Plague Cult (5 page)

Ruth sat bolt upright on the uncomfortable kitchen chair, her fingers locked around her mug. When Shawn left the room, she unlocked her fingers, one by one, and observed in a detached fashion the way they trembled. Abruptly, she stood and carried her mug to the sink to rinse out the last quarter of hot chocolate. Its sweetness was sickly to her shocked mind, body and soul.

Hollerider.
She had a hollerider in her home. She’d introduced him to her family. He would sleep in the room beside hers.

She gripped the sink and leaned over it, breathing deeply.

Holleriders were the stuff of legend. Exceedingly rare, their power could scour a person’s spirit and reduce them to a whimpering mess. She’d seen the ice-cold aura of it.

He was still Shawn, a Collegium guardian, a man William had trusted with this mission.

She shuddered. But she’d seen Shawn’s magic unmasked. She’d seen the wild flash and strike of it, the way it enveloped him and stirred around him. It was a storm of magic, so deeply unsettling that, unmasked, even a mundane would sense it.

Hide your eyes, look away, the Wild Hunt is howling past.

It was the rare magic of people like Shawn that had birthed the legend of the Wild Hunt. For those it touched: terror.

Ruth walked back to the table and gripped the back of a chair. Its old vinyl had cracked, revealing the foam padding. Now, the peeling vinyl stuck to her sweaty fingers. The folklore of northern Europe warned everyone to stay away from a hollerider.

“Would you like me to leave?” Shawn had returned silently, his magic masked. He stood in the doorway from the kitchen to the hallway, not entering the room.

“No.” She sounded as if she had a frog in her throat. “No.” That was clearer, stronger. She let go of her mage sight and studied him.

He was the same good-looking guy he’d been ten minutes ago. Thousands of men looked like him: ex-military, tough, self-contained, holding together their families and communities, protective. As he stood there, his smile was so wry, it stung. He stood as if at a court martial and said, “By the river you asked me if I wanted a new partner. Only fair I give you the same opportunity.”

“Had you intended to tell me who you are?” She unpeeled her fingers from the chair back. She could, and would, stand by herself.

“No.”

“Then why tell me, now?”

With the heel of his right palm, he tapped the doorframe; thoughtful, uncomfortable. “You thought I’d left you with danger around. I didn’t. My magic sensed no evil near you.”

And now?
“Was there anyone in the house?”

“No.”

She slumped onto the old kitchen chair. “So I did imagine it.”

“Possibly.”

“Possibly?”

“My magic can’t sense ghosts.”

Her brain stopped. She kind of knew her jaw hung open. She got it to move despite the one shock too many. He couldn’t possibly believe her house was haunted. “Ghosts aren’t real.”

“My mamaw’s seen them.”

Okay.
She wasn’t about to argue with someone’s grandmother’s stories. “I probably imagined the light in the window. It’s been a rough day.”

“Yeah.” Too much agreement in his tone. He was masking his magic—and maybe also a sense of vulnerability.

“How many people at the Collegium know that you’re a hollerider?”

“Thirteen. You make fourteen.”

Then he’d trusted her with a big secret. “You’re welcome in my home, Shawn Jackson.” The instant the words left her mouth, she wondered why she’d said them. The question on the table was whether she was willing to partner with him on this mission, not invite his friendship. Except, her words were the traditional invitation, the one that the evil holleriders hunted would never receive.

And Rose House felt lighter for her invitation of acceptance and friendship. It was as if the clouds had fled the moon or the wattage of the lights turned up. Her shoulders relaxed, no longer attempting to huddle up under her ears.

“Thank you.” Shawn left the doorway and entered the kitchen. He picked up his glass and finished the water in it. He also changed the subject, decisively. “I lost the scent of the death magic a half-mile from the river. I’m not sure if it means the spell was wound up or if I only caught the fading echo of an earlier spell.”

“If death magic fuels the curse…” Ruth rubbed her arms. “That could give the curse the power boost it needs to become a plague.” Suddenly, the infinitesimal chance of plague became real. From concentrating on her personal issues about being in Bideer, she had to one hundred percent focus on the curse.

Shawn leaned against the counter, serious but not spooked. “If it’s evil-intentioned, my magic should be able to sense it. Although there are spells—superstitions—that can turn aside my magic, I doubt that anyone here knows them or would think to use them. Most people never encounter a hollerider. I need to do the groundwork, tomorrow. If I scan steadily, the variation in the magical landscape reveals itself as much by absence as presence. If there’s a gap, evil can be hiding.”

He paused. “For me, the real problem is if the curse is powered by someone who isn’t evil so much as scared. William said plague can be born from a curse powered by vengeance, but vengeance covers a lot of territory.”

“Fear, defense, anger.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Justice.”

He sighed. “A person can do terrible things and not be evil. They’re the ones my magic can’t find.”

“But we
will
find them.” She paused. “Even if on investigation I determine that the curse isn’t capable of morphing into the lonely hearts plague that William named it, I can’t leave Bideer till we find and stop the person using death magic.”

“I agree. Have you ever—” He cut off the question.

“I’ve encountered death magic before,” she said steadily. “Anyone willing to kill another living being to fuel their quest for power is perverted. If it’s evil they’ve freely chosen…that’s more your field, as a Collegium guardian, than mine. But if the person is sick in mind or soul, then I have to heal them.”

“I don’t want you going near someone who uses death magic.”

“Not till it’s safe,” she agreed. “But as a healer, I don’t get to pick and choose who I heal.”

“We’ll see.” He wasn’t budging.

Nor was she. She stood. “Goodnight, Shawn.”

“Will you be all right in your room?”

She suppressed her embarrassment and a hint of unease. He was referring to the light she’d seen—or imagined—and his ludicrous suggestion that Rose House was haunted. He wouldn’t be asking if she was okay with a hollerider occupying the room next to hers. Any other hollerider and she mightn’t be, but Shawn…“I’ll be fine.”

“Good night.”

Shawn listened to Ruth climb the stairs. Her footsteps faded. He crossed to the back door and opened it, stepping out onto the porch. He kept his magic masked. Ruth knew who he was now, what he was, but thoughts of ghosts and death magic, as well as her family troubles, were enough for her to deal with. She didn’t need the brush of terror from his magic.

Hollerider
. Huntsman. His mamaw’s great-uncle had been one, so she’d recognized the freezing terror that crept out from him around puberty to infect his family’s dreams. The whole family could sense the power he held, but it had taken Mamaw’s insight to understand why it didn’t reveal itself. Why it had waited in him, waited for him to grow and be able to bear its burden.

Holleriders were a soul’s executioner. God gave mercy, but he’d also made men and women born to pursue evil and to drive it on and on, to hunt it till it died or repented.

He gripped the porch rail and released it instantly. Splinters! A touch of magic, minor guardian magic, pulled out the slivers of wood and released them into the garden. The wood hadn’t meant to hurt.

Evil couldn’t say the same.

Evil wounded those around it.

True evil was fortunately rarer than the chaotic state of the world might lead people to believe. He’d seldom used the full extent of his hollerider power. Mostly, ordinary magic, the kind he’d trained in at the Collegium, was sufficient to deal with rogue mages and unnatural events. But three times he’d encountered true evil.

Evil left a mark on the soul, and it wasn’t as easily removed as splinters.

He folded his arms, leaning a shoulder against a porch pillar. The river was visible from here. The clouds had slid away from the moon, driven on by the quickening breeze. He observed the silver gleam of the water, heard the rustle of the old trees in the garden, and thought of Ruth buying this big house near her family, but alone.

He couldn’t believe that Ruth’s family blamed her for Mason’s paralysis. She’d done all and more than could be expected of a girl of fourteen, no matter how powerful her raw healer’s talent. Her family ought to have held and supported her through the trauma. His own family would have.

To be a hollerider was a magic as isolating as necromancy, if different. Yet his family had never once pushed him away. Instead, they’d dragged him back to them, kept him close with phone calls and emails. They refused to let him be lost to the Wild Hunt.

He refused to be lost to it. His life could become obsession, chasing evil on and on, relentless and restless. It was why, after talking with another hollerider, he’d given his oath to the Collegium. As a guardian he protected the vulnerable and pursued rogue mages. He could serve justice, but within limits. It eased the compulsion in him to seek out evil.

But Ruth’s magic, a healer’s gift, ought to have wrapped her in her community. That she’d had to seek out a place for herself in the Collegium, far from home in New York, was wrong.

Shawn was pretty sure where the fault for that lay.

“Leave it alone,” he told himself.

The hoot of an owl mocked him.

Injustice, whatever its form or cause, bothered him. He shrugged, accepting the inevitable, and swung on his heel to go inside.

Before he left Bideer, he’d have a word with Mason, perhaps with all of Ruth’s family. He liked her and he wanted more for her. At a minimum, she ought to be able to come home openly to Rose House, to share it with her friends and have family visit.

A decade ago, Mason had acted the idiot. But he’d been smart after the car accident. He’d shifted responsibility for his disability on to Ruth. His decision to drink and drive, underage at that, was pushed aside within the family in favor of a focus on Ruth’s healing talent failing her cousin. Mason had made himself the victim, at least where Ruth was concerned.

Shawn locked the back door. Truth had a way of coming out around him. It was part of the terror of hollerider magic. In the next few days, he’d ensure Mason got a taste of it.

Ruth woke early and wandered sleepily downstairs, only to pause, blinking, in the kitchen doorway. “You’re up early.”

“Good morning.” Shawn looked up from his concentration on the toaster. He hadn’t shaved. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw, giving him a rougher, bad boy edge.

Ruth’s tummy clenched. There were few things as appealing as the bad boy edge in a man who could be trusted—and hollerider or not, she trusted Shawn. She’d slept so well last night because of that trust. Exceptionally well.

He gave her a quizzical look, and she wondered how long she’d been staring witlessly at him.

“Coffee’s made.”

“Um, thanks, and uh, good morning.” She concentrated on pouring herself a mug while trying to ignore the fact that she’d wandered downstairs in her pajamas, merely throwing a cardigan on. Way to impress. Her blue pajamas had teddy bears on them.

“You want some toast?”

“I’ll make it in a minute. Thanks.” She sipped her coffee.

“I thought we’d divide and conquer.” He brought his toast to the table and spread honey on lavishly, obviously wide awake and raring to go. “I’ll head for the hardware store early, time it to catch up with some of the tradesmen. That’ll plug me into the male gossip network.”

“At least you admit it exists.” She was halfway through her coffee and feeling more awake.

“Only to you.” He grinned. “Never in public. It’s against the Man Code.”

“Uh huh.” She got up to make her own toast and top up her coffee mug. “Remember, we’ve got lunch at the farm. At Mom and Dad’s.” It sounded impossibly cozy. As if she and Shawn were a couple. Unsettling. “Between them, Mom and Dad know most of what’s happening in town, so going to the farm will actually help our mission.” She popped two pieces of bread in the toaster and set them to char. She liked her toast crispy.

“I’ll be back in time. What are you going to do with your morning?”

“Clean,” she said determinedly. He refrained from objecting to the apparent deviation from their purpose in town, and given his self-restraint, she added an explanation. “The curtains in the front parlor need dry cleaning. If I take them down and those in the dining room, chatting at the dry cleaners—which is also the dressmaker’s and sells knitting and other craft supplies—will hook me into the
female
gossip network,” she echoed his words.

“Smart thinking.” He pushed the honey jar towards her when she sat down with her lightly singed toast.

People who didn’t understand how a magical investigation worked might think she and Shawn ought to be casting spells to find the curse, the person who set the curse, or anyone affected by it. And maybe they would, but the first step was always to listen to the people on the ground. Even without magic, ordinary people had a sense of its actions.

Mundanes felt a well-warded house as welcoming and secure even if they couldn’t explain why. At the other end of the spectrum, a curse would trigger an unsettled feeling. If this curse had gathered power—and the medical examiner in Austin was confident it had killed a person, so that was significant power right there—then mundanes in town would be talking. The talk might be subdued and uncertain, but chances were high that it would circle around and home in on true causes.

In popular culture, people told and retold stories of witch hunts. It was true that mob justice was seldom just, but it was also rare. Mostly people maintained healthy communities by sensing and acting against threats to it. Not acting drastically or violently, but reaching out to protect the vulnerable, strengthening existing ties, re-affirming positive values and traditions against the encroachment of evil. It was an integral part of being human.

No man is an island.
Some poet had said it centuries ago. She and Shawn were here to stop the potential of plague and provide Bideer’s mundane safeguards with some magical back-up. She wouldn’t leave till the taint of death magic was eradicated.

She finished her toast and watched Shawn make himself another slice. “Mom serves lunch at twelve thirty, so we need to leave here by about twelve, and I’d like to compare notes before then.”

“Suits me. I’ll help you get the curtains down, then drop you and them in town, and pick you up on my way back from the hardware store.”

Exactly her plan. “I’ll either be at the dry cleaners, or three stores down at mom’s diner. Or I might be able to get a lift home from someone. If I do, I’ll text you.”

“No problem.” He spread honey on his last slice of toast.

Ruth sat a moment longer, although she’d finished her coffee. Through the window, she could see the blue of the sky intensifying as dawn gave way to day. It was a quiet time. Inside, the kitchen was terrible, old and blue and ugly, but it was pleasant to share breakfast with Shawn. Normally, when she visited Rose House she was alone. “Don’t buy much at the hardware store. Dad has a barn full of tools and he’ll lend you anything you need.”

“Are you sure?”

“Wait till you see the barn. It’s full of junk Granddad collected. Dad’ll be only too happy to pass some on.” She stood and took her mug and plate to the sink.

“Leave them,” Shawn said. “I’ll clean up while you dress.” In a gray sweater, old jeans and boots he was set to blend in with the other guys at the hardware store.

“Thanks.” She hurried upstairs to get ready. Jeans and boots for her, too, and a forest-green long-sleeved t-shirt for under her chunky rusty red cardigan. Thelma, at the dry cleaners, would be interested in the pattern Ruth had used to knit it, and discussion of that and choosing a pattern and wool for a new project would give Ruth an excuse to linger and chat. She brushed out her auburn hair and left it loose, curling to her shoulders.

She ran downstairs to find Shawn in the parlor, staring at the curtains.

Cleaning the curtains properly was a chore she’d put off. They were brocade and dusty, and hung from substantial and elaborate rods. The old house’s high ceilings meant the curtains were also awkward to reach.

“Do you have a ladder?”

She grimaced. “No. Dad’ll lend us one. I could put off the dry cleaner’s till this afternoon?”

“I could probably reach from a kitchen chair, but since there’s no one around.” Shawn sent a spark of magic towards the curtains.

The nearest curtain rod detached and slid its curtains gently towards them. Ruth scooped them up, as Shawn repeated the magic for the second window.

“Ugh.” She shuddered and stepped back as a spider scuttled from the top of one curtain hurrying to hide under an armchair. “I’m going to have to hoover everything.” Even the gentle dislodgment of the curtains had sent dust into the air. “And the windows are filthy. You wouldn’t guess I washed them three months ago.”

Her hands felt gritty from handling the curtains. She sneezed.

“Bless you.” He folded a curtain. “How do you want to transport these? I’d rather not have them in the cab of the truck with us.”

“Me, either. Just a tick.” She raced upstairs, found a couple of old sheets that had been in the linen cupboard when she bought the house, and which she’d washed and dried to be ready for just this sort of activity. “I’ll lay these down on the bed of the truck, then we can put the curtains on top.” Which was what they did.

At the dry cleaners, he scooped up one bundle of curtains in a sheet and she took the other, smaller one. The sheets somewhat prevented getting yet more dust on their clothes.

“Good heavens.” Thelma sneezed at the dust as the sheets fell away when they placed the bundles on the counter. “Come here and give me a dusty hug, child.”

Smiling, Ruth complied. Thelma and her gentle, humorous acceptance of life and people’s quirks, had been a refuge in Ruth’s teenage years. Ruth loved the old store which had somehow survived the explosion of online shopping with its crowded shelves of craft supplies intact.

Emerging from the hug, Ruth introduced Shawn.

“Ma’am.”

He was subjected to a shrewd assessment and evidently passed. Thelma smiled widely, displaying the perfection of her dentures. “Welcome to town, son.” The elderly woman didn’t have magic, but she had all the wisdom of her seventy plus years. “Glad to hear you’re going to be helping Ruth with her house. She’s been mighty resistant through the years to accepting any help from those who love her.”

Ruth bit her lip.

“But she’ll have her reasons.”

Shawn held Thelma’s gaze. “I reckon I met a couple of them yesterday.”

Ruth spun around to stare at him. He hadn’t just said…implied that her family kept her from Bideer?

Thelma laughed. “Couple of people told me of your encounter with Mason. Now there’s a boy who needs to—”

Ruth intervened. “Thelma, Shawn needs to get to the hardware store. He has a few things to buy, then he’s going to swing by, pick me up, and we need to be at the farm for lunch.”

“You telling me to hush up?” the older woman asked, faded brown eyes loving.

“Never.”

“Good, because your cousin might be in a wheelchair, and I feel as sorry as anyone does for him, but I never could understand how that made you the bad guy. It’s not like you poured that stolen liquor down his throat. And if Shawn doesn’t know the story, he soon will.”

“I told him last night.”

Shawn pulled a baseball cap out of his back pocket. “See you in a bit, Ruth. Nice to meet you, Thelma.” He put the cap on his head and marched out.

The chimes hanging above the door tinkled softly as he left.

“Before you ask,” Ruth said to Thelma. “We’re not together. Shawn’s a friend.”

“Seems the protective sort.”

Ruth thought of Shawn’s masked hollerider nature. “You’ve no idea.”

The doorbell tinkled again, louder than with Shawn’s exit.

“Now, that is a fine young man.”

“Cute butt.”

The Granger sisters had arrived. They burst in with their usual generous bustle and energy.

Ruth gave the two elderly, friendly gossips the hugs they demanded, and settled in to catch up on all the news, with especial interest in the “new folks down by the river”. In other words, the Moonlit Hearts Club.

Thelma cast her a sharp glance, perhaps recognizing that Ruth’s interest in the club was more than casual, but said nothing. That is, she said nothing until a lull in the conversation let her get a word in. “One of the waitresses at the diner is a member of the group. Polite young woman. Erica.”

Ruth recalled the woman. Thirty, badly dyed blonde hair. “She seemed nice.” And she’d been near Ruth last night; near enough for Ruth to perhaps detect the loneliness that had bothered her so much.

“Nice as pie,” the two elderly Granger sisters chorused. Susan, the older by one year, continued. “Hers is a sad story. Erica’s fiancé jilted her at the altar. Left her standing there in the church, all her family and friends waiting and watching. She couldn’t get over it. Not just that embarrassment, but…she still loves the man. Can you believe it? Said she came here to heal her broken heart.”

“That’s what the leader of their group promises.” Thelma handed Ruth the docket for her curtains. “Zach Stirling.”

“Movie star handsome,” Veronica Granger interjected.

“He and his wife, Whitney, bought the old resort a while back. Moved here two months ago. They have a saying—”

“Let the gentle light of the moon heal your spirit.” Phil, Thelma’s nephew emerged from the back of the store. “It’s all rubbish, but good to see you home, Ruth.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Uncle Phil.” He was one of her dad’s friends.

With a nod to the two Granger sisters, he carried the curtains back through to the old dry cleaners. He ran a specialty service that people drove to from a few towns around. If anyone could rescue the old curtains, Phil could.

“I like Zach,” Susan said. “But his wife is too city-slick for me.”

“She’s very pretty,” Veronica said wistfully.

“They’ve gathered together some vulnerable people.” Thelma wiped dust from the curtains off the counter. “It worries me. Erica is hurting right now, but she’s strong. She’ll survive. But this Moonlit Hearts Club draws people in with the promise of healing lonely hearts. Some around town have even gotten involved. They’ve renamed the old resort Healing Hearts Ranch.” She snorted, but seemed more concerned than scornful. “Jared Hill is one of them. Do you remember him from school?”

Ruth thought hard. “He was a few years older than me. Skinny and tall. Shy.”

“He’s still all of that.” Thelma nodded. “But a nice boy. Got his heart broken in Dallas and came home. He’s working at the wood gallery, teaching whittling. Sells some of his carvings, too. I know there’s not much of a social life for young people in town. You all leave.” Thelma wasn’t complaining, just stating a fact. “But I don’t like that Jared’s taken up with the cult folk.”

Ruth jolted. It was the first time anyone in town had used the term “cult” in her hearing.

“That said,” Thelma continued. “It’s his choice. Can’t save someone from themselves.” She fixed Ruth with a learn-your-lesson look.

“Well, Ruth won’t get involved with Zach’s group,” Susan said, obviously attempting to break the tension. “She has that nice piece of eye-candy at her house.”