Thinning the Herd (9 page)

Della snorted. “I expect you saw a
lot
of things last night. You cracked your skull pretty damned hard. Lucky you didn't spill your brains out.”

“You said something about the world still needing heroes.”

“Or maybe you did spill out your brains,” she said, sweeping a narrow-eyed gaze over him. “I never said any such thing, Hal Rupert.”

Frustration knotted the muscles in Hal's shoulders and neck. He hadn't dreamed Della's words, had he? Imagined them through all the pain? He rubbed his chin. “Okay, then. So you've never spoken to Louis. You don't know him. But you've
seen
him.”

Della nodded, sipped her coffee.

“What have you
heard
about him?”

“Ah, the magic word. I
heard
that the boy has mojo. A
lot
of mojo. Got a gift with the cards. His readings are always right. Always.”

“Heard anything else?”

Della took several swallows of her coffee, her gaze focused inward. “I heard that the boy's bad luck. Not his fault, just the way it is. And that he's especially bad luck for those that he loves.”

“You heard a lot,” Hal commented.

“That I have,” Della said. “That I have.”

Hal glanced out the front windows, watching the sunset stain the sky purple and deep pink, listened to the beat of his heart as night slipped across the horizon. “Louis love anyone?” he heard himself ask.

“Some little slip of a thing,” Della replied. “Purple hair, I heard.”

Hal's eyes closed. His poor Desdemona! Loved by a bad-luck
y
ō
kai
. But how could she know that her radiant beauty would steal the heart of a refugee touched by her generosity, a grateful little shifter? So caught up in her love for Hal and their clandestine romance, she'd never noticed Louis's attachment.

So Louis's bad luck had thwarted Hal's rescue.

“Okay, then,” Hal murmured, swiveling back around to face Della. “Every hero has a wise woman to go to, a wise woman to seek advice from.”

Della's eyes widened. She fumbled her cup to the table. “What now?”

“Hero,” Hal repeated. “Wise woman. You know.”

“Oh,
hell
no!” Della sputtered. “I ain't your wise woman or
anybody's
wise woman! That's a heartache I don't need. You hear me, Hal Rupert? A heartache I. Don't. Need.”

Hal stared at her. “But—”

“No buts about it,” Della said, scooting out of the booth. “You go find someone else to be your wise woman. It ain't me.” She grabbed the coffee pot handle.

“But—”

Della shook her head. “Close your mouth, boy. Letting it hang open like that ain't a good look on you, trust me.”

Hal snapped his mouth shut. He watched Della place the coffeepot back onto the hot plate. Watched her clear the table with quick efficient movements. He opened his mouth again.

“Last night you said—”

“No I didn't!” Della stopped and looked at him. “I don't know what you
thought
you heard me say, but that's the final word. No. The wise ol' black woman always dies the moment the hero starts depending on her.” She snorted. “Don't you watch the movies?”

“Nick and Galahad are in trouble,” Hal said quietly. “So is the woman I love. A little slip of a thing with purple hair.”

Della glanced away, face troubled. “I'm sorry to hear that. I truly am. I'm fond of those boys.” Shaking her head, hands full of dirty dishes, she crossed the floor, her rubber-soled nurse's shoes squeaking against the tile. “Sounds like your woman needs rescuing from the affections of Louis Dark,” she called as she walked away.

“Louis's missing too.”

Della hesitated for a moment, then pushed through the kitchen doors.

Hal trailed a hand through his hair.
Had
he imagined their conversation last night? Sliding from the booth, he stood and paced, his gaze on the day dying beyond the windows. Another nightfall. And he'd done nothing—
nothing
—to help his friends, nothing to save Desdemona.

Time to go. Way past time for action.

He'd return to the tunnel, search for clues. He'd swing by work first, grab another catch pole and a flashlight. What about a gun? Some kind of deadly, oversized hand cannon? Hell, grenades might even be useful. Smoke bombs for distraction? He strode to the door, grasped the handle, and pulled it open. Maybe a bazooka.

“Wait.”

Hal stopped, fingers wrapped around the door handle.

“I won't be your wise woman—I plan to live to a ripe, crotchety old age—but I know someone who will.” Della's voice was low, earnest.

“I'm listening.”

“Go to Mount Pisgah. Wait at the bottom of the main trail. Last person down will be the one you're looking for. Red down vest. Walking stick. Goes by the name of Hunter Lawrence.”

“Sun's going down,” Hal said, and immediately imagined Galahad saying,
Incredible grasp of the obvious.
“Will my wise woman still be there?”

“Get your ass on the bus,” Della said. “Go find out. And, Hal?”

Hal turned around. Della stood beside the counter, fingertips of one hand touching the smooth surface as if for balance.

“Good luck. Bring them all home. Every one of them.”

Hal nodded. “That's what I do.”

“A hero's work is never done,” Della said, a smile on her lips. “Right, sugar? Never done.”

Hal nodded, his throat suddenly too tight for speech. He pulled the door open, ringing the bell, and stepped out into the deepening dusk.

A hero's work is never done.

14

KICKING THE ASSES OF GODS 101

Hal walked up the dark road. The mountain, black and silent, climbed into the air beside him while the moon played peekaboo with the clouds, scattering pale light across the ground. Hal's boots clumped against the blacktop, underscoring the buzzing summer night song of the crickets.

He balanced the catch pole he'd fetched from work across his shoulder. As soon as he'd wrapped his fingers around its wood shaft, he'd heard an angelic choir singing triumphantly in the background and imagined silver light haloing the pole.

For Arthur, Excalibur. For Hal, a catch pole.

And, for a moment, life was good again.

But the choir and halo vanished as he'd remembered his purpose and those who counted on him. He'd thrust the broken halves of his first pole through his belt. A reminder of the high cost of failure; he simply couldn't afford to make another mistake.

A red vest and a walking stick, Della had said—common things in Oregon, Eugene especially. She might as well have said the granola-eating recycling woman in Birkenstocks and hemp clothing. Hal would be sifting through people for months. Years. And how would he know who was
last
off Pisgah?

A Zen puzzle.

What
was
it about wise people and mountains? That the air at higher altitudes was better for those wise old brain cells? Or was it a metaphor? The mountain representing the higher view point, the accumulation of experience and knowledge?

Hell, Pisgah wasn't even much of a mountain, all considered. A tree-covered hill with delusions of grandeur. Hal hoped that little fact didn't reflect on the quality of this particular wise woman.

Gravel crunched beneath Hal's boots as he stepped off the pavement and onto a dirt road leading to hiking trails and the arboretum on one side and a small parking lot on the other. The coast fork of the Willamette River ran alongside the parking lot, the water's steady rush mingling with the faint hum of electricity from the transmission towers straddling the mountain. The air smelled lush and green, of wet stone and cold water. Hal drew in a deep, appreciative breath.

Up ahead, he caught sight of the metal-railed gate leading into the mountain trails. One car was parked on the road, instead of in the parking lot, just behind the sign reading:
NO PARKING
. A classic Mustang, lovingly restored. Sleek. A dark color. Blue, maybe black. Hard to tell under the buzzing street lights. Could even be purple.

Hal strode up to the gate and stopped. Last person off the mountain. Okay, then. He'd wait. Moths and other flying bugs flitted around the light, battering themselves against the glass, their devotion—their attraction—crisping their tiny bodies. Ending their lives in a flash of heat and dazzling light.

Throat suddenly tight, Hal looked away from the moths and the deadly light they courted, remembering his last sight of Desdemona, his last sight of Nick and Galahad—and fervently hoped with every fiber of his being that the word
last
truly didn't apply.

“Excuse me,” a low voice murmured.

Hal looked up as a man slipped past the gate. “Sure,” Hal said, stepping back. “Excuse me.”

Flashing a warm smile, the man sidled past Hal and walked down to the road, headed for the illegally parked Mustang. A man in a red down vest, an antlered walking stick in his hand.

Man? But . . .

“Hunter Lawrence?” Hal called.

The man stopped, turned. His fingers tightened on his walking stick. Something shadowed his face—wariness, maybe. “That's me,” he said.

“Della sent me,” Hal said.

The man glanced away for a moment, his long hair swinging against his shoulders. Drawing in a deep breath, he returned his gaze to Hal. Forced a smile. “Sorry, I no longer teach classes,” he said. “Go to the Third Eye bookstore. Check the bulletin board.”

“Classes?” Hal asked. “No, I . . . Classes in what?”

“Wicca, of course.” The man looked at Hal, his eyes narrowing. “That
is
what you were wanting, right?”

“No.” Hal stepped down from the gate and into the road. The man swung his walking staff around and held it lengthwise in front of him. Hal took in his wiry build. Strong and fast. Built like a dancer or a cat. Looked like he knew how to use that staff for more than just walking.

“But Della sent you?”

“She pointed me in the right direction, yeah. I need to rescue my friends and the woman I love.”

Hunter Lawrence's gaze slid over Hal, appraised him, weighed and measured. He lowered the staff to his side.

“Rescue?”

“Heard about what happened at the Country Fair yesterday?” Hal asked.

“The paper said something about a grizzly bear rampage—an exotic pet that escaped, perhaps, and—”

“It was a monster, a wolf-man. It grabbed Louis Dark and—”

“Louis?” Lawrence said, face paling. “Is he all right?”

“No,” Hal said. “Well . . . I don't know.”

Lawrence murmured something under his breath, his fingers touching what looked like a crescent moon pendant hanging at his throat. Then he focused his attention on Hal again. “You must be a hero in need of guidance,” he said. “And Della refused, right?”

Hal stared at him. “Uh, yeah, that's right. Does she, like, send you heroes all the time or something?”

Lawrence laughed, a clear and lilting sound. Soothing. “No. You're the first. But Louis told her that a hero would come and she would die helping him.”

“But she said she didn't know Louis!”

Lawrence shrugged. “A wonderful woman. But she lies sometimes. One of her quirks. Louis is her nephew, her brother's only child.”

“But . . . that's . . . she's . . . he's
y
ō
kai
,” Hal sputtered, trying to put everything together. “He's a freakin'
cat
!”

“No he's not. You're wrong about that.” Lawrence swiveled and walked to the Mustang, to the driver's-side door. Unlocked it. He glanced up at Hal. “I hope you don't plan on standing there all night with your mouth open. Not a good look on you.”

Hal snapped his jaw shut and hurried across the road. He opened the door and slouched into the passenger seat. Angled his catch pole against the seat. Strapped on the seat belt.

“How do you know so much about Della? And about Louis?” Hal asked. “You from New Orleans too?”

“Full of questions, aren't you,” Hunter Lawrence murmured. “I think I see another reason Della sent you my way.” He turned the key in the ignition. The Mustang rumbled to life. The engine's power vibrated up through the seats.

“No, I'm Eugene born and bred,” Lawrence said, shifting the car into first and steering it down the road. “Della's part of my circle, and Louis . . . Louis . . .” His voice trailed away. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Louis's my boyfriend.”

Hal shifted his gaze from Hunter Lawrence's tense face to the moonlit road beyond the windshield. “I know how you feel,” he said. “My beloved, my Desdemona . . . she's out there too.”

The Mustang rounded onto Seavey Loop Road. “Excuse me,” Lawrence said. “Did you say Desdemona? Desdemona
Cohen
?”

“That's right. She part of your circle too?”

“Not exactly. I didn't realize Desdemona had a boyfriend.”

“We keep it secret,” Hal said. He glanced at Lawrence and smiled. “Her Goth friends, y'know?”

Lawrence trailed a hand through his hair, his gaze on the road. “I see. Louis never mentioned . . .”

“Well, Louis didn't know,” Hal said.

“But he's Dezzie's best friend.”

Hal frowned.
Dezzie
? Not a suitable nickname for his pale beauty, although it'd certainly lend itself to crisis situations where one too many syllables could literally spell the difference between escape and death.

“We keep it secret,” Hal repeated.

“You aren't the one stalking her, are you? The guy who goes into Hot Topic and bothers her while she's working?”

“Hell no,” Hal said, voice low. Someone was
stalking
Desdemona? “But when I find who it is, I'm gonna kick his ass.”

Silence stretched taffy-thick through the car.

“Where we headed?” Hal asked. “Look, I was hoping this guidance thing wouldn't take very long. I need to get busy rescuing people.”

“Do you know who took them?”

“No.”

“Do you know where they were taken?”

“No.”

“Do you know why they were taken?”

“No.”

Hal sighed. “Okay, okay. I get your point. We've got stuff to discuss.”

Lawrence arrowed the Mustang onto Franklin. “You said a monster grabbed Louis,” he said. “Do you know . . . I mean . . . is he . . . alive?”

An image flashed behind Hal's eyes: the monster's guts spilling out onto the floor and Louis Dark, curled like a sleeping child in bloody entrails.

“Sorry,” Hal said, meaning it. “I wish I could give you an answer. I don't know.”

“Ah.” Disappointment flattened Lawrence's voice.

“I know Desdemona's alive,” Hal said. “I
feel
it.” He thumped his fingers against his chest, over his heart. “Y'know? I freakin' feel it. And my friends. I
feel
them too.” He glanced at Lawrence. “Don't you think you'd know if Louis were dead? Don't you think you'd
feel
it?”

Hunter Lawrence blinked several times. Swallowed hard. He nodded. “I'd know it,” he said, voice husky. “Thanks for reminding me . . . ? I never got your name.”

“Rupert. Hal Rupert.”

Lawrence glanced at him sharply. “Of course,” he breathed. “Of course.” The Mustang surged forward, picking up speed. “Then we've got work to do. And not much time to do it in.”

“What are you talking about?” Hal asked.

“Damn Louis. He was right. Again. As always. Tell me everything.”

As Lawrence slammed the Mustang into fourth gear, Hal reflected on the fact that, instead of receiving answers from the wise man of the mountain, he'd only gathered more questions.

He told Hunter Lawrence almost everything. He couldn't bring himself to surrender his last image of Louis. Couldn't summon the words. Remembered Della saying,
He's especially bad luck for those he loves.
A sinking feeling in his gut told him that Lawrence's bad luck with Louis was just beginning.