John Levitt - Unleashed

And I still had a third set to play. Dave and Roger were already up on the bandstand, waiting for me. But as I got up from the table, Morgan returned. She handed me a scrap of paper.

“My number,” she said. “Call me and let me know you’re all right. When I see something like this, I feel responsible, as if somehow my seeing it makes it come true.”

“I will,” I said, folding the paper and putting it carefully in my wallet. “But don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine, honest.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Call me anyway.” She turned and walked away, leaving me looking after her.

The last set was uninspired, but no one noticed. Customers coming in to eat that late were starving and tended to concentrate on their food, and the ones who had been there for a while were three sheets to the wind and couldn’t care less about the music.

I played on autopilot, thinking. It was ironic. The vision Morgan had told me about was meant to warn me off, but its effect was just the opposite. I knew the fake Ifrit had come out of that swirling pool of color and energy we’d created, but now, according to Rolf, there was something else roaming through the Bay Area as well. I’d promised to look into what it might be and what might have happened to his friend Richard Cory. Now I thought I knew where to start. Muir Woods was my next destination.

IT’S ONLY ABOUT A FORTY-FIVE-MINUTE DRIVE over the Golden Gate Bridge to Muir Woods. Next morning, as I pulled into the parking lot entrance, the sun reflected off the leaves of the high trees, throwing a dappled pattern on the forest floor. There were only a few cars parked there, which was a relief. Usually it’s crowded, even on a weekday, and if anything odd were to happen, a bunch of freaked-out civilians was not something I wanted to deal with.

Since the parking lot was deserted I was able to check the shotgun without worry. The slug first, then the buckshot, five rounds in all-the mantra of first in, last out. I could have squeezed an extra round in if I’d racked a shell into the breech and carried it loaded, but I preferred to keep the breech empty for safety’s sake. Not to mention that the ugly sound of a round being racked in is enough in itself to discourage all sorts of potential threats. There’s a gut reaction to that distinctive sound, one that makes the mouth go dry, and even the bravest tend to freeze in place.

Another minute was all it took to put a concealment spell on the shotgun. I was getting better at that sort of thing; it didn’t take much energy or thought anymore. It helped that I made it appear to be a fishing rod-same general shape and proportions, and in a way, similar in purpose as well. If I’d needed to make it look like a backpack or a picnic basket, it would have been a lot more difficult and less believable.

The gun was no problem, but Lou was. Dogs aren’t allowed in Muir Woods, even on a leash. I suppose I could have made him look like a raccoon, but a tame raccoon trailing along beside me would draw even more attention, which was the last thing I wanted.

I decided to rely on his ability to blend in and go unnoticed-not a strictly magical ability, just something he’s good at. If we ran into a park ranger, Lou could always slip away into the underbrush before he was noticed.

The woods were cool and quiet, hushed, with the huge, overarching trees providing an atmosphere of almost religious calm, like an ancient church. There’s even a favorite spot named Cathedral Grove, so it wasn’t just me who felt that way.

I would have loved to relax and enjoy a walk through some of the most beautiful woods in northern California, but I was there on business. The trail that leads up to the falls was surrounded by the logs of giant fallen trees, still covered in mossy green from the winter’s rains, and thick brush stretched out beyond them. I kept a wary eye out, constantly glancing from side to side, on alert for the slightest sound. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but according to Morgan’s vision it wasn’t anything pleasant. And although the fake Ifrit was safely on the other side of the bridge, you never know. I wasn’t confident it would stay there. Lou was trotting along nonchalantly, but every so often he would cock his head to one side and twitch an ear, so I knew he was on sharp lookout as well.

It was a beautiful day. Even with Morgan’s vision of danger sitting in the back of my mind, the woods were lovely and serene. I followed the main trail through twists and turns, gradually becoming more comfortable. Maybe there wasn’t anything here after all. Visions, like oracles, are notoriously unreliable.

The sound of the breeze swirling through the tops of trees was pleasant and hypnotic. I fell into a rhythm as I walked and, even though I knew I should stay alert, found my thoughts drifting.

It wasn’t until I’d gone a couple of miles that I noticed the wind had picked up. The soothing music of fluttering leaves and swaying branches had become harsh and grating. A high keening sound echoed through the treetops, setting my teeth on edge. The sun went behind some clouds, and the forest now felt less cheerful, more uncomfortable, and somewhat threatening.

The keening of the wind increased, and underneath it was a low groaning sound, almost subsonic. I was finding it hard to concentrate, and gripped my disguised shotgun more tightly.

A feeling of malaise and dread washed over me, for no reason I could fathom. But it was strong, strong enough to make me break out in a sweat and feel sick to my stomach. Lou stopped moving forward, doubled back past me, and headed back the way we had come. He flashed a glance over his shoulder to tell me it was time to get the hell out of there, and for once I agreed with him. I followed him, and as he broke into a sudden trot, I did the same. But it was too late.

As we hurried back down the path, the feeling of dread didn’t fade; it grew stronger. And as I passed around a bend in the trail, I saw why. On the left, on a branch high in the tallest tree, a figure sat casually dangling its legs in the air. It was too far away to see clearly, but I still did. It was a man, of sorts, dressed in greens and browns, almost like one of Robin Hood’s merry men. But he was not merry.

His hair was curly, tangled, and colorless, like dried grass. There were stains around his mouth, which was wider than it should have been. His eyes were black and his face narrow and vulpine, blank and expressionless. Except, when he saw me he smiled, and that smile was the most horrible sight you could imagine. All around him a faint aura glowed, shot through with shifting colors, just like the energy pool at the construction site under the bridge. I’d found what I was looking for, or maybe he had found me.

My heart was pounding and my mouth dry. I didn’t even think of using talent. Without hesitation I racked a shell into the breech of the shotgun, just in case. He jumped up nimbly, now standing on the branch, and beckoned to me.

“Come,” he whispered, and I heard him as clearly as if he had shouted at the top of his voice.

I automatically took one step forward before I could stop myself. Then I started backing away, never taking my eyes off of him. He beckoned again.

“Mason. Follow!” The word reverberated in my head, repeating on an endless loop. He sprang off the branch and onto the branch of an adjoining tree, like some giant mutant squirrel. I started walking toward him; I couldn’t help myself. My skin was itching all over and my feet felt like they were on fire. I wanted to stop and pull off my boots, but I couldn’t.

It wasn’t that I was in thrall. There was no feeling of control; it wasn’t like I was struggling against a will more powerful than my own. It wasn’t like I felt compelled to follow, not exactly; I just couldn’t seem to think of anything else to do. As I walked, I started feeling oddly light. My steps became higher and longer and it took more time to touch earth each time, like gravity was growing weaker and I was walking on the moon.