Queen of Wands-eARC (18 page)

“Lurch faster!” he boomed, then turned back to his assistant. “There, Peter. That is how to control your minions. Mind control is the best control.”

“Got it,” Peter said, frowning.

“I took the trays over to the kitchen,” Doris said, getting a word in edgewise. “Is there anything else you need?”

“And who is this who performs tasks in my con suite yet bears not the lanyard of staff?” the black man asked. “Speak to us, O lady of beauty and worth!”

“Uh,” Doris replied.

“I see thy name is Doris,” the man said. “Shane Gomez is my name, and
I
am the
master
of the con suite, the
feeder
of the hordes, the
supplier of provender
to the faceless masses. God of Feasting!

“Thank you,” he added, in a much gentler tone. “I appreciate the assistance. And while I’d take you up on your offer to help more, alas, we are required to put anyone on staff through the mandatory training courses where their brains are removed and replaced by straw so that the zombies—the other zombies, that is—don’t eat them. Since your brains are clearly not straw, I must regretfully decline more assistance for your own safety. Besides, right now I’ve got enough people. But feel free to grab a bite to eat before it’s all gone. In fact…”

He took Doris gently by the elbow and walked to the head of the line.

“This is Doris,” he said to the kid who was next up to the table. “She has performed service beyond compare to the good of the con and to the good of the con suite. In doing so, she lost her place in line. I, as master of the con suite, do now place her in front of you. Problems?”

“No problem, Shane,” the tow-haired kid said, sticking out his hand. “Looking good. How you doing this year?”

“Too soon to tell, really,” Shane replied in a much more normal voice as he shook the proferred hand. “But it looks good so far. Take care, man.”

“You too,” the kid replied, waving Doris in front of him. “Eat up. Most of the good stuff will be gone before you know it.”

Doris snagged a hot dog, chips and coleslaw, then went back around to get a drink. She found a corner that wasn’t occupied and filled her stomach, then considered her situation.

Food was covered. She wasn’t sure where she could sleep, though. She didn’t have enough money for a hotel room, and from passing conversations she’d overheard, she knew all the hotels were full, anyway.

Cross that bridge when she got tired. Right now she had to think. With some food on her stomach that was actually a possibility.

She pulled out the program book again and read it more carefully. All the programming track stuff started tomorrow. So she had until then to think about what she wanted to do. Who she wanted to be, as Duncan had put it.

The nice thing about the con, she realized, was the anonymity. Nobody knew her, she didn’t have any defined place, nobody was really paying her any attention at all. She realized in a flash that she could be
anybody
she
wanted
to be. She didn’t have to be Dumb-ass Doris. She could create a
new
Doris.

She looked at the cover of the main program and frowned. She wasn’t sure she could be the person on the cover, but it had a certain allure. It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to be noticed, didn’t want to be liked. She just didn’t want to be harassed because of it. If you were pretty, guys took pictures of you. They didn’t stuff you in a locker because you’d pissed off their girlfriends.

She could be anybody she wanted to be. So
who
did she
want
to be?

CHAPTER TWO

“Ms. Rickels,” Germaine said. “This is Lady Lithram, our local contact.”

Janea had been moved to a safe house not far from the hospital. The neighborhood was seedy, and Sharice would normally consider the location not particularly secure. However, Germaine had also arranged for four “executive protection specialists” from Atlanta to maintain security around the clock. In addition, there were nurses monitoring Janea at all times and an on-call MD. On the mystic side, the house was owned by Memorial Hospital, a Catholic hospital. Sharice felt mildly out of place only because the defenses of the house, which were
formidable
, were so clearly Christian.

When Germaine made certain phone calls to certain people, things could get done very quickly.

“Lady Lithram,” Sharice said, shaking her hand. Lady Lithram was stocky, with short blonde hair, blue eyes and a figure that spoke of manual labor. Her hands were roughly calloused. “I’d prefer traditional rites. No skyclad.”

“Of course, madame,” the Wiccan priestess said, nodding. “And may I introduce my husband, Lord Korgan?”

“Lord Korgan,” Sharice said, shaking the man’s hand. Lord Korgan was quite short, slender, and unusually for Wicca, black. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, but had ceremonial robes over his shoulder. “I’m glad to see that both poles are represented.”

“The universe is balance,” Lady Lithram said. “Light and dark, male and female. Only molds don’t need balance, and who loves mold?”

“Indeed,” Sharice said, grinning. “You’re a gardener.”

“We’re landscapers,” Lady Lithram said. “Which mostly means cutting grass to the level it would be shorn by grazers. But I do a nice flowerbed.”

“I suspect they’re better than the owners realize,” Sharice said. “Tell me about the local powers.”

“Very bad,” Lady Lithram said. “Very negative.”

“Negative or dark?” Sharice asked.

“Negative,” Lord Korgan said. “We have walked the dark paths. This is…different.”

“There are at least three long-term demonic residents,” Lady Lithram said. “And a very large body of supporters. Satanists,” she added, nearly spitting.

“They perform their black rites in Chickamauga Park,” Lord Korgan said, tiredly. “We oppose their powers as well as we can, but Wiccans…”

“Don’t fight well,” Sharice said, nodding. “Some, anyway. If we have major demons in the area, why weren’t we called in earlier?”

“They are generational possessors,” Lady Lithram said, frowning. “They live in families, some of the more powerful in the area. Chattanooga is a very strange place, one of the few medium cities that is still ‘owned,’ if you will, by a handful of families. Some of those, not all, are generationally possessed. They keep the city small and manageable because it suits their purposes. Then there are more outside the powerful inner circle, but controlling towns in the area. Again, we do what we can to turn aside their more evil essences, but the Madness killings have been long coming. Something is rising, perhaps by their action, perhaps against their wishes, but definitely linked to them.”

“We’re supposed to be here,” a loud voice boomed from the front of the house. “Check the damned list.”

“Ah, I see Hjalmar is here,” Sharice said, smiling. “Asatru.”

“We can deal,” Lady Lithram said, grinning.

“The reinforcements are here,” Hjalmar said, hefting his ceremonial axe. He was accompanied by another man, short, thin, black-haired and -eyed, and covered in tattoos.

“Hjalmar,” Sharice said, smiling. “Don’t tell me you’re going to join a circle?”

“The sacrifices I make for Frey,” the massive, blond, bearded man said, giving her a spine-cracking bear hug. “But I’m going to stand outside the circle. This is a very nonviolent coven; I’m afraid I would create a disturbance in the Force.”

“You
are
a disturbance in the Force,” Sharice said. “Drakon.”

The adept shook her hand abruptly and nodded sharply.

“I am here to assist as you need,” he said. “Please continue your conversation.”

“And the Lady-damned Satanists do not help,” Lord Korgan said, sighing again. “We cannot prove it, but we believe they have begun true blood rites using homeless. It’s possible some of the Madness killings are linked to them as well. They certainly perform animal sacrifice. There are times when parts of Chickamauga park are filled with the bodies of dead animals. No black cat is safe. And they try to pass themselves off as pagans!”

“Where we’re going is liable to be dangerous,” Sharice said. “Especially with that sort of spiritual atmosphere. Keep on your toes.”

“Wah-Keng will watch over me, Lady Darkfire,” the adept replied. “I should not require assistance.”

“Hopefully,” Sharice said.

“You’re Lady Darkfire?” Lord Korgan said, his eyes wide.

“Only when I put on a robe,” Sharice replied, grinning. “Until then I’m just Sharice. We need two more. Then we must go to your power center.”

“They’re on their way,” Lady Lithram said. “You know Wiccans…”

“Herding cats is easier,” Sharice said. “Well, let’s get on our game face. We’ve got a soul to save.”

* * *

“Doris, right?”

Doris turned and was surprised to see Folsom Duncan. She had been hanging around the cigar terrace half in anticipation of running across the only group she’d interacted with so far. But none of the people she recognized had been around. But it was still just past sunrise, so that wasn’t surprising.

“Sleep okay?” Duncan asked.

“Didn’t sleep at all,” Doris admitted. She could feel the fatigue tugging at her, but sleep hadn’t even been close to a possibility. She’d spent the whole night in one corner or another watching the congoers. It was more or less how she’d spent high school, watching all the kids socialize around her and never being able to break in.

“That will catch up with you, quick,” Duncan said, yawning. “My sleep schedule is totally off. I was up late and I should still be in bed, but it was not to be. Have you had breakfast?”

“Yes,” Doris said, quietly. The con suite had donuts and coffee.

“Well, let me get you a mocha or something,” Duncan said, leading her to the coffee shop in the corner of the hotel. “Given any thought to how you want to spend the con? I’ll admit I probably came on too hard. You can do anything you want, it’s your con, not mine.”

“I gave it a lot of thought,” Doris admitted. She’d had hours to think about it.

“I’m not sure it was worth a lot of thought,” Duncan said, laughing gently.

“No, it was,” Doris said. “I know who I am. I know why I am that way. I’m not sure it’s who I
want
to be. Or even who I
should
be. Does that make any sense?”

“Yes,” Duncan admitted. “People come to the Dragon for various reasons. Most come to have fun. Some come to see people, minor celebrities…”

“You?” Doris asked.

“I don’t classify myself that way,” Duncan said. “Some come to interact with friends they’ve made at previous cons. Costumers come to show off their talents. But a few, a special few, if you will, come to find who they truly are. They have been hammered into a certain mold, and it’s a mold with which they are uncomfortable. To the Dragon they are all one. They are all the children of the Dragon: the stormtroopers and the Leias, the Dawn contestants and the guys taking their picture are all equal in the eyes of the Dragon. There’s a song, probably before your time, about masks. The Stranger.
We all have a face that we hide away forever, and we take them out and show ourselves when everyone has gone. Some are satin, some are steel, some are silk and some are leather. They’re the faces of the Stranger but we love to try them on.

“What some find from the Dragon is that the face of the Stranger is
theirs
. In your sleeplessness do you have any idea who you want to be?”

“Yes,” Doris said, pulling out the program book. “You were right. I want to be her. But you see that suit of armor behind her?”

“The one that she seems to shrink from or possibly draw upon?”

“Yep,” Doris said, looking at the cover. “I want to kick its ass. I’m tired of being afraid. I’m tired of being…who I was. I want to be somebody better. Somebody stronger.”

“Then fortune may have sent you to the right corner of the con,” Duncan said as they reached the head of the line. “When you’re actually ready to start kicking ass, look me up. I have friends who can aid you there. I’ll take a venti mocha, no whip. Doris…?”

* * *

Sharice looked up at the blast of a car horn and darted across the road, making it to the sidewalk safely.

“Odin’s Eye,” Hjalmar muttered. “I think the spell went astray. This does
not
look like the Moon Paths.”

The threesome had manifested on a city street. On their side was the back of a large building with a vehicle pull-through. Some people were filtering out of doors at the back of the building and heading down to cross the street. On the far side of the street was a large Hilton hotel.

“Dragon*Con,” Drakon said, looking at the marquee for the Hilton. “We’re behind the Marriott. Downtown Atlanta. Wonder which day it is?”

“Dragon*Con, huh?” Hjalmar said. “Always wanted to get there. So are we on the Moon Paths or not? Or did we shift in space and time?”

“It’s the Moon Paths,” Sharice said. “I think it’s a metaphorical representation. An interesting one. I’m not sure who is generating the metaphor. It
might
be Janea. If so, I’d like to know why.”

“May be hard to find her,” Drakon pointed out as a statuesque redhead in high heels and a schoolgirl outfit walked past. “With the Dawn contest, there are about six
thousand
redheads at Dragon*Con.”

“Janea stands out in any sort of crowd,” Sharice said, biting her lip. “But that’s not the tough part. We need to figure out the rules of this place. Let’s go find someplace to sit down and consider.”

* * *

The hotel was already a bit crowded, but they found a comfortable conversation set of chairs and a table on the main floor of the hotel.

“I’ve been thinking,” Sharice said.

“That sounds ungood,” Hjalmar opined. “Do you think we can get a drink or something? I wasn’t expecting to be thirsty on the Moon Paths.”

“That’s the sort of thing I was thinking,” Sharice admitted. She had a purse and opened it up. “Any of you got any money?”

“Thirty bucks, more or less,” Drakon said, pulling out a leather wallet on a chain. It had a Chinese dragon embossed on it, to no one’s surprise. “And a driver’s license. That’s about it.”

“’Bout two hundred,” Hjalmar said, going through the pockets of his cargo pants. “And a driver’s license, Visa check card, and a room key in a pack with the room number on it. I’m here in the Marriott. 2738.”

“I’ve got about five hundred, a Visa and an American Express,” Sharice said. “Also a room key, 2739.”

She got up and walked over to a nearby ATM, used it and came back.

“And I’ve got five thousand in my account,” she said, sitting down. “Okay, interesting.”

“Power equals money?” Hjalmar asked. “Relative power is about the same. That’s a pretty simple metaphor.”

“But one that works in this environment,” Sharice said. “But we’re not going to want to get into any fights.”

“That sucks,” Drakon said.

“Because if we do, we get hauled to jail?” Hjalmar asked. “What happens then?”

“I’m not sure,” Sharice said. “But I think getting stuck on the Moon Paths is the least of your worries.”

“So who are all the people?” Drakon asked. “I hadn’t expected the Moon Paths to be so…crowded.”

“At a guess?” Sharice said. “The staff are representatives or one or another of the gods. The leaders of each department may be gods themselves. But this has to be some sort of a neutral zone and I’d guess the police and security keep it that way. That’s why we don’t want to get into any fights. The rest of them? Sleeping people caught in dream. The deceased who are stuck in a sort of limbo. Christian purgatory? Demons and spirits of one sort or another. Angels, for that matter. We’re going to have to
think
our way through this.”

“Blast,” Hjalmar said. “Maybe you should bring someone else.”

“I just have to hope there’s a reason we’re all here,” Sharice said, biting her lip. “So you’re stuck.”

“Speaking of which, how do we get back?” Drakon asked. “Normally you concentrate on your silver cord.”

“You can see it if you open to it enough,” Sharice said. “Hang on.”

She closed her eyes and a moment later started to yawn.

“I tugged at the connection and got tired,” she said. “I’d guess that when we sleep we’ll go back.”

“Isn’t that sort of backwards?” Hjalmar asked. “The astral plane is the world of the
ka
, the sleeping mind. The world of dream. We go back by dreaming?”

“Which is the dream and which is the reality?” Sharice said, grinning. “But that’s not getting us anywhere. We’ve got money, power, and a mission: Find Janea. Let’s get to it.”

“There’s just one problem,” Drakon said.

“Which is?”

“Are we preregistered?”

* * *

“Thor’s left testicle,” Hjalmar grunted. “Would you
look
at that
line
?”

Just as the Marriott had backed on the Hilton, the Hyatt backed on the Marriott. And running down the entire block was a line of people. Since they had been directed there to go to registration, they were apparently supposed to get in the line.

A police officer was directing traffic between the two hotels, and as he waved for people to cross, they headed over to the line.

“How long do you think it is?” Hjalmar asked.

“Long,” Drakon said. “One of the reasons I always prereg. Let’s go find the end.”

The end, as it turned out, was around the block, down the end, and nearly to the front of the hotel.

“Dude, I’m
so
going to preregister next year,” said the guy in front of them, a sallow kid in black clothes.

“Like, totally,” agreed his companion, a shorter guy with a dozen piercings. “Or come in on Thursday.”

“It’s been like this since last night when we opened,” a tall, dark-haired man wearing a headset said, handing them both tickets. “And this
is
the prereg line. Also day passes. That’s your place in line in case you have to go to the head or something. Line’s about three hours long. You’ll get there eventually.”