John Ringo: Princess of Wands

The attacker had been picked up at the hospital while having his wrist set. DNA matched him to a string of rapes around the LSU campus so Barbara hadn’t even had to press charges. She still prayed, occasionally, that while in prison he would find his way to Jesus. Every soul, even that of a rotten little rapist, was precious.

When she got home the TV was on, tuned to ESPN. Mark was settled on the recliner, a position he would assuredly occupy until time for supper. She got him a fresh beer, turned on the water to boil and got out the meat loaf. Twenty minutes later she had the kids washed and at the table.

“God, thank you for this food,” Mark said, his head bowed. “Thank you for another day of good life, for all the things you have given to us…”

Barb tuned Mark out and sent up her own prayer of thanks. It was a good life. Intensely frustrating at times, but good. Everyone was healthy, no major injuries, decent grades, Mark had a good and steady job. She felt… under utilized, but bringing three sane and reasonably well balanced kids into the world was probably the best utilization of a life she could imagine.

When Mark was done she picked up her fork and looked at Allison.

“Other than the unpleasantness with Marcie, how was your day, Allison?”

She insisted on conversation at the table, a habit she had gotten from her mother, God rest her soul. Mother Gibson had followed her Air Force husband around the world, often ending up alone with the kids in some God forsaken wilderness like Minot, North Dakota. Often the only conversation she could have was that with her children.

The kids had learned. A simple “Good” or “Bad” would elicit parental disapproval of the most extreme kind. So Allison swallowed her bite of broccoli and frowned, trotting out the prepared speech.

“I think I did okay on my chemistry test…”

When dinner was done, all the kids in bed but Allison, who was doing homework, the dishes in the dishwasher and Mark back watching television, Barbara went over to the couch and sat down.

“Mark,” she said, softly, “I need a break.”

“Huh?” Mark said, looking away from a rerun of Friends, then back at the TV.

“I need a break,” she repeated. “I’m going away for the weekend.”

“What?” he asked, looking over at her again. The station changed to a commercial and she now had his undivided attention.

“I’d like you to pick the kids up tomorrow,” she said. “And take the Expedition in the morning, I’ll take the Honda. I just need a short vacation.”

“Who’s going to cook supper?” he asked. “And Allison asked me if she could go to the dance tomorrow. I said yes. Who’s going to pick her up?”

“I said no ,” Barb sighed. “Because I knew you’d ask that question.”

“We just had a vacation a couple of months ago!” Mark protested.

“ You had a vacation,” Barbara replied. “I made sure that Allison didn’t wear that thong bikini, got sunscreen on everyone, treated Brandon’s sunburn when he didn’t get it replaced, made sure there were snacks for the beach…”

“Okay, okay,” Mark said. “I get the picture. But that still doesn’t answer who’s going to cook!”

“You’ll go to the game on Friday anyway…”

“And that’s another thing,” Mark said. “I thought you wanted to go to the game. You always do !”

“I go to the games because it’s a duty , Mark,” Barb said. “I don’t enjoy them. You can eat at the game, everyone will anyway. I’ll leave a casserole for Saturday evening. Sunday you can go out. I’ll be back Monday.”

“And I was planning on going to the State game on Saturday! Who’s going to drive me home?”

Barbara tried not to sigh or mention that that was part of her reason for wanting to get away. If the day went to form, Mark would be far too drunk to drive before the game even started.

“Catch a ride,” she snapped. “I’m sorry, Mark, but I have to get away.” She took a deep breath and counted to ten mentally. When that didn’t work she repeated it. In Japanese.

“Okay,” Mark sighed as the show resumed. “Where are you going?”

“Gulfport, probably,” Barb answered. “I’ll get a cheap hotel room and just… read I think.”

“Whatever,” Mark said, watching Jennifer Aniston bounce across the screen to the couch.

“And you’ll need to get the kids to school on Monday,” she said.

“Okay,” he replied, clearly not listening.

She stood up and walked to the bedroom, got undressed, cleaned off her makeup, climbed into bed and picked up her latest trashy novel. Another day down. Just one more until she had a break. She could use a nice relaxing weekend.

Augustus Germaine held the scale up with a pair of tweezers and rotated it against the light, shaking his head.

“I thought that Almadu was dispelled, what, seventy years ago?” Assistant Director Grosskopf said.

“All are not dead that sleeping lie,” Germaine answered, continuing to examine the scale. “What once was can be again. And, clearly, is. The thorium traces are distinct, as is the patterning of the scale. Someone has been very naughty.” He set the scale down on the laboratory bench and looked over at Dr. Mattes. “Concur?”

“Oh, yes,” Vonnia Mattes, Ph.D., replied, shrugging. “And the construct DNA, of course.”

“So it’s a manifestation of Almadu for sure?” Grosskopf asked, pointedly. “That’s a full avatar manifestation. I can’t exactly send my agents in on that!”

“No, it’s clearly Special Circumstances,” Germaine said with a sigh. “I’ll find someone to attach to your investigation. The usual covers.” He frowned and bit his lip, wincing. “But for a full manifestation… I don’t really have any agents, available agents, that are up to dispelling one of those. Not to mention their followers. This is likely to get… noticeable.”

“Five dead hookers are already noticeable ,” Grosskopf pointed out.

“Noticeable as in explosions, weird lights, people going insane and lots of dead bodies,” Germaine snapped. “This is not going to be an easy take-down. The last cult involved depth charges, torpedoes and a full cover-up. And even then that beastly writer got ahold of some of it!”

“Whatever,” Grosskopf replied. “Just get it shut down. Fast. Before somebody outside the organization stumbles on it.”

“Well,” Germaine said, shrugging, “if they do, I don’t think they’ll live long enough to tell anyone about it.”

Blessed peace.

Barbara enjoyed driving, especially when she was by herself. She loved her children and her husband, but it just wasn’t the same. A reasonably open road and good car meant time to think, time to pray, time to dream without constant interruption. As she pulled onto the Natchez Trace she pushed a CD into the player and felt the ethereal strains of Evanescence wash over her, rinsing out her soul in music. She’d been told that Evanescence was first classified as a Christian rock band despite its Goth look. She didn’t know if it was true or not but it was probable. Surely only God would have a hand in such glorious music and most of the songs could be interpreted that way. Certainly “Tourniquet” was a direct call to God although “Haunted” always made her wonder.

The radar detector remained quiet all the way to the outskirts of Jackson where the traffic started to pick up anyway and she had to slow down below eighty. She weaved expertly in and out of the traffic for as long as she could, never being aggressive, never getting angry even at the idiots that clogged up the left-hand lane. She didn’t know where she got the ability to sense what other drivers were going to do, sometimes even before they seemed to know. But when a car cut into her lane suddenly she’d know it before the first move. Sudden braking rarely caught her unawares even though she was in an alpha state of road daze. She just handled it until the traffic got so heavy she couldn’t maneuver, then settled in the middle lane and rode the flow into Jackson.