Awen Storm Page 11

  But Lugh hadn’t. He worked his frozen jaws, but couldn’t say the words. All he managed was a guilt-ridden, “Cybele—” followed by snuffles of his own.

  “Lugh, get it together. Or, I’m really going to lose it,” Cybele choked out. The woman had never taken bunk from anyone. She was a good mom. And Jake had loved her like crazy.

  Lugh closed his eyes to gather his composure, then said in one long breath, “Cybele, I was there. I couldn’t save them.” The recurring dream he’d had as a child came to mind. The circumstances changed each time, but the result was always the same—Lugh helpless, unable to do anything but watch horrified as something awful happened. Only this time, it was real. There was no waking.

  “Cybele?” he whispered. “Are you there?”

  Her strangled response sounded tortured. “Yes.”

  “Say something. Anything.”

  When she remained silent save the muffled sobs, Lugh begged, “Please, Cybele. Say something. Say I’m awful. Say anything. But dammit, say something.” Lugh slammed his fist into the cellar door, then cradled his bruised knuckles.

  “Let me call you back.” The line went dead, and Lugh sank to the floor. He stayed there staring off at nothing until his phone rang a few minutes later.

  “Cybele?” He answered on the first tone.

  “Lugh MacBrayer, my son is not dead,” she spit into the phone. “I may not be a practicing druid any more, but dammit, get yer head outta yer ass and feel for yourself. Brian is not dead. I can feel my boy. He’s out there somewhere. You go get him, Lughnasadh. I believe in you. Find our boy.”

  For the first time since the earthquake, Lugh wept for real, wept for the missing, for the broken and the dead. And he wept for the one thing that could never be broken—hope. An image of the tabby appeared in his mind’s eye.

  “That’s it! Cybele, you are brilliant!”

  She laugh and cried. “What? What did I say?”

  “You reminded me of Hope, the druid Elder. Hope will know what to do.”

  Cybele laughed for real this time. There was the slightest disdain at his mention of Hope, but her laughter eased his tension.

  “Should I come to Atlanta? We’re in the middle of production and I need to see this through. But if you need me, I’ll be there straight away.”

  Lugh hesitated. “No. Just pray. And if he contacts you, call me.”

  “I will, Lugh. Jake always said you could be trusted for anything. I believed in Jake, and I believe in you. Now, go find our boy.”

  Lugh sense of relief was immense. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it together for Cybele. And strength was something he was short on at the moment.

  “Whatever you think. And Cybele?”

  “Yes?” she sounded far away.

  “Thank you for not hating me—” Lugh’s voice caught.

  After a short silence, Cybele spoke slowly, enunciating every word. “Lugh, there are many emotions I am feeling right now. But anger at you is not one of them. At God, yes. I won’t deny that. But not at you. Brian thinks the world of you. I know he whines and complains, but my son is happier with you than he has been in years. And that means the world to me.”

  Lugh smiled. He was well aware of the belly-aching to which Cybele referred. “Well, I’d be lying if I didn’t say the feeling is mutual,” Lugh admitted. “But don’t tell Brian.” He winced and could’ve kicked himself. “Never mind. Do. Tell Brian just that. Or hell, I will. Cybele, thank you. I will keep you posted.”

  “I know you will. And, Lugh?”

  “Yes?”

  “Remember that year we went to Zoo Atlanta with your Ma and Pa? When Brian was four?”

  “Uh-huh.” Not long after that, Cybele had taken Brian and moved to Utah, leaving Jake and the rest of the family behind.

  “Something happened that day, or more to the truth, Jake told me something. I need to share it with you, but not on the phone. Next time we’re together.” Alarms clanged in the recesses of Lugh’s brain. “In the meantime, keep me posted about Brian, and give him a huge hug from his mama when you find him.”

  “Done, Cybele. Thank you.”

  Lugh ended the call and stared at his mother’s apron still clutched in his hand. Shaking it out, he hung it beside his dad’s and walked to the deep freeze. Dread curled in the pit of his stomach.

  Taking a deep breath, Lugh pulled the handle and peeked into the walk-in freezer. He spied a large package in the back corner, propped against a rack that held frozen desserts.

  He wanted to look, had intended to look. Instead, he wavered in the doorway, icy tendrils sneaking around him to escape into the warm kitchen. Perplexed at his reluctance, Lugh backed out of the freezer and slammed it shut.

  He must talk to Hope.

  **

  Cybele slumped in the chair and stared into a future too cloudy to see. After a time, she rose to brew a pot of coffee. It was going to be a long night. Now, not only was her ex-husband missing but their son too. She fingered the swatch of cotton she had saved when his baby blanket bit the dust. Brian had clung to it long past the usual time. Cybele hadn’t been able to let go, either. Not entirely.

  Folding the ragged cloth into the box of keepsakes, Cybele wiped away the tears before they could trickle down her cheek. Brian wasn’t dead. She would know. A mother would know. Especially one as intuitive as Cybele Cray MacBrayer.

  She removed the scrying ball from her suitcase and cleaned it carefully with the chamois cloth. She placed it gently in its cradle and carried it to the tiny table. Settling in front of the crystal ball, Cybele lit the candle stub and a half-burned chunk of dhoop to purify the air. Calling on the Celtic goddess Brigit to reveal her son Brian, Cybele waited, breathing the sweet, spicy scent of sandalwood and frankincense.

  Presently, a vision appeared—a tall, pale woman, young in years and gentle of heart. Her slender ears pointed upward, and her wide lips moved in hushed tones speaking to someone outside the field of vision.

  Cybele’s mother-heart thrilled. She knew it was Brian. And had no doubt.

  She watched until the image faded and passed her hand over the ball in a cleansing motion. With loving care, she polished the crystal again before replacing it in its cradle. This time she asked to be shown Jake, her ex-husband, and the love of Cybele’s life.

  Crimson flames appeared inside the orb.

  For a long time, Cybele sat in contemplation. The flames appeared every time she had tried to scry Jake’s whereabouts. If she believed in a biblical hell, she might think he had died and ended up there.

  “But if that were the case,” she reasoned, for the thousandth time, “I wouldn’t feel this strong pull. Jake MacBrayer, I know you are out there. Where are you, my love?”

  Returning the orb to its velvet bag, Cybele gathered the paraphernalia and stowed it in its diminutive trunk. Spinning the dials to change the combination, she returned the trunk to its hiding place inside her Pullman.

  Holstering her sidearm, Cybele donned a raincoat and pulled the hood forward to hide her face. Making sure no one was about, she slipped out the door of the cheap inn. It was time to rendezvous with the handsome arms dealer. The one who claimed to have information about Jake.

  Best Laid Plans

  Despite his intentions to the contrary, Mitch called a limousine. If he drove, he couldn’t drink, and he planned on getting sloshed. Plus, he wouldn’t have to find a parking place or worry about a roving gang snatching his Beemer.

  A text heralded the limo’s arrival and Mitch changed his mind again. He had no desire to spend time listening to a born-again evangelist, even a sexy female one. But when the sleek car pulled up at his door, Mitch got in.

  “Fox Theater, sir?” The driver eyed him in the rearview mirror.

  Still torn, Mitch grunted an affirmation.

  As it turned out, Shalane Carpenter was a gifted speaker. Her orchestra was first-class and her singing voice, divine. By the time it was all over, Mitch was ready to give his soul
to God.

  “Oh wait,” he mumbled. “It’s already His.” He chuckled to allay his unease. There was nothing wrong with kindling a God-fire in people. It felt good to have a connection.

  Mitch wiped his sweaty palms on a handkerchief and waded upstream through the throng of patrons leaving the theater. He’d been backstage at the Fox before, but never had Mitch been this nervous. Even as a kid. He presented his pass to a burly guard and wound his way behind the stage.

  Shalane’s dressing room was easy to find. Her name was emblazoned in scarlet sequined letters across the door. Mitch’s knock came off sounding like a timid schoolboy, so he tried again, this time a man on a mission.

  The door opened and a wave of perfume washed over him, sultry and sweet and seductive. A hand snaked out and caught hold of his wrist, pulling him in. Shalane didn’t let go until he was inside, where she raked him up and down with her eyes.

  “Let me get a look at you.” Her voice was low and husky. And devoid of accent, other than sex. She had kicked off her shoes and was dressed in the diaphanous purple getup she’d worn on stage. Her thin blond hair was damp from exertion. Her eyes were a bit glassy, and the room smelled of hashish or some really good herb. A thread of smoke rose from the pipe she held out to him.

  “Care for a hit?”

  He hesitated. It’d been a long time. But when in Rome. “Sure, why not?”

  Putting the stem to his lips, Mitch took a long pull and barely managed to hold it in his lungs. His eyes bugged out, but he held on, then exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.

  “I’m Mitch Wainwright. Pleased to meet you.” He handed the pipe back.

  “And you as well.” Shalane nodded distractedly. “Care for a drink? I have beer and brandy, anything else we’ll have to order out.”

  “They do that here?”

  “For me?” she chuckled. “Hell yeah, handsome. Name your poison.”

  Mitch needed to keep his wits about him. He had no intention of becoming Shalane’s pawn. Or play toy. Or any of the things he’d read about. “What kind of beer?”

  “The cold kind.” She fished a tall bottle from a compact refrigerator and handed it to him, taking one for herself.

  He twisted the top and took a swig of the bitter brew, then stifled a belch. Catching Shalane’s eye, Mitch returned her grin. But to himself, he recited Georgia Law Code to counteract what was happening in his pants.

  “So, Reverend Carpenter. What do you know about Emily Hester’s disappearance?”

  The evangelist batted heavily-mascaraed eyelids. “You mean the woman that died in the earthquake this morning? I don’t believe I know her, but her name and face seem vaguely familiar. Who is she?” She fixed Mitch with a measuring stare.

  Mitch stared back. What was she playing at? He rubbed his face in both hands, then tried again. “You said you knew her as Ebby Panera.” There was a flicker in the blue eyes.

  “Nope. No bells. But since you’re here, and I’m here…” Her voice trailed off, laden with seduction.

  He eyed her speculatively. “No doll. Seems you’ve gotten me here under false pretenses. I don’t play games.”

  Shalane ran a finger lightly down his sleeve and a trail of electricity followed, making his cock twitch. He yanked his arm away and turned toward the door.

  “Look, I don’t know this person you’re talking about. But I believe you when you say I should.” She sounded earnest. “Since I saw the news this morning, it’s been nagging at me. I even visited the quake site. And I’m wondering if someone messed with my memory.”

  That got Mitch’s attention. He had given Shalane the Wren’s Roost address. But he doubted Emily Hester’s skills were advanced enough to wipe anyone’s memory.

  Shalane clutched at his sleeve. “Will you help me remember?”

  He studied the witch-turned-evangelist. Without the airs, she was just another needy woman, something Mitch could never stomach. “Yeah, no. I don’t think so.”

  She drew to full height, which couldn’t be more than five foot two, but the room shrank around her. “Then why are you here?” The blue eyes flashed, and she twisted her hands. As her agitation multiplied, Mitch’s misgivings quieted.

  “I am Mitchell Albom Wainwright the Third,” he stated calmly. “But you already know that. You also know that I’m here about Emily Hester. More than a month ago, you called my office looking for her and we’ve talked several times since then. Hell, I even gave you her address the other day.”

  Shalane blanched and moved to repack the pipe. Mitch had learned from his father not to reveal intimate details to adversaries, strangers, and new friends. It was unclear which category Shalane fell in. But at least her deadly sex-beam was no longer pointed at him.

  Was she telling the truth? From earlier indications, she’d been obsessed with Emily. Now she denied even knowing her. Still, Shalane could be of some use. Other than for sex. The thought brought a grim smile to his lips. He was not going there.

  “You do have beautiful blue eyes, you know.” Shalane batted her lashes and tittered. Mitch wasn’t sure what a titter was supposed to sound like, but coming from Shalane, it was exquisite.

  Astonished, he paused to replay his last thought. Titter? Exquisite sound? What the hell? He searched his memory for an obscure law code and came up with one about cousins marrying.

  But the vixen turned the pipe around, stuck the bowl in her mouth, and blew a trail of smoke, expecting him to inhale. Mitch hadn’t partaken of pot in years, much less shotgun-style. Against his own volition, he leaned in and sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. Reaching maximum excursion, he backed away.

  Which would’ve been fine, only the pot was potent, or possibly laced with hashish. It expanded in his lungs and exploded out of him in a violent coughing fit. Blinded by tears, he coughed and struggled to get a breath.

  “Can’t hold it, don’t toke it,” the woman cackled, obviously enjoying Mitch’s discomfort.

  “You cough cough did cough that cough cough cough on purpose.” He spit saliva on the last syllable, then collapsed on the sofa in another round of hacking.

  “Water,” he choked. She handed him his beer. Mitch took a tiny sip, and when it calmed the hacking for a few seconds, took another. The third he spit out coughing, but by the fourth, Mitch had regained tentative lung control.

  “Bitch,” he swore when she tried to hand him the pipe again, “keep that shit away from me. Can’t you see I’m dying here?” Another spate of coughing seized him. He glared at Shalane when she laughingly took a hit and blew it in his face.

  “Are you always this cough insufferable?”

  “Pretty much.” She puffed and exhaled in Mitch’s face.

  He stood abruptly, anger rising. “Look, you said you had information about Emily Hester. Do you, or do you not, have said information? If so, get to it. If not, I’m leaving.” He spun on one shiny-loafered sole and crossed to the door in two strides.

  “Don’t go,” Shalane pled, blocking his path. Her big blue eyes welled up with tears, and she looked genuinely stricken.

  Moved despite his resolve to the contrary, Mitch hesitated, hand on the doorknob.

  “I need company. Hang out with me this evening?” Her lashes batted seductively, and she rolled her shoulder so that the strap of her gown slid down to reveal the curve of one buxom breast.

  Mitchell’s cock perked up. “Tell me about Emily Hester and I might consider staying.”

  The plump face reddened and Shalane snapped, “Who the fuck is this Emily Hester? And why do you think I know her?”

  “Because you phoned me about her more than a month ago,” he snapped back, then blew out a long, exasperated breath. “You bribed me, Shalane. Got me to do your dirty work. Then you ordered me to appear here, like a peon summoned to court. All under the guise of having information about Emily and her whereabouts. So what’s your angle? Who is Emily to you? Come to con her out of her newly-inherited fortune?”

  The woman went white. “Ge
t out of here!” she screeched and shoved him toward the door.

  “Gladly,” Mitch snarled. He slipped through the opening and slammed it hard.

  Hurrying down the corridor, he glanced over his shoulder. The hall was empty. The witch hadn’t followed. He slowed to a saunter and exited a side door.

  Outside on North Avenue, rock music poured from a nearby tavern. He thought about texting his driver to go home. But he was too riled to even think about sleep. Mitch nipped into the bar instead.

  The Fomori

  The trees in the dense forest were gnarled and ancient. Grateful to be away from the lizard-men, Brian followed Number Three along a barely perceptible trail. His rescuer’s limbs were long and lean, her movements effortless and never tiring. She crossed the distance with noiseless strides.

  Brian trotted to keep up, at times breaking into a run. But he was exhausted. And sleepy. And desperately needed rest. The food he had gobbled had long since cleared his grumbling stomach. Fixed on his misery, Brian tripped on a root and stumbled into Number Three.

  Not missing a beat, she continued the flight into the heart of the woods. The hooded cape she had produced along the trail hid her flowing brown hair and turned her silhouette into a ghostly vision in the filtered morning light.

  Who was this lovely creature, and why was she helping him?

  A variety of birds called to one another, and one of the largest squirrels Brian had ever seen scampered across the trail and up a tall, spindly tree.

  The foreboding forest gave way to a stand of evergreens. Here the path was padded with needle-fall. Every step sent the spicy scent of pine wafting into the air, along with the musty mold of decay. Brian breathed it all in, grateful to be out from under the earth and back into the light of day, even if it was dimmer than he remembered.

  He thought of the time his father had visited him in Utah and taken him caving. They had explored several caverns searching for buried treasure, or so Brian had pretended. His dad had drawn pictures and scribbled notes on a hand-sketched map. When his mother found out, she went ballistic, forbidding his dad from seeing him again.