Witching Hour: A Wild Hunt Novel, Book 7 Read online

  “Raj. I know, and yes, it’s time for breakfast.” I opened the refrigerator. Raj ate just about everything, though citrus fruits were an issue for him, and I’d learned not to give him beans, but gargoyles were first and foremost meat-eaters. I pulled out the bacon and eggs and lined a cookie sheet with foil, then spread out the bacon on it and popped it in the oven. “You want toast with breakfast?”

  He nodded, an eager look in his eye.

  “All right. Breakfast will be ready in about half an hour. Can you wait that long?” I glanced at the clock. Five to nine. I pulled out breakfast for the ferrets. I was running a little behind my usual schedule, but there was no rush.

  “Raj can wait. TV now?”

  “Sure, you can watch TV.” Inwardly, I cringed. Raj had gotten hooked on a kids’ show—mostly because of the bright, shiny colors. But he loved it, so I put up with the singsong racket. He knew how to turn on the TV using the voice activation device I’d bought, and he found the channel, settling in on the sofa to watch while I gathered up the ferrets’ food and headed for their room.

  I had turned the smallest bedroom into a ferret sanctuary. While they coexisted with Raj fine, usually, at times he annoyed the fuck out of them and it was just easier to keep them in their room most of the time.

  When they saw me, they immediately crowded around the cage door. I had converted half the room into a giant cage, with three separate hutches so I could separate them if need be. The cage ran floor to ceiling and was big enough for me to stand in.

  They had a playground of toys—slides and swings, tunnels to navigate through. I had sectioned off another part of the cage for their litter uses, and used a combination of shredded newspaper and hay, which I cleaned out once a day. Water bottles hung from several areas in the cage, and I kept them clean and full. Other than the ferret cage, the bedroom contained a table and chairs, as well as a sofa. A door to the side led to a bath with a shower, and there was a closet where I kept their clean litter and carriers.

  I glanced at the clock. Time to let them out. I kept up a routine with the ferrets. It helped them, and it was good for me.

  Shutting the door behind me, I unlocked the cage door. The three of them dashed out, darting around the room, dooking a mile a minute. The chittering sound was cute, almost like a chuff, and they tumbled over one another in their excitement to see me. I spread out their plates on the table, emptying the cans of fancy cat food onto them. It was high protein and, from what the ferrets said, it was tasty.

  Templeton shimmied up onto the chair, then onto the table, with Elise and Gordon following. They spread out at the plates, eagerly diving into breakfast.

  As Elise finished—she ate fast—I picked her up and gently checked her ears. They were clean. Ferrets’ ears could wax up quickly and the wax smelled. Since it wasn’t bath time, I gently brushed her coat with a soft brush as she stretched out on my lap, closing her eyes while I groomed her.

  “How are you guys?” I asked. “Anything amiss?”

  Elise gazed up into my eyes. We’re fine. Nothing going wrong. Any luck yet?

  The thoughts hit my mind like a gentle whisper. Elise had a silvery tinged aura and her energy was gentle and friendly. She was the easiest one to communicate with—the two boys were growing more ferret-like every day.

  I sighed. “I’m sorry, nothing. I’m continuing to look for an answer, but it isn’t easy. Without knowing who cursed you, or what kind of a curse it was, finding a way to break the hex isn’t easy. I’m still trying, though.”

  Elise dooked, very softly. I know. It’s been such a long time. Sometimes I think it would be easier to just let go and let the ferret inside take over. But I hold hope. The boys are losing track of themselves, but they come around now and then. Templeton is sad when he remembers. Gordon, though, he’s usually happy.

  I nodded. “I know. If you ever come to that point, where you want to just let go of remembering, please, know that I’ll take care of you as long as you live.”

  Thank you, Raven. I hope I never come to that point, but if I do, I want you to know that we trust you, and will always be grateful to you.

  “Other than that, how are the boys doing?”

  As I said, Templeton still remembers his old life. We talk about it sometimes, though it hurts him too much to dwell on it. Gordon mostly talks in ferret-speak now, and seldom mentions the time before. He’s becoming more happy and content the more he forgets.

  “I know it’s hard. Keep hope a little longer. I’ll put in extra legwork. If you remember anything else that might help, tell me.” I let her go and she bounced around the room, running off excess energy as Templeton sauntered over for his brushing. As I stroked his shining fur with the brush, I thought back to how I’d first met the triplets, and how I had ended up carrying for them.

  Chapter Three

  In 1988, I went camping up on Mount Rainier in late July. I had decided to take a week’s retreat from my work, needing a respite from the sudden proliferation of ghosts and spirits that had cropped up. An overpass had collapsed, taking over a hundred to their death—Fae, human, and shifter alike. None of them were expecting it, and the tragedy had been close enough to my home that the spirit world was lit up brighter than Rudolph’s nose. It was exhausting. One hundred extra souls roaming around wasn’t the problem, but the disruption to the others who traveled the byways of the spirit realm, and the shock and grief that rippled through the community, were enough to give me a constant headache. So I had packed up camping supplies for a week, and headed up to the Mountain.

  I had left Raj at home with the one person he trusted besides me. Trina would be moving soon, but she had volunteered to keep him for a week and give me a break from everything and everybody. Dark Fae, she was good with all Cryptos, and Raj adored her. I dreaded her moving, but she was leaving for the Lands of Fire and Ice, moving back across the Great Sea to the ancient land of TirNaNog with her new husband.

  I stared up at the volcano. Like everybody else in the area, I just called her the Mountain, putting a little extra reverence into how I said it.

  Mount Rainier loomed over the Pacific Northwest, the matriarch of the countryside, rising tall through the mists. At over fourteen thousand feet above sea level, the glacial peak was as deadly as she was gorgeous. But she wasn’t alone. The entire Cascade Mountain Range was dangerous—volcanic seas of magma were still churning below the surface of the peaks, waiting until it was time to rise through the strata of rock and dirt to vomit their great pyroclastic flows of mud, ash, and lava over the land.

  In 1980, Mt. St. Helens had done just that, breaking the landscape into a fractured kaleidoscope of devastation as an entire side of the mountain expanded, then fell away, releasing her fury onto the surface. The Cascades were young blood in the world of geology, still awake and aware, and I had a deep respect for the massive peaks that ruled over the land.

  I decided to camp in the Ohanapecosh campground. It was in the southeastern part of the park, and was one of the hottest destinations for campers and tourists. Near the Silver Falls waterfall, Ohanapecosh perhaps encapsulated the wonderland feeling of the park best of all.

  The Grove of the Patriarchs was nearby, an easy hike from the Stevens Canyon entrance to the park. I had visited there time and again, wandering through the ancient stand of trees. They were older than any human alive, older than some of the Fae and the Ante-Fae. Eleven hundred years ago, these giant cedars and firs had first peeked out of the soil, growing on the ashes of a massive fire that had raged through the area. Trees towered up to two hundred feet, watching over the visitors who came seeking their solace in nature. Here, the ground was moist and smelled of rich loam, and moss draped down from the tree trunks and dripped off the tree limbs like velvet beards off old men. The trees themselves were alive and watching, ancient guardians that watched over those who walked among them.

  I set up my tent and organized all my gear.

  Toward evening, I decided to hike into the grov
e. I drove to the parking lot, to where the trailhead that led to the grove began. I was wearing a pair of Doc Martens, and leggings under a gauze skirt, and a black denim jacket over a warm V-neck sweater. The trick to staying warm in the mountains was to dress in layers.

  I swung my backpack over my shoulders. Even though I was in far less danger than most mortals who hiked the backwoods here, a bear or cougar could still do some pretty nasty damage to me, so I carried a walking stick with me, along with my knife—a short dagger named Venom who had a nasty bite—strapped to my belt. As I headed down the trail, campers were returning from the grove. We nodded as we passed each other.

  As dusk approached, the mood of the park began to shift. During the day, people had leeway to visit, and walk, and laugh and shout. But at dusk, voices tended to drop to whispers, and the night creatures came out to watch and listen. You couldn’t really see them—not unless you had second sight—but they were there, and they could be felt by anybody who was remotely sensitive. They were beings of the forest. Not Sub-Fae, but the forest devas and the spirits who inhabited the remote and rocky Wild Places. They had little use for humans—or mortals of any kind—and they ran the gamut from dangerous to indifferent.

  “Are you sure you want to head into the woods?” asked one of the women passing by on her way back to the parking lot. “It’s getting dark.”

  I smiled. “I’m good at taking care of myself. I’ll be all right, but thank you.” I held up my walking stick. It was yew, heavy and sturdy and dark with the runes I had burned into the wood.

  She held my gaze for a moment, then gave me a nod. “You look like it,” she said before she moved on.

  I followed the trail as it switchbacked several times on its way to the footbridge that led to the island in the middle of the river. The Grove of the Patriarchs had grown so large and so old, thanks to being on the island. Protected from the fire that had swept through, the trees were able to evade it, and they had grown to a majestic size.

  The path to the actual grove was buttressed on both sides with western red cedar, Douglas fir, and western hemlock, all with identifying plaques next to trees that had fallen throughout the years. The massive trunks would take decades to decay, they were so huge. Their root systems that had been wrenched out of the ground when the giants fell were taller than any human.

  As the human traffic returning from the grove thinned to a trickle, the silence of the forest fully set in, broken only by the melancholy sound of evening birdsong that echoed through the air. But the silence of the forest wasn’t really silence proper. No, along with the sound of birdsong, the sounds of water rushing along from the river set up a form of white noise, and the rustle of the undergrowth as animals passed through reminded me that I wasn’t alone.

  I reached the bend in the trail where it switched from a smooth path to steps going down, compacted dirt carved into the slope, restrained from erosion by wooden rails. As I came to the bottom step, I saw the one-person footbridge heading across the river. A sign asked people to cross one at a time.

  The suspension bridge that led to the Grove of the Patriarchs ran over the Ohanapecosh River, and the narrow wooden planks were firmly guarded on both sides by a wire fence that stretched at least six feet high, meant to keep people from falling off into the rapids. There was no one around, so I set off across the bridge, feeling it gently sway beneath my feet as I crossed the river. The river wasn’t at its lowest ebb, but neither was it so high to be worrisome. Reaching the other side, I found myself on a wooden walkway that wound through the grove.

  The light had waned so that I could barely see, and I paused for a moment and closed my eyes, adjusting my body to the dark. When I opened them again, I could see in a totally different way. It was as though I were wearing night vision goggles, although I didn’t have quite the range they did, and everything wasn’t cast in the green tint the goggles usually gave off.

  What I saw was a low-level version of what I saw in daylight, with an almost neon glow around the tree trunks and mushrooms and other denizens of the forest. It wasn’t enough to make out features on a person, but it was enough so that I could pick my way along the trail, or so that I could see if a person or animal was nearby. My hearing also intensified, and I could hear stronger nuances of the sounds around me, plus some that had been out of reach. Many of the Ante-Fae were born with similar enhancements, but each of us was unique in our strengths and actual abilities.

  I gave myself a moment before taking a breath and moving on. It had been awhile since I had been out of the city, and I was beginning to realize just how much I needed the change. The scents of cedar and fir, the tang of the mildew that clung to the soil, and the smell of moisture in the air, all told me we were due for rain. The smells settled around me like a welcoming cloak.

  As I slowed my pace, leisurely walking into the depths of the grove, I could sense the night creatures perk up as I passed by. Then as I approached a large root system of a tree that had tumbled over during a long-ago windstorm, I began to sense something else.

  There was a discomfort—a sense of panic near me. Not human—or rather, not living—the energy exuded from the spirit world.

  I focused, trying to follow the chain of fear that was growing around me. The trail of emotion was difficult to catch hold of, the panic was so strong, but then I saw it—a faint purple thread of light leading directly into the bottom of the fallen log. Right into the massive root system.

  The tree had broken off from three others that it seemed to have formed a cluster with. The three remaining trees were still entangled, their roots twisted together, climbing the sides of one another like tentacles of some giant squid plastered against the bottom of a boat. They embraced one other in a stranglehold.

  I stepped over to the bottom of the tree, my unease growing the closer I got. Something wasn’t right. Someone was in pain, perhaps more than one person.

  I touched the bottom of the trunk, reaching for one of the roots. It vanished and I jumped back as my hand went through the illusion.

  What the hell?

  I pulled my hand back to find it covered with a layer of soil, faintly moist and so fine that it reminded me of freshly ground coffee. Staring at the trunk, I wondered what the hell was going on as I brushed the soil off my hands. It felt prickly, like there was an irritant in it.

  As I stood there debating whether to leave it be and move along, a faint scream echoed from within the log.

  “Crap. Now I have to explore.”

  I let out a sigh. I could push my way into the trunk—there was obviously some sort of illusion covering the opening of the root system, but I didn’t know what I might find. It could lead into some fiery lava pit for all I knew.

  Since there were spirits involved, I opted for using my magic.

  I stepped off the walkway, onto the ground beside the massive nurse log, and knelt by the side. Beneath the trunk were pockets of toadstools, nestled in patches along the massive log. They glowed with a pale light, anemic and spongy-looking. Behind them, beneath the log, a snake was hiding. I leaned closer. Sure enough, it was a rubber boa. It coiled, but didn’t strike. Rubber boas were gentle snakes, seldom attacking people if not overly provoked.

  Leaving the snake be, I scrambled atop the trunk, using the nooks and crannies of the bark as hand and foot holds. The surface of the tree was padded with thick moss, and even though it was damp, I settled myself on it, crossing my legs because the trunk was too wide to straddle. I shook off my backpack and opened it, bringing out a candle in a jar. I had spelled it to self-extinguish if it tipped over. I also withdrew a tennis ball–sized crystal sphere, and a bag of runes.

  The runes were carved on bones. I had made them over a period of ten years. It had taken me that long to gather enough of the bones I needed. I had needed raven skulls from ravens who had died either a normal or accidental death, which I then had to grind down and mix with powdered gems and other components—including my blood—then carve once they had d
ried. I had laid a curse on them should any idiot take it into his head to steal them, and put a spell of Homing on them.

  As I reached into the velvet bag that I kept them in, the runes tickled my fingers with their energy. I focused on the tree trunk and closed my fingers around three of the runes. Withdrawing them from the bag, I spread them out, facedown, on the moss.

  I paused, glancing around. The forest was cloaked in darkness by now, and though I could hear the rustle of creatures in the undergrowth, they left me alone.

  Turning back to my runes, I flipped over the first rune. The situation was the Scarab. Transformation. Death and rebirth. Lingering in the world of spirits, waiting to move on. As I put my finger on the rune, I heard the woman’s scream again and focused on the energy behind it. It wasn’t pain or fear, but frustration.

  Moving to the second rune, I turned it over and laid it next to the Scarab. The obstacle was the Cage. Someone was trapped, usually by circumstance, but sometimes it was because of their own belief that they were trapped. The Cage always symbolized the need to move on, but came with a barrier impeding that movement. That would fit with the screams of frustration.

  I picked up the third rune and turned it over to find out what I should do. In the position of Action was the rune of Y’leng, a word in the language of Tuanadeth—the most ancient of Fae languages. Y’leng was another rune of Transformation, but unlike the Scarab, it represented physical transformation rather than spiritual. The rune often came up in readings I cast for shifters, and usually indicated that there was a disturbance around their ability to change shape.

  I sat back, leaning with my hands on the soft moss of the trunk, frowning as I attempted to puzzle out the message. As I closed my eyes, breathing in the quickly chilling night air, my fingers began to tingle in the way they did whenever spirits were near. The very trunk I sat on was throbbing with energy, and I quickly gathered up my runes and crystal ball and jumped off, staring at it. I walked around the front again to stare at the massive root system. It was an illusion, all right, but where did it lead? And should I chance just going in?