Ann Aguirre - Hell Fire

“Well,” I said to Butch, “at least the house seems to be phantom free.”

As if in response to my words, heaviness seeped into the air. The dog pressed close to my ankles, and I felt him trembling. Ice prickled along my nerve endings. This was similar to what I’d felt in Laredo, just before the shades appeared. But we’d killed the warlock responsible. This had to be different.

Movement in my peripheral vision had me jumping at shadows. I felt a presence, something watching us. The cold intensified until I could feel my skin prickling into goose bumps. Butch whined, so I spun to face whatever had frightened him.

Carmine bled from the parlor wall, coalescing into the words WELCOME HOME.

For a long moment, we stood frozen, and then I bent to pick up Butch. He nestled in my arms and hid his face. The heaviness in the air grew more profound, as if there were a giant hand pressing down on the top of my head. Frost crackled on the windowpane, and when I called for Chance, my breath swirled like white fog before my face.

“Coming!”

When he stepped into the room, there was a localized boom, as if he carried enough heat in his body to offset the chill. I could swear I saw storm clouds around him for just a few seconds, as if two powerful weather fronts had collided in the front parlor. Then the weight went away, and I could move again. Without speaking, I pointed at the wall. With Chance here, my fear was subsiding.

“It’s not blood,” he said after a short inspection.

No real surprise there. Bleeding walls rarely spilled the liquid of life. That didn’t decrease the creepiness of the timing—after I’d said the house held no ghosts, as I recalled.

“What is it, then?”

“If I had to guess? Berry juice.”

“Like from the woods?” I went back to the window, staring out at the dark, and received the disconcerting impression it stared back.

What was it Nietzsche said? “If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you . ” And so it did. I became convinced something sat out there, judging our movements. My scalp prickled. I didn’t know whether to take heart from the message or consider it a warning meant to frighten.

I refused to let it.

“Maybe,” he said, still staring at the writing on the wall—literally. “You think someone lives out there? It would take a precise, sympathetic translocation spell to achieve this.” He pointed at the dripping letters.

I wasn’t interested in the practical aspects. If this was an intimidation tactic, it was doomed to fail. Instead of dwelling on how the unsettling effect had been achieved, I found a bucket and some rags, and started scrubbing it off the wall. That morning I’d been accosted in a bathroom and nearly run over by a car. They’d have to do better to get me riled up. The fact that I’d cried earlier probably had something to do with my steady emotional state too.

Enough was enough. We wouldn’t solve anything today, and I was no longer worried about Mrs. Everett’s lingering spirit, so I located some old sheets not taken in the haphazard packing and gave them a good shake. They were faded and ragged at the edges, but soft from many washings. I went into the master bedroom and tucked the flat end between the mattress and box springs.

A quick rummage through the dresser unearthed an ancient quilt in the bottom drawer. I retrieved my bag from the parlor and changed into loose shorts and a T-shirt. Once I brushed my teeth, I was set to get some sleep.

“Let Butch out before you go to bed,” I called. “Night, Chance!”

I didn’t know where he would crash, but I felt safer here than I had at the bed-and-breakfast, so I wouldn’t ask him to bunk with me. His dangerous luck aside, he had to get better at talking about his feelings. It couldn’t be all about me any more than it should’ve been all about him the first time. I’d driven myself half mad trying to please him, and now he was doing the exact same thing. We needed to strike a balance, somehow.

Maybe the pendulum would eventually come to rest between us. Maybe—

There was no gentle rollover from waking to sleep, no dreamy, hazy lassitude. I didn’t even remember closing my eyes. Then . . . I was somewhere else.

Given the day I’d had, if I hadn’t been to this room before, I might have panicked. From the mahogany shelves to the cream and ivory wingback chairs, this gentleman’s library suited my impression of Ian Booke, who sat at a heavy antique desk, brow furrowed in concentration.

Our man in the UK had perfected lucid dreaming, and we’d talked this way once before. Relief washed over me when I realized he’d been trying to get in touch when I went quiet. He must have been at it for hours.

In my dreams, Booke had a shock of nut-brown hair and charcoal eyes. His face was narrow and clever rather than attractive. I didn’t know anything about him in real life; nobody did.

I came toward him clad in the Wonder Woman body Booke envisioned for our dream encounters. He glanced up at my movement, his expression revealing visible relief. He left his desk and took two steps in my direction before apparently remembering we couldn’t touch or I’d wake up.

“You’re all right? I’ve left five messages now.”

“Depends on what you mean by that,” I said ruefully. “I’m glad to see you—er, talk. You know what I mean.”

He inclined his head with a half smile and led the way over to the chairs. I sank down gratefully, unused to the height of the form I wore in the dreamworld. After taking a deep breath, I summed up everything we’d noticed about Kilmer: the unusual behavior of the citizens, a maimed dog, the lack of modern conveniences, dying business, broken cell phones, strange, stinky powder, murderous automobiles, and bleeding walls.

Damn. The recitation alone made me tired.

“So,” I concluded, “the only place we’ve gotten the cell phone to work is the library. I have no idea why.”

“I might be able to help. If you can, use your cell phone to snap some pictures, interior and exterior views, and send them to me via e-mail. Do you have a Smartphone?”

I rather doubted it; unlikely the device would be any cleverer than its owner. “Chance does, I think.”

“Get those to me as soon as you can, and I’ll see if I can sort why the library prevents the technological failure that plagues you elsewhere.”

I smiled with genuine warmth. “Thanks. That could really help us devise some defense. I’m glad you found me like this.”

“I wasn’t sure I could,” he admitted. “Not with the bizarre shroud encircling the coordinates you gave me. But this technique focuses on the person more than the place, so I think I could find you anywhere.”

That statement carried an oddly reassuring resonance. “Can you help? Kilmer feels so cut off from the real world.”

Booke frowned. “That would take some doing, serious power, there. I wonder if the dark spot in the astral has anything to do with your isolation.”

I could only shrug. “That’s your stomping ground, not mine. But maybe you could research what rituals might achieve that effect.”

“I’ll get on that as soon as we’ve finished here,” he said with a nod. “I can’t scout as I did in Laredo, so that’s right out. But I can relay messages. Today”—he hesitated, ducking his head—“I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

A flicker of pleasure washed over me. “I am. Just a bit bruised. By the way, could you call Chuch and let him know we’re fine? He’ll pass the word to Saldana, who’s riding to the rescue like a white knight.”

“Must be nice,” Booke muttered.

I raised a brow. “What?”