John Ringo - Queen of wands

“Caller’s name was Jeremy Carons,” Tom continued, looking at a notepad. “Twenty-four. Was walking in the park with his girlfriend. They saw this lady staggering around, shouting, stuff like that. They sort of wondered if she was a homeless person or something, but her clothing was nice. So they called us and kept an eye on her. She was moving erratically, with which I agree. I arrived, and when I observed her I called for backup.”

“Why?” Barb asked.

“She was nonresponsive when I asked her to calm down,” the cop said. “Like she didn’t hear me. Tell you the truth, I was afraid she was one of these Madness things.”

“Do you recall what she was saying?” Barb asked.

“Something about freeing and shields and light,” the cop replied. “It wasn’t really coherent. Some of it sounded German.”

“Norse,” Barb said. “And was it ‘freeing’ or ‘Freya’?”

“That…sort of sounds right,” Teach said. “What was that word?”

“Freya is her goddess,” Barb said. “She’s Asatru. She was praying.”

“Oh…” the cop said, frowning. “Really?”

“Really,” Barb said. “It was the equivalent of a Christian minister calling upon Jesus. ‘Jesus aid me.’ or something. What happened then?”

“Officer Lawrence Atchison responded to my request for backup and we called for a medical response,” the officer said. “I’d determined that we were dealing with a 10-103m…”

“Cop-speak?” Barb asked.

“Nutjob,” Kurt said. “Wacko.”

“Got it. Go on.”

“We approached the subject and requested that she desist in her actions,” the officer said. “She continued to ignore us. By that point the ambulance had arrived. Officer Atchison and I attempted to physically restrain her at which point she resisted…well.”

“Even stuck on the Paths, Janea’s a handful,” Barb said, smiling. “I hope you were okay.”

“We hadn’t realized she was as…fit as she was,” the cop said, grimacing. “I was glad I was wearing body armor. And a cup. We managed to physically restrain her, and with the help of the paramedics, we got her strapped to the gurney. The paramedics had gotten authorization to tranquilize the subject, but when they did, she arrested. She came back when they gave her some juice. They then transported her to Memorial. I wrote up my report and continued with the night. We found out the next day she was working with the Fibs…Sorry.”

“Heard it before,” Kurt said, grinning. “Used it, for that matter.”

“Anyway, we found out the next day she was a special consultant. I’ve sort of been scratching my head about it. Any idea what happened to her? I figure she’s not normally like that. Did somebody drug her?”

“Something like that,” Barb said. “Anything else? Anything unusual?”

“She was wet,” Tom said.

“What?” Barb asked, sharply.

“She was wet,” the officer repeated. “From head to toe. Since she was wearing a white shirt, it was pretty noticeable, but when we grabbed her it was really noticeable. I got soaked, so did Larry. Looked like she’d been swimming.”

“That’s one hell of a swim,” Kurt said, looking through the binoculars.

The Chattanooga Art District was a cluster of buildings perched on a bluff overlooking the Tennessee River. Consisting of a bed and breakfast, two high-end restaurants, a coffee shop, an art gallery and a museum, it was a pleasant place on a warm morning in spring. The close-set stone buildings created shaded paths, and vegetation crawled over trellises, creating cozy nooks perfect for book reading or just contemplating life.

From the bluff, North Shore and Coolidge Park were clearly evident across the river. Adjacent to the stone buildings was the Hunter Museum complex consisting of three buildings, an Edwardian mansion, a 1970s “modern” building and a modern art annex completed in 2005. Just down the hill, accessed by a daring transparent bridge, was the Tennessee Aquarium. Connecting the collection to North Shore was a walking bridge that soared nearly a hundred feet over the river.

“Hell of a climb, too,” Barb said. There was no way to get to the edge of the bluff; stone walls ensured that, but it was clear getting down wouldn’t be easy. “And no way she jumped off the bridge. The fall would kill her.”

“So, assuming she was swimming, where’d she swim from?” Kurt asked, lowering the binoculars. “Dive off the bluff? Looks pretty suicidal to me.”

“That is a very good question,” Barb said. “For which I need coffee.”

Rembrandt’s was built into a portion of the first floor of one of the stone buildings. The front counter created a narrow area that, at the moment, was packed with patrons waiting to access the single cash register. At the far end of the counter were some tables, which continued into a back room.

“Oh…my,” Barb said, looking at the collection of pastries on display. “I think I’m gaining weight just looking at them. I can see more than one reason Janea would come here.”

“Anything…else?” Kurt asked, quietly.

“Not right now,” Barb said, just as quietly. “I’m Shielding. It works both ways. I’d rather be sitting down to do a full survey.”

The patron in front of her, a society matron very similar to the ones Barb dealt with every day at home, looked over her shoulder and frowned.

“Private conversation,” Barb said, smiling thinly.

The woman sniffed and turned back to the wait.

“And the other reason I’d rather not get into anything in line,” Barb said, trying not to chuckle.

Eventually they got up to the cash register and the harried brunette working it.

“Croissant and a mocha,” Barb said, smiling. “No whip cream.”

“I’ll take an espresso and an eclair,” Kurt said.

“Those will make you fat,” Barb noted.

“And mochas won’t?” Kurt asked.

“Everyone has their weaknesses,” Barb said as she paid for the food. “Mine is chocolate. I’d love an eclair. But I will not be tempted into gluttony.”

They chose to sit outside and picked one of the iron tables at the back of the large, stone-flagged courtyard near a dry fountain. The area was shielded by large, mature trees and had a pleasant air. Barb had a hard time imagining it as a seat for malignant powers.

“Okay, let me be clear,” Barb said, taking a sip of her mocha. “When I open up, it’s possible that whatever attacked Janea will attack me. Unlikely, but possible.”

“What do I do if that happens?” Kurt asked.

“I’ll try to keep the uproar down,” Barb said. “But I may get strange. Things may get strange. Operate as if there is a bomb threat and I’m the bomb squad. Figure out a way to evacuate the civilians, cordon the area and leave me to the battle. I’m…somewhat more powerful than Janea.”

“You’re not going to start chanting or anything, are you?” Kurt asked.

“Not unless things get bad strange,” Barb replied. “And it’s very much like a bomb tech. If I start running…try to keep up.”

Barb still wasn’t totally up on the psychic thing. The Lord granted her powers to fight evil manifest in the world, but He didn’t always tell her where it was. And this time the best she could get was a slight feeling that things were not quite as pleasant as they seemed. She was trying to get a better feel for it when she sensed a presence near the table and opened her eyes.

“Are you well?” the woman standing by Kurt’s shoulder asked.

“I’m fine,” Barb said. “Slight headache.”

Which was made worse by the woman. Like the neurologist, she had a demon that had so fully consumed her, her aura was black.

“I am Vartouhi,” the woman said, smiling at her. “I welcome you to Rembrandt’s. I always like to say hello to our new customers.”