John Ringo - Queen of wands

“You okay?” Mark Everette asked as he came out of the bathroom. The executive was already dressed and had a suit coat over his shoulder on a hanger. “You don’t look so good.”

“Thank you for your phrasing,” Barbara Everette replied. Mark’s thirty-four-year-old-one year his junior-wife was sitting on the edge of the bed with her head in her hands. She’d been in much the same position when he started his morning ablutions. Normally she’d have been dressed and getting breakfast ready by now. “I’m fine,” Barb continued, looking up and wincing at the light from the bathroom. “Just a headache.”

“Okay,” Mark said, frowning. “You’ve been getting a lot of those lately. Maybe you should see Dr. Barnett.”

“I doubt that the good doctor could do much for me,” Barbara replied. “You’re going to be late. Allison can fix breakfast.”

“I don’t have time to take the kids to school,” Mark pointed out.

“I’ve got it,” Barb said. “Just…go. And let Lazarus in when you leave.”

Barbara sighed in relief as Mark left the bedroom, then felt a pang of regret. She really should be drawing strength from her husband, not feeling drained. But Mark had never been much of a nurturer. He expected to be supported and comforted, not the other way around. And explaining her current problem as anything other than “a headache” would have the men in the white coats at the house faster than you could say “Mommy had to go away.” Because Barb was hearing voices.

A year ago this never would have happened. Just a year before, she’d been a nice, normal homemaker with, on the outside, the perfect life. Nice house in a nice neighborhood, steady husband with a good job who neither cheated on her nor abused her, three great kids and the respect of her friends and fellow homemakers. Need a hand with the bake sale? Call Barb. Charity auction? Barb’s your gal.

Oh, Barbara Everette had her oddities, anyone would admit. Most of her fellow homemakers did not pack a pistol in their purse. And when the rest of the gals were down at Curves going through a gentle workout guaranteed to raise no more than a glisten, Barb was practicing and teaching a variety of Oriental martial arts and tossing around men twice her size. Both of those oddities were legacies of an Air Force dad who’d dragged his family around to a multitude of Far East postings, as were the occasional loan-words she’d slowly filtered out of her vocabulary. The church ladies of Algomo, Mississippi were unfamiliar with such pejoratives as kwei-lo and gaijin.

But a year ago she’d made either the greatest or the worst mistake of her life. Tired of the endless domestic routine, she had insisted on “just one weekend” alone. She just wanted two days to do whatever she wished, mainly find a nice hotel and sit around reading.

A series of chance happenings, or more likely God-driven choices, had left her marooned in a backwater Cajun town. One that had been taken over by a demon.

That was when Barbara Everette discovered that there was more inside her than she’d ever dreamed. She had been a committed Believer since she was quite young, it was just part of her makeup. She’d inherited the full measure of an Irish temper along with the slightly curly strawberry-blonde tresses. Faith kept that in check.

But in Thibideau she’d discovered there were times for that full-blown rage to manifest in the service of the Lord. Such as when a cult was killing women to feed their demon master. And she discovered that true devotion, faith and service paid off when the Lord gave her the power to not only challenge the demon but blow its lousy ass straight back to Hell.

She’d survived. Police had become involved. Then psychiatrists had become involved when she refused to admit to “reality.” There were, of course, no such things as demons. Yes, a group had been committing serial crimes, but demons weren’t involved, Mrs. Everette. Take the nice pills.

Fortunately, there were people to deal with the police. Barbara was recruited by a group that dealt with “Special Circumstances.” That was the euphemism the FBI had coined, very quietly, for those rare cases where things got “beyond normal activities.” When werewolves stalked the night, vampires drifted through open windows, when demons and their worshippers gathered their powers. When the supernatural intruded on their normal and customary doings.

To fight the supernatural required very special skills, ones that the majority of the populace, much less the police, did not develop. It required not only Belief but a firm commitment and connection to a god.

“A” god was the part that at first surprised Barbara. She was the only member of the Foundation for Love and Universal Faith who was a Protestant Christian. The rest were pagans of various flavors, Hindu, Wiccan, Asatru worshippers of the Norse Gods. The group was in contact with and occasionally drew on support from the Catholic Church, and in some cases, specific rabbis became involved when a Hebrew rite was of use. But she was the only Protestant for sure.

But she had, by then, become able to sense the power of others, its source and level. And the people she now associated with were, unquestionably, on the side of Light. Otherwise, she could not have fed power to her closest friend when a demon drained her soul. Given that Janea was a high-class call girl, stripper and a High Priestess of Freya, the Norse goddess of fertility, joining FLUF had required some reevaluation of the details of her Belief. “Suffer not a witch to live” simply did not compute.

The current problem was just a new development. She knew that, intellectually, and generally she could wrap her emotions around it. But it was a royal pain in the ass. It wasn’t ESP; she couldn’t read minds. She just heard voices. If she couldn’t feel the similarity to her God channel, she’d simply go to the shrinks and get the nice pills to make the voices go away.

The voices were generally simply unintelligible whispers, but sometimes they got comprehensible. And generally when she could hear them clearly, they were negative. “You’re no good.” “You’re not a good mother.” “Everyone hates you.” Sometimes there were positive messages, but those were rare. She could ignore it, mostly. She knew she wasn’t a bad mother, that she wasn’t a bad person. But it was just so constant.

And then yesterday she’d seen something. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it looked like a black snake wrapped around a young woman’s neck. The head, which was more humanoid looking, had its fangs sunk into the woman’s shoulder.

Barb had almost asked the woman about it before she realized that nobody else was noticing the snake. And she’d received a serious “death stare” from the woman, more like a girl, for no reason she could determine. As she passed the woman, the thing had hissed at her quite clearly. Again, nobody in the grocery store noticed. The woman herself didn’t even appear to notice.

But things were getting seriously weird in Barb-world these days.