe said, gathering Rust's reins.

Petra stepped into the stirrup and swung her leg over. She called for Sig, and Rust began to walk north, toward Sal's house. She noticed that a raven followed them, circling in broad arcs above.

Sal's sprawling house was at the edge of the property closest to the main road. The Rutherfords had been here since Gabe's time, and the house looked as if it had been the crown of a rustic empire since then. It was a timber lodge, the roof oxidized green from the rain. In its scale and rustic style, it was a house that was meant to be seen.

A green Forestry Ser­vice Jeep and a county sheriff's car sat in the driveway. Petra wondered if the deputy had come with Mike, or if Sal had called them. Sal was related to the county sheriff, and the sheriff's deputies were as useless as possible when it came to enforcing laws against Sal. She couldn't imagine Sal taking too kindly to Mike showing up on his doorstep, with or without a warrant.

“Well. Speak of the devil, and she shall appear.”

Sal sat on his porch, which had been outfitted with a ramp. He was perched, pale and pasty, in a motorized wheelchair, with one hand on the controls and the other around a mug of coffee. A pair of deputies in uniform sat on Adirondack chairs beside him.

The raven perched on Sal's copper gutter, watching closely.

“Petra!” Mike Hollander fairly sprinted down the ramp to greet her. “We've been looking for you. Your tracker signal stopped somewhere in Sal's back forty.” He glanced back and gave Sal a dirty look.

“I told you I had nothing to do with that girl.” Sal glowered. He finished his coffee, shook the empty mug, and one of the deputies got up to take it back into the house. He returned in moments with a full cup. Clearly, the deputies were used to hanging about in Sal's kitchen.

Petra clumsily climbed off the horse, not exactly sure which leg came over which side first. Rust huffed and trotted away, not seeming to want to have anything to do with Sal.

“I don't remember much of what happened.” That was true, and it was the jumping-­off point of the misdirection. “The snake attacked, and Phil and Meg were down. I got hit with some of the vapor . . . I got as far away as I could.”

Mike stared at her face as she spoke. She expected that he saw some of the fine lines of the venom still beneath her skin, since dark shadows still crossed the backs of her hands and her arms.

“There was a horse . . . I climbed up on him and passed out. I woke up in Sal's field.”

Mike was scrutinizing her, and she could see him itching to ask about the shirt she wore, which was obviously too big for her.

“I guess the horse belonged to one of Sal's employees. And Sal's men were kind enough to offer me some clothes and a place to wash up.”

It was true. All of it. But there were enough omissions to satisfy the local police and give Sal cover. Which, by extension, was good for the Hanged Men. But it sure wasn't going to be good enough for Mike.

“See. It's a simple misunderstanding,” Sal drawled, as a deputy handed him a fresh cup of coffee.

Mike nodded. “Thanks so much for your time, Mr. Rutherford. We always appreciate it.”

“Anytime, young man.”

Mike grasped Petra's elbow and headed for the Jeep. Sig was already enthusiastically pissing on Mike's tire, as if he'd been holding it in all night.

“You know, you could have called,” Mike said.

“I lost my cell.” She gestured at the house. “I was heading back here to see if Sal would let me use his landline.” The raven on the gutter cocked his head and watched her as they piled in the Jeep. Sig bounded into the backseat and began to root around in Mike's gear.

Mike started the Jeep and put it in reverse. He backed out of the driveway and had made it out to the main road before he spoke again.

“I am pissed at you. But also happy to see you.”

At least he was in touch with his feelings. “Mike, I'm sorry. I . . . did you find Phil and Meg?”

“When you missed your call-­in, I hit the GPS trackers. We found Meg at the edge of the pine forest. She was in the same shape as the campers at the campsite—­decomposing, but torn all to hell like a dog's chew toy. We haven't found Phil yet.”

“Phil's dead,” Petra said, pressing her fingers to her upper lip. “He . . . the snake dragged him up a tree. There wasn't a whole lot of him left.”

“We saw a good deal of blood,” he said quietly. “I tried to ping his tracker. I got a few blips, but it died for good about a hundred yards from the site. I'm guessing that it got eaten? Or maybe crushed beyond repair.”

Petra stared down at her hands, still mottled from the venom. “Look, Mike. I didn't intend for this to go all wrong.”

He blew out his breath in frustration. “I'm not mad at you. I just . . . I know I should have been there. And I let all you guys down. It was a shitty idea, and I should have put a stop to it.”

“You couldn't have prevented it,” Petra said. “And you could have gotten killed.”

“Well, I'm sure as hell gonna prevent any more fatalities. The park is closed. The official reason we're putting out is unusual seismic activity. When I called up Meg and Phil's chain of command, it sounded like they're gonna send out the rest of the ghost squad.”

“More biologists?”

“Yes and no. Turns out, Phil and Meg were active duty Army. Toxicologists.”

“You were right. And that stun gun they had didn't look standard issue.”

“Yeah. So you can well imagine that the Feds are mighty pissed. There will be boots on the ground soon, and they'll hunt that snake down.” Mike squinted into the sunshine. “They'll want to talk to you, about what you saw.”

“Of course.”

“And you might want to work on your story. They might not buy the idea of a unicorn coming out to save you.”

She grimaced and turned away. It had sounded like an excellent idea at the time, but was sounding lamer and lamer, the more Mike gave her the business about it.

She asked to go home, but he drove her to the hospital. After a thorough argument, she consented to an exam, with the condition that she would call for a ride home when she was through. She argued that there was no point in him waiting in the ER when he'd been up all night with no sleep, and he grudgingly agreed that he had work back at the station. It wasn't like she had wheels or a horse to wander away with. He did, however, distrust her enough to hover over her until she'd been officially admitted with a hospital bracelet. She made him promise to drop Sig off at Maria's house while she was tied up. He agreed, and left her in an exam room, satisfied that she seemed confined in someplace abominably uncomfortable.

“Oh. You again.” Dr. Burnard pulled aside the hospital exam curtain to greet Petra.

“Hi.” Petra swung her legs on the edge of the bed. “Do you live here?”

“More or less.” Dr. Burnard flipped over the notes on her clipboard. “So . . . you managed to get involved with every weird case on my record.”