Viper Moon Read online

  Dacardi tried to give me a wad of hundred-dollar bills. I refused all but three for my time and suffering. I needed money, but not his. Finding kids gave me a personal satisfaction I doubt words could express. While nobility didn’t pay the rent or ease hunger, I wasn’t that hungry—yet. I did ask him to have my cell phone service restored. I also had him promise to take Richard’s computer to Thor, my computer specialist buddy.

  Dacardi balked a little when I told him he had to find bronze bullets, or at least bronze-coated bullets, for the weapons, but I actually stared him down and he agreed. An expensive proposition, since such things were usually handmade. I gave the sociopath driver Abby’s address, and neither of us spoke as the SUV rolled out of Dacardi’s gated and guarded Riverside estate.

  A small wooden sign hung on the post below Abby’s new mailbox: MADAM ABIGAIL—PSYCHIC READINGS. She devoted the house’s front rooms to her business, a lucrative business since she wasn’t a phony scamming money from desperate people. Her clients loved her.

  Abby met us at the curb, opened the SUV’s door, and helped me out. She smiled at my driver. He didn’t see the tiny bag she slipped under the front seat when she eased me to the ground and closed the door. The SUV accelerated, rolled two hundred feet, suddenly swerved, and slammed into a telephone pole. The driver’s door opened and Dacardi’s man staggered out, followed by a rapidly dissipating cloud of . . . something.

  He wasn’t really injured—air bags and seat belts worked—but he fell to his hands and knees and started spewing the contents of his stomach on the sidewalk. I wondered what else the gassy potion would do to him, but I didn’t really care.

  Like I told Dacardi, you don’t mess with Abby—or anyone she considers hers. I didn’t ask how she knew he was the one who’d hurt me. Abby held me by the shoulders. “Come on. Let’s go fix that concussion.”

  chapter 4

  Abby is a soft woman, with rounded shoulders and plump cheeks, but not fat by any means. Neither young nor old, she keeps her iron gray hair pinned in a bun at the nape of her neck. That hair provides a contrast to her smooth, unlined face. Men usually smile with appreciation, but rarely approach her. It’s a good facade. Madam Abigail is the Earth Mother’s high priestess in Duivel, and a witch of incredible power. She can take things from her garden, from the earth, and make amazing potions—potions to heal, to remember, to forget. I’m quite certain she has powers I don’t know about, probably shouldn’t know about. While she can’t see the future, she makes a good living as a psychic because she can read auras.

  Abby kept a firm grip on me as she led me around the side of the modest bungalow she calls home. The Mother blessed Abby’s yard and garden with a riot of flowers and other living things. The heady aroma of late-blooming honeysuckle made me smile, and daisies winked in a breeze from the river. She owns twenty acres of forest and gardens along the river, and uptown real estate brokers regularly offer her millions. She won’t sell. Abby’s garden serves as a temple to the Earth Mother, one of the few left in the world. We entered her kitchen by way of a back porch filled with pots of herbs that love the shade.

  In a few minutes, I had a clean T-shirt, salve on my cut cheek, and my head over a steaming bowl of water generously laced with the foulest-smelling weeds imaginable. I didn’t complain. By the time the water cooled, my head was clear and pain free. While I breathed the disgusting steam, I told her of Flynn’s sister and Dacardi’s son. She fixed me a sandwich and a cup of tea and placed them on the table in front of me.

  Laughter usually fills her conversations, but she’d barely spoken since I’d come in. She sat in a chair across from me. One look at her eyes and I knew Abby wasn’t there anymore. I swallowed hard. The Earth Mother had taken control.

  The Earth Mother is powerful, contradictory, often ill-tempered, moving through her world, possibly with a purpose, possibly not. At times she seems absolutely archaic, as if dumbfounded by the changes time has brought. The Mother rarely explains anything to me. I suspect Abby gets a little vexed with her, too.

  Like the Darkness, she has no physical presence—at least as far as I know. But I’m not an expert on that, either. The Mother did occasionally speak to me through Abby, or even directly into my mind, but it was rare, and only happened around the time of traumatic events. Such an event was probably bearing down on me like a herd of Saturday morning garage sale bargain hunters.

  “Two children,” the Mother said. “One belongs to the Warlord and the other to the Guardian. You must find them before the dark moon.”

  Though she spoke with Abby’s voice, the power made me shiver. However, I was long past the much younger Cassandra’s fear and awe of my mysterious and powerful patroness.

  “Why?” I leaned back and gave her an expression I would never give to Abby herself.

  Her mouth, Abby’s mouth, twisted and exasperation marked her face. “Don’t ask why—just do it!”

  I shrugged, light-headed from breathing Abby’s healing drugs. Though irritable at times, my attitude now bordered on outright defiance. Not that she’d ever force me to do anything. That’s not her way. She never requires worship, either.

  The Mother’s breath hissed through Abby’s teeth. “Do you wish to be released from your vows, Huntress?”

  I threw up my hands. “What else would I do with my life? Do I have a life? I had a rough day—and night. That’s all.”

  “If you’d listen to me and Abigail occasionally—”

  “What? You’re still pissed at me for getting a gun, aren’t you?”

  She drew herself, or Abby’s body, up, mouth tight. “Those weapons are not the way—”

  “You sent me into the Barrows ten years ago with a bronze knife. Eighteen years old. ‘Go forth, Cassandra, and do great works,’ you said. You spout cryptic nonsense—Warlord, Guardian. Why can’t you just tell me what you want? You’ve never given me a dime to support myself—and, hell, I ran out of gas on the way out of the Barrows once. Do you know how hard it is to hitch a ride when you’re covered in monster blood and shit?”

  “I am not omnipotent, Cassandra.” She spoke softly. “I’ve given you everything I am permitted.”

  Permitted by whom? But I didn’t want to know. Absolutely not. I had enough trouble dealing with her, let alone someone—or something—more powerful.

  But she sounded as if I’d hurt her feelings. How was that possible? At times I’d swear she was human. I leaned back and scowled. “Oh, I’m yours, Mother. Your Huntress. But I live in the twenty-first century. I love you, and Abby, but I’m going to use modern weapons if I need them.”

  Abby jerked as the Mother left her. She blinked and frowned. “What happened?”

  “Mom was here. I pissed her off—again.”

  Abby sighed. “Did she lecture you on the gun?” “Whined a little.”

  Abby’s face scrunched in a rare grimace. She didn’t understand my lack of awe for the being who stood at the center of her life. I didn’t understand, either, but day by day it grew into a larger ball of insubordination in my guts.

  “I’m not happy about the gun, either, Cass. Why do you insist on having it?”

  Why couldn’t she—or the Mother—understand?

  “I’m tired of running, Abby. I’m so damned tired of running. I want to face the fucking perverts and murderers. Not to mention the monsters. I sneak around the Barrows, snatch a kid, and the son of a bitch who had him goes out and gets another one.”

  “And how many of those perverts have you killed?”

  “With the gun? Three.”

  A deep sense of satisfaction crept into my heart. I didn’t like that feeling. The Barrows had cut me to naked bone over the years, and I carried a deep-seated fear that its pervading evil would invade my soul and make me a callous killer.

  “I’ve discouraged seven or eight from chasing me,” I said, trying to soothe her.

  The gun carries .45 bullets, ten to a magazine, but doesn’t have a manufacturer’s name, serial number, or an
y other identification. It’s fast and accurate unless the shooter is incompetent—like the gun’s former owner. Handguns are probably useless in hell, and the stupid Bastinado couldn’t take it with him anyway. I confiscated it as a reward for having survived his poor aim.

  “Why does the gun bother you so much?” I asked. Defensiveness crept into my words. “You just busted some bastard’s guts because he hurt me.”

  Abby reached out and grabbed my hand. She squeezed so hard I thought she’d dislocate my finger joints. “What if they shoot back?”

  “I guess I have to shoot first.”

  Abby released me. She held her hand across her mouth as if to stifle words she didn’t dare speak.

  “I’m not a Wild West gunslinger,” I said. “I use bronze for the monsters. It’s not good for shooting people. Not accurate, not much distance.” I lied to Abby to reassure her of—what? That I wasn’t a cold-blooded killer?

  “Abby, I need to find Flynn’s sister and Dacardi’s boy now, before the dark moon—”

  “What’s the dark moon have to do with finding those children?” Abby snapped to attention.

  “The Mother said—Wait. What’s happening?”

  Abby didn’t answer. Her face had that inward-looking expression of a witch in search of a powerful omen. When she gazed back at me, I shivered. Whatever she’d seen had left her as cold as the Sullen in midwinter, and that same chill weighed her voice. “The coming dark moon is part of a special conjunction of stars, Cass. One star is dying and another will be born.”

  The term dark moon was familiar. Our neighbors at the farm next door were pagans and occasionally invited us to a dark moon feast. Because I’m an earth witch, it didn’t surprise me that Abby used it, too. “Abby, the dark moon is just the new moon. I learned that in school. It’s still there.”

  Abby smiled. “There is more to the dark moon than science. The ancients built their lives on the cycles of the moon and the connection to the Great Mother. Occasionally, there are two cycles of a dark moon in a single calendar month. That is the nature of the coming event—and it coincides with the conjunction of stars. Earth magic will grow more powerful and the connections to other worlds will grow stronger. Regardless of the Earth Mother’s gifts to me, I am still human and there is much I don’t know. There is much I see and feel that terrifies me because it is incomprehensible.”

  “It’s all pretty much incomprehensible to me. If I have to fight, I prefer things I can shoot or knife.”

  “Yes, that is your purview, Huntress. We live in the Earth Mother’s domain. Humans are her children.” Abby sighed. “I don’t understand, but for some reason she won’t touch, won’t control any humans save us, you and I, and her other chosen servants.”

  “Us? Define ‘us,’ Abby. Define ‘chosen’!” My voice carried a demand, something I’d never done with her.

  She threw up her hands, a gesture so un-Abby-like it frightened me. “Surely you know that you and I are not her only servants.”

  “I suppose . . . I mean, it seems likely. I guess I never thought much about it.”

  Had I been arrogant enough to think I was the only Huntress? That I was special? Well, yes. I had.

  “Cass, you live in the moment.” Her voice warmed. Abby knew me well. I was special to Abby. She smiled. “You don’t need to speculate on the nature of the realm of the occult, or those who dwell there.”

  “Do you have . . . contact. With others?” A bit of jealousy seeped in.

  “No, not often. The Mother asked me not to. We are each assigned, if you will, to specific tasks when she requires our service. As far as I know, there is no special cadre of Huntresses like you. Or people like me.”

  “How long have you done this?”

  “All my life. My own mother was a priestess before me.” “Why are you just now telling me this? I’ve served her—and you—for ten years.”

  “Because this is the first dark moon conjunction in forty years. The Mother won’t tell me exactly what happened during the last one. She ordered me not to go into the Barrows. I obeyed. But I think it involved a thinning of the barriers between worlds, all worlds. And that thinning includes the barrier she holds around the Barrows. I believe . . .”

  “What? Don’t leave it there, Abby.”

  “I believe Duivel, in this century, is the epicenter of the Mother’s power. She has spoken with me more in the last ten years than in a very long time.”

  “Why doesn’t the Mother just go in and root the Darkness out? It is certainly not human.”

  “Because the very thing that keeps it imprisoned is the thing that keeps her out. If she goes in, she will break the walls she herself created and it will be free. I’m not sure . . . I’m afraid . . . she might not be able to defeat it if it were free.” Abby stood and gathered my untouched teacup and saucer. “You need to leave now.” The china tinkled as her hands shook. “Detective Flynn will be driving by in a few minutes. He’s looking for you.” I know Abby is psychic, but sometimes her sudden pronouncements make me uneasy. Mostly because they are always true.

  “You know Flynn?”

  “I know his mother. She came to me for help. The Earth Mother directed me to send him to you.”

  She set the plate and cup in the sink and headed for the front of the house, then stopped. She came to me, grasped my cheeks in her hands, and kissed me on the forehead. “You’ve been the Huntress too long. I love the Mother, but . . .” She released me and wiped at her eyes. “Does she think I don’t see what’s happening? You’re the best Huntress in my lifetime. And because you’re so good, she’s using you up like a disposable tool. A weapon. Then she objects when you do what’s necessary to stay alive.” She shook her head and left the room.

  Abby had always been the sanctuary in my haphazard life, and I couldn’t remember a time when I’d seen her so distressed. I suspected she was right. The Mother was using me, but it was up to me to call a halt. I should probably do that before someone—or something—kills me. Maybe this should be my last hunt. I could get a regular job, and . . . What? Give up all the excitement, the death-defying feats of valor? The pain, the broken bones? I shivered at the memory of the burns. Who was I kidding? I’d become an action junkie, living on the edge, and it would probably kill me.

  I let myself out the back door, strolled around the house, and, sure enough, a shiny red pickup truck rolled down the street toward me like a scarlet tank. It stopped at the curb beside me, and the passenger window slid down. I leaned against the door. Flynn appeared only a little less weary than he had this morning.

  “I need a ride home,” I said.

  He nodded. “Get in.”

  I opened the door and pulled myself up into the fullsized truck cab.

  Flynn stared at me. “You look like shit again. Only worse. Who did that?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Bullshit.” He flipped my windshield visor down to expose a mirror.

  My face looked like someone had slapped it with a brush of purple and black paint under my eyes and slashed a line along my jaw.

  “A professional disagreement. That’s all.” I drew the seat belt over my shoulder and fastened it.

  “Who won?” he asked.

  “Won what?”

  “The professional disagreement.”

  I shrugged. “It was sort of a draw.”

  “Then you won’t mind going to the station and filling out a report.”

  “It wasn’t that much of a draw.” The seat belt clicked when I pushed the button to release it. “I’ll catch the bus.”

  Flynn grabbed my arm when I reached for the door handle. “No. I brought you Selene’s rabbit.”

  He reached across me to take my arm. The weariness that slowed him earlier remained, but he’d showered and shaved. He smelled faintly of citrus and his dark hair still needed a trim. It fascinated me and I forced myself not to run my fingers through it. Professional distance, Cassandra. Keep it cool and under control.

  He re
leased me and leaned back.

  “I don’t like to be forced into things,” I said.

  “Neither do I. And here I am, forced by my mother to rely on the accomplice of a psychic fraud.” He sounded resigned to the situation.

  “The accomplishments of the psychic fraud and said accomplice don’t impress you, I suppose.” I tried to sound arrogant, but the words came out angry instead.

  “They might if I knew a few details. Results are fine. It’s how you get them that concerns me. I read your file, remember?”

  Flynn the cop believed in law and order. The Guardian, the Earth Mother called him. I dealt with chaos and tried to make some order of things. Mostly I shied away from, or totally ignored, the law. At least his rules-onpaper version of the law.

  Rush hour traffic had come and gone, so we rode easily through the streets. The sun had dropped below the horizon, taking some of the unbearable heat with it.

  “What were you doing driving by Abby’s house?” I asked.

  His mouth tightened. “I don’t know. I went home to get the damned rabbit. Then . . .” He shrugged.

  I’d long since stopped believing in coincidence and luck. Everything in my life seemed to have a purpose, even if I didn’t recognize the reason at the time.

  “What’s that?” Flynn pointed at the bag I’d carried from Dacardi’s house.

  “Dirty jocks. Where’s Selene’s toy?”

  “Under your seat.”

  I reached down and grabbed the plastic bag containing a well-worn, probably well-loved stuffed rabbit.

  We rode in silence back to my apartment building. When we arrived, he asked, “Do you need some aspirin? I’ll go get some for you.”

  His sudden compassion touched me. “I need a new face. But thanks anyway.”

  “Your face is okay,” he said. “Kind of pretty. Even if it is purple.”

  “Thanks for that, too.”

  Well, well, the man liked my face—and my hair. I smiled, and drew one from him in return. My, what a luscious mouth. Bad for me, bad for him. I can’t be involved with a cop. So why did I feel a sudden surge of pleasure when he called me pretty? I made a ruthless effort to squash the feeling and forced it down.