Calling the Wild Page 5

  Mismatched wood chairs sat at a makeshift table of plywood atop sawhorses. Two large sea trunks created a low wall separating her living space from the rest of the warehouse.

  “I have a place for you,” Moira looked up at him from beneath her lashes. If he hadn’t liked the truck, he was going to hate this. She motioned to the other far corner of the building. The centaur moved towards it. Moira decided it would be better to remain where she was and out of grabbing distance.

  He made his way across the concrete floor. His hoof beats echoed hollowly through the cavernous building. While he examined the space she’d prepared, Moira went to one of her sea trunks, using one of the two tiny keys on her ring to unlock it.

  Piles of sweaters and jeans, socks and bras, filled the interior. Moira wiggled the tips of her fingers into shallow depressions on the inner edge, and lifted. Slowly the center of the box lifted out. The walls of the trunk looked like a single piece of thick wood, but were actually two separate boxes, each with thinner walls. They fit within each other with a precision that spoke to the mastery of the woodcarver who’d created it.

  As Moira set the heavy box of clothes down she knelt to reach the items hidden in the bottom. The inner box was almost identical in dimension to the main trunk, except for height. The lining box, the one she used for clothes, was a full six inches shorter than the exterior dimensions of the trunk. It had been designed this way to create a secret space at the bottom of the trunk, a hidden hollow for precious possessions. The trunk had been a gift once, in what seemed to be another lifetime, it had contained pretty rocks and dried roses, love letters and trashy books.

  Now it contained something much less innocent.

  Moira pulled out the first of the three grimoires. Far from being dusty and dirty, the grimoires, despite their age, were in excellent condition. The gold foil-embossed cover of this one had script so elaborate that the words couldn’t be read. Moira closed the lid of the trunk, not bothering to replace the inner box until she was done with the grimoire. Plastic crunched as she settled cross-legged on the bed.

  Moira turned her head to study the centaur, propping her cheek on her hand.

  He stood, hands on his waist, studying the area she’d made for him. She was fully prepared for his derision, but getting that area together had been quite an ordeal. Hay bales, rubber mats, tarps, birdcages, several potted trees, and a wading pool had been hard to collect.

  The centaur turned to her, the clomp of his hooves filling the silence.

  “What did you think your spell would call?”

  Moira rose to her feet and opened the grimoire to the section about The Wild. The page opposite the introduction to the section contained an illustration of all the creatures of The Wild. She’d used the book as a guide while preparing. He lifted it close to his face and peered at it. The book hid his expression, but his grunts of disgust were clearly audible.

  “I don’t even know what that thing is,” he muttered.

  “The one with three heads?”

  “Aye. That is like no beast of The Wild I’ve ever seen. Who drew these? Probably some human.”

  “It’s an old warlock grimoire.”

  “Warlock?” He snorted in disgust and snapped the book closed, handing it back to her. “Warlocks are little better than humans.”

  “If you tell me what you need, I’ll try and get it for you.”

  “I will make do with what you have provided.”

  “Please, I…I want to make you comfortable.”

  “What will make me comfortable would be learning why you called The Wild.”

  Moira nodded and went to the trunk to pull out a second grimoire. This one was considerably older. It was heavy in her hands, and grew heavier the longer she held it. It was not true physical weight, but the weight of the magic within.

  The centaur led the way back to his corner of the warehouse. He still wore the sword at his back. Moira considered offering to take it from him, but it looked natural on him. The dark leather wrapping his chest and the blade’s handle protruding from his shoulder marked him as a warrior.

  Moira stood back, unsure where, or how, he was going to sit.

  The centaur leaned down and pushed two of the hay bales against the wall, flicking one of the rubber mats to lie in front of it. Slowly all four legs started to fold. His front hooves rocked forward until he balanced in the tips as he sank the massive bulk of his body to the floor. When his legs had folded as far as they would go he tipped to the right, right arm out and braced on the hay bale as he landed on his right side, legs folded on his left. The centaur twisted his shoulders, propping them against the hay bales.

  Moira took a seat on one of the remaining blocks of hay, facing him.

  She’d thought he would look silly, sitting as he was, but he didn’t. Seated he was just as powerful as he was standing. He looked like a pagan god, and the way he was gazing at her, Moira wasn’t sure if he was waiting for her to speak or to kneel at his side and peel him a grape.

  Moira pulled her legs up so she sat cross-legged, the straw poking her, even through her jeans. She’d rehearsed her explanation, full of carefully worded half-truths, so many times that the words flowed easily.

  “There are people who are searching, hunting, for me. I don’t know who they are.” Truth. “I don’t know why they want me.” Lie. “And, alone, I do not have the power to stop them.” Truth. “I have been running for a year. For six months before that they watched me.” Moira shifted as the memory of betrayal crept up on her. She shoved it away. “There is a way to stop them, to defeat them.” This was neither lie nor truth, this was the belief that got her up every morning and kept her running.

  “I can’t keep running.” Moira looked down, tracing the binding of the grimoire with her fingers. “I’m…I’m tired, and I’m getting sloppy or they’re getting better at finding me. There’ve been a lot of close calls. I don’t have the magic to keep fighting them off. That is why I called The Wild. With The Wild, with you, I’ll have enough power to protect myself and find a way to make them go away, to get my life back.” Her voice broke on the last word.

  Silence stretched between them, and she looked up. The centaur’s face was impassive.

  Did he know she wasn’t telling the truth?

  “What were the stone beasts?”

  “Gargoyles. They, the people after me, seem to be able to bring stone to life, especially stone things that are made to resemble living creatures.”

  “But where do the stone beasts come from?”

  “Ah…right. You probably haven’t seen much gothic-modern architecture. They are part of an architectural style, no more than decoration, at least until they come to life.”

  “Every building has them?”

  “Only ones built in that style. I think these came from New York.”

  “What do you know of the people who are hunting you?”

  Moira looked away from him, down and to the left. “Nothing, really. There is a leader. He is the one who can animate stone. There are others, at least one witch, who knows many of the same spells I do, for they counteracted my early spells with witch antidotes.”

  “Why do you call yourself a witch? ‘Witch’ is a human magic worker.”

  “That is what I am.” She looked at him again, tilting her chin up defiantly.

  The centaur considered her for several long moments. “Very well, Moira.”

  Relief had a smile blossoming across her face. “You used my name. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “What is your name?”

  “I am The Wild.”

  “Yes… But your individual name. The centaurs all have individual names, don’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  Awkward silence descended. Masochistically, Moira refused to break the silence. Why should he trust her with his name? She’d ripped him from his own life to come serve as some sort of walking energy drink.

  The sound that finally broke the sil
ence was wholly unexpected and out of place in a night that had been filled with magic—her cell phone rang. The noise had them both jumping, and Moira scrambled off the hay bale and across the room, fishing in her bag.

  She grabbed the phone, snapping it open just before it went to voicemail.

  “Hello?” she answered breathlessly.

  “Moira?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “A mutual friend said you might be looking for something. I can put you in contact with someone who can help you find your missing items.” It was a man’s voice, pitched low and drawling the words.

  “What is our mutual friend’s name?”

  “I’ll tell you when we meet.”

  “No deal. Tell me now.”

  “I’m doing you a favor.”

  “So you don’t want the thousand-dollar reward?”

  Static crackled over the line and Moira dashed toward the windows, afraid she’d lost the call. The static cleared and she could hear breathing, he was still there.

  “The owner of Mystic Books, in Cleveland.”

  “And what name would she know you by?”

  “Drak.”

  “Just Drak?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine, assuming you check out, how do I get this information from your contact?”

  “Meet me, in an hour, at Chaos.”

  “In an hour? It’s late, the club should be closing.”

  “Chaos never closes.”

  “Fine. If I think the information is good I’ll give you $500 tonight, the other $500 if the information pans out.”

  “It will, I promise.”

  She memorized the address for the club and ended the call.

  “Who, or what, was that?” The centaur called out.

  “That grimoire,” she motioned to the book, which she’d left on the hay bale, “is missing pages. I need those pages.”

  “What is writ on the pages?”

  “A…spell, a spell I need.”

  “So you have asked others, other witches, to help you find them?”

  “Yes.” Though she’d had to be very careful who she had asked. The more upstanding citizens of the magical community would have nothing to do with her if they knew what she was after.

  “What is a club?”

  “A nightclub. A bar. It’s, um, a place to drink and dance.”

  “I know what a bar is. It is a discothèque?”

  “Discothèque?” Moira smiled, remembering the word from high school French classes. “Are you from France?”

  “No.”

  “Where then?”

  “The Wild.”

  “Fine, be secretive.” He raised his brows at her snippy tone. Moira couldn’t help it. She was practically vibrating with the need to act. After weeks preparing the warehouse and truck and searching the northeast for a dark forest, she finally had her connection to The Wild and could start her search.

  “I have to call and verify this guy, give me a minute.”

  She called the owner of Mystic Books, a nice lady named Sahara, whom she’d met as she traveled through Ohio. It took a while to verify that Drak was a contact of Sahara’s as the poor woman was deeply asleep when Moira called. She ended by pumping Sahara for information about Club Chaos. It might seem odd that a New Age bookstore owner in Cleveland would know about a club in Jersey, but the world of magic-working humans and venues that catered to them was small.

  Snapping the phone shut once again, she turned to the other trunk, this one containing the less comfortable clothes. “This place is about 20 minutes from here. We need to leave soon if we’re going to make it in time.”

  “I am going with you to this… club?”

  “I’ll get the truck as close as I can. Hopefully it will be close enough so that the spell doesn’t fire up and start hurting us.” Peasant blouses, cloaks with stars and moons on them, and medieval-style dresses were all pushed to the side. She pulled out black vinyl shorts, so small they were barely bigger than boy-cut underwear, neon green fishnets, an emerald green corset top, and knee-high chunky black boots, with rows of buckles up the outside.

  “I’m going to get dressed, and then we can go.”

  Moira darted into the dingy little bathroom set in the back wall. It was like a large tiled box, with the showerhead right next to the sink and toilet on the other side. There was a single drain in the middle of the floor.

  Moira hung everything but the boots on a nail she’d driven into the grout between two tiles. She stripped down to her socks and then wiggled into the outfit. She pulled the fishnets on, right over the top of her socks. Next came the shorts which had a zipper and buckle at the back. She cinched the buckle so that the shorts, what there was of them, molded to her hips. Even with the single dim light bulb, a lone white line of reflected light curved over her hip. Next she slipped on the corset. There were laces at the back, but a hidden zipper in the front. When she’d first bought it she’d gotten the laces just the way she liked them and stitched them in place. The bottom of the corset just met the top of the shorts. Her breasts were lifted and separated by the molded cups, and Moira bent forward and jiggled to make sure she was properly situated.

  She’d propped a long mirror, the cheap ten-dollar kind they sold for dorm rooms, against the wall by the door.

  Not too bad, she thought. It wouldn’t be the most elaborate outfit there, but it was enough so she’d blend in. Stepping up to the mirror she tugged at her hair. It had been a long time since she’d used her real hair color, settling for shades of brown and blonde and using different hairdos to mask the length.

  Pressing her hands against her forehead she smoothed them back, over her hair. Her hands followed the line of her skull, pulling the hair into a ponytail so she could pull the middle-back length locks through her fist. What had been blonde was now a dull tar black with bright green stripes framing her face. Though this dull black was closer to her natural color, it didn’t approach the glossy straight-as-rain hair that had once been her greatest vanity.

  She rubbed her eyes, the way an accountant would after a long day of starting at numbers, and when she pulled them away dark makeup appeared—black around the eyes, heavily smudged on both upper and lower lids, with sparkly green eye shadow faded up towards her brows. Her already exotically tilted almond eyes were now highlighted, the sweep of dark liner from the corner of her eyes towards her temple making her look like a cat. Frowning at her still blonde eyebrows—she always forgot about them—Moira skimmed each index finger over them, turning them black.

  She pressed her lips together and black lipstick smoothed over the plump flesh.

  She did a quick turn to check the view from the rear. Being on the run and having constant anxiety gnawing at her stomach, killing her appetite, had done wonders for her butt. Moira declared herself ready and opened the bathroom door.

  A ball of white magic slammed into her chest.

  Chapter Five

  Moira stumbled back, only her hold on the doorknob keeping her from falling.

  “Where is the witch Moira? Produce her now.”

  The orb of magic had adhered to her chest, like a thick ball of mud, and from that ball long tendrils now grew, spreading up her shoulder, one winding around her neck.

  Moira squeaked in alarm and managed to stammer, “It’s me, I just changed my hair—” before the tendril around her neck tightened and cut off her voice.

  The centaur moved up to the bathroom doorway, reaching in to jerk her out as the frame was too low for him to pass under.

  As the trapped air began to burn her lungs, the centaur lifted a lock of her hair, rubbing it between his fingers. The tendril around her neck fell away and then the ball of magic shimmered out of existence.

  Moira rubbed her neck. “Next time, I’ll warn you if I’m going to change my hair.”

  “You changed more than your hair.” He let the lock of hair drop to her shoulder and then smoothed it with his fingers, pressing it to her collarbone
and then running his fingers over the swell of her right breast.

  Moira held still as he smoothed his fingers over the tip of her breast and then down her waist.

  “You have glamour magic?”

  It took Moira a minute to process his question. She was focused on his fingers, which rested on her stomach just below the lower curve of her breast. The stiff material of her corset should have kept her from feeling anything, but his skin was so hot that the flesh beneath the material he touched was hot and tingling.

  “Uh, yes,” she finally answered, “I have glamour magic.”

  “Why are you dressed so oddly?”

  “Club clothes. Everyone will be dressed like this, or in something close to this.”

  Scooting away from the centaur and his warm touch, Moira found her purse and pulled out the essentials. She tucked her ID, twenty dollars and a knife into the top of her corset. She didn’t expect danger but it was best to be prepared. Going back to her trunk, she rummaged until she found an ever-thinning envelope full of cash. Out of this she pulled five crisp one hundred dollar bills, folded them together and tucked them securely into the top of her corset, away from the other items. The heavy-duty ring of keys she held in her hand. She’d have to leave those in the van as there was nowhere to keep them with this outfit.

  “All right, time to go. Do you want anything to take with you?”

  “What, exactly, do you think will make being locked up in a tight box any less horrible?”

  “Nothing. Let’s go then.”

  Moira deactivated the spells on the door and then reactivated them once they were out. Dirty wind whistled down the alley, blowing in more garbage. As disgusting as it was, the piles of garbage and noxious wind kept this alley from being attractive to any other humans.