The last set was uninspired, but no one noticed. Customers coming in to eat that late were starving and tended to concentrate on their food, and the ones who had been there for a while were three sheets to the wind and couldn’t care less about the music.
I played on autopilot, thinking. It was ironic. The vision Morgan had told me about was meant to warn me off, but its effect was just the opposite. I knew the fake Ifrit had come out of that swirling pool of color and energy we’d created, but now, according to Rolf, there was something else roaming through the Bay Area as well. I’d promised to look into what it might be and what might have happened to his friend Richard Cory. Now I thought I knew where to start. Muir Woods was my next destination.
FIVE
IT’S ONLY ABOUT A FORTY-FIVE-MINUTE DRIVE over the Golden Gate Bridge to Muir Woods. Next morning, as I pulled into the parking lot entrance, the sun reflected off the leaves of the high trees, throwing a dappled pattern on the forest floor. There were only a few cars parked there, which was a relief. Usually it’s crowded, even on a weekday, and if anything odd were to happen, a bunch of freaked-out civilians was not something I wanted to deal with.
Since the parking lot was deserted I was able to check the shotgun without worry. The slug first, then the buckshot, five rounds in all—the mantra of first in, last out. I could have squeezed an extra round in if I’d racked a shell into the breech and carried it loaded, but I preferred to keep the breech empty for safety’s sake. Not to mention that the ugly sound of a round being racked in is enough in itself to discourage all sorts of potential threats. There’s a gut reaction to that distinctive sound, one that makes the mouth go dry, and even the bravest tend to freeze in place.
Another minute was all it took to put a concealment spell on the shotgun. I was getting better at that sort of thing; it didn’t take much energy or thought anymore. It helped that I made it appear to be a fishing rod—same general shape and proportions, and in a way, similar in purpose as well. If I’d needed to make it look like a backpack or a picnic basket, it would have been a lot more difficult and less believable.
The gun was no problem, but Lou was. Dogs aren’t allowed in Muir Woods, even on a leash. I suppose I could have made him look like a raccoon, but a tame raccoon trailing along beside me would draw even more attention, which was the last thing I wanted.
I decided to rely on his ability to blend in and go unnoticed—not a strictly magical ability, just something he’s good at. If we ran into a park ranger, Lou could always slip away into the underbrush before he was noticed.
The woods were cool and quiet, hushed, with the huge, overarching trees providing an atmosphere of almost religious calm, like an ancient church. There’s even a favorite spot named Cathedral Grove, so it wasn’t just me who felt that way.
I would have loved to relax and enjoy a walk through some of the most beautiful woods in northern California, but I was there on business. The trail that leads up to the falls was surrounded by the logs of giant fallen trees, still covered in mossy green from the winter’s rains, and thick brush stretched out beyond them. I kept a wary eye out, constantly glancing from side to side, on alert for the slightest sound. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but according to Morgan’s vision it wasn’t anything pleasant. And although the fake Ifrit was safely on the other side of the bridge, you never know. I wasn’t confident it would stay there. Lou was trotting along nonchalantly, but every so often he would cock his head to one side and twitch an ear, so I knew he was on sharp lookout as well.
It was a beautiful day. Even with Morgan’s vision of danger sitting in the back of my mind, the woods were lovely and serene. I followed the main trail through twists and turns, gradually becoming more comfortable. Maybe there wasn’t anything here after all. Visions, like oracles, are notoriously unreliable.
The sound of the breeze swirling through the tops of trees was pleasant and hypnotic. I fell into a rhythm as I walked and, even though I knew I should stay alert, found my thoughts drifting.
It wasn’t until I’d gone a couple of miles that I noticed the wind had picked up. The soothing music of fluttering leaves and swaying branches had become harsh and grating. A high keening sound echoed through the treetops, setting my teeth on edge. The sun went behind some clouds, and the forest now felt less cheerful, more uncomfortable, and somewhat threatening.
The keening of the wind increased, and underneath it was a low groaning sound, almost subsonic. I was finding it hard to concentrate, and gripped my disguised shotgun more tightly.
A feeling of malaise and dread washed over me, for no reason I could fathom. But it was strong, strong enough to make me break out in a sweat and feel sick to my stomach. Lou stopped moving forward, doubled back past me, and headed back the way we had come. He flashed a glance over his shoulder to tell me it was time to get the hell out of there, and for once I agreed with him. I followed him, and as he broke into a sudden trot, I did the same. But it was too late.
As we hurried back down the path, the feeling of dread didn’t fade; it grew stronger. And as I passed around a bend in the trail, I saw why. On the left, on a branch high in the tallest tree, a figure sat casually dangling its legs in the air. It was too far away to see clearly, but I still did. It was a man, of sorts, dressed in greens and browns, almost like one of Robin Hood’s merry men. But he was not merry.
His hair was curly, tangled, and colorless, like dried grass. There were stains around his mouth, which was wider than it should have been. His eyes were black and his face narrow and vulpine, blank and expressionless. Except, when he saw me he smiled, and that smile was the most horrible sight you could imagine. All around him a faint aura glowed, shot through with shifting colors, just like the energy pool at the construction site under the bridge. I’d found what I was looking for, or maybe he had found me.
My heart was pounding and my mouth dry. I didn’t even think of using talent. Without hesitation I racked a shell into the breech of the shotgun, just in case. He jumped up nimbly, now standing on the branch, and beckoned to me.
“Come,” he whispered, and I heard him as clearly as if he had shouted at the top of his voice.
I automatically took one step forward before I could stop myself. Then I started backing away, never taking my eyes off of him. He beckoned again.
“Mason. Follow!” The word reverberated in my head, repeating on an endless loop. He sprang off the branch and onto the branch of an adjoining tree, like some giant mutant squirrel. I started walking toward him; I couldn’t help myself. My skin was itching all over and my feet felt like they were on fire. I wanted to stop and pull off my boots, but I couldn’t.
It wasn’t that I was in thrall. There was no feeling of control; it wasn’t like I was struggling against a will more powerful than my own. It wasn’t like I felt compelled to follow, not exactly; I just couldn’t seem to think of anything else to do. As I walked, I started feeling oddly light. My steps became higher and longer and it took more time to touch earth each time, like gravity was growing weaker and I was walking on the moon.
Lou was unaffected, unsurprisingly, and he was barking constantly, using that high-pitched yelp that cuts through anything, nipping at my heels, trying to distract me and break whatever hold that thing had on me. But it was useless. I was barely conscious of his presence, as if he were some distant and long-forgotten dream.
I still held the shotgun in a death grip. I would have let it fall uselessly to the ground, but I no longer had control of the muscles needed to open my hands. Lou was growing ever more frantic, and I felt a momentary twinge of sorrow for him.
Finally, in desperation, he threw himself under my feet so that one foot came down directly on him. He squealed in pain as I stumbled and went down, sprawling full length on the ground. I was still holding the shotgun, and my finger must have remained on the trigger, because it went off with a roar inches from my head, momentarily deafening me. At the same time, the butt kicked back and caught me on the jaw, stunning me.
There was a ringing in my ears, but it broke the spell. I had about fifteen seconds before my hearing would return, and with it, my relentless march toward God only knew what.
I gathered my wits and reached out to the quiet of the forest. Then I took my own temporary deafness and wove it into a feedback loop, cutting off all sound. The ringing faded, but in its place was blessed silence.
The man was becoming impatient and looked somewhat puzzled. I saw his mouth form words, but heard nothing, safe in my cocoon of silence. He shrugged and lowered himself to the next branch down. Agile as he was, it wouldn’t take him more than a moment to reach the forest floor. I thought about using talent, trying to come up with some sort of spell to deal with him, but I didn’t think about it for long. Whatever it was, this thing was quite possibly resistant to magical operations, much like Ifrits are.
Instead, I aimed and squeezed the trigger. The recoil slammed into my shoulder, but I didn’t stop. I racked in another round without taking the gun from my shoulder, then another. He was still standing on the branch, one leg dangling idly to the side. Every shot had missed. Or worse, maybe they hadn’t. I jacked in the last round, the slug, and aimed more carefully before firing. I thought I saw him flinch, but I could have imagined it. But he clearly was way out of my league.
Before he could make it out of the tree I had sprinted past and was hightailing it back toward the parking lot and my van. Lou was well out in front; I might have knocked the wind out of him, but he could still move faster than I could.
I made it to the van, and was roaring back down Highway 1 in no time. I drove in ghastly silence until I realized I’d neglected to take the hearing spell off. As soon as I was back over the bridge I turned the van toward Victor’s. Checking out something for Rolf was one thing, but this was serious and I needed help.
Victor was at his desk in the study, scribbling notes about something. Eli was also there, as usual, and he was annoyed.
“I’ve been calling you all day,” he said. “Were you going to tell me about the Columbarium and Sherwood, or just wait until I asked?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I figured Victor would fill you in.”
“Well, he did, of course. But I want to hear it from you.”
“Okay, but there’s something else going on. Something important.”
“More important than Sherwood?”
“Well, no. More urgent, though.” He regarded me skeptically until I began my story. “You remember how Rolf said something else came out of that energy sink?”
“Rolf?”
“Bridge Guy. His name is Rolf.”
“Oh. Of course.”
“Well, I found what that was, or at least I think I did. And it’s bad.”
After I finished the tale, Victor sad, “So it never actually did anything to you, then? I mean, before you tried to kill it?”
“You weren’t there. You would have done the same.”
“Possibly. But I wouldn’t have missed.”
“I don’t think I did.”
Eli had walked over to the window and was staring out at the ocean as if Victor and I didn’t exist. I started to ask him a question, but Victor put his finger to his lips and shook his head. We sat there in silence for a good five minutes. The only other thing that happened was that Lou curled up and went to sleep.
“The world is a strange and wondrous place,” Eli finally said, turning back from the window. Not a statement that required comment, but I tossed one out anyway.
“Strange, yes. I’m not so sure about the wondrous part.” Eli smiled, but in an abstracted fashion. “So what do you think? Apart from it being wondrous and strange?”
“I think we’re in very deep waters indeed.” He turned to the window, staring out again, his back toward us when he continued. His voice took on that familiar professorial tone, as if lecturing in a classroom. “Now, you’ll remember a few months ago, when I posited that some of the creatures you were dealing with were archetypes—werewolves, trolls, and the like. Or rather, their uncontrolled talent had caused them to take on those aspects.” I nodded, but of course he couldn’t see me. “Well, I think we’re dealing with the same thing here, except on a far more powerful level. The energy that helped bring it into existence was enormous—not only from your friend under the bridge and his cohorts but from those rune stones. The fake Ifrit, that horrible creature, was bound by the invocation—limited in scope. Dangerous, but not any more so than any predator with near-human intelligence. But what came next was not a result of a focused spell—so it took on the aspect of legend, and I’m afraid it’s very powerful indeed.”
“But what is it?” I asked. “I can’t recall anything about tree-dwelling men with hypnotic powers.
“It wouldn’t have to be an exact replica of anything from mythology,” said Victor. “It could be an amalgam of legends—including more modern tales, works of fiction.”
“Like H. P. Lovecraft?” I scoffed. “You mean we’re lucky they didn’t call up Cthulhu, lord of the universe?”
“No,” Eli said. “But there are also ancient legends that got a modern makeover. Native American myths, for one.”