C.H.A.R.O.N., page 18
Outside, the wind howled, rain rattled against the windows and pelted the roof, and the low drone of the police radio announced one catastrophe after another.
Cars swept away by floodwaters damaged everything in their wake.
Roofs collapsed from the weight of the rainwater, and gas-powered machinery stalled and malfunctioned in the downpour.
Names of people were reported missing and their last known location as well as warnings about shadow creatures.
The radio kept up its litany, convincing Travis that they had run out of time.
“Let’s start with the tulpas,” Travis said. “We need juniper branches to make a fire.”
“Juniper? There’s a bunch out behind the building. Gonna be soaked, but if you pat them dry, gasoline should do just fine,” Chris told them. He looked at the men at the bar. “Get off your asses and help them cut branches, or turn your truck lights on so they can see.”
“Do we get a free beer?” one of the men asked.
Chris cuffed him on the side of the head. “No, but we might have a town left in the morning. Now, git!”
Half a dozen men scrambled to do the bartender’s bidding. Tammy walked over to the bar to explain the chant idea to Chris. Brent shot his friend a salute in thanks and went outside to help.
Two guys angled their trucks so the headlights provided enough light to see. Brent and Travis had their shotguns, and another man got his rifle from the rack in the back of his pickup to stand guard while they cut juniper branches.
In the darkness beyond the reach of the headlights, Travis heard footfalls and low growls. Now and again, the lights caught a red or gold reflection from the shadows, or the flash of white teeth.
“It’s pretty wet out here,” one of the barflies observed. “Gonna be hard to make a bonfire.”
“How about the picnic shelter?” Another man said, pointing to the open-air enclosure. The tables had been stacked for the off-season, leaving most of the asphalt floor empty. Travis didn’t think the fire would endanger the roof, but if it did, that seemed a small price to pay to get rid of the tulpas.
“Let’s do it,” Travis said.
Brent and the man with the hunting rifle stood guard as they hauled the juniper branches into the enclosure. Travis rounded up enough rags to dry most of the water from the boughs and stack them for a fire.
“I’ve got a can of gas in my truck. Might be the only way you’ll get those to burn since they’re still damp,” one of the men said.
“I’ll cover you,” Brent volunteered. They walked into the headlights and between the vehicles to get to a pickup that sat a few feet farther back in the shadows.
A screech like a mountain lion split the night, and then two shotgun blasts, a yowl of pain, and a lot of cursing. Travis handed off his shotgun to one of the barflies, who ran toward the noise.
Minutes later, the four men emerged from the shadows. The gas can man leaned heavily on Brent, and he had a gash in his leg.
“Here’s your gas.” Brent handed off the container. “Got jumped by that damn were-cat we saw—or one just like it. He got clawed, but it’s not deep.” He knelt beside the injured man and ripped strips off of his shirt to bandage the injury. “I’d rather not risk trying to get back across the lot to the bar until we’re done here.”
Travis had already laid a salt circle inside the shelter and set up the ritual ingredients in a stainless steel mixing bowl—the closest thing Chris had to a silver chalice. The darkness at the edges of the parking lot thrummed with unnatural energy. Travis sensed the tulpas, who prowled like hungry predators, eyeing their warm bodies for a next meal.
“If something in the shadows comes at you, swing like you’re in the World Series.” Brent handed out lengths of rebar and then picked up his shotgun. “I’ve got rock salt rounds. Iron and salt should keep the shadow creatures at bay. We can’t let them through to disrupt the ritual. They’ve killed enough people—we need to stop them.”
The men looked terrified, but to their credit, they stood their ground.
A low growl came from the shadows, echoed by more of the monsters lurking just out of sight. The men took a half step closer to the center of the enclosure, a primal response from a hindbrain that still remembered sharp teeth in the dark.
Some of the creatures looked like large hellhounds—the movie version, not the real beasts Travis and Brent had fought more than once. Then again, if the tulpas were fashioned from people’s fears, those images would be fueled by Hollywood special effects.
One of the tulpas was a big cat, and Travis wondered if it was the one they had fought at the lumberyard. A bristle-haired monster with elongated limbs and a misshapen head lurked at the edge of the light, and Travis guessed it was Vinnie’s wolfman.
A huge paw swiped at one of the men who stood too close to the edge of the enclosure, gashing open his shoulder. Brent fired his shotgun, and the tulpa yelped, falling back to pace at the edge of the trees. Another man rushed forward to pull his downed comrade into the center of the circle and bandage his arm.
“Stay inside the salt line,” Brent warned, seeing someone else venture close to the edge. Before the man could react, claws swiped at his leg, knocking his feet out from under him and dragging him away.
Brent and the man with Travis’s gun fired at the creature while the rifleman used his night scope to squeeze off several rounds at the retreating tulpa. The rifleman moved to go after it, but Brent clamped a hand on his shoulder.
“You won’t catch it. He’s gone. We need you here.” Brent turned back toward the ritual space. “Let’s get this done.”
The surviving barflies didn’t need reminding to stay away from the edge.
“Are you a witch?” One of the men asked Travis.
“No, but I am.” Nonna strode across the rain-slick parking lot back-lit by lightning like one of the old gods.
Travis feared the tulpas might attack her, but even they seemed to know better.
“Move out of the way, sonny,” she said to one of the barflies who stood in her path, and the man scrambled to make room.
Travis remembered Tammy saying that townsfolk believed Nonna could put the Evil Eye on people. The men from the bar looked at her with a mix of respect and fear.
“The creatures are real because we’ve believed them into existence,” Brent continued. “They take power from what we’re afraid of. When we start the ritual, I’m going to need you to do your best to un-believe them.”
“Did you add some coal dust to your mix?” Nonna asked Travis. “It’ll carry the spark of my magic along with the power of the spell.”
Travis nodded. “I added it right after you gave it to me. Are you ready?”
She gave him a crooked grin that suggested she was relishing the adventure. “Damn straight. Let’s send these shadows packing.”
A gust of cold wind told Travis that Danny had marshaled help. Ghostly images flickered around the perimeter, outside the salt line but between the living men and the tulpas. Travis reached out to the spirits, strengthening them with as much energy as he could spare.
We can use all the help you can provide, he told the ghosts. Help us hold off the tulpas so we can end the damage Wyrick caused.
We’re on it, Danny’s spirit responded, more solid than he had been since he disappeared in Cooper City. Keep my brother safe.
The ghosts grew more solid and spread out to surround the ritual area, taking their role as guardians seriously. Tulpas growled, and Travis could hear the click of their claws against the road as they circled, looking for an advantage.
Brent lit the gas-soaked branches, sending flames high into the air, dancing as the wind gusted. Travis sprinkled the mix of protective plants and then added the drawings from Wyrick’s patients and the library refugees, then stepped back as he and Nonna spoke the banishing ritual together.
The smell of juniper hung heavy in the smoky air, and heat made their wet clothing steam in the cold.
Brent checked his watch. “It’s ten; they’ll be starting to chant.” He looked to the cold, frightened men. “Our part is easy. Pretend you’re at a football game. Tulpas leave—we don’t believe. Tulpas leave, we don’t believe…”
Nonna began the spell. Parts of the phrasing were familiar to Travis, who wished he’d had more time to study Simon’s notes. The litany drew from the Latin Rite of Exorcism and the even older Banishment Ritual, which he knew well. Other parts were new to him, and he wondered if Nonna had blended them from ancient traditions of the Mediterranean stregas.
“Infernal spirits, raised of will and malice, creatures of pain and fear—you have no power here,” Travis’s voice rang out in Latin above the hiss and pop of the flames.
Nonna spoke in Italian, but Travis remembered the translation from Simon’s email. “Be gone, foul spirits. You are no longer needed. Those who called to you are no more. You are released. Go, and do not return.”
Outside the salt ring, the firelight added definition to the tulpas’ shapes, a shadow menagerie of wolves, hellhounds, big cats, and large, fast reptiles, as well as the wolfman that had ripped up his car. The ghosts blinked in and out, translucent and then nearly solid, fighting the tulpas—fierce protectors beyond the reach of the shadow creatures’ teeth and claws. Every second they kept the tulpas at bay bought Travis and Nonna the time they needed to complete the spells.
“Get thee hence,” Travis shouted into the wind. “Leave this realm. From nothing you were created, and to nothing you return.”
“Let it be so,” Nonna responded.
“We don’t believe…we don’t believe…we don’t believe…” Brent and the others chanted, and while he couldn’t hear the people inside Fisher’s or at the library or community center, Travis knew that their energy lent power to the banishment.
The juniper branch bonfire collapsed, sending blood-red flames high into the air in a constellation of embers. The heat flared, and sweat poured in rivulets down Travis’s back despite the cold night. Nonna’s flushed face had taken on an ecstatic expression as the power of the ritual called to her magic.
The sharp pine scent filled Travis’s nostrils. He could taste it in the back of his throat, along with ash and salt. He blinked hard, trying to clear the smoke from his eyes. A howl like the coming of the Wild Hunt echoed in the night, filled with pain and hunger. The tulpas hurled themselves at the barrier of ghosts and salt one final time, and then their shadow figures broke apart, rising like ash and embers in a spectral whirlwind before vanishing into the night.
As quickly as it rose, the fire died back to orange embers. Beyond the salt circle, the ghosts stilled, an undead honor guard.
“Do you think the monsters are all gone?” one of the men from the bar asked, gripping his rebar white-knuckled.
“One way to find out,” Travis replied.
Danny? What’s it look like out there?
The monsters disappeared—at least, there aren’t any near here.
You did a helluva great job.
Just protecting my stubborn big brother, Danny replied. And other duties as required.
Please thank the others for their help. I don’t know if the tulpas could hurt spirits, but you saved our asses—and helped save South Fork.
Keep an eye on Brent. He needs a wingman. I’ll do my best to be around, but if I can’t—
I’ll watch his back, Travis promised. Go get some rest.
Travis realized that he hadn’t responded to the man’s question. “Yes. From here at least. I don’t know if we sent all of the tulpas packing, but we’ve plowed the road. It’s a good start.”
Nonna nodded. “This was the easy part. But now, the way’s cleared for us to deal with the Shubin. The night’s still young.”
Travis’s watch vibrated, silently marking the hour. Nine o’clock. “Magic rises at noon—and midnight,” he murmured.
“Then we’d best finish preparing,” Nonna replied, looking no worse for the wear, although Travis felt the drain on his energy from their magic. “There’s work to do.”
CHAPTER TEN
When they returned to Fisher’s, Chris and the others looked up, worried and expectant.
“Did it work?” Chris asked. “We chanted like the ball was on the one-yard line with ten seconds left in the game. Haven’t yelled like that since the last time the Steelers were in the Super Bowl.”
Travis nodded. “I think so. All the shadow creatures nearby are gone. Thank you for your help shifting the energy. Sometimes, that can make all the difference.”
“That’s a good start,” Chris said. “Better than what we had before.”
“Still have to stop the Big Bad,” Brent told him. “That’s going to take a little more preparation.”
Nonna bellied up to the bar and asked for a shot of Uzo, then knocked it back like a pro and slammed the glass down. “Another.”
Chris hurried to comply.
The men who had gone outside to help with the tulpa ritual returned to their barstools, soggy and looking worse for the wear. Chris brought out the first aid kit and patched up the gashes for the two who had been attacked. Everyone raised a glass in memory of Kevin, who had been dragged away. They all looked like they were in shock.
Being afraid of the supernatural is one thing. Finding out that it’s real is another, Brent thought. Chris is going to be selling a lot of alcohol tonight.
Brent noticed that a few more people had joined the refugees at Fisher’s. Jamie from the hardware store was huddled in conversation with Vinnie and Jackson, the soldiers who had been Wyrick’s victims.
Good—that’s at least two of the people who helped create the tulpas who were on hand to banish them.
Vinnie looked particularly rattled and haggard, with dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days. Brent remembered that the man had confided that he also dreamed of an old man in a fur coat—the Shubin.
Was the Shubin working with the tulpas, predators who share the spoils? Could it feel when we banished them? It’s an ancient creature. We’re just fodder for it. Could it even conceive of us being a threat?
Brent walked over to Vinnie and Jackson. “Thank you for helping send the tulpas away.”
“They’re gone, but not the old man.” Vinnie twitched as he spoke like he’d been doing shots of Red Bull and espresso. “The old man’s been here forever. It won’t be over until he’s gone.”
“That’s the next project,” Brent assured him, doing his best to sound upbeat. Can’t blame him for tweaking a little if he’s still dreaming about a killer mine spirit. Maybe once we banish the Shubin, he’ll finally have some peace. “Hang in there,” he told them. “We’ve got a plan.”
Brent joined Travis at the table in the back corner. Travis had ordered a big basket of French fries and sodas for each of them. Jamie came over a few minutes later.
“I thought about what you said with the salt and iron pellets. Tammy told me about the old railroad tunnel. We might not be able to get our folks up and out that way, but if we live through this, we might get some rescue vehicles in.”
“What did you have in mind?” Brent admired the way Liz and her friends had stepped up to protect South Fork.
“I loaded up my 4WD truck with all the road salt we had left and every box of iron buckshot, plus a couple of double barrels and some high-lumen jack lights. I’m going to put the folks in here to work packing shells, and then Jackson is going to ride shotgun and blast away while I spread salt and light that tunnel up like the sun.”
She smirked. “If there’s anything left in there, we’re going to send it back to where it came from.”
“Give us a bit more time,” Travis said. “We need to do another ritual at midnight when the magic is strongest. It won’t fix the flooding or the rock slides, but it should bind the malicious mine spirit that’s been making everything worse.”
Jamie raised an eyebrow. “Do I even want to know?”
Brent shook his head. “Probably not.”
Jamie headed back to Jackson. Vinnie had slipped away while she had been gone. Nonna joined Travis and Brent at their table after she downed another shot. The liquor didn’t seem to affect her. “Good work with the shadow creatures. The Shubin will be worse—you know that, right?”
Travis nodded. “I suspected as much.”
“My cannelmancy will affect the Shubin’s essence since he is bound to the coal. Destroying the likeness will weaken him since I’ve poured magic into the figure to limit his power and tie him to the deep places,” Nonna said.
“That alone isn’t enough because the Shubin did not become as he is naturally. That son of a bitch Wyrick tampered with powers he didn’t understand,” Nonna continued, crossing herself and muttering a more colorful insult in Italian. “He made the Shubin more dangerous than he would have normally become, and the shadow creatures’ murders fed the dark energy even more.”
They looked up as the door opened. Father Prochazka wandered into Fisher’s. He ignored the looks others gave him and made his way to the back table.
“I took a walk, and here I am,” he told them. “The church is full, lit up with candles. I have nothing to give them—no assurance of salvation in this world or the next, no comfort. I’ve never felt so useless in my life.”
Father Prochazka set a small canvas bag on the table, and then he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew an old leather book. The binding’s finish had flaked, and the title’s gold leaf was faded. “My predecessor left this with a letter of instruction for the next priest. He researched a purification ritual, fearing that the darkness in the mines would rise.”
“We’re glad you’re here,” Travis told him. “Pull up a chair. We’ve got some time before midnight, so we’ve got to make this count.”
“You expect this to work?” Calabrese stood hunched against the rain, hands in his pockets. They had left the refuge of the bar and headed into the storm to work the ritual.
“It’s a Hail Mary pass, but it’s our best shot,” Brent admitted.
