Ghostcountry's Wrath (49 page)

“A careful answer that
wasn't
,”
Uki laughed again. Calvin saw the Black Man glower.

“You were about to speak, Brother-in-Thunder?” Uki prompted.

The scowl darkened. “Will there be feast or fight?” Asgaya Sakani asked sharply. “We promised these—most of these—a feast and a giving of gifts if they used the things they know appropriately during the last year. Part of me is not sure they have done so, yet another part thinks they have. A man should be of one mind about such things.”

“If it'll help any,” Alec broke in unexpectedly, “it doesn't matter much to me either way—though I thank you for your hospitality and your honors in the past. But on the other hand, you just mentioned divided choices, and—well, isn't that what Cal' s been putting up with here? He didn't want to teach Brock magic, but he'd made a promise, so he did—after a lot of soul-searching about the right thing—the
safe
thing—to teach. And everything he's done since then—well, he's tried to do the right thing, which I'm sure wasn't always the thing
he
wanted to do. I—”

“Sandy,” Liz interrupted simply. “What about poor Sandy?”

Calvin felt his cheeks burning at having overlooked so fundamental a crisis in the midst of arguing dinner dates with demigods. His hand sought hers automatically—wincing but barely when he found it larger and harder. He swallowed, stared at the misty shadow that was Uki.

A grunt made him turn again. “I was not able to finish my message,” the Black Man snapped. “Nor was I able to deliver one I was given by a certain soul I met.” And with that, he reached to a pouch at his side and drew out something that glittered bright when he held it out in his palm. “You father bade me send you this, Utlunta-dehi,” he said—and passed Calvin a now-familiar uktena scale. Calvin, in turn, slipped it to his dopplegänger. Her hands folded upon it, but she did not squeeze. Which showed admirable self-control. “Thank you,” she replied simply.

The Black Man nodded. The fog, Calvin noted, had begun to disperse. And he wasn't certain, but he thought he could discern the ruined dome of the asi through the Black Man's torso, as though through a thick cloud of smoke.

Thunder rumbled.

No! Not thunder: an engine—a healthy American V-8, if Calvin heard it right. An instant later, headlights lanced through the fog. The engine roared louder—too loud; then, abruptly, brakes squealed—or tires did—and a low burgundy-and-chrome prow poked through the wall of mist. It swirled away.
Thunderbird,
Calvin identified automatically:
'66 Town Landau.
Could it be…?

The engine died, a heavy door slammed, a figure took form, sprinting toward them. An instant later, it bounded into the open space. Calvin moved automatically to stand in front of Sandy, who had not yet resumed her own shape—and probably wouldn't until things died down a little. But then he was running forward, instead, to embrace…his cousin.

“Churchy!” he gasped, as Kirkwood Thunderbird O'Connor bear-hugged him, then thrust him away.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” Kirk gritted. “What the hell's goin' on here, anyway?” He indicated the fading wall of fog. “This ain't natural, is it? 'Course it ain't natural when you wake up from your afternoon siesta and find a blessed peregrine falcon sittin' on the foot of your bed, either—one that screams out ‘Calvin!' exactly once, then just sits and waits on you to finish dressing, and then flies out and lights on your hood, and
then
flies
in front of you until— Oh,
shit!
What
the fuck?”

Kirk staggered back automatically, having evidently just realized that the person whose face and body had heretofore been shielded by his cousin bore an uncanny resemblance
to
his cousin.

Calvin reached out to brace him, torn between concern and a terrible desire to giggle. “Remember what I told you about the scale?” he asked carefully. “Remember when you asked if I could turn into a real pretty girl? Well, uh, Sandy thought she'd try it the other way round first—which just coincidentally saved our asses.” He looked around at his friends for reassurance.

Kirk swallowed hard and slumped back against the hood of his car. “I…hope so,” he managed. “One of you's plenty enough.”

“Gives a new meaning to ‘walk a mile in my shoes,' though,” Sandy laughed—which filled Calvin with vast relief. He squeezed her hand. “Any time, babe.”

Calvin glanced around—which took his gaze to where Asgaya Sakani had last stood glowering. He was gone: dissipated like so much black smoke. A glance the other way showed the merest fading glimmer of the shape that had been Uki. “One more for dinner—if there is one?” Calvin called.

And from the fog came a voice, faint but clear. “There will be, but in the meantime, I suppose I must consult the others concerning yet more war names. Perhaps I will consult the woman you sent me as well.”

Brock perked up. “'Kacha? What about her? You gonna keep her?”

“No,” Uki replied, very faintly as the night wind began to unravel the fog, “but I very well might marry her.”

Sandy looked at Calvin and raised an eyebrow dangerously. “If you say a word about Thundercats, I'll kill you.”

“I won't,” Calvin smirked. “Now, why don't you go change, and I don't mean just your clothes.”

When Calvin met her in the woods a few minutes later, she was wearing starlight, and her eyes were shining.

Very soon he was wearing starlight, too.

And the only raptor that roamed the night between Lebanon Church Road and Athens was the emblem on the grille of Kirkwood O'Connor's Thunderbird, bearing weary travelers home.

About the Author

Tom Deitz grew up in Young Harris, Georgia, a small town not far from the fictitious Enotah County of the David Sullivan series. When he was a teen he discovered J.R.R. Tolkien, a writer who awakened his interest in fantasy and myth. He pursued his fascination by earning two degrees, a Bachelor of Arts and a Master of Arts, from the University of Georgia. His major in medieval English literature led Mr. Deitz to the Society for Creative Anachronism, which in turn generated a particular interest in heraldry, historic costuming, castle architecture, British folk music, and all things Celtic. Readers will also quickly realized that Tom was—as he said—a car nut who loved automotive details.

In
Windmaster's Bane
, his first published novel, Tom Deitz used his interests and background as he began the story of David Sullivan and his friends, a tale continued in
Fireshaper's Doom
and more books in the series. He won a Georgia Author of the Year award and a Lifetime Phoenix Award from Southern fans for his work. In addition to his writing, Tom was also a popular professor of English at Gainesville State College (today the Gainesville campus of the University of North Georgia), where he was awarded the Faculty Member of the Year award for 2008.

On the day after his birthday in 2009, Tom suffered a massive heart attack from which he never fully recovered, and in April of that year he passed away at the age of 57. Though he was never able to realize his dream of owning a small castle in Ireland, Tom had visited that country, which he loved, and at the time when he was stricken with the heart attack he was in the planning stages for a Study Abroad trip to Ireland that he would have led. The trip took place, and to a dirge played by an Irish musician on the uilleann pipes, some of Tom's teaching colleagues scattered his ashes in a faery circle.