John Levitt - Unleashed

“It is. Usually it’s only used for potions that aren’t entirely beneficial, but I think it will do fine.” She set out what looked like beeswax, and a pale yellow bar that smelled faintly of chocolate. “Cocoa butter,” she explained, and next to it she placed a couple of more familiar plants, herbs familiar to anyone who cooks at all. “Thyme and rosemary. Traditionally used for attracting the fey.” She smiled. “Not that there’s any such thing, of course.”

“No,” I muttered. “Of course not.” I bent down for a closer look. “Do you really think you can summon a Wendigo with savory herbs and chocolate?”

“No, but from your description I’m not so sure it’s a Wendigo. In lore, they’re evil, evil creatures. It should have made your blood run cold.”

“It did.”

“But it didn’t do anything to you.”

“It didn’t get the chance.”

“That’s true, but it just doesn’t fit. What you described sounds more amoral than evil, if you get my drift-more like an elemental woodland spirit. That fear you felt might have been simply your own fear, projected out and returned in a feedback loop.”

“That could be,” said Eli. “And if that entity came out of the energy pool, it might have taken on several archetypal attributes. It wouldn’t necessarily be exactly one thing or another. But the parallels to the Wendigo-the calling by name, for example-are too strong to discount.”

Campbell put a small amount of water in the pot and crumbled in the thyme and rosemary. Victor handed her the dirty gun patches, which went in soon after. While the concoction simmered, she kneaded the beeswax and cocoa butter together. Victor, meanwhile, took out some braided copper wire and, as Campbell cooked up her concoction, arranged his tools. He laid the ring of copper wire around the pot and, at carefully measured intervals, some highly polished stones. I recognized an agate, rose quartz, and a black stone that might have been obsidian, but there were several others I hadn’t a clue about.

“Magnets?” I asked, thinking of the other circle. Victor shook his head briefly.

“Wrong type of attraction,” Eli said. “We want to attract it to you, not bind it.”

“What about using one of the rune stones? If the connection between the lead and the Wendigo is weak, it could give it quite a push, couldn’t it?”

“It could, but we don’t know much about those stones. I don’t know what the effect might be, and if it turned out badly, I’d rather not have anything made with its help going onto your skin.”

After that, I was quiet and just watched. Campbell fussed over the pot but was unhappy with what she saw.

“It’s not coming together properly,” she complained. “I’m not sure why.”

Victor peered into the pot.

“It’s the cleaning patches. They have gun solvent on them; that’s why it won’t bind properly.”

“Ah,” she said. “Of course.”

She added a little of this and a bit of that, and finally was satisfied. Leaning across the pot, she blew sharply across the top, and I could feel the energy come off her from across the room. That was how strong she’d become. She snuffed out the Sterno and sat back.

By the time the gunk had cooled down it was late afternoon. I had expected we were done for the day, but both Eli and Victor were gung ho to get started.

“We may as well try it out,” said Victor. “It’s at its strongest when it’s fresh.”

“Now what?” I asked. “I slap the stuff on and we wander around blindly, hoping what’s-his-name will show up?”

“No, we do have a starting point,” Eli said. “Your psychic friend was right once. I’m thinking over by Fort Point, right by the bridge, would be a good place to start.”

Victor picked up the pot containing the salve.

“Strip down, Mason.”

“In your dreams, Victor.”

Campbell took the pot from him.

“I’ll apply it,” she said, looking at me expectantly.

I took off my shirt and she rubbed the goo all over my back, arms, and chest, working it into the muscles like a sports trainer would. It was actually rather pleasant. The balm smelled faintly of chocolate and rosemary, with just a whiff of astringency. It was a bit weird, though, like getting a professional massage from a former girlfriend. Talk about your mixed messages.

When she was done, Eli asked if she wanted to come along, but she demurred.

“Chasing monsters is your thing, not mine. I’m happy just to stay in the kitchen and whip things up.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll bet.”

“But be careful, Mason. I’d miss you, you know.”

“So would I.” I looked around. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

FORT POINT SITS JUST UNDER THE SOUTH END of the Golden Gate, hunkered down in the shadow of the bridge. It was built during the Civil War to fend off invading fleets-from whom, I’m not sure, and I don’t think they were, either. It’s become a big tourist attraction, crowded on weekends not only with tourists but with locals as well.

A footpath, several miles long, runs east toward Crissy Field. Most of the path is clear of brush with great views of the bridge and the ocean, but there are parts of it that wend closely through overhanging trees. Overgrown lanes occasionally branch off the main path, where concrete bunkers have reverted back to the wild, almost unrecognizable as man-made constructions.

Eli carried the messenger bag containing the stones. Victor had the iron shavings and the salt, as well as the flashlight with the duct-taped stone. He was also carrying a shotgun. He didn’t even bother to disguise it; if we ran into anyone, he’d use enough of an aversion spell so that they wouldn’t care to look at him.

The shotgun might not be much use against the Wendigo, but Victor hadn’t forgotten about the creature that had savaged his leg. This was smack-dab in the middle of where it had been hanging out, and any display of unusual magical power would bring it running. I wasn’t carrying anything. My job was simple. I was bait.

Dusk is a dicey time of day to be hunting anything. Your eyes play tricks on you, and you can never be quite sure what you’re looking at until it’s right up on top of you. But that was when Morgan had seen me here, so that was when I was here.

I still wasn’t happy with the setup. Too many assumptions were being made, way too many for my comfort. What if the Wendigo wasn’t here? What if it wasn’t a Wendigo at all? What if it was, but could manage to call us all at once-who was going to set up the circle and trap it? Eli assured me that it could focus on only one individual at a time. He seemed quite sure of that, but what if he was wrong? He’d misjudged things in the past. Not often, but he’s not infallible.

And once we had it, what were we going to do with it? Could it really call Sherwood back from whatever place she was? Then what? Did we let it go to continue on its merry way? What if it were bent on wreaking havoc? I don’t mind playing things by ear; in fact, mostly I prefer it. But this was going out on a very long limb without a paddle, so to speak.

It was a warm evening by San Francisco standards. The sound of ocean waves blended pleasantly with the muted sounds of traffic from the opposite direction. The sun had just set, and the last of the evening rays lit up the tops of the bridge towers. I felt strangely at peace, relaxed and happy, even though we were on a dangerous mission with unknown consequences. Lou was trailing along right behind me, looking remarkably at ease himself.

Too much at ease. This was not normal. I looked behind me, and sure enough, Victor and Eli were ambling along lackadaisically, as if they hadn’t a care in the world. I roused myself enough to point out this disturbing state of affairs, but something else caught my attention. This time it wasn’t someone calling me. It was a whisper in the depths of my brain, right at the edge of conscious thought. Come, it urged. Come, Mason.