Diana Tregarde - Burning Water Part 17

Di returned to the couple, who were untangling themselves from their fearful embrace.

"Anything?" she asked Marion. "Anything at all?"

The girl shook her head, tearfully. "Only th-th-the barrier, and that he's alive and in there," she stuttered. Her eyes were still dilated with fear, and she was shaking like a leaf. Her boyfriend was in the same shape, except that he couldn't even seem to speak. His back was s.h.i.+ny with the sweat of fear.

"I c-c-couldn't get anything else," Marion continued, unconsciously hugging herself. "Not where he is, or who has him. I got close, but "

"He was guarded and we set off the alarm, so don't feel bad," Di replied, frustration giving an edge to her voice. "You did the best anyone could, love you gave it all you had and there's no way anyone could fault you. d.a.m.n them anyway! Well, at least the Hunter didn't find you, or this place; I managed that much. Me, he knows about already; it'll be no big surprise that I'm still on his tail. You'll be safe enough, just like I promised."

The girl nodded; there were tears spilling now from those frightened eyes. "I tried I -I-I r-r-really did "

"I know you did," Di said, a little more gently. "It wasn't your fault "

"You said 'he,'" Mark interrupted, getting clumsily to his feet.

"What?"

"You said," he repeated doggedly, trying to shake some feeling back into his benumbed legs, "'he.'"

She sheathed the knife in her belt next to her gun, and began taking the jewelry off. "So I did " she mused. "There was a masculine feel to that guardian."

"I got that, too," Marion offered timidly.

"If you picked up 'male' too then it's a d.a.m.ned good bet. And that thing had the same flavor as the strongest of the five signatures I picked up. Well that gives us a little more than we had before."

She looked a little less frustrated.

"One man, four women?" Mark hazarded.

She shook her head. "No, I can't be sure of that. The chief of this group is male; that much I'm certain of now, but the others neuter feelings, could be male or female."

He sighed. It seemed like for every gain they made She nodded, her eyes bruised-looking, and rueful. "No kidding. Two steps forward "

"One step back. And we still have no idea of where Ben Bronson is." He sighed. "h.e.l.luva haystack."

"And a d.a.m.ned small needle."

"Mark stop!"

Mark hit the Ghia's brakes; she squealed to a dead halt in the middle of the street. Di's shout, coming on top of the events of the last hour, had elicited from him a reaction even faster than normal. Fortunately there hadn't been anyone behind them "What "

It was already too late.

She flung the pa.s.senger door open and was darting across the street across the Ghia's nose almost before the car stopped moving forward. This little area of fading and empty storefronts was nearly deserted under the late afternoon sun. There was only one thing Di could have been interested in her goal could only be the brightly garbed woman wearing voluminous skirts who was standing in front of a little storefront. An odd storefront; it wasn't untenanted, but it had no sign, and curtains had been strung behind the empty display window.

Holy that's a Rom he had just enough time to think before Di reached her.

The woman suddenly seemed to notice the stranger sprinting toward her; she looked startled, then looked for one moment as if she would run away then Di had her by the arm.

And then Di spoke a single word; spoke it too softly for Mark to hear.

But whatever that word was, it had an electrifying effect on the woman.

Her eyes went round. She stared, licked her lips nervously, and ventured a short question. Di shook her head. The woman scuffed her feet, fidgeted for a moment, and motioned to Di to enter the store obviously a fortune -telling setup, now that Mark thought about it. Di shook her head again and pointed at Mark, still sitting stupidly in his car, blocking the (fortunately nonexistent) traffic. The woman frowned, gesticulated, argued with her for a moment. Di remained firm and stubborn, and gestured again at Mark. The woman then gave in, grudgingly.

Di sprinted back over to the car, and leaned in at Mark's window.

"Find a place to park and meet me inside," she said hurriedly. "They've agreed to talk; at least the woman has. She'll have to check with her man, but I doubt it's going to be a problem. They're Lowara, and like I told you, the Lowara owe me in a major way."

"They know you?" Mark asked, amazed. "They really do?"

She nodded, and pushed a bit of hair out of her eyes. "Oh yes," she answered with grim satisfaction.

"There isn't a Lowara Rom that doesn't know at least the name of the Starchild. That's what they called me after."

Before he had a chance to ask "after what?" she turned and sprinted back to the faded shop. Mark perforce swallowed his mystification and looked for a parking place.

He found one about halfway down the block, fed the meter, and plodded back to the storefront. The door was unlocked he'd halfway expected the woman to lock it against him, she'd glared at him so. A bell over the door tinkled as he opened it. It was dim, the red curtains filtered most of the light; it was like being inside a reddish tent. It was cooler in here; a relief from the heat of the street outside. When he peered through the red gloom of the tiny shop, he could see that all of the walls had been draped with more fabric like the curtains, increasing the tent-impression there was probably a door in the rear, but it was curtained off. There was just the standard round table covered by a red velvet tablecloth, of course and four chairs that looked fragile but proved to be wrought iron, or a good imitation of it. Di was sitting at her ease in one of the spindly little chairs beside the table. "Take a seat,"

she said, waving at an identical chair. "She's gone for her man."

At almost the same moment, the curtain at the back of the shop parted. A stocky, heavily moustached man with gold earrings and a kerchief around his neck stepped through. He was as dark as gypsies were popularly supposed to be; he was wearing a white, short-sleeved s.h.i.+rt open at the neck, and dark, heavy trousers or jeans. His face and most particularly his eyes looked wary and worried.

He was followed by the woman, who looked quite frightened.

The man began to say something; Di held up her hand to halt him, replied, and turned to Mark.

"We're going to be speaking Romany," she said apologetically. "I'm sorry, love, but there's a lot we'll be talking about that's secret, so Yanfri wants to make sure you can't understand it. I'll translate what it's all right for you to know."

He nodded reluctantly. He didn't like it but these weren't his secrets, and it wasn't his territory. Di turned back to the gypsy and indicated that he should continue. They spoke for several minutes before he nodded with reluctant satisfaction, said a few words to his lady, and vanished back beyond the curtain again.

The woman, looking a little calmer, took a third chair and placed it on the opposite side of the table from Di.

Di turned back to Mark. "What happened was that I established my credentials. Yanfri is satisfied that I am who I claimed and that what I get now will const.i.tute a quit-claim on the Lowara; now he's turned us back over to Dobra."

The woman seated herself and began to speak, nervously. Her voice, though timid, was very musical. Mark found it quite easy to listen to her and watch her. She was really quite attractive; as dark as her man but more delicate, with a dancer's grace though not a dancer's figure and expressive eyes. Di listened...

"She says," Di said finally, "that she is afraid; that they came here last week before anyone could pa.s.s them warnings. I a.s.sume you know that the Rom post special signs for other Rom to read ?"

Mark shook his head. "Not my department, but it doesn't surprise me."

The woman, who evidently understood English quite well, nodded and continued.

"She says that every Rom k.u.mpania that's a kind of extended family group in this area is leaving; and they are supposed to be leaving signs and warnings on all roads out of town. She says that there is great danger."

Di turned back to the woman, and this time she spoke in English herself. "Drabarni, do you know from where the danger comes?" she asked. "Do you know its face, its land?"

The Rom licked her lips and spoke, softly, the words tumbling out over one another. Di listened carefully.

"She says that you and I should leave; that no one with sense will stay. She says that those of us with draban that's 'magic' are especially vulnerable, that this thing seeks those with it. It wants people like us needless to say she's picked up on the fact that we're both psi. She says that this thing is evil, very old evil "

"We already know that," Mark said. "And you know surely she must know you and I can't leave.

We have "

He turned to the woman, and spoke directly to her for the first time. "We have a duty; if you know something of what this lady does, you must know she can't deny that duty. Please anything you know would be more than we have now. If we have to work crippled, it would be like sending a wounded dog to pull down a wolf."

Di broke in, her brows creased with concentration. "Drabarni, please you know that what this man says is only the truth. If you know anything we don't, you must tell us!"

The Rom woman trembled at that; she clenched her hands on the table in front of her and spoke in a hurried whisper.

Di started. "Drabarni," she whispered in turn. "Tell me if I have misheard you "

She turned back to Mark with a look of grim achievement. "She says that the evil is very strong because it belongs here. Mark, I think she's saying it's native to this continent!"

They both looked back at the gypsy woman who nodded, slowly. And s.h.i.+vered with an absolute and undeniable terror.

By day the building was just another warehouse; empty, deserted. The company that had used it was bankrupt, the company that owned it having no luck in renting the s.p.a.ce. The building was just another victim of the boom that had gone bust...

By night The Jaguars had always met here; Jimi had an older brother who knew a guy who'd had a job and a key to the place and had never turned the key in when the job went down the tubes with the company. n.o.body bothered to check when he'd told them he'd lost it. After all, what was there to steal in an empty warehouse? So every Jaguar had a key; it was as secure a meeting place as a Moose Lodge.

But now, since Pablo had first met Burning Water it was more than a meeting -place. It was a temple. And now and again like tonight their deity would deign to visit.

Pablo prostrated himself at the feet of the G.o.d. Burning Water was seated beneath the single overhead light that they had turned on, ensconced in a throne made of old packing crates and stolen fur coats. Under the one light, the throne had a certain rough splendor. Burning Water needed nothing special; he shone with his own power, a power that made itself felt all the way across to the door of the warehouse, where two or three new recruits were huddled in slack-jawed awe. The handsome face was transformed by that power into something clearly more than mortal.

Pablo was wearing his full regalia, the outfit that marked him as Burning Water's champion (embroidered loincloth, silver and jade pectoral, and feathered armbands and headpiece), with an almost overweening pride. Tonight was the first night that the G.o.d had permitted him to wear the regalia when not actually in ritual combat. Burning Water was pleased with his champion, and Pablo was ready to dance with joy.

The G.o.d was not alone tonight; he had brought all four of his handmaidens. That meant that certainly he intended to convey something especially important. They stood, garbed in their full regalia, two on either side of the throne. There was Quetzalpetatl, the eldest and most serious of the four, and vacant-eyed Coyolxauhqui on his left, and s.e.xy little Coatlicue and the chief handmaiden, Chimalman, on his right. They were like princesses, all of them, in the headdresses of quetzal feathers, their gold and jade jewelry, and their brocaded skirts and blouses and feathered capes. Even Coyolxauhqui's pale skin and slightly glazed stare (brought on by a little too much mescaline, Pablo thought privately) could not detract from the dignity she wore as naturally as she wore her cape. They stood utterly silent, and utterly graceful; not even the slightest stirring of a feather showed that they moved. And the power of the G.o.d showed, ever so slightly, in their eyes as well.

The concrete was cold, but Pablo hardly felt it. His excitement was more than enough to keep him warm. He trembled, not with chill, but with antic.i.p.ation. He kept his eyes fastened upon Burning Water's face.

"Tomorrow," the G.o.d said at last, the power of his voice making even the simplest words full of portent, "begins the feast of Xipe-Totec."

"Yes, lord," Pablo responded, struggling with the harsh syllables of the Old Tongue. He was learning it but it was harder for him; the magic of putting the words into his mind didn't work quite as well for him as for some of the others, for some reason. He'd been severely depressed about it until the handmaiden called Chimalman told him it was only because he had been gifted with the strengths and skills of the warrior rather than the scholar. Hard-faced Quetzalpetatl had undertaken to tutor him the hard way then; she was the scholar of the four, not much of a magician, her beauty a little more brittle than theirs, but brilliant with words and facts. She would, undoubtedly, become the Lord's chief minister when they ruled this land again, as Chimalman would be his chief warrior, Coyolxauhqui the seer, and Coatlicue she would do what she did best. "Lord, we are ready. We have the ones for the burning and have found the place to trap the ones for the feasting "

"And We shall deal with the other sacrifices of the third day," the G.o.d replied, frowning. Pablo s.h.i.+vered again, wondering what could have caused that frown. "But there is, perhaps, a problem."

"Lord?" Pablo asked, bewildered. He didn't think that there could be anything that could cause the G.o.d a problem.

"There is a witch," the G.o.d said slowly, his eyes darkening with thought. "She seeks for Us. Already she has probed the edges of Our defenses. She is strong, and it would not be wise to rouse her to attack at this time. Therefore We desire you to warn her."

Now Pablo was truly bewildered. "Warn her, lord? How do you mean?"

"We wish you to follow her then strike. Strike and kill. Strike close enough and in such a way that she knows it could have been she you took."

For the first time Chimalman moved. She leaned close to the G.o.d, her eyes blazing with emotions Pablo could not fathom. "The man, lord," the chief handmaiden said viciously, "it should be the man he is a danger as long as you let him live. I, your right hand, say this to you!"

"We have said once the man is not to be harmed." The G.o.d's eyes flamed red with anger, and Pablo cringed. He would not have dared to anger the G.o.d that way.

"Come " Burning Water beckoned imperiously, and Pablo inched forward until his head nearly touched the G.o.d's sandal. The G.o.d leaned forward a little; Pablo closed his eyes and felt the light touch of the G.o.d's hand upon his head, then felt the power of the G.o.d pour through him.

A picture formed against the darkness of his closed lids; a young gringo woman; tiny, big-eyed, long-haired. Pretty piece. For a gringo.

"The woman," said Burning Water.

Another picture took her place; a man, Hispanic, handsome, with more than a little Mestizo in him by the nose and cheekbones.

"The man that you are not to harm," said the G.o.d, forcefully. Chimalman sniffed a little; for her sake Pablo hoped that it was not in derision.

The G.o.d's hand lifted from Pablo's head, leaving behind a tingle of power that filled his whole body with a rush better than the best c.o.ke. "Do you understand what you are to do?"

Pablo lifted his head and his eyes to the face of his G.o.d. "Yes, lord," he said, filled with elation that Burning Water had chosen him for this important task.

The G.o.d settled back into his makes.h.i.+ft throne with a smile of satisfaction.

NINE.

Mark pulled his diminis.h.i.+ng attention away from the heavy, dusty book in his hands, sneezed, and rubbed his blurring eyes. He glanced up at the disgustingly cheerful clock on the kitchen wall, and felt even more tired when he saw what time it was.

Three ack emma. My G.o.d.

The harsh fluorescent light illuminated the mess in the kitchen and their own overtired faces without pity. The room was as deadly silent as a morgue; silent enough that the buzz of the fluorescent fixture was loud and very annoying. The only sign of life was the red light on the coffeemaker; Treemonisha had abandoned them to go curl up on Mark's bed, disgusted at the lack of attention they paid her. The sink was full of unwashed cups and plates, there was water puddled on the gray linoleum floor and coffee sprinkled over the white Formica counter. The white plastic trash can overflowed with pizza boxes and the wrappings from microwave sandwiches, some of which had missed the container and were piled around the foot of the can. The gray Formica table was crowded with the books piled between them and stained with spilled coffee and brown rings from the cups.

Di was still deep in her book, a frown of concentration on her face, one hand holding a forgotten cup of coffee. She looked bad; shadows under her eyes, a prominence to her cheekbones that spoke of too many meals missed at a time where she was using every energy reserve she had.

We've been living mostly on coffee, I guess half the time I never get her back to Aunt Nita's in time for supper. Tonight included. She's got to be running on fumes, and I'll be d.a.m.ned if I know how she's concentrating. Especially on this stuff. I never realized the Plains Indian tribes had so many creative ways of killing people....

They'd gone from the fortune-teller's storefront straight to the university library, using Mark's credentials to cart off as many books about local history and Indian lore as they could carry. Since then they'd been poring through the books, furiously taking notes on anything that seemed relevant, stopping only long enough to microwave a couple of sandwiches and fix more coffee.

Mark shut his book and leaned his head against his hands, closing his burning eyes. Things had been nagging at him and not just this case.

Dammit, we're at a stalemate. And too tired to make any further headway tonight. So; I've got something else I'd like to talk about. Might as well bring this out into the open before it eats at me any more.

"Di " he said, hesitantly, prying his eyes open to look at her.

She shut her book, noticed the cup, frowned, and put it to one side. Then she focused on him and her frown deepened.

"Mark don't tell me you're having a crisis of conscience "