John Ringo: Queen of wands

Mark left the door to the bedroom open, his back set in disapproval, and a black cat oozed into the room and up onto her lap.

As soon as Lazarus curled into her lap, the voices didn’t stop, but they were muted. She scratched the cat on the back of the head and pulled him in close.

“What’s happening, Laz?” she whispered. “What in the hell is happening?”

“Mark, I’m going to have to go out of town,” Barb said as she pulled the half-and-half out of the refrigerator. It had taken her nearly thirty minutes to put on a bit of makeup and a jogging suit. Something had to be done.

“Again?” her husband asked, surprised.

“It’s been nearly two months since I went to a Foundation meeting,” Barb said, trying to keep a combination of annoyance from the voices, annoyance at Mark and low blood sugar from causing a blowup. “It’s beyond time.”

The problem was, okay, in honesty, she’d coddled Mark. She had, throughout their marriage, managed the household. It could, arguably, be other than coddling. Mark was a disaster in the kitchen when they were first married, to the point that she’d thrown him out. And, frankly, it was just easier to pick up after him than get him to do it. So she cleaned the house, she did the cooking and the dishes. Over the years, Mark had gotten to the point where he barely knew where the pots and pans were. So going away before Allison stepped into the breach was a serious problem; the entire household generally fell apart.

The other problem was, no one knew what Barbara did on the side. Mark was not someone she could sit down with and calmly explain that she was now fighting demons. Demons didn’t exist in the world of peanut processing. Besides, the Foundation was as secret as the best mystics in the world could make it. So she had to lie. Lying wasn’t one of those things good Christian wives were supposed to do with their husbands, but there really wasn’t another choice.

“Allison will manage the house,” Barb said, looking over at her fifteen-year-old daughter. A year ago she’d have said that with the greatest of trepidation, but since the night Barb had “adopted” Lazarus, Allison had been an absolute model child. In fact, Barb was fairly sure that Allison knew damned well that Mommy’s trips didn’t have much to do with prayer meetings. Oh, there was quite a bit of praying, but it was generally along the lines of “Lord, please keep the demon from eating my soul.”

“I’ve got it, Dad,” Allison said, looking up from the book she was reading. Normally, there was no reading at the table. Breakfast was generally an exception. “Jason and Brooke will help.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jason asked grumpily. The male twin had his father’s dark looks, as did Brooke. Allison seemed to draw almost entirely from her mother. “Who’s gonna make me?”

“ I will,” Allison said, staring him down. “Or do you really want to take me on, little brother?”

“No,” Jason admitted, bending his head back down to his plate. “Allison’s got it. We’ll help.”

“Fine,” Mark sighed, picking up his suit. He’d finished breakfast and was on his way out the door. “Whatever. Write when you get work.”

“I love you, too,” Barbara snapped as the door closed. “Lord, forgive me for that.”

“He will,” Allison said, handing a bit of bacon to Lazarus. The cat licked it for a moment, then got it into his mouth and disappeared under the table, purring.

“It was uncalled for,” Barbara replied, pouring a cup of coffee. Her hand shook so badly that she slopped some of it on the counter, and when she tried to pick up a spoon to stir the cream and sugar, she dropped it back into the drawer.

“Mom, are you okay?” Allison asked.

“Everyone keeps asking that!” Barbara snapped, then sighed. “I’m sorry, Allison. No, I’m not okay. But I will be. I just need to go…see some people.”

“It’s not cancer, is it?” Brooke asked worriedly. One of her friends had died of juvenile leukemia when she was still in preschool, and it had left a scar. “You’re not dying, are you, Mommy?”

“No, it’s not cancer,” Barbara said, getting the mess cleaned up and her coffee stirred. She could perform a full Swan Drifts Over Mountain Above Clouds maneuver, something that no more than ten people in the world could equal. She could damned well stir her coffee. “I’ll be fine. I just need to go see some friends and get some advice.”

“It’s the Change, isn’t it?” Jason said, not looking up from his plate. “Bobby Townsend’s mom is doing the Change. That’s what he calls it, anyway.”

“It’s not menopause, Jason,” Barbara said, trying not to laugh. “I’m only thirty-four. That won’t happen until I’m in my fifties. You’ll be out of the house.”

“Good,” Jason said. “Because Bobby says his momma’s going crazy.”

Lazarus had finished his bacon and now oozed back out from under the table and rubbed against her leg. Whenever the familiar touched her, the voices became less. But she couldn’t pet him and use both hands. She looked down at him then picked him up and set him on her shoulder. “You. Stay.”

“That looks…really weird, Mom,” Allison said as Barb pulled out the makings of breakfast. The cat had all four feet planted on her left shoulder and was swaying to keep in place. But he wasn’t moving.

“Yeah,” Barb admitted, preparing some instant oatmeal. It was about all her stomach was going to take this morning. “But it works.” She glanced at the clock and shook her head. “Time for you guys to be done. Out the door in ten.”

“Brooke, eat it or throw it away,” Allison said. “Moving it around your plate doesn’t count. Jason, three bites then head for the room.”

“Yes, Mother,” Jason said, sarcastically. She really had sounded like Barbara, who had gotten her parenting skills from a military spouse and her officer husband.

“Mom, what’s really wrong?” Allison asked as soon as the younger kids were gone.

“Not something I can explain, honey,” Barb said, sitting down at the table.

“Mom, I know, okay?” Allison said, gesturing with her chin at the cat still perched on Barbara’s shoulder.

“No, you don’t ‘know,’ Allison,” Barbara replied, tartly. “You suspect some things and you think you know others. If the time ever comes, I’ll explain as much as I can. But you do not ‘know’ anything.”

“I know where that cat came from,” Allison pointed out.

About six months ago, Allison had fallen into bad company. The bad company in this case being a softball coach with almost “magical” abilities. Barb had at first feared that there was hanky-panky going on when the coach started taking the girls off for “team-building exercises.” Then, after using her connections in the Foundation to get background information, her more paranoid side had starting ringing alarm bells. The coach had previously been associated with both Satanic and Santeria sects. And the change in the team had been…demonic. Metaphorically.

Barb had charged in in full demon-slayer mode: battle gear, bell, book and cross, ready to take on demons or acolytes with mundane or magical weaponry.

In fact, the coach had been a poseur. He used the trappings of Satanic rites to convince the girls they had magical backing. When Barb burst out of the darkness he’d literally wet himself.

What had Barb charging in was a “magic rite” involving the sacrifice of a young cat. She’d gotten there just a bit too late to save the black cat’s life, but not too late to save the souls of some young girls. They got the immediate impression that playing Satanist was not in their best interest.

And then God had given her a greater gift than she had ever imagined; the ability to raise that cat from the grave. Lazarus came back not as some sort of zombie but as a fully functional cat, albeit one that could not be far from Barbara. Will she, nil she, Barb now had a familiar. Another thing the Bible was unquestionably dead set against. It got confusing.