Wendigo Rising by James Hunter

Author:James Hunter [Hunter, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Shadow Alley Press, Inc.
Published: 2015-11-03T00:00:00+00:00

NINETEEN:

Old Wounds

I lounged in the passenger seat of Ferraro’s sedan, watching the night-darkened forest flicker past on either side as we drove. The trees were silent, unmoving things, yet in the headlights they seemed almost alive; the high beams, passing over their limbs and twisted bodies, lent them the appearance of movement. They were crying out to me, their boughs reaching toward the roadway, pleading for me to save them from the evil presence which had possessed their guardians, the Chiye-tanka.

I put the trees and the Chiye-tanka out of mind—there was nothing I could do for them right now. We’d deal with the Wendigo when the time was right, when we had a good hand to play. Winona was on her way back to the cave to chat with her father, and Ferraro and I had other things that needed to be done. Namely, we needed to prepare for our encounter with Arawn and the Sirens. I’d already tried to get in touch with Greg, but the call had gone straight to voicemail. Annoying, sure, but not troubling. Greg was the most reliable person I knew, but he was never great about keeping his cell phone charged.

For once, no music played in the car. Quiet filled the cab instead, which suited me just fine. The space to think was welcome.

I stared down at the clear crystal orb in my hand, the scrying stone I’d used to eavesdrop on the sheriff. Once upon a time, scrying stones were all the rage among magi. I mean in the days before cell phones, being able to talk at a distance was a huge advantage, so you can just imagine the edge magi held over the Rubes of the world. Nowadays, most of the magi have gotten on board with tech—but sometimes the old ways were still the best, especially if you needed to talk in a place where cell reception was nonexistent. Like, say, the far-flung reaches of Outworld or the mountainous backwoods of Montana.

Really, the orb was nothing special, just a shiny piece of glass, but it’d been imbedded with a complex weave of earth, fire, spirit, and magnetic force. The construct created a certain resonance frequency—think of it as the Vis equivalent of a phone number. James had one which was almost identical, and since I knew the frequency of his stone, I could call him up anywhere—assuming he had the stone on him. But I knew he did. Considering all the crazy goings-on these past few months, there was no way he wouldn’t have it.

I needed to call him.

I needed him for this mission, but I also needed him to answer some tough, uncomfortable questions. The kind of questions that could end a friendship. And when I say “end a friendship,” I’m talking about the nuclear-bomb-blast-which-leaves-no-survivors kind of ending. Those questions could wait, though. Even if James was the villain—which I still didn’t fully accept—he didn’t know that I knew, which meant I could still string him along for a while longer.

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