John Levitt - Unleashed

“Was he okay?” I’d asked. “Can I talk to him? He must have some information about this Wendigo.”

“Depends on what you mean by okay,” Rolf had answered. “Weirder than ever-he’s finding it hard to keep a human form these days. And I’m sure he could tell you a lot, but I don’t think he’ll talk to you-I’m not sure he could even if he wanted to. But otherwise, yeah, he’s fine.”

I didn’t bother to complain that he might at least have informed me. It wouldn’t have done any good. But if that much had turned out to be true, there was a good chance our Wendigo would be showing up. And if he did, there was a good chance he could do what he said he could. Otherwise, why bother to make an appearance?

I don’t know what I expected. Maybe for him to materialize in the middle of the study with a puff of smoke, or something equally dramatic, so when the knock on the front door came it was an anticlimax.

Victor answered the door, and there he stood. His forest garb had been replaced by a colored tee with a picture of Elvin Jones behind a drum set and a pair of jeans. He stood in the doorway and looked around appreciatively.

“Quite the warding system,” he said. “Very impressive. I’m not sure even I could get in here without your permission.”

That was something of a relief. The wards around Victor’s house were not strictly his own-Eli and a lot of other knowledgeable practitioners had helped design them, as well as contributing their own power into keeping them strong. The wards around my own house are clever and subtle, strong enough to do the job, but nothing special. Victor was protected by state-of-the-art constructions, utilitarian, sleek and gleaming, and composed mostly of lines of sheer and forbidding power. It was reassuring they could block even a magical creature of power.

Victor reached out and touched him on the shoulder. An almost invisible spark of energy passed between them, providing the Wendigo with the magical equivalent of a key card. Once he was inside, Victor led the way up to the study.

“Very nice,” said the Wendigo, looking around at the dark paneling, huge fireplace, and tall windows. “A bit too faux Victorian for my tastes, but nice, nonetheless.”

“Thank you,” said Victor without the slightest trace of sarcasm. “Let’s get down to business.”

“You have the stones?”

Eli opened the old messenger bag and showed the stones to him, then closed it firmly. Like at Mama Yara’s botanica, it reminded me of nothing so much as a dope deal, complete with suspicion on both sides. The Wendigo turned to me.

“I’ll need your help,” he said. “Or rather, it will be a lot easier if you’re involved.”

“Okay,” I said. I still didn’t trust him, though. “Are we actually going somewhere, physically, or is this just a psychic journey?” I remembered asking Eli the same question when I’d gone seeking the origin of the rune stones, more than a year ago.

“Ahh, well, that depends on how you look at it,” the Wendigo said. I should have known.

“Let me guess. It’s not an either/or question.”

“Exactly. I’m glad you understand.”

“Yeah, me, too. But on the practical side, what if something happens to us there?”

“Well, then the question becomes academic, but we won’t wake up safe in our beds; that I can assure you.” He held out his hand, impatiently. “Here, just relax; take my hand. Envision the place where you were when you saw her.” I wasn’t that eager to let him touch me, but I did it. His hand was warm, pulsing with magical energy. Nothing else happened. “It might be easier if you close your eyes and block out your present surroundings.”

I did what he asked, concentrated on my breathing, and one by one blocked out the distractions around me. It wasn’t that hard; it’s a basic of both yoga training and magical discipline. The last senses to go were touch and smell, the breath of salt air on my face coming through the open windows.

It grew stronger, and the tang of the ocean was replaced with the slightly musty odor of gorse and bracken, and the breeze had turned cold and damp. When I opened my eyes I was back on the moor.

But this time it was different. It was dark, as if the winter sun was just sinking under the horizon. Patches of thick, evil-looking fog closed in around us, obscuring the landscape one moment, swirling away the next to reveal a barren and desolate scene. Before, the moor had been dramatic and full of mystery. This time it gave off an aura of evil and danger.

The Wendigo was standing next to me, but Lou was nowhere in sight. I had a moment of not quite panic-he’d never failed to follow me anywhere before. But then he burst out of a nearby thicket and stood there, tongue out and panting as if he’d run a long way. The Wendigo looked surprised.

“I didn’t think that was possible,” he said. “He didn’t come with us, and there’s no way he could have followed us here-there isn’t any ‘here’ to follow us to, strictly speaking.”

“He is a talented creature,” I said. “So, what now?”

“Your part is done. Now that we’re here, all I need to do is call her home. It won’t be a problem.”

I could have told him that was the wrong thing to say. It’s a form of unconscious hubris, poking your finger in the eye of the gods. Sure enough, the minute he finished talking I heard a long-drawn-out, muffled howl in the distance, sounding like a hound from hell.

“What in God’s name is that?” I asked. For the first time since I’d seen him, the Wendigo looked ill at ease.

“Oh, shit,” he said. Not a reassuring response.

“I didn’t hear anything like that the last time.”

“Last time, you were pulled into Sherwood’s construct. This time, it’s partly yours as well. You mentioned that the moor looked like a movie set. Wuthering Heights, I think you said.”

“Yeah.”

“This isn’t exactly the same place, is it? Have you ever actually been on a moor?”

“No,” I said.

“But this is partly your own construct. So where did you get your idea of it from? What do you think of when you imagine a moor?” I didn’t have to think about that one.

“The Hound of the Baskervilles.” Another howl, closer, punctuated my remark.

“And that is?”

“Sherlock Holmes. A story about a gigantic, spectral hound who roams the moors, killing people.”

“I see.”

“But in the story it wasn’t really anything supernatural,” I explained. “It turned out to be a huge, vicious, but quite ordinary dog.”

“Maybe in the story. But not in your construct-trust me on that.”

Another howl, long-drawn-out and definitely closer. Now it sounded less like a hound and more like some creature from hell. Lou flinched involuntarily and started picking up first one paw, then the other, the way he does when he’s nervous.

“What are you worried about?” I said. “You can take a shotgun blast without it bothering you, and you can control things with just your voice. A ghostly hound shouldn’t pose much of a problem.”

“You’d think. But you mostly missed me with that shotgun. You only thought you hit me. A couple of pellets nicked me, but that was all. Misdirection and illusion are my true strengths.” So we had something in common after all.

“Your voice is no illusion,” I said.

“Sure, it is. It doesn’t control anyone. It just makes them think they have no choice.” That seemed like semantics to me, but this was no time for a philosophical discussion.

“So use it, then,” I said.

“Believe me, I would if I could. But things work differently in places like this. I can call Sherwood; that’s what I came here for. But other than that, I’m as vulnerable as you are. Maybe more so-it’s your place, and you at least should still have your talent here. So it’s up to you, I’m afraid.”