Ghostcountry's Wrath (16 page)

“No,”
Calvin interrupted. “You
can't.
Don't you see? It's me they're after—two
different
thems, best I can tell. One wants my scale—that's pretty obvious. If I leave, you'll be cool.”

“And you'll be in deep shit.”

“Maybe—but it'll be deep shit I know how to prepare for, now that I know kind of what kind of threat I'm up against.” He wondered, though, if he felt as confident as he was talking, but soldiered on. “And furthermore, if that was Dad's ghost you saw last night, I really oughta hit the high timber.”

“Why? It's obviously gonna follow you.”

“Right! Which means it won't follow you, 'cause even a ghost can't be in
two places at once—I hope.”

“But…”

“No, think, man! Ghosts seek out their closest kin for company, right? That's what you said last night. So I'm Dad's closest kinsman, given that his parents are dead, as is Mom—unless you count his older sister—your mom. But that's all according to the
white
system. But by
our
system—our
traditional
system—his closest kin would be your mom; that hasn't changed. But you, as sister's son, would actually be closer kin to him than I am. And since this ghost business seem's to be following traditional lines, at least in part, it means I'd better stay as far away from the rest of my kin as possible—especially since you and your mom are more vulnerable than I am. And while I'm pretty darned sure it wants me, I'd hate to tempt it otherwise!”

“But—”

“No buts. Breakfast, packing, and I'm outta here, and I hope like hell nothin' happens to you before I get back.”

“Anything you can do, uh…otherwise?”

Calvin shrugged. “I might be able to ward the place. But it's awfully big—and you do a lot of comin' and goin'.”

“How 'bout if you just ward me?”

Calvin looked thoughtful, then strode to the front door. His cycle was still in the yard—though it likewise looked as though it might have moved a foot or two to the west—which made him shiver all over again. Steeling himself, he stepped onto the porch, then checked the sky. It was clear, save for a few specks very high up indeed. A pause for breath, and he ran for it. He unlocked the BMW's saddlebags, fished inside one for the war clubs he'd wedged in there. And wondered, briefly, why he'd not shown them to Kirk last night. He supposed because he'd forgotten them. Lord knew he tried to, most times, though he'd practiced with them a bit.

Still…

A pause to relock the compartments, and he returned to the house. Kirk was still at the table, looking puzzled. Calvin strode over to him, handed him an atasi. “Here,” he said. “Whatever else this is, it's also a weapon. Presumably it'll bust heads, whether human, bear, or raptor. It, uh, came from somewhere else, and maybe it's got some power for good in it. I'd suggest you keep it with you always. Sleep with it, if you have to. And make damned sure you've got it with you if you go outside, even if it's just to take a piss. Okay?”

Kirk looked solemn. “Fine.”

“And
don't
let Snakeeyes see it!”

A troubled scowl, touched with irritation.

“Sorry to freak you, man! Shoot, I'm sorry I've fucked up your life, when all I wanted was a little advice.”

“No problem. It's been a pain, somewhat, but God knows you've left me with plenty to ponder.”

“I hope that's all you have to do.”

“Me too.”

The next fifteen minutes were a flurry of activity, last-minute questions, speculations, and instructions. Calvin finished dressing, repacked his knapsack, and added most of the leftover breakfast including the coffee in a thermos and the orange juice in a canteen. They neatly filled the space the atasi had vacated.

Calvin paused on the porch to give his cousin a hearty hug. “Sorry again,” he murmured.

Kirk held him close. “No big deal, kid. You be careful. And me…well, I always
wanted
to be a warrior.”

“I hope you never have to be,” Calvin told him as they broke apart. A moment later, he was astride the bike, vaguely aware that once again Kirk's phone was ringing. He did not drive slowly this time, but was grateful for the cover—for every time he hit clear terrain, he saw the shadow from overhead. Often enough, in fact, that shadow lay right atop his: the outstretched wings of an…owl.

Chapter X: Mojo in Milledge Hall

(Athens, Georgia—Sunday, June 17—midafternoon)

According to the map tucked inside Calvin's black leather jacket, it was slightly more than a hundred miles from cousin Kirkwood's place north of Qualla Boundary to the traffic light that had just caught him at the juncture of Thomas Street and Broad on the fringe of downtown Athens, Georgia. A hundred-odd miles as the road curved, he corrected; less than that as the crow flew. Or the owl.

Fortunately, the owl wasn't flying anymore—or else was maintaining a very discreet distance indeed. Certainly he hadn't seen its shadow overlying his own for nearly two hours, and he'd been on the road less than three. Which
didn't
mean he'd dropped his guard, only that, as best he could determine, there were three possible causes for the critter's absence.

The first was that it really had been an ordinary owl which had simply followed him a ways, then lost interest. Not likely, granted, but conceivable.

The second and far more reasonable possibility was that it had
not
been an ordinary owl, but was still subject to natural laws to the extent that it had either become tired or had realized that Calvin could maintain sixty miles per hour a lot more easily than it could, and longer.

The third was that the damned thing didn't like cedar.

Witches didn't like cedar. That was…not quite a fact, maybe—and it wasn't a topic he'd ever raised with Uki—but his medicine-man grandfather had claimed as much, and Mooney had recorded essentially the same. Experience seemed to bear out the theory, too, because a few miles south of Qualla he'd entered a stretch of road so overhung by trees they veiled all view of the sky for seconds at a time—and conveniently enough, a lot of them had been cedars. Once he'd realized that, it had taken but an instant to zip off the road, trim a few sprigs, and affix them to the bike—and inside his jacket, his pockets, and the bandana he wore inside his crash helmet. The shadow had been waiting for him when he'd emerged, of course, but the instant it had tried to superimpose itself upon his analog again, it had missed a couple of beats and fallen back, at which point he'd lost sight of it.

Now if he were only rid of it for good….

A honk from behind informed him that the light had changed. He blinked, gazed down the hill toward the University of Georgia campus, and gunned the bike. Thomas Street became East Campus Road without altering otherwise, and Calvin zipped along until forced to slow by the railroad tracks beside Tanner Lumber Company (where Dave had brought him in quest of material for the loft he and Alec had constructed in their dorm room during Calvin's one previous visit to the Classic City). Just past that, to the right, he glimpsed the terrace behind the art department, then Friedman Hall's ground level and the back of Baldwin Hall: the anthropology building.

Another light, up a hill, right turn into a parking lot, and he was zeroing in on Target Two. He parked the cycle in a slot designated for same and climbed stiffly off, then activated the theft alarm and pocketed the key. A pause to stretch, unhook his helmet, and retrieve his backpack—Lord, but his ribs were sore, never mind his shredded collarbone and hands—and he strode across a scrap of walkway to the side door of Milledge Hall: the westernmost of a pair of Williamsburgesque dormitories that bracketed a small courtyard on one side while facing the larger one of Reed Quad on the other. A corridor stretched straight ahead, stairs went up to the right. He took them, turned right at the top, then right again, to gain the opposite end of the U. Second door from the end, to his left, and he knocked four times, a certain pattern Target Two should have recognized.

If
it/they was/were home, the alternative to which was only then occurring to him. He
hadn't
called from Kirkwood's, though he'd intended to and probably should have. The main thing he remembered from his previous conversation, more than a week ago, was that finals began next week.

Another knock, and then—

“Calvin, m'man!” David Sullivan cried, whisking into the hallway to snare Calvin by the less-damaged shoulder and yank him inside. “I
figured
that was you!”

Calvin shot him a reproachful glare as he stumbled into the small room. “Then why'd you leave me standin' on the doorstep?”

“'Cause it's good for you to suffer.”

Calvin couldn't resist a derisive snort as he helped himself to a seat in the very secondhand armchair squeezed below the single window and between two institutional-style desks. The loft above housed massive speakers with storage space between. “I've suffered enough in the last two days,” Calvin continued, holding up his bandaged hands for emphasis.

David flopped down on the lower of the bunk beds opposite and turned down the stereo: REM's latest, appropriately enough. In token of the heat that permeated the cramped room despite a box fan and open windows, he was wearing gym shorts but no shirt or shoes. “Jesus, man, what happened?”

“The owls are not what they seem,” Calvin replied cryptically, leaning forward to shuck out of his jacket though retaining his black T-shirt. “You, uh, don't act surprised to see me,” he added.

A mysterious chuckle. “Maybe I'm
not
.”

An eyebrow lifted. “Oh?”

A shrug countered. “I've got a girlfriend who can scry, remember? And a roomie with an oracular stone.”

Calvin leaned forward abruptly, his face an even mix of relief and concern. “He's got it
here
?”

“Where else would it be?” David replied with a touch of sarcasm. “The damned thing has to be fed blood once a month or it'll go crazy. You think he'd leave it a hundred miles away, where his mom could find it?”

Calvin shrugged expressively and flopped back into the chair again. “Well, I'd hoped he had more sense than that, but you never know, with McLean.”

“He's got more sense than I have,” David replied flatly. “And more caution. It's just that he likes to believe that the world works in a certain way. He likes things predictable.”

“He's got the wrong friends, then.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Speaking of which,” Calvin said, “uh, where's Liz?”

David checked his watch, did a fast mental calculation. “Prob'ly gettin' down with Toad the Wet Sprocket, if she got to Atlanta in time.”

Calvin smacked himself on the forehead. “Oh yeah, right! That all-day concert she won
one
ticket to.”

“You got it!”

“Leavin' you and McLean to slave over finals—the bitch.”

David's reply was a mute, resigned shrug. In the lull, Calvin scanned the room, noting piles of books and CDs; the quarter-scale poster of the new Bugatti EB 110; a wooden nail-keg full of umbrellas and swords, both metal and rattan, as well as a bokken. “So, what
about
the big Mach-One, anyway?”

“Huh? Oh—he went on a pizza run with— Oops! Never mind.”

Calvin's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Who?”

“Never mind.”

“Dave!”

“You'll find out soon enough.”

“Gimme a break, Sullivan, I don't have time for this shit!”

David checked his watch and smiled smugly. “
Au contraire,
Red-Man, if you're here for the reason I think you are, you're on your way to south Georgia to fulfill a certain bargain you were fretting about on the phone last week. Only you're not actually supposed to meet the kid until tomorrow. And since ground zero's less than five hours away, you've got plenty of time. Therefore—”

He did not finish—or if he did Calvin couldn't hear him because his ears were suddenly full of fabric, as David launched himself across the room and stuffed a pillow into his face. Calvin pushed it back immediately, but by then, David had hauled him off the chair and was sitting astride his belly, pinning him to the floor. Calvin writhed and twisted, but could not escape nor protest, for his mouth was still half-clogged. David promptly dived in, tickling him unmercifully. Eventually, however, Calvin got a hand free, but that only left his side more unprotected. David tickled harder, Calvin kicked and giggled—and swore. Once he managed to reach David's side and got in a counterattack, but David twitched away. Calvin grabbed his leg and yanked hair—hard.

“Jesus Christ, Fargo!” David yipped, as his start allowed Calvin to get his other arm free.