Warstalker's Track (19 page)

“Won’t hurt the wards,” Devlin offered, to David’s unasked query.

“I’ll leave you to it,” David sighed, and returned to the living room.

And waited, as thunder continued to clash and clatter around the mountainside, while lightning stabbed the environs (but never the house) almost constantly, every now and then revealing a rush of movement among the trees or an explosion of sparks that reminded him of nothing so much as the invisible monster from the id in
Forbidden Planet.

“Car’s comin’!” Aikin warned from the hall, where he’d stationed himself for the better angle it allowed on what passed for a drive. “Might be Wannie; she said she’d beg a ride, or else call. But—”

“Two cars,” David noted. “Not Dale, then—I hope.”

“Athens folks?”

David didn’t need to reply, for by then the vehicles had reached the house, though the lead one had to swerve right to avoid a bolt that destroyed Devlin’s clothesline. And those two vehicles—a dark green Ford Explorer and a burgundy ’66 Thunderbird—could only contain three people.

Without pause, he wrenched the door open and met them on the porch. “Cal, Sandy, and…
Kirkwood
!”
he yelped. “Get in here! Things are—”

“We saw!” Calvin broke in, standing aside to let his lady enter, along with his older cousin.

Sandy rolled her eyes, clearly shaken. “If you mean a bunch of guys blocking the drive.”

“Pretendin’ to be werewolves, or sasquatches, or something,” their companion concluded. “We called their friggin’ bluff!”

“Good old American steel,” Sandy chortled. “Big wheel just kept on turning.”

“Remind me never to buy a ’Vette,” Calvin chuckled in turn, divesting himself of far more layers of serviceable-looking clothing than the season required, plus a backpack that was crammed to bursting. At which point he did several double takes in a row as he took in the company in the room.

Sandy dropped her duffel to the floor. “Good thing we saw the light show and decided to check it out.”

“Good thing we know our Spock-eared little buddies like to play games with the weather,” Calvin shot back, staring at David pointedly. “Otherwise we’d be on our way to Sullivan Cove. You know: last known agreed-upon rendezvous?”

David sighed wearily. “Then you don’t know?”

Sandy was gazing intently around the room, missing nothing. “I assume there’s a reason your dad and LaWanda aren’t here. Hope it’s not bad news. I also assume the sickly lad zoned out on the sofa means you managed
some
of what you intended.”

David had just started to explain the gist of their adventure when the door to the “workroom” opened and Devlin stepped out. He did a double take of his own and reached instantly for his hip—probably an old reflex—then relaxed when he recognized not only Calvin and Sandy, but also Calvin’s cousin Kirkwood. The latter looked, as Calvin was fond of saying, “like an Irishman with an Indian paint job.” In fact, he was local Cherokee, from the reservation an hour up the road. David had met him once of significance, and another time or two in passing, and recalled that he was a few years older than Calvin, a professional archaeologist by trade, and knew a hell of a lot about what he’d come to call “Power Traditions.” In short, a good man to have on your side in a fight. Especially
this
kind of fight. Devlin knew him, too, which was odd. Or maybe he was one of the Ranger’s mysterious “contacts.”

In any event, Kirkwood hesitated but briefly at the sight of Nuada, Aife, and Fionchadd, his only comment being, “So all that stuff’s true!”

“And more,” Nuada replied drolly. Only then did anyone notice that the thunder had, for the nonce, abated.

“Guess we blew their concentration barreling in like that,” Calvin laughed, a little giddily.

David laughed, too, but looked at Devlin uneasily. “Uh, what about—?”

“They only serve against foes; these folks aren’t.”

“
What
only serves?” Calvin began, then realization dawned. “Oh, I see! Uh, anything
I
can do? Along those lines, I mean?”

“If you’re up for it,” Devlin conceded. “Double-ring defense never hurts.”

“Churchy’s got the stuff in the car,” Calvin assured him. “’Course, it wouldn’t hurt for somebody to stand around with some heat.”

“I will,” Aikin volunteered before David could either voice the same or stop him. “John,” Aikin continued, “you said something ’bout a heavy-duty torch? I wouldn’t mind borrowin’ that if you don’t mind lendin’.”

David regarded his friend uneasily. “You go, somebody better watch
your
back!”

“And if nobody minds,” Sandy snorted, “it’d be great if somebody brought me up-to-date. I don’t have a
clue
what’s goin’ on.”

“I’ll tell you what I know,” Devlin sighed, eyeing David warily. “Since I ’spect young Mr. Sullivan here’s sick of it. Nuada can fill in the gaps.”

Aikin cleared his throat. “About that torch…”

Devlin scowled and disappeared into his bedroom, to reappear with a potent-looking electric torch, complete with body pack. He hesitated briefly, then passed it to Aikin, who accepted it with solemn grace. Another pause, and Devlin slapped a box of shells into his hand. “Not unless you have to. And don’t ever let it be easy.”

“Never will,” Aikin affirmed, retrieving his Remington before following Calvin, Kirkwood, and David (who’d reclaimed his Winchester) out the door.

In spite of the danger, David was glad to be outside. Oh, he liked John Devlin fine, and found his home a place of instant comfort, rather like he’d imagined Tom Bombadil’s house might be. But with three very out-of-place Faeries ensconced within and another unconscious on the sofa—well, some things were just
too
weird.

Outside was still the outside, after all, and he, Aik, and Cal were used to bumming around outdoors, plus Kirkwood was one of those guys with whom you were instant friends. They were all in good shape, too, and decent at self defense, from hand-to-hand on up. More security there.

Kirkwood made a bee line for his Thunderbird and popped the trunk. David was torn between watching him and keeping an eye on the clump of half-shapes he could just make out on the fringe of the woods to the right of the drive. He thought he could hear singing too—humming—something—and would’ve sent a round of shot their way if not for the distance. As for the big electric guy, he seemed to have dispersed. Probably it took a lot to conjure such a being, and Calvin’s timely arrival had disrupted whatever concentration had kept it viable.

Meanwhile, Kirkwood had rummaged in the trunk for what seemed like forever and finally produced a bundle wrapped in supple, gold-toned leather David recognized (by the smoky scent as much as anything) as brain-tanned buckskin. Staves of wood protruded from either end. A small pouch clinked at his hip, hinting of ceramics within. “Which way?” he asked, as he slammed the trunk.

Calvin gnawed his lip. “Our troublesome friends are to the south, and I’d as soon they didn’t know what we were up to until we don’t have any choice. So I’d say start with the east, which is the direction of victory anyway, then work counterclockwise. If we’re lucky, they won’t notice, since we don’t have to go as far out as John did. The closer the better, in fact; ten yards out, max.”

David followed the other three as they ducked into the shadows beside the house. Devlin had no porch light, and they were all dressed in black, David having changed into spare garb he’d stored in the ship. They were all dark-haired, too, save him, but an olive-drab boonie hat obscured most of his blond mane.

Still, they stuck to the shadows, slinking low as they turned the corner by the bedroom to skirt the lean-to shed before entering the darker region where the kitchen elled off the back. Calvin studied the terrain, then set his mouth and trotted to a point that was as close to due east as possible. Kirkwood joined him and passed him a stick.

“Wood from a lightning-blasted tree,” David informed Aikin. “Stained with blood, since red’s the color of the east.” Aikin merely motioned David out to the scanty shelter of a maple before claiming the southeast corner, alert as ever he was when hunting: checking constantly toward the east, then north, then back toward the driveway and the road. At least their enemies couldn’t shoot back, not if they’d fled the boat by shapeshifting. On the other hand, clothing and other accouterments sometimes went with you and sometimes didn’t when one shifted Faery-style; it depended on the strength and intention of whoever worked the spell. These guys were fairly strong, Nuada had said. But they’d also had to shift with no notice, so maybe they’d arrived in just their skins.

As if it mattered! David scanned the yard, the woods beyond, the yard again; straining his eyes in quest of anything untoward: eyeshine (did Faeries
have
eyeshine, and if so, was it different from mortal norm?), movement, light…And why wasn’t Aik using that torch he’d made such a fuss about?
(Probably so he won’t attract attention,
he answered himself right back.)

As for Calvin—he’d stripped off his black sweatshirt and was squatted on the ground behind the stick he’d jammed into the earth. He was chanting, too, with Kirkwood joining in. Invoking the protection of the ruling agencies of the east, probably: the red dog, perhaps, or the red bird, or even Uki’s counterpart there: Asgaya Gigagei, the Red Man of the Lightning.

But if
their
side invoked the lightning, would their enemies be able to counter with yet more electrical manifestations of their own? Now
that
bore thinking about.

But not now, for the night was disrupted by the crunching roar of at least two more cars hurtling into the drive, then applying brakes with force, followed by the harsh blatt of a
horn. “Dave! Now!” Aikin called from the corner, motioning David farther out while he disappeared into the shadows by the bedroom. David swallowed hard as he launched into the darkness, working his way toward a burst of light flickering through the trees at the entrance to the yard.

Headlights: two sets, both on high beam, and one pair augmented by fiercely bright driving lights under the bumper and on top as well. Which could only be Liz’s Ford Ranger. David breathed a sigh of relief, even as his heart flip-flopped. They’d clearly encountered the same problem Sandy’s crew had, but unlike them, seemed to be meeting resistance. Either that, or Liz, who was in the lead, was finding it impossible to bear down on what appeared, at the moment, to be people.

Aikin wasn’t—as a shotgun blast ripped into the air.

Another shot. “Floorboard it!” David yelled. “Fuck those guys, Liz, just floorboard it!”

As if she had any chance of hearing above the cacophony that had erupted down there. Abruptly, David was running, with Aikin arrowing in to the right. Lights blinded him, as they were intended to blind the clump of rebels who’d been interrupted at their mischief: evidently something in the drive to forestall entrance.

If only he had a clear shot!
But with the vehicles directly behind the targets, he didn’t, and neither did Aik. Okay then, in that case—

He swerved left, describing a wide curve he hoped would give him a clear line of fire.

Had one!
As part of the group backed up a fraction. A little more and…
now!

He held his breath, squinting toward the shapes cut out in the headlights’ glare—shapes armed with simple clubs. Another breath, and he took aim—and fired.

Some fell. Others looked his way. “Nice one!” Aikin yelled.

Another shot, at one who had risen.

“Floor it, Liz!”
he shrieked desperately.

She heard, or found the nerve. The engine roared. The Ranger lunged forward. Bodies scattered of their own will, or were flung aside, as the small pickup shot through the unseen wall of John Devlin’s warding and bounced into his front yard. Myra was right behind in her Dodge Caravan, with someone riding shotgun: wiry male, dark curly hair…
Piper!

Piper—James Morrison Murphy—the sweetest, flakiest guy David knew. Also the best musician—and the person who feared dealing with Faerie more than anyone else in the world. He’d just finished one adventure, to the detriment of his peace of mind. David hadn’t expected to find him near any of this stuff again.

Finally, the last of their crew—save LaWanda—had won their way into the yard, leaving him close enough to the confused attackers to manage two more shots into their midst, aided by the torch Aikin was fanning across their foes’ last known location. He raised the Winchester for one final volley, then paused and lowered it again. He
hated
this, he realized: the ease with which he pulled the trigger, reloaded, and shot again. Immortal their adversaries might be, yet they were sentient as well, and not even evil in their essence, merely with priorities at odds to his own. And here he was wreaking mayhem in their midst like the most callous terrorist!

All at once he was staring numbly at the shells already in his hand, ready to be inserted into barrels he’d just broken open to receive them. And crying.

“No!” he said, to nobody. And it didn’t matter anyway, because no one in that mass of Faery fallen was rising. Moaning, yes; and cursing in a tongue he didn’t know. But not rising.

One remained upright, however, but then Aikin’s shotgun sounded and that one fell, clutching what were likely shattered knees.

David turned back to the house, back to his girlfriend and his best buddy and people who’d understand what he’d just done—help
him
understand, anyway. Who’d tell him it was okay, or maybe even give him the dressing-down he both desired and deserved.

He met Aikin at the porch. His friend’s shoulders slumped, but his eyes glittered. “I hate this!” Aikin spat.

“Yeah,” David choked. “I do too.”

* * *

Dawn arrived not a second too soon for David, who’d zoned out around three (he suspected Aife’s collusion there), awakened a little
too
refreshed around five, and spent every spare minute since gazing distrustfully toward the end of Devlin’s drive—when he wasn’t pacing around to check other windows. That in spite of the fact that Brock was still maintaining scrupulous watch in what they’d taken to calling the war room.