Ghostcountry's Wrath (15 page)

A glance around showed it a fine morning indeed: the sky clear, the air still cool and dry enough to be comfortable. But halfway to the screen, a darkness passed overhead, even as, for the briefest instant, a shadow flicked across the ground. A skyward glance showed something occluding the sun, but it took a moment's squinting to determine that a large bird was circling up there. Buzzard he assumed at first, only it didn't look quite right. But a closer inspection, aided by a shading hand, showed it to be an…an
owl.
Which was damned unusual in daylight. The glare and distance kept him from identifying the species, but the mere fact of it gave him chills—especially in light of his dream.

Owls were often witches! Or witches were often owls. And though Calvin was not one to jump to conclusions, neither was he one to ignore facts. Maybe there was no connection between the odd dream, atypical conduct from the wildlife, his over-obvious uktena scale, and a weird guy over at the Boundary whom gossip said was a witch. Then again…

Pausing to polish off the coffee, he continued around the hedge toward the source of the caterwauling. It came, as he expected, from a complex maze of chest-high wooden panels covered with rice matting on the outside and lined with plastic sheeting. A pulsating snake of clear plastic tubing coiled up a sapling at one side, to empty into a bucket full of holes suspended from a branch, from which appliance water poured with force enough to comprise a make-do shower. Kirk was underneath, happily soaping his hairless chest, while a bubbly puddle slowly formed around the flat piece of slate on which he stood.

“Ahem!” Calvin called. “You're pickin' up a lot of static on your radio—oh, was that
you
? Sorry!”

Kirkwood blinked out from under his flag of sodden hair as he rinsed off his torso. “You don't like my singin'?”

“Is
that
what that was? I thought somebody was stranglin' cats. But I guess I like it better than some things.”

Kirk squatted down and did something obscure to the hose near his feet, at which point the bucket's arcing streams fizzled down to drips. He grabbed a large red towel from a nearby post and applied it to his face as he joined Calvin. “Like what?” he asked with an innocent grin.

“Like the company that hangs around here, for one thing,” Calvin replied seriously, pointing to the sky, where the owl still circled. “Like you not wakin' me up when you were supposed to, for another.”

Kirk was squinting into the glaring heavens. “Why're you in such a hurry?”

“'Cause I've gotta be in south Georgia tomorrow night—like I told you.”

“Yeah, but where were you so hot to get to this mornin'?”

“Athens, mostly. There's somebody I need to talk to down there.”

“This somebody have a name?”

“Dave Sullivan—if it's any of your business.”

Kirk's face turned serious as he looked back down at his cousin. “If that's what I think it is circling around up there—or who—it may very well be my business.”

“You're thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?”

“Maybe.”

“I've still gotta go to Athens.”

“No, you don't.”

“The
hell
I don't!”

“I've
got
a telephone, Cal. You can accomplish the same thing that way and lots faster. Besides, I've got breakfast ready—brunch, I guess it is now—and
you
look like you could use a shower. Better strike while the pressure's good.”

Calvin eyed the apparatus dubiously. He
was
feeling pretty fried. And there was something pleasantly primal about cleaning up
and
looking at landscape at the same time.

Except—

His face clouded. Once more he glanced skyward, but the owl—if that's what it had been, for he was no longer certain—had disappeared.

Kirk wrapped the towel around his waist and indicated the maze. “Be my guest.”

“Maybe it'll wake me up,” Calvin agreed sullenly, unwinding his Ace bandage before shucking his jeans and boxers.

Kirk flopped up against one of the posts that supported the screen, just out of the range of spray. He looked troubled, Calvin realized, as he stepped under the bucket and found the tap that turned on the water. It was cold, bracing, and straight from the ground, courtesy of Kirkwood's well. He stood there for a long appreciative moment, close to gasping at the cold, and let the water soak him all over, then felt for the soap. When he blinked his eyes clear again, it was to see his cousin still present, gazing a discreet few degrees off direct, but still sort of halfway looking at him. And he still looked troubled. In fact, Calvin realized, he looked old and weary. And his mouth kept twitching, as if he was about to say something and kept changing his mind.

“Something buggin' you?” Calvin asked finally. Kirk's gaze shifted toward him, hard and piercing—and suspicious. “Why do you ask?”

“'Cause you look like hell.”

“It's not deliberate.”

“Was that an excuse or an evasion?”

Kirk moved his gaze to the ground and folded his arms across his chest, gnawing his lip.

“You…sleep okay?” Calvin asked carefully.

“Did you?”

“Mostly. Had some uncool dreams, though.”

“What kind?”

Calvin told him.

Kirk listened, brow wrinkled, his mouth a thin line. “I didn't dream anything—I don't think. Certainly nothin' like that, so you couldn't have been pickin' me up. But…” He paused, puffed his cheeks. “Oh, hell, Cal…I didn't dream, but I…I heard something, and maybe—
maybe
saw something, too.”

Calvin stepped far enough out to hear clearly and let the water pound his back. It was lessening in force. He'd have to finish soon. “What kind of something?”

Kirk shrugged, rolled his eyes. “I…don't know. Maybe nothin'—I, uh—that is, this is gonna sound really stupid, but don't laugh, okay? But…where'd you take your clothes off last night?”

Calvin regarded him seriously. “I
thought
I did that on my side and left 'em on that big trunk under the front window. Only when I looked for 'em just now they were under
your
window. I assumed you'd put 'em there as a joke, or something.”

“No joke.”

Calvin knew by his face he was telling the truth. “No.”

Silence. Then, from Kirk: “I saw your dad last night, Cal—I think I did. I woke up just before light and had to whizz, and I got up, and tripped on your boot—I guess it was migratin' or something—and…and then I went out on the back porch, and while I was lettin' fly, I got this feelin' of something not right out there in the yard, and I finally saw this sorta half-assed shape over by the trees.”

“What kinda shape?”

“Hard to tell. Man-sized, though. And to tell the truth, I sorta thought it was maybe that Snakeeyes asshole snoopin' around, 'cept that it wasn't tall enough for him, and it…it had a smaller shape with it like—”

“Like a kid?” Calvin finished for him. He retrieved the soap again to give his hair a go. A minute or so of that, a rinse, and he'd be done.

“Like…a kid. Actually, there might even have been
two
of 'em, but one was real hazy like. And—”
“

Two!”
Calvin broke in. “Boy or girl?”

“Boy, I think. Both of them.
I—Dammit!”

“What?” As Kirk started toward the house.

“Telephone.”

“Ignore it.”

“Can't. Guy at the game promised to call me about a survey job this mornin'. I can't let him hang. Sorry.”

“You're gettin' too corporate,” Calvin called to his cousin's departing back, as his kinsman's amble broke into a jog, then a run. He made the back door on the fifth ring. The towel didn't.

And Calvin was alone with his thoughts, cold water, and a pretty mountain morning.

Closing his eyes, he stepped back into the shower, soaked his hair thoroughly, then stuck his head out again and commenced lathering it. Inevitably, some ran into his eyes, making them sting. He blinked, squeezed his lids shut, as he tried to rinse his eyes clear.

Then…

“Goddamn!”
as something slammed into his shoulder—something soft and warm and sticklike. And with it came the heavy thump of wings, and air fanned against his flesh, and then another hit, and this time a thin-edged pain tore into the flesh of his clavical. Calvin flung himself out of the shower, ducked below the level of the screen. Some kind of large bird was flogging the hell out of him! But even as he tried to get his bearings, wings smacked his face. Claws scraped his back, missed, then grabbed again and hung on. Half blinded by soap, he could only beat at whatever had latched onto him, but to little avail. Sharpness slashed into the hand he tried to work under the gripping talons; a beak snapped at him as he scrabbled vainly for the neck in hopes of throttling whatever it was. Something clutched at his throat…pulled. A beak stabbed at his eyes. He flung himself flat on the ground, rolled onto his stomach, then had an idea and half-staggered, half-crawled back under the bucket. With one hand on the bird, the other found the faucet and turned it up full. Water beat down, but the bird would not let go. His vision was marginally clearer now—except that he had to keep his eyes closed lest that beak find them. But the little he could see showed that the water pooling about his knees swirled with red.

More claws, more wings, more impacts, more shrieks, more yells and curses. Again something tore at his throat, yanked, tore, then yanked harder.

It was going for the scale!
It was the owl, and it was after the uktena scale!

“Get the hell away from me, Snakeeyes!” he gritted, beating at the bird.

“Fucking
hell
!”
another voice broke in, distantly.
“Hang on!”
Already much closer.

And with that, the owl—or whatever—that had been assailing him ceased its attack. Venting a frustrated cry, it released him and flapped noisily into the air.

Calvin was crouched panting beneath the shower, absently watching blood draw deltas down his legs on their way to the sea around his feet, when Kirk pounded up to him. “What the hell was
that
all about?” his cousin demanded.

“I was attacked.”

“I could see that much, stooge.”

“Well
I
couldn't see anything. What was it anyway?”

“Owl, I think—probably the one we saw earlier. You know,
that
owl.”

“If that was an owl, I'm Mickey Mouse,” Calvin grunted as he turned off the faucet and accepted the towel Kirk had brought him. He didn't wait around to use it, though. One final quick scan of the sky—innocently clear now—and he wrapped the towel around his waist, retrieved his bandage and clothes, and started toward the cabin. His ribs hurt like hell. “If you don't mind,” he gasped, “I think I'll finish up inside—it's safer that way.”

“Sorry!”

“I was the one dumb enough to stand naked and blind with my mojo hangin' out in full view of something that evidently wants it.”

“Maybe.”

Calvin stood on the porch, applying the towel to his hair, as Kirk paused in the door and waited. “No maybe—except possibly to the last, except that there're too many coincidences.”

“So what gives?”

Calvin donned his jeans and followed Kirk inside. Kirk had made a beeline for the coffeepot. “There's still the small matter of breakfast. I mean I'd
like
to pretend I'm leadin' a normal life, like I was a day ago.”

Calvin grimaced sourly—both from frustration and a whole new assortment of pains—but eased down at the table, only then realizing that he was still bleeding in trickles and his hands were in tatters. Fortunately, Kirk seemed nonplussed, though he passed him a wad of paper napkins. “Yeah, well, it's like that, magic is,” Calvin told him apologetically as he commenced dabbing. “Once you start foolin' around with it—or it with you—it won't ever leave you alone.”

Kirk sank down opposite and filled his plate mechanically. His face was grim. “I repeat,” he said finally, “what gives?”

“Well,” Calvin sighed, “after we eat, I guess I'd better split. In fact,” he added with more conviction, “I'm
gonna
split. Things have already gotten too risky for you up here. If I stay, they'll only get worse.”

Kirk eyed him steadily. “I'm goin' with you.”

“You can't.”

“Why the hell not? Asshole or not, you're still the closest thing to a brother I've got. I'm not lettin' you—”