Ghostcountry's Wrath (45 page)

“Assuming he shifts into owl shape again,” Brock noted.

“And assuming Cal
doesn't
shift into something that can also see in the dark,” Alec added.

“Which is assumin' that Cal shifts into anything at all!” Calvin snapped. “Which I don't plan on—not if I can help it.”

“That last being the operative phrase,” David concluded.

Calvin nodded grimly. “Yeah, but I really don't know how many changes the scale's got left in it…and if I shift and get stuck, well, you guys can kiss your warm furry fannies good-bye, 'cause Mr. Eyes'll make lampshades out of 'em by breakfast.”

Brock looked alarmed. “You really think he'd…
kill
us?”

Calvin gnawed his lip. “Not in a way that's traceable to him. But I think there's a real good chance he would, yeah. See…one of the things about witches—my people's style of witches—is that if they kill somebody they get the years that person would have lived added to their lifespan. You play your cards right, you could live forever.”

Brock's eyes were huge.

“Believe it, kid,” Calvin assured him.

Brock swallowed. “I…I do, I think. I wouldn't have a week ago, maybe not even a day ago…but I do now.”

“Good for you.” Calvin yawned. “It may keep you alive.”

Brock didn't reply.

Calvin returned his gaze to the fire. He gazed at it a long time, then eased his branch in another inch.

David looked at him. “You miss Sandy, don't you?” Calvin shot him a sideways glance, then nodded sheepishly.

“If it helps any,” David said softly, “you know she's doing the right thing. Somebody has to keep an eye on Don until they get hold of his mom, after all; she's the reasonable one to do it. Shoot, she knows you can take care of yourself, man; but Don's still nine-tenths shell-shocked. Besides, she's with Liz. The two of them can handle
anything—
'cause
I've seen 'em do it. I mean, name me two other women you'd rather have on your side in a fair fight.”

“Or an unfair one, either,” Alec chuckled.

Calvin shrugged. “Yeah, well, I guess you guys're right. Except…oh, I dunno. I guess it's the old conflict thing kickin' in: my white side and my Indian side. My liberal white American side—the one that grew up in Atlanta watchin' MTV and CNN, and votes democratic and supports abortion and gay rights and the ERA—says I'm bein' an arch-reactionary male chauvinist by not
insistin'
Sandy be here tonight; that the simple
fact
that
somebody says that women absolutely should not take part in things like this means I therefore oughta insist on her
takin'
part. But on the other hand, the side of my heritage I've had to
learn—
not
be warped from birth to try to fit into
—knows
why they shouldn't, which is 'cause what we're on the eve of here is essentially warfare, which is when we're most completely
men,
and that we're therefore forbidden contact with women for fear of pollution—not 'cause they're inferior, just 'cause they're fundamentally
different,
and different things oughta be kept separate.”

“Damned eloquent,” Alec observed dryly.

“Damned
true
!”
Calvin countered. “It's just that right now I don't know which rules to play by. It's hard, guys, to reconcile a world where you can buy comic books with holograms on the cover and be free to talk about 'em; with one where a man can turn himself into an owl and be considered a raving loon. I mean,
both
are equally incomprehensible—equally magic—to most folks, yet there are rules that govern 'em both, too.”

“And being a shapechanging sorcerer who's shacked up with a physics teacher doesn't help, does it?” Alec appended.

Calvin grimaced helplessly. “Good point: I am bein' a hypocrite—except that I've tried very hard to see both worlds as part of one, with each havin' things in it that're…remote from each other's traditional belief systems. I mean, I don't have a clue how holograms work, even though I've seen the diagrams and read the theory, but I also don't see how recitin' certain words can make you shoot straighter—or open gates between Worlds—but they do.”

“Well, the only thing
I
believe right now,” Brock yawned out of the ruddy silence of the east, “is that it's good to have mates anytime—and that pizza tomorrow night won't be shabby either.”

“I'll buy,” Alec volunteered.

Calvin found that he had nothing to say to that. And forced his limb further into the fire.

*

Dawn found Calvin still awake—as he'd intended—though he'd lapsed into a drifty fugue that was somewhere between a trance, an anxiety attack, and plain old sleep-deprivation fatigue. He'd been gazing at the fire a long time; indeed, had watched its slow collapse into the barely smoking embers that now centered the Power Wheel.

But the sun was kindling those coals with a different sort of crimson now, and it was time to greet the day and get on with the second part of the ritual he was determined to follow preparatory to his… duel, he supposed it was, with Snakeeyes. Which he absolutely did not want to contemplate right now. And the best way to prevent that was by occupying his brain otherwise. Yawning, he stood, stretched, felt his vertebrae crack and pop. A glance around the circle of logs showed his companions all asleep—or faking it. Except David. But even that most loyal of friends seemed to be in the last stages of a holding action, to judge by the way he kept jerking his eyes open, then drifting off again. Calvin prodded him in the ribs with a toe. David blinked up at him, then over his shoulder at the sun, and nodded. While Calvin shook Alec and Brock back to consciousness, David prepared one final batch of black drink.

“Actually, we need to build that up higher,” Calvin advised. “I need to heat rocks for the last stage.”

David obligingly punched up the coals, added more wood, then slid the pot as close to the resulting flames as he dared.

“While that's cookin', we can get on with stage two,” Calvin confided.

“Wha's stage two?” Brock mumbled sleepily. “Uh, sorry, I didn't mean t' wimp out on you,” he continued, rubbing his eyes.

“I bet
I
know,” Alec yawned. “Hey, like, I may get a feel for this stuff yet!”

Calvin grimaced resignedly, but clapped him on the shoulder. “That way, boys,” he yawned in turn, pointing over the hill. “If memory serves, the Middle Oconee's thataway.”

“You mean, like to
swim
in?” Brock yipped in alarm.

“No,” Calvin chuckled wickedly, grabbing him by the neckband of his T-shirt and propelling him along, “like to go-to-water in—which is not the same thing at all.”

“Without a suit, I suppose?” Brock groaned wearily.

“Bare-ass nekkid!” David grinned, sounding even more wicked than Calvin.

Brock rolled his eyes. “Seems like I've spent half the last
week
bare-ass nekkid,” he grumbled. “Or hangin' out with folks who are.”

“Some of whom are even
worth
hangin' out with, I bet,” David sighed. “That Okacha's a fox!”

“So to speak,” Alec chuckled wryly.

Calvin aimed a gentle kick at Brock's bottom. “Better get used to it, kid—if you're gonna be a wizard.”

*

It took fifteen minutes of picking their way through underbrush and pine thickets to locate a suitable site for the second part of Calvin's ritual—which is to say, a place where the water was deep enough to submerge oneself, yet shallow enough to stand on the bottom for the chanting-and-marking part. Fortunately, the chant was the familiar one from Mooney, the one for players before a ball game—which meant that David knew enough of it to sing it with some prompting. And since Calvin was the one going to war, it wasn't appropriate for
him
to sing. Thus, David, Alec, and the reluctant Brock found themselves cast in the role of accolytes.

The ritual itself did not take long—again fortunately, for though the stretch of river they had chosen bordered the two-hundred-odd forested acres Calvin's friends owned, the surrounding territory was fairly populous. Which basically meant that the longer they lingered, the greater their odds of discovery—and potentially awkward questions.

Thus, it was with a considerable sense of relief that Calvin heaved himself out of the water and shinnied up the waist-high bank. David, who had preceded him, gave him an arm up and tossed him the towel. He took it gratefully. “You'd think I'd learn how cold river water is, even in Georgia, even in June,” he gasped between shivers.

“Beats England!” Brock shot back from where he was fidgeting embarrassedly while he waited on Alec to finish drying—they hadn't counted on this eventuality, and nobody had thought to bring towels. As it was, they were using a ragged pair they'd found in the trunk of David's Mustang.

Alec flipped Brock the soggy bit of terrycloth and reached for his skivvies. “I guess this brings us to stage three, huh?”

Calvin nodded, already surveying the riverbanks thereabouts. “And if you guys'll give me a hand, I see just what we need.”

*

Twenty minutes later, Calvin led his companions to the top of the slope beyond which the meadow lay. They did not travel unencumbered, though, for besides backpacks, they each bore two lengths of willow saplings roughly nine feet long and as big around as half dollars. Calvin had just paused to untangle his from Brock's when Liz's pickup rolled into view. It parked beside David's Mustang a couple of hundred yards away, and first Liz, then Sandy, climbed out. Calvin wondered where Don was and bent their route that way.

Sandy met them halfway and took over one of the willows. “Sleep okay?” she asked lightly, with a twinkle in her eye that told Calvin she was forcing nonchalance.

He rose to the occasion. “Let's just say that my faithful companions here did just dandy.
I
kinda felt like Jesus did the night he spent in Gethsemane.”

“'Cept none of us had thirty pieces of silver,” David broke in. “'Sides, I stayed awake.”

“And how was
your
night?” Calvin inquired, as Liz joined them and they trekked toward their camp.

“'Bout like yours, evidently,” Sandy yawned. “We finally got through to Don's mom 'round eleven-thirty. She'd gone to Brunswick for a movie, which is why she didn't answer earlier. Don told her he'd just got real bummed out at home and had run off with the idea of connecting with some friends he knew up here, and then got lost, but was afraid to call for help 'cause he was afraid she'd be pissed. It wasn't much of a lie, actually; he was careful about what he said. And fortunately, his stepdad's a cop—and I
think
knows a thing or two about…
you know.
Like, he saw all that stuff last year. But anyway,
he
got on the horn and called in a couple of markers, and the upshot of it is that Don's on his way south in a Clarke County Police car at this very moment. In fact”—she paused to check her watch—“he oughta be rolling in just about now.” She glanced up at Calvin. “He said to tell you thanks, by the way. Said he'll be in touch when he gets his act together.”

“You think this put the fear of God in his mom?” Calvin asked, with a scowl.

A shrug. “I think it might. I sure think she'll pay more attention to him now.”

“Good deal.”

“So…what're these bushes for?” Liz wondered.

“Sweat lodge,” Calvin replied. “You plant 'em in a circle 'bout two yards across, then loop 'em over each other, and—” He paused in midsentence. “You
did
remember to bring blankets, didn't you?” he asked Sandy. “Otherwise I'm up shit creek.”

Sandy rolled her eyes. “Of course we did! Jeeze, you'd think I'd never helped you build one of these things before.”

“And I hope you never have to again,” Calvin replied. “Not under these circumstances.”

They had deposited their bundles now, at the western edge of the Power Wheel they'd camped in the night before. Calvin flopped a comradely arm absently across Sandy's shoulders. She started to respond with a hug, then winced and drew away.

“What's the matter?”

“Cramps,” she muttered through a pained grimace. “All this shapeshifting and world-hopping's brought on my period.”

“It
delays
mine,” Liz confided to David.

Alec winked at the wide-eyed Brock. “Take notes, kid. I am.”

Calvin, however, felt a sick dread tie knots in his stomach. “Oh Christ, I
forgot
about that! I mean, you're serious, aren't you?”