John Ringo - Queen of wands

“There’s nothing wrong with looking good,” Barb said, frowning.

“I agree,” Sharice said. “But there’s looking good for looking good’s sake, and looking good because it’s all you consider yourself to be. When you dress well and do your makeup, it’s almost a sacrifice to your God. It is one form of worship, whether you recognize it or not. In Janea’s case, for example, it truly is a form of worship. I’ve never brought her here. I’m frankly afraid of the effects.”

“Where is Janea?” Barb asked.

The Asatru High Priestess had been Barb’s partner on her first true case. While Barb was immensely more powerful, Janea, despite giving the air of being a bubblehead, was much more educated in the occult. They’d made a most effective team.

“In Chattanooga,” Sharice said, frowning. “There’s a really strange case up there. Not one case, actually. The problem is, there have been several people who have changed from quite normal to psychotic literally in moments. The FBI’s trying to figure out if it has Special Circumstances. Most of the killers haven’t fit the normal profile. Janea’s up there checking it out. In her own inimitable way, I’m sure.”

While Barb tended to dress well and becomingly, Janea went straight from “becoming” to “scandalous” without any of the normal intervening steps. When she got teamed with FBI agents, it was…humorous.

“Any reports?” Barb asked.

“Not that have come across my desk,” Sharice said as her phone started to play Ozzie Osborne’s “Over the Mountain.” “I’ll be right back. That’s Augustus.”

Barb had just picked up a chicken wing and bitten into it when Sharice came in looking for their waitress.

“We have to go,” the witch said, her face tight. “Right now.”

“Why?” Barb asked, setting down the wing and wiping her fingers.

“Funny you should have asked about Janea at that moment,” Sharice said. “Where is that waitress?!”

Barb closed her eyes and Called.

“I hope that’s not a sin,” she said, quietly. “Lord, I’m only using this demon, and the person that it rides, in Your works. If I have done wrong, I request some sort of sign.”

“Well, it worked,” Sharice said. “Here she comes.”

“Now what about Janea?” Barb asked.

“She’s in the hospital,” the witch replied. “I need the check. Now. A friend’s been hurt.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl said. The demon on her shoulder was shuddering as if in pain.

“What did you do to that thing?” Sharice asked.

“I concentrated,” Barb said. “Hard. Janea.”

“It seems she might have found what is causing the problem,” Sharice said. “Unfortunately, they don’t know if she’s going to live. Augustus has arranged a plane.”

“We’re not sure what is wrong with Miss Grisham,” Dr. Stewart Downing said.

The neurologist was tall and slender with a saturnine air. Barb, in fact, found him somewhat creepy.

The trip had been…odd. It was the first time Barb, who had traveled extensively and in most forms of transportation, had ever flown in a Gulfstream. Now she knew how the other half lived. She’d already been packed; Sharice and Germaine apparently kept a traveling bag readily available, so the real question was, given that the plane had been prepped for takeoff when they arrived, did FLUF maintain a private jet? As it turned out, no. The FBI maintained a private jet for FLUF.

By the time the team had reached Chattanooga, Janea had been moved from ICU to a semi-residential “long-term care” facility located near Memorial Hospital. Her condition had been determined to be non-life-threatening for the time being.

The move was fortuitous since it meant nobody commented on Barb bringing a cat into the room.

“Do you know where she was found?” Augustus Germaine asked.

Augustus Germaine was the head of Special Circumstances for the US and Europe. In the US, the SC organization was called the Foundation for Love and Universal Faith: FLUF, pronounced “Fluff.” The inoffensive acronym was intentional; FLUF was the antithesis of a public operation. And in many cases it was even on point. Many, most even, of the Special Circumstances investigators were highly non-violent Wiccans and Buddhists.

He was not an adherent of any religion. Nor was he agnostic or atheist. He knew gods existed, but for him, that was like saying air existed. You can’t see it, it’s there anyway, so what? Being strictly neutral was also the only way that he could settle the more-than-occasional disputes between his various agents. He didn’t care what kind of air it might be, as long as you could breathe it and not die.

“Coolidge Park,” the neurologist replied. “Initially police thought she was under the influence of drugs. She was, at that time, conscious but incoherent, and attacked the officers. They started to place her under arrest and her heart arrested, so she was transported here. She was thought to be suffering from drug toxicity, until her tox screen came back negative. Then the FBI identified her as a consultant and, well…”

“I understand,” Germaine said. “From your medical point of view, what is her condition?”

“There were some small surface contusions,” Dr. Downing continued, pursing his lips in thought. “Possible indication of a struggle. That might actually have come from the altercation with the officers. No indication of sexual assault, and even the contusions are problematic. But nothing that would cause a coma. And it’s not a coma. She’s just very asleep. She has had a full CAT scan, EEG, and radiological MRI. There is no gross trauma to the brain but she remains in REM sleep. Only REM, not deep sleep. Heartbeat is up, blood pressure is high. Indications are of a more-or-less continuous nightmare. Which, sorry, isn’t good. The body can only stand so much stress. When I got all the tests done we administered a sleep antagonist, which is when it got truly unusual.”

“She coded,” Sharice said.

“Yes,” the neurologist said, frowning. “How did you know?”

“I’ve seen the condition before,” the witch said. “I take it you administered an antagonist?”

“And she went right back to this condition,” Dr. Downing said, nodding. “Do you know of a cure? I haven’t been able to find anything in the medical texts on this condition.”

“It’s not common,” Sharice said. “And no, I don’t know of anything you can do to cure it.”

“That’s a rather broad statement,” the neurologist said with a sniff.

“It’s a rather accurate statement,” Germaine replied. “I know two neurologists in the world who are familiar with the condition. I’ll have one of them e-mail you.”

Barb laid her hand on her friend’s shoulder and prayed to God for guidance. In return she received a very slight feel of life, of struggle.

“Sharice…” she said a moment later in a strained voice.

Sharice laid her hand on the patient’s other shoulder and then nodded.

“She’s so far…”

“I think that the good doctor has other things to do,” Germaine said. “We can stay with our friend, can we not?”

“Absolutely,” the neurologist said. “If you need anything else…”

“Not at all, Doctor,” the head of FLUF said. “But I appreciate your briefing in this matter.”

“Her ka has been ripped from her body,” Sharice said after the door was closed. “This wasn’t an intentional projection. It was pulled out. The silver cord is barely holding.”

“She’s fighting,” Barb said. “I get a feeling like dozens of…things ripping at her.”

“Harpies,” Sharice said. “Probably the origin of the myth. That’s what most call them, anyway. One of the things to avoid on the Moon Path. She’s held, trapped. And being tortured astrally.”