Wanderers: Ragnarök Page 2

  Her gaze shifted back to my face, and I saw that her lips were moving. A soft music of water falling on smooth stones hit my body like physical fingers stroking my skin, and I closed my eyes against a stronger wave of desire.

  Beast growled.

  I shook my head and focused energy to clear her enchantment from my thoughts. I was standing at the water’s edge and had not realized I’d moved off the path.

  Grinning, I stood still, neither advancing nor retreating. Naiads, being siren creatures, would attempt to seduce. It was their nature. They weren’t as sexually aggressive as some of their relatives and would cease at any real resistance, as long as you stayed out of their water.

  “Lady, I am Raphael Semmes and you already know my familiar’s name. Might I have your name as well?” I asked as pleasantly as I could while keeping the tension I felt hidden from this magical creature.

  Her singing ceased as soon as I spoke. She crossed her arms under her breasts; they beckoned for my attention and got it. “You are either brave or foolhardy to hand out your name without prior assurances...but you are also polite. If I give you my name, will you swear not to conjure by it?”

  “Lady, I mean you no harm and I swear to never conjure by your name.”

  “Very well, I am Ophelia and these are my waters.”

  As she spoke her name, my lust abated, at least to the usual level I experienced when faced with such feminine beauty. “I am surprised to find a naiad living here. I thought your kind preferred more natural environments.”

  “When I moved here there were no humans for a hundred leagues. But over the centuries I’ve grown attached to my spring and the humans have made a point of tending it, so I remain in peace.”

  “You knew I was a Wanderer. Would you tell me how?” I asked.

  “All of you have both red hair and remarkably similar eyes. The last one to stop here was many years ago, but I was expecting one of you to return soon.”

  My curiosity woke. “Really? Why’s that?”

  “Things are happening, troubling things that usually draw Fate’s attention. There have been signs and portents.”

  “Signs and portents? How ominous.” I resisted grinning at her words. Some of the supernaturals had unusual, sometimes archaic speech. “Would you care to explain further, Ophelia?”

  She uncrossed her arms, smiled and drifted backward, sinking into the water as she went. “I am not Fate’s tool. Visit me sometimes when you are not on an errand for Verðandi and perhaps we can talk further. Goodnight, Raphael.”

  “Good night, Lady Ophelia,” I replied just before her head disappeared beneath the water without a ripple.

  “She’s right,” Beast said.

  “About what?” I asked.

  “About you being foolhardy.”

  “Nonsense. A naiad can’t seduce me unless I enter her water. However, I do wonder that she knows Fate’s name.”

  “You mean your Fate’s name, Verðandi.”

  “Yes, most people I’ve encountered think I’m talking about the three sisters of Greek mythology. Not many people have even heard of the Norse sisters. Oh well, that’s a puzzle for another day. Change back; I’d like to find a place to stay.”

  He growled once, shook his thick mane, and then transformed back into my Harley.

  I donned gloves and shades. I straddled Beast and we idled down the walkway toward the street.

  “You know, Beast, I think this is going to be an interesting place.”

  CHAPTER 2

  I spent the night in a motel off University Avenue that appeared neither too expensive nor too run-down. The night clerk looked tired and bedraggled, but she took my credit card and gave me a room facing away from the street. The next morning, after a breakfast of smoky bacon, hash browns, soft scrambled eggs, and a short stack, I made a leisurely ride through the town. I took my time, getting a feel for the street layout and triangulating the source of my current quest.

  That’s one of the problems with being a Wanderer. Fate, Verðandi, in particular, is always pulling you toward another problem: either some nasty is wreaking havoc; some nascent world conqueror is making a go at global Armageddon, or my personal favorite, the classic damsel in distress. Unfortunately, there are plenty of the first two and not nearly enough of the latter.

  Wanderers are a rare breed. Don’t ask me why, I didn’t make up the rules. Usually, there are no more than a half dozen following Fate’s bidding at one time. A full-fledged Wanderer is power incarnate. Wanderers have been known to reverse rivers, quell volcanoes, twist the tails of comets, and generally knock down every wannabe dark lord looking to become the next prince of darkness. We’re Fate’s tool, the power that sets things right in the world. No one really knows our origins; hell, most of the world’s magic users wouldn’t know a Wanderer from their Great-Uncle-Marvin.

  Some people say Wanderers are created out of conflict, born of battle, and imbued with the capacity to control unbelievable magics. A few even believe Wanderers have a compulsion to confront that which mortal man cannot confront. The few people who actually encounter Wanderers are left with the impression that Wanderers are a law unto themselves.

  Then there’s me.

  As I said, Wanderers are rare. Walt, my mentor, had been around since the First World War, gaining his calling during the Battle of Verdun. Weeks later, the officers in his unit realized something was wrong and sent him to a med unit. Walt’s future mentor, claiming to be an uncle, busted him out of the asylum and spent the next twenty years training him. He would have spent longer training Walt, but he was killed in a fight with an archmage at Lakehurst Naval Air Station, May 6th, 1937. It was an unfortunate time and place to start slinging lightning. That’s how things go with Wanderers. Ten years, twenty, thirty years you train with and fight alongside your mentor, then something extraordinary comes along, and suddenly, you no longer have a mentor, or sometimes the mentor has to look for a new apprentice.

  In my case, the event occurred not five years after I’d begun my training. While Wanderers are born as adults, they don’t have all the knowledge they need to survive their calling—or their own talent. Twenty years is the usual training period. As I said, I had five.

  The first few years you learn the basics. This includes the painful process of tattooing three-dimensional spell runes under your skin. And I mean under. The tattoos are not inked; rather they’re burned in with magic. We could do the same thing with ink, but then we’d stand out like a carnival sideshow attraction. Our tats only appear when we pour power into the runes. By the five-year point of my training, I had mastered some of the most powerful spells the Wanderers had developed over millennia; however, many of the subtler spells require a finesse I still haven’t acquired.

  The other spells and enchantments, like core magic, earth magics, white magics, and night magics, we can learn, given enough time. The heart and soul of the Wanderer are his tats. A Wanderer’s tattoos give him a significant advantage in a fight. Most magics require potions, verbal spells, inscribed patterns of energy, the availability of a ley line, or all four; our tats serve the same purpose and can be activated instantly.

  Losing my mentor left me at a disadvantage, to put it lightly. I’ve managed to survive all my battles, but they haven’t been as easy as they should have been. I have the scars to prove it.

  That afternoon, shortly before the happy hour, I parked Beast beneath a massive maple tree on the south side of Courthouse Square. A light breeze stirred leaves that were changing from green to red-gold. I removed my leather saddlebags and slung them over one shoulder. I wandered around the square, checking out the shops and following the nudge of Fate’s guiding hand. Downtown Huntsville was quiet for the late afternoon, more like a small southern town than a growing metropolis of more than a half million. Awnings shaded the sidewalk from the early autumn sun where the trees didn’t and the air was cool, but not so cool that I regretted leaving my leathers in my saddlebags. I passed a real estate office, a law
office, and in the middle of the block came to a large glass window that announced a pub, O’Brian’s, by the name in large green print. At the wood-framed glass door, the sign repeated on a smaller scale. Lower on the door, hand painted script announced Abigail’s Nuevo Retro was downstairs. I wasn’t sure what Nuevo Retro was, but it had a feel to it that I couldn’t ignore. Somewhere in the basement of this building, I’d find what had called me to Huntsville.

  Taped beneath Abigail’s sign was a standard little plastic sign that read, “Help Wanted.”

  I pushed open the door to O’Brien’s Pub and stepped inside to the delicious aroma of grilled food and fresh beer. The bar reminded me of The Broadmoor’s Golden Bee in Colorado Springs. Both bars were constructed of dark, ornately carved mahogany. The crown molding, chair rail, and even floor molding all matched the bar in English charm. The ceiling was stamped metal and palm frond fans turned lazily beneath it. Like the Golden Bee, there was an upright piano against one wall. Each of the tables held a small basket of assorted crackers and a paper menu. I hadn’t been to the Golden Bee since I left home for the Army, but the memories were pleasant and I made a mental note to stop there on my next excursion through Colorado.

  I set my saddlebags in a chair and pulled out another to sit in. The bar had only a couple of patrons and a thirtyish waitress came over with a smile on her smooth face and a nametag above her left breast that read, “Welcome to O’Brian’s, I’m Sally.”

  “Hi there, what can I get you?”

  “A pint of ale and a few of these crackers will be fine.”

  She didn’t move.

  I sighed and fished out my driver’s license.

  Sally examined it longer than she needed to. I took off my sunglasses and gave her a warm smile. She flinched at my gaze before I could relax the focus in my eyes. I prefer to wear sunglasses around people who don’t know me. I’ve been told my eyes have an intensity to them that people find uncomfortable. I have to consciously relax to avoid creeping strangers out.

  Sally passed my license back. “Raphael Semmes, that’s a beautiful name. You hardly look 23, Raphael, but the I.D. is pretty good.”

  “Please, call me Rafe.”

  “All right, Rafe, I’ll be right back with your pint.”

  I turned toward the bar’s mirrors. I thought I could pass for 23. My wavy black hair was streaked with red, (neither color matched my parents, but they told me I had Irish and Dakota ancestors. I was about six feet in height and slight of build. I obviously didn’t get too many Dakota genes and except for the red-black hair and a good tan, I couldn’t see any signs of that ancestor.

  I glanced at the photo on my license. I altered my driver’s license to show my age as 23 because any older and waitresses like Sally would refuse service suspecting that my identification had been forged. It had been, but not in the conventional sense. I couldn’t very well take my old Colorado license and show it. No one was going to believe I was past sixty. So I had spelled a glamour onto the license. As long as no one checked the database, the license would pass. My life would be so much simpler if I looked my age, but a constant glamour to maintain an older appearance could be noticed by other magic users and might reduce the energy I had for fighting or defense at a critical time.

  Sally was back in a couple of minutes.

  “Thanks, Sally. Say, do you have a piano player every night?”

  “Just on the weekends. Business is slower on weeknights, but come back Friday and he’ll be playing. Can I get you anything else? You can order off the menu.”

  O’Brian’s Pub was attached to a large restaurant that occupied the next couple of storefronts.

  “Maybe later,” I said. “You could tell me something though. What’s the downstairs store like?”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Nuevo Retro? It’s a new age, mystic kind of shop. They have other stuff, used books that smell musty and there are magazines and a few new books, but most of their inventory is in the new age category. You know; witches, transcendental thought, and crystals and junk.”

  “Oh? Well, maybe I’ll check it out, later.”

  I drank the beer slowly. Whatever had drawn me to Huntsville was located downstairs. The help wanted sign might give me an easier way in than just kicking in the door, not that I usually went around kicking in doors. Some Wanderers like to move in on an assignment, kick whatever needs its ass kicked, and then fade away until the next call from Verðandi. I prefer a more subtle approach, move in, get a lay of the situation, and attempt to fix the problem without blowing towns off the map. Which way works better? I don’t know, but my technique has worked so far.

  The pub’s business was slow. One couple and two lone men came in. The couple sat at a table near the window and the men took stools at the bar, as far apart as they could get.

  When I finished the pint, I paid and tipped generously. Sally gave me a warm smile as I left. Can I help it if women are immediately attracted to my boyish good looks and charm? I hung my saddlebags over my left shoulder and headed downstairs.

  Descending the stairs brought a significant change in atmosphere. While the pub had been clean and smoke-free, the smells wafting up the stairwell carried tobacco, incense, vanilla, and jasmine along with the musty smell of old books. At the bottom of the stairs, another wood door with a glass insert had a smaller version of the street-level sign.

  The door swung noisily back on worn hinges and I entered a bookshop that was considerably larger than I’d expected. Stacks ran off to my right. To my left was an open shop with display cases and countertops brimming with crystals, herbs, candles, charms, and even a crystal ball. The charms were minor little things any experienced user of earth magic could make. The crystals, herbs, and candles all had legitimate uses in earth magic, but the crystal ball was for rubes; I felt no sense of power in it.

  An older lady, slim, nearly my height, with gray hair fastened in a tight knot, sat behind a counter across from the door. She appeared to be reading a ledger but glanced at me at the squeak of the door.

  I studied her aura for a moment; it was the deepest green I could remember encountering.

  I hadn’t expected much from her, perhaps a brief smile and a pleasant “may I help you?” Instead, she stared at me until I found myself becoming uncomfortable in her presence. Then, as if noticing my discomfort, she smiled. “Good afternoon, traveler, and welcome to my shop.”

  I stepped closer to her. “Thanks for the invitation, but why do you think I’m a traveler?”

  “You have the look of the road about you.”

  “Do I?”

  “And your saddlebags are a little large for book bags.”

  I had to smile. She was sly and would bear watching. “Ah, just when I thought you were psychic.”

  She didn’t smile as she said, “I am.”

  I didn’t doubt it for a minute.

  “Do you have a purpose here, or are you just browsing?”

  “To be honest, I was just going to browse, but then I noticed your help-wanted sign. Is the job still open?”

  “Don’t you want to know what the job is?”

  I shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter; I’m versatile.”

  “It doesn’t pay much and it wouldn’t be full time, at least not at first.”

  “I don’t need much and part time is good.”

  She closed the ledger and came out from behind the counter. “Tea?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Tea would be nice.”

  She motioned toward a small table near the counter and then disappeared into the stacks. I heard water running and the soft sound of gas igniting. I set my saddlebags on the floor behind a curio cabinet and wandered around, examining the inventory as I went. Occasionally I noticed something special, but most of the items were mundane, no more magical than the large crystal ball. Nothing appeared worrisome, but I kept looking.

  “Lemon or honey?” Abigail called from the back.

  “Neither, thank you,” I said, loud enoug
h to carry.

  A minute later Abigail returned with a teakettle and a pair of cups and saucers. I pulled out a chair for her and she sat down. I took the opposite chair.

  The teapot went onto a trivet and she set the cups and saucers in front of us. She opened the wooden box that sat in the center of the table, removed a green tea and turned the box toward me. I studied the selection and selected an oolong.

  When our tea was steeping, Abigail said, “Let me see your hands.”

  I stretched out both hands, palm upwards. She took them in her own. I felt calluses against my skin, calluses a bookish woman should not have. Abigail studied my palms for a minute then nodded to herself. She got up and went behind the counter, to emerge a moment later with another wooden box. She brought it back to the table and opened the lid. Inside was a well-handled tarot deck.

  “Well, the palm and now a card reading. You don't intend to charge me, do you?” I asked lightly, trying for humor.

  “Don’t speak nonsense, boy. Here, shuffle the deck.”

  I took the pack and absently shuffled the cards while she studied my face. When I set the cards down, she motioned toward them.

  “Cut a single card.”

  I did and upended it onto the table’s surface. I didn’t have to look to know it was the knave of wands. It was the card I always cut.

  “Ah. I thought so.” She scooped up the cards and returned them to the box. Removing the tea bag from the cup, she set it on the saucer and then stirred in a dollop of honey.

  “Well, young man, are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

  “For the job.”

  “And you expect me to believe that you just wandered in.”

  I smiled. “Ma’am, you’re way above me in skill and I wouldn’t attempt to hide my motivation from you. I would like the job, but I’m a seeker of knowledge and always looking to learn.”

  She nodded, sipped her tea, and said, “So you’re here to learn.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Please, let’s drop the ma’am. My name is Abigail von Norris. You may call me Abigail.” She extended her hand.