John Ringo: Princess of Wands

“Lights are out upstairs,” the woman said, picking up a flashlight. “Not in the rooms, just the hallway.”

Barbara hoisted her bag over her shoulder and followed the old woman as she ascended the grand staircase. She could practically hear the tread of the master of the house walking out to the balcony to greet his guests and retainers. There’d have been slaves, or at least servants, scurrying among the guests and a chandelier about covered in candles. Now it had a worn runner and lights that, apparently, refused to glow at all.

“Circuit’s out,” the old lady said, gesturing at the sconces as if reading her mind. “Called the ’lectrician. Lazy bastard ain’t been by in two weeks. Got your choice of views: bayou or town square.”

“Oh, I think I’ll take town square,” Barb said.

The room was just as fusty as she expected, smelling of mildew and neglect. But the linens were fresh and appeared clean.

“Bath is down the corridor,” the woman said, pointing to the door. She suddenly looked at the flashlight in her hand with an expression of worry that made Barbara try not to laugh again.

“I’ve got my own flashlight,” Barb said, pulling a minimag out of her purse and switching it on. It was at least twice as bright as the dim torch the woman had been using. She reached in and flipped on the room light and was relieved that that, at least, worked.

“See you in the morning, then,” the woman said. “I’d not advise going out at night, sometimes the gators get up on the road.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Barbara admitted. “See ya.”

After the woman was gone Barbara turned off the room light and her flash and waited for her eyes to adjust. She wasn’t going to go out in that hallway with her eyes blinded, that was for sure. It was only after waiting a few moments that she thought of one small detail.

Checking the door she determined that the knob was not designed for a key and there was no latch on the inside.

“Now that is unusual,” she said to herself, straining her eyes in the darkness and running her hands over the door. Even in that flea-bitten hotel in Petra there’d been a lock for the door. Oh, well, needs must.

She examined the furniture by the faint light from the window and was unsurprised that none of it would be useful for blocking the door. It required a very specific height and design of chair to block a doorknob and the chairs in the room were heavily stuffed easy chairs, not the straight backed chair that would work.

However, not for nothing was she a reader. The pen she’d used to sign the register was heavy metal, a gift her father had given her when she went off to college and it had a matching fountain pen. She never used the latter but they were both in her purse and with a few poundings from the romance novel she’d been carrying they were both wedged in the crack between the door and the jam. It would be possible to force the door but not quietly or easily. If the old lady had any questions about the noise she could feel free to complain. In the morning.

The window led onto the roof of the porch and that at least had a latch. She made sure it was secured and then got out of her clothes. The soiled linen packed away in a mesh net bag, she pulled on a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt, then laid the H K by the side of the bed along with the spare magazines and regular clothes. Finally, feeling a tad sheepish, she pulled out the holster and laid that next to the pistol. Since it was only for a running gunfight, pulling it out told her she was assuming the need for a running gunfight.

“Just because it’s like a scene in a bad horror movie doesn’t mean I’ll have to fight off Jason,” she muttered to herself. “But I am definitely getting out of this burg tomorrow .”

“My lord, we have a problem,” Germaine said, kneeling in the holy circle, head bowed.

The figure of light seemed to nod in response.

“Our information indicates that there has been a remanifestation of Almadu,” Germaine said. “I seek heaven’s aid in our holy cause.”

“We are stretched, my very old friend,” the voice said in his head.

“I don’t have agents to handle this, my lord,” Germaine said, quietly. “We, too, are stretched. And Almadu is a particularly hard case.”

“Look for the Hand of God in strange places,” the figure said, fading. “All who work His will are not among your host.”

Street people were not morning people and neither was Kelly. But he’d been up at first light, rattling cages. He knew where they lived and the answers might be surly answers but he got them. The only problem was that Carlane seemed to have disappeared.

“It’s the street,” Lieutenant Chimot said, shrugging and taking a deep suck on his coffee. “People come and go.”

“How long’s it been since you’ve heard of Carlane being off the street?” Kelly asked, yawning and digging vigorously in one ear. “Nobody has seen him since he was talking to Marsha, and now Dolores is gone. I got the landlady to let me in her room. All her stuff is there so she didn’t move. And I asked her to pass on to Carlane that I wanted to talk to him.”

“You’re starting to think it’s him,” the lieutenant said, leaning back in his prolapsed chair and looking at Kelly over a pile of paperwork.

“I want to talk to him,” Kelly said, shrugging. “It doesn’t make sense for Carlane to have suddenly gone nutter. But he was the last person seen with Marsha and now he’s missing. I think we can swear a warrant as a material witness and put out a search and detain.”

“You checked to see if we’ve got his DNA?” Chimot asked.

“Yeah, a sexual assault case where the victim refused to press charges,” Kelly said. “I checked. He’s not one of the rapists.”

“If he’s an accessory and he knows we want to talk to him, he’ll have gone to ground,” Chimot said, musingly. “Might be waiting for it to blow over, especially if he knows we don’t have any evidence on him. Go talk to Mother Charlotte. She’s been around longer than Carlane; she might know where to go a-hunting. And put out a search and detain. I’d dearly like to talk to our old friend about now.”

Barb packed her bags and headed out of the room, feeling much better about the town than she had the night before. She’d taken the chance to have a shower and while the water was brown and stunk, it was better than nothing. She’d had worse. Not in a long time, admittedly, but she’d been looking for adventure, whether she’d put it that way or not, and this was certainly an adventure.

But one that she was just as glad to have past so she tossed her bag in the trunk of the Honda happily, got in, inserted the key and turned it. Only to receive a click. Turn. Click. Turn. Click.

“That is just too much,” she said. She’d like to swear but she’d worked so hard to teach herself not to that she found her mouth locking up as she tried. Finally she simply muttered: “Sugar.”

Fine. The Honda had a very comprehensive warranty. She opened up the glove compartment and pulled out the paperwork until she found the 800 number for the extended care service. They’d tow the car to a dealership, which was going to cost them a pretty penny she suspected, and get her a rentacar. She pulled her cell phone out of her bag, dialed the number and hit send.

No signal.

She looked at the indicator with a frown and a shrug. In the country there were plenty of areas where the signal was weak. Eventually it opened up when a cell got free. Fine. She’d wait.

After about thirty seconds with no flicker of the indicator she shook the phone and waved it through the air, hoping the magic electrons would somehow be caught. Still no signal.