The Keeper Ch. 28-31

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Interlude

Everybody in the congregation of the Christian Church of Truth said that the pastor's daughter, Charity, was the best-behaved little girl to come along in a while. They all said as much so when they patted her head and added a "bless her heart." They also knew that her mother was a whore, a godless witch who left a good and godly man, no doubt chasing after some sweet-talking fancy man, three months after giving birth to Charity.

Her daddy and her Aunt Sophia raised her to be a good girl--but because she had the taint of her mamma's blood as her aunt reminded her over and over, her loving aunt needed to keep a constant watch for the evil that was surely deep in her nature. Any sass was met with a belt beating. Aunt Sophia gave out a lot of those.

Swift and severe punishment was the road to redemption.

When her daddy and auntie died in a car wreck, Charity didn't miss them much, but she was lonesome -- real lonesome until the day she found Dolly in one of her adventures in the attic of the group home where they sent her to live.

She finally had a friend. She spent hours talking to Dolly and listening as well, of course because Dolly had many interesting secrets to tell.

When she was nine years old, a boy snatched Dolly from her and he wouldn't give it back. He just kept laughing at her and jumping away every time she grabbed for it.

"Awww, are you going to cry big baby," he taunted, as he swung the doll over his head by the hair.

"Stop it! Give her back! You're gonna hurt her!" she cried out at him, lunging again to get her doll back.

Finally, she managed to get a grip on the dolly's legs. The boy pulled back. Between the two of them, Dolly's neck could not take the stress and snapped. The little girl fell backward into the dirt, holding the headless doll in her hands.

She cried piteously, mourning her only friend.

The boy laughed as he threw the head into the dirt and walked away.

Unfortunately for him, Dolly had schooled little Charity well.

"A curse on your head I place..." She pricked her finger with the silver needle she'd been given to get some blood and sang/chanted the words she'd been taught.

The boy was laughing and doing the mocking dance for his friends atop the low stone wall when he lost his balance and fell on a big rock. He gashed his head open and there was lots of blood and the ambulance had to come.

Charity felt a flicker of remorse. The fall looked like it hurt something terrible, but as Dolly whispered, he deserved it.

For the first time, deep down, a dark part of little Charity exulted in the power. Another part of her, the part that the folks who worshiped in her little country church would have named her soul, called out dire warnings, but the other part flush with the satisfaction that comes with justified anger tamped it down.

It wouldn't be the last time in her life she got a little payback on those who should know better than to be mean to her.

The funeral was a nice one, everyone said so. Little Charity sat in the back with a secret smile on her angelic face. Beside her, although no one could see him was a faerie and his help was acid that ate at the soul.

For the first time, Little Charity realized she had talent. She never forgot the rich sweet syrupy taste of it in action. As a result, when the Aunties from Emory came with their promises to "rescue her" she went eagerly. She was sad that her dolly had to go away, but happy when dolly left careful instructions to keep dolly a secret and all the ways she could call her back when she needed her by using some blood and simple spells.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Charity Babbitt stood outside the meeting hall at Sisco Heights more than a little alarmed. Her mind was slipping. She stood in the parking lot and for the life of her, she couldn't remember her name. The last few weeks have been like that. Whole stretches of time seemed to fade from her grasp. Blackouts. Increasingly she was having trouble maintaining her shields that disguised the taint of the blood magic. What was more worrisome was that she sometimes forgot why she needed them. She had such glorious power she wanted to show them all.

She did remember that she had to call the Druid and inform him of the meeting as well as her failures. She had initiated the call in a high state of anxiety and not a little resentment.

It wasn't her fault.

She was starting to hate that damned Lachlan Quinn. Three times she had tried to kill him, and three times she had failed. She could see why her sisters feared the Keeper's Boy. He was just too powerful.

"I expected this," the druid said. "Your incompetence is rapidly diminishing your value to me."

Surprisingly and suspiciously, he didn't seem all that upset.

"You have two main tasks now. Two simple tasks: The first--since you failed to end the boy, I have had to retain the Brotherhood. They will select a being to come and take care of things. Follow the boy, set up an ambush site somewhere out-of-town then perform the summoning to bring the assassin across the Thinning. I assume you have the strength for that?"

Charity nodded, but she wasn't at all sure that she could. It took a huge amount of power just to summon the faerie.

"The second is the shifter girl. Use that faerie you have hanging around you to lure the girl to you--use some imagination for once instead of brute force. Meet me at the Keeper's cabin when you get her. She is the only one, besides the boy, who can get me into the house. I have to have that book."

"I'm going to need something to call in the assassin," she said.

He tossed her a coin. "Use this and hand it to whatever they send when it finishes its task. Don't forget."

She wasn't worried about getting the shifter girl, she was terrified about failing to bring the assassin across. Where was she going to find the power to do that? She remembered how he punished mistakes and decided she would call up the faerie for help.

She needed to get back to her house to summon it just as soon as she could remember who brought her here, she didn't see her car in the parking lot.

Chapter Thirty

The next morning, Quinn arrived at Anna's to find the place in chaos. Her carefully tended garden looked like a tornado had passed through. Row after row of carefully tended lavender was uprooted and scattered, as were the vegetables and tomato plants. He found her kneeling beside a stand of lilies that were smashed flat.

She looked up at him with tears in her eyes and pointed. A Thumbelina-sized sprite lay broken among the lilies.

"They killed her. She tried her best to protect her lilies, poor thing."

Saria is not going to take this well. The sprites were her kin.

"Who did this?"

Anna ignored the question. "They had no call to do this," she said dully.

He asked again. His voice was harsh and cold as ice. "Who did this Anna?"

"Two mother-damned boggles. You can see their tracks all over the place. Something must have stirred them up. They are like weasels. When the frenzy strikes--they destroy for the joy of it."

Anna cocked her head, then strode to the ancient lightning-struck cedar. Her arm shot out as quick as a snake and came up with a small hob dangling from her right hand.

"Look what I found stalking here. This hob is a spy for sure." she sang in fluting low-alfar, "it can't keep its nose out of other people's business. It will get its nose cut off someday. Might be today. Might be it is the being that did all this damage."

"Not spy," it piped and squealed as she gave it a shake. "Did not do this bad thing. Curious about the new Keeper is all."

"Good morning Singer and Song bless you, Master Hob," Quinn sang politely. "Do you ken what I am?"

The elf peered at him with near-sighted eyes, then his greenish-brown face filled with terror. He nodded jerkily in Anna's grip.

"Yes, Master, you are the Vísdómur's Shadow Walker. Please, Master, don't kill me."

"Talk truth then, O Hob, and tell me. Have you seen the interlopers who violated this place?"

"Singer and Song bless you, master," the brownie took a deep breath and shook himself loose from Anna's grip, glared at her, and brushed the twigs and leaves from his green fur. He bowed deeply to Quinn.

"There were a faerie. Very tall. A male. It whispered and whispered. The two boggles, they howled and howled in a fury. They are the beings who tore up Mistress Anna's grove. The tall faerie had a mangled hand."

"My thanks," Quinn sang. "If you ever find yourself in need, you may call on me."

The brownie scampered off into the forest, but not before stopping at the edge of the undergrowth and finger signaled an alfar curse at Anna.

"He will look to take advantage," she grumbled. "The hob folk are nothing but disgusting tricksters. It is never a good idea to encourage his kind."

"I know him and he recognized me. He wouldn't risk a lie. Wait here, Anna. I'm going to have a chat with those Boggles."

***

Quinn slid into the underbrush without a sound.

The Boggle's camp was not a pretty place. Set in a meadow surrounded by ancient cedar trees, it was strewn with scraps of bone and fur from the prey they trapped. The Boggles were goblins, the largest and most vicious of the species. They were omnivore hunter-gatherers. Intelligent enough, Quinn knew but given to violent mood swings because of the mushrooms adults and young consumed as an intoxicant. The clan had an easy life, the Opari teamed with ready prey and thousands of edible plants.

Quinn stepped into their meeting circle, sat down, and waited for the tribe to return from their daily hunt.

A triumphant hooting heralded the clan's return, which ceased abruptly as they spied Quinn sitting calmly in the comfortable space reserved for their chief.

The chief, its skin gray and hair white with age stepped forward.

"We eat you soon, human." He grated in low Alfar. "First though we play pain game with you."

"Sligurd, do you recognize me," Quinn sang softly.

"I do not know you, human. How you know Sligurd of the Ninth Clan. You dare to trespass?"

Quinn sighed and loosed the dragon whip. The whip flared out and snapped around the chief's neck.

"Sit down, Sligurd. Tell your clan to step back.' Quinn sang louder now. "Goblin, I asked you once. I ask you twice. Do not make me ask you thrice. Do you know what I am?"

"Aye, Master, I know who you be," The goblin, thoroughly cowed, sank to his knees. The clan followed with a moan.

"Your clan broke the Keeper's Law. The witch Anna's hut was ransacked. What say you Sligurd?"

"No. It was not the clan," the goblin seemed honestly offended. "We do not venture close to the border. We do not bother witch -- is forbidden."

"What of your outliers?"

Boggle bands always traveled with scouts to the front, back and sides. The Opari teemed with predators. Scouting was dangerous work and thus fell to the young males. A chief had a perfect tool to weed out any overly aggressive youth who might threaten him.

"They see nothing," the goblin's eyes narrowed with calculation as he eyed Quinn. His bluster slowly returned now that Quinn hadn't harmed anyone. Predictable. Quinn sighed, he watched and waited.

"The thing is, goblin, one of Opari's sprites was slain," Quinn called the whip back, then abruptly snap-flashed the shrieking whip into the middle of the watching boggles to remove the pointer finger of a big goblin male who had been fingering his knife.

His howl of agony echoed in the glen.

"Goblin, I am losing patience. If another being threatens, I will slaughter the lot of you," Quinn sang harshly. The Boggles had two responses to outsiders--absolute aggression or cloying obsequiousness. He had to keep the upper hand. He really didn't want to hurt these creatures. He could feel the Other's disapproval. As far as it was concerned, a warning was poor tactics. He mentally took a firm grasp on his temper.

"Bring your outliers forth. Now!"

"Ozz and Oild, come."

The others hurriedly pushed two small boggles to the front of the pack. They stood heads hanging down, feet shifting nervously.

"It was faerie. Bad hand faerie. Liar. Promised treasures so we can make our own clan.

"What was the faerie's name? The one with the mangled hand. The one who promised you some treasure?" He knew very well that these two young beings standing like delinquent teenagers were not at fault. He was not there to punish or enforce Keeper Law. He wanted the faerie.

"Deldrach, master. He promised I and Oild a bag of red rubies. Then he gave a spelling to make us strong. I don't remember after that.

The other youngling sang with a resentful tone, "it lied the faerie did, it went away and left us there. We did not mean any harm."

"The sprite attacked us. She stabbed Oild with a spear."

Oild emphatically pointed to his arm.

Quinn nodded his notice of the tiny wound.

"Where did the faerie say he was off too?

"He said he would fetch our rubies from Oldtown."

Quinn turned to the Chief. "Goblin, your tribe hunts too close to the border. Do not do so again."

The chief nodded quickly after shooting a glare at the two youngsters.

"You will meet with the sprites and provide wergild for the death of the little one. These two are to be punished but not harmed. None of you could stand against a faerie's trickery."

***

When he got back to Anna's, Saria was there helping clean up the mess. Quinn pitched in and they were soon finished with most of the damage when a little voice sounded from the porch behind them.

"Where's my mama?

The little wolf girl with her hair all a-tangle stood on Anna's porch swathed in a blanket. Her eyes were filled with tears as she looked around.

"I want my mama. Where is she?"

"Well, you're finally awake, sleepy head," Anna said. "Let's get you dressed and get some breakfast. How do scrambled eggs sound? "

Anna led her inside to feed her and get her dressed and then came back holding the little girl's hand. The little girl's solemn eyes watched as Quinn walked over to her. She was alert and clear-eyed, almost a different girl.

"Hello, little one. Will you tell me what your name is?"

"Katrinka, do you know where my mama is?"

"No, I don't, little wolf, but I promise I will keep you safe till we find her."

Quinn's next thought was:

This is why you should have stayed the fuck away from witches.

Chapter Thirty-One

Quinn found himself riding in silence with Anna and the little girl back to town. The little girl sat close beside him. He tried to ignore her, but her steady stare was unsettling.

Very unsettling.

To add to his confusion, his mind was running around in circles trying to figure out what to do with her. Somehow it had become his job to make sure she was okay. He had enough experience with the System to know she was never going to go there if he had to run for the rest of his life to keep her out.

But he wished she would quit with the staring.

He gave her a side-eye and was surprised when her little head snapped to the side to peer out the passenger side window.

A faint scream had sounded.

"Bad things," She murmured, "Wrongness."

Anna was looking at her with an expression of absolute shock.

Quinn stopped the truck and backed up to the driveway of the farmyard they had just passed. He wrenched the wheel and pulled in.

Anna switched her shocked gaze from the little girl to him.

"What are you doing? This is old Edna's place."

"Something's wrong. Didn't you hear the scream? Can't hurt to check it out." Quinn had far too much experience with fey feelings to ignore them.

An old run-down farmhouse squatted at the end of the driveway. The place looked like it hadn't cared for a long time. A rusty old pickup stood in the driveway. A ramshackle barn and corral lay in the background. The corral held a starved-looking mustang horse, its head hung low, a picture of silent misery.

Underlying all the disorder was the scent of apricots and blood.

Quinn turned his attention to the barn.

Chanting.

The apricot smell grew stronger.

His glyphs flared hot. He could feel his hair standing on end. Massive waves of magic blossomed out of the barn.

A triumphant shriek sounded, and half of the barn disappeared behind a widening warp in the fabric of reality. Through it, Quinn could see a night sky lit by two enormous moons. A cold wind blew out of it bringing the dank smell of bog and swamp.

Alfheim, the land of the Sidhe. Quinn remembered the place very well--he'd spent a lot of time in the world of the Sidhe.

A keening wail echoed. It rose in pitch until it passed beyond human hearing.

"Sweet Mother of All, what is that?" Anna asked. Her normally tan face was pale.

"The hunting cry of a Soul Reaper," Quinn said absently. "The Algonquin sorcerers used to call them the Wendigo. They are members of the Dökkálfar assassin brotherhood, the Drygioni."

The Hag strode out of the barn with a triumphant expression on her wrinkled face. "Not a coven in a million could have summoned a Reaper from across the rift, but I did it alone."

"With blood magic, sister," Anna said with disgust.

"The covens are far too timid, sister. This is a glorious power." She stretched her arms out to the side and spoke.

"Kill them, my beauty, save for the shifter girl."

While the Hag ranted. Quinn watched the Reaper. He had always thought they looked like a cross between a tall man and giant bone-white praying mantis. Stick-thin, huge hands hung on arms far too long for its torso, it looked awkward, ill-constructed--but reapers were killers without many peers. A shift in the breeze bought its scent to him. Swamp smell mixed with the brimstone smell of the rift warp.

Quinn breathed deep, quickly working his way into his centering discipline. He whispered his battle mnemonic:

"My name is Lachlan Joseph Quinn--Venu la bataille, vient la mort," Come Battle-Come Death. His Other to come to the fore--and--MERGED.

Lachlan Quinn became what the Vísdómur had forged--a perfect weapon--a pure killer with thousands of days and nights of fights like this. Humanity ground away so only death remained.

The reaper's head swiveled from the little girl and Anna back to him. Crystal green multifaceted eyes fixed on him.

"Oh Reaper,' Quinn sang. "I foretell your true death this day."

He was centered--perfectly merged with the Other. A thousand details that had gone unnoticed now came into focus. He could hear the heartbeats of the surrounding creatures. He sensed the reaper's heartbeat elevate. His boldness made it slightly apprehensive.

It advanced toward Quinn in an awkward-looking stilt-stepping walk that for all its clumsy look covered ground quickly.

It muttered to itself in the distinctive whistles and clicks of low Alfar:

"Lovely. A human, a wolf-kin, and a high circle witch. What a gift. A touch of rage and fear, what perfect spice. You all will soon gift me your terror-struck souls when I take your lives. Never doubt it."

The Reaper scuttled closer. Long delicate fingers swept its cloak aside and drew a falcata so black it seemed to absorb any light that fell on it.

He settled into the sharp-edged combat mode the Vísdómur had taught: