The Obsidian Mirror, page 25
Sierra stared at him. Of all the people—and beings—in the room, she knew best exactly how dangerous it was. She knew Jack Clapper. She knew Jenna Simmons. And she had encountered some of Necocyaotl’s other friends, as well. Something shifted inside her, as though the tumblers of a lock were shifting open. She straightened in her seat.
“Didn’t you hear what Chaco said? Quetzalcoatl called me. He asked me for help. He believes that I can do it. And Fred is in danger!” She felt her throat close with emotion and stopped to recover herself. No tears, not now. Things had gone too far. “I don’t think for a moment that I’m equipped for this, but I have to go,” she concluded quietly.
The arguments that followed lasted until Sierra, firmly and with finality, cut them off, pointing out that she didn’t have much time to drive out to Mono Lake, and that being late might cost Fred his life—and would certainly cost him a paw. After that, the little group put their heads together and did some serious planning.
It was a long drive, especially at night. The road through the Sierras, bisecting Yosemite National Park and bypassing Yosemite Valley altogether, was pitch dark on a moonless night. Sierra could see only looming darkness on either side, relieved by moments of terror when deer flashed into the headlights as they sprang into the road. Sierra drove cautiously, peering intently ahead. She kept the radio on to keep herself awake and as a substitute for company in the car. She missed having someone in the car to talk to, and resorted to singing along to the music on the radio. And she tried not to give way to her fears about Fred.
Eventually, she hit the long grade down into the Mono basin. She could see no lights as she descended, but as the grade began to level out, lights began to appear by the side of the road, which eventually ended as it intersected Route 120. The sign informed her that a left turn would take her into Lee Vining, where the package had been posted, while a right turn would take her to Mammoth Lakes. Dawn hadn’t yet broken, and she couldn’t see the lake or anything much beyond the glare of her headlights. She consulted a map briefly. The rendezvous site was south, in the direction of Mammoth, but she needed to pull off the road and get some sleep. She would never be able to recognize the landmarks given in the note as long as it was dark. She turned south on 120 and soon encountered a sign for the Mono Lake Tufa State Reserve. Sierra had never been to Mono Lake before, but like most Californians, she was aware of the weird stone accretions called tufa that grew out of Mono’s salty, alkaline waters.
As she drove cautiously down the dark road, she began to look for a place to pull off and nap. There were no lights and no sign of people around, but she knew that if a ranger or sheriff discovered her, she would be an unwelcome guest outside designated camping areas in the state park. She hadn’t seen a sign for camping since leaving Yosemite. Well, they’ll have to find me first, she thought, pulling off the park road onto a gravel track. The one-lane track was thickly lined with tall brush, and she drove slowly until she was sure she could not be seen from either the main road or the park access road, at least not in this inky blackness.
Sierra shut the engine off, killing the lights, and gasped as the stars flooded the indigo sky with trembling diamonds. She locked the doors and cracked the windows to let in the crisp, dry air of the high desert, redolent with resins from the bushes crowding to either side of the car. She put her seat back and stargazed as she listened to the cooling engine ping and tick, then knew nothing more until the rising sun streamed through the windshield and woke her.
Sierra sat up and began to stretch, but froze mid-extension. She was on a low rise overlooking Mono Lake. With nothing to impede her view, she could see the entire lake where it lay in its rocky basin. Two islands, one white and one dark, floated mid-lake like great birds on the intense blue waters, just touched with pink from the early sun. Flocks of birds, spinning like bits of torn white paper in the wind, wheeled and called above the still waters, and she could see many more of them resting on the water’s surface. The brush surrounding her car was crowded with bright gold flowers, the air spicy with their fragrance. The air was still cool, but the day promised to be warm.
Sierra backed the car carefully down the gravel track and took the park road down to the tufa viewing area. After availing herself of the park restrooms, she breakfasted on an apple and a couple of granola bars, washed down with water from her canteen that she devoutly wished were coffee. She dearly wanted to go see the tufa formations—she could see some of them from the parking lot—but she was taking no chance of missing the noon deadline. She wanted to give herself a margin of time to allow for getting lost in unfamiliar territory.
Sierra turned her car on to Route 120 and headed south. But there were no roadside cafes to be seen. There was little of anything to be seen. Now and again, roads came in from the side, with signs pointing to unknown destinations. She consulted her map several times, anxious that she might have missed the turnoff. Route 120 turned into 395, and still she drove. She bypassed the turnoff to Mammoth Lakes and kept driving. The terrain here was very different than the open, rocky Mono Lake basin. She was in pine forest now, at a much higher elevation. Her stomach growled, having completed digestion of her meager breakfast, and she wished again for a cup of steaming, hot coffee.
Finally, she thought she saw the turnoff. It was an unmarked gravel road, running into the pine trees to the left. She slowed and pulled off the highway. Dust plumed up around her car as it idled, and Sierra consulted the map again. The mileage was right. There was a tall tree to the left of the track that had been scorched by lightening, with a massive granite boulder at its foot, all according to the directions. This had to be the right place. Slowly, she pulled into the one-lane track and began easing over the ruts and rocks in the way.
The track gradually became bumpier and narrower, and she could feel rocks grating on the undercarriage of her car. Finally, the track petered out in a clearing just small enough to turn the car around. Sierra considered this for a moment and decided it would be a good idea to turn the car so that its nose pointed toward the way out. She might need the few extra moments if things got nasty. And things were bound to get nasty, she reflected grimly.
Sierra exited the car and shouldered her backpack. She locked the car, wondering when—and if—she would see it again.
She stood for a moment in the small clearing, listening. She could hear her car’s engine ticking, the wind sighing through the pine needles overhead, and birds chirping. The occasional whoosh of a car on the road was audible, but there were no other sounds, and she could see no other living thing, barring the green growing things all around her. The dust from her drive down the track was settling, and its dry, piney scent coated her nostrils. Nothing but the winds and the birds moved, but her senses were all on edge, the hair on her arms bristling as though there were an electrical storm. She began to follow the trail deeper into the woods.
As she walked, her uneasiness grew. She felt as though there were unfriendly eyes fastened on her back, and she was grateful for the pack, which felt like a barrier between her and an attack from the rear. She slipped her hand into the pocket of her jeans, her fingers closing over the hardness of the silver feathers, warmed from her body heat. She hadn’t made them into a necklace yet, having had little free time. Given recent events, she hadn’t seen the point of doing so, either.
She walked farther into the woods, scanning her surroundings for the landmarks mentioned in the directions. There was the stump of a huge tree, felled a hundred or more years ago. There was a waterfall on her right, pouring down from still-melting snows higher in the mountains. Once or twice she froze like a startled rabbit, thinking she had heard soft footsteps behind her. But each time, there was nothing to be seen. Finally, when she estimated she was about halfway to her destination, she stopped and sat on a large chunk of granite. She listened intently for a few seconds, hearing nothing untoward, and took her canteen out. She was sweating heavily—not the honest sweat of exertion, but the cold, roiling sweat of fear. She thought about the ghastly heads that had first attacked her and about Mahaha. She knew there were more fearsome things than these at the bidding of Necocyaotl, and the sense of being alone and vulnerable, with nothing but the feathers’ dubious protection between her and some monster, was exacting a heavy toll. Sierra swallowed thirstily, glad now that she had water and not coffee.
She never heard the step behind her, and she never felt the blow that felled her to the pine-needle-strewn forest floor.
Chapter 31
“Is it safe?” whispered Kaylee to Mama Labadie. They were crouched in the shelter of the trees surrounding Jumlin’s estate. The mambo had just finished muttering something under her breath, scattering salt and a reddish dust around the gathered group. Each member of the little group responded according to his or her nature. Chaco stood calmly watching. Clancy stood impassive, his face betraying nothing but an occasional flicker of discomfort or embarrassment. Rose gazed with interest, her hand grasping a doeskin bag hanging from a thong about her neck, while Kaylee clutched at her stone vévé, fingers slick with anxious perspiration.
“Done,” whispered Mama Labadie. The whites of her eyes flashed in the light from a nearby street lamp as Rose moved forward and began murmuring. She reached into the doeskin bag and began sprinkling cornmeal as she chanted almost inaudibly under her breath. The group waited in silence until the chanting ceased. Chaco suddenly bristled, scenting the air.
“Wait here!” he growled, melting into his coyote shape like a candle in a house fire, then darting into the darkness.
The little group waited in silence, sometimes tensing as a car passed along the street, hoping that the headlights wouldn’t catch them loitering by the walls of a gated Atherton estate. When a police cruiser turned into the road and began driving leisurely by them, everyone seemed to stop breathing, and eyes were closed to prevent their reflecting in the car’s headlights. When it disappeared down the street without slowing, everyone finally relaxed and began to breathe again. This was obviously not the kind of neighborhood where small, huddled groups of people could go unremarked. There were no sidewalks and few streetlamps. Long stretches of hedging or stone walls, uninterrupted by anything except automatic driveway gates, marked the outlines of palatial estates. There was no one else on foot—only an occasional long, sleek car swooshing by to indicate the presence of other people.
As they stood under the moonless sky, Chaco slid back out of the bushes and once again became a man. He was slightly out of breath and his brow was furrowed with worry.
“He’s gone,” Chaco reported. “The house is empty.” They looked at him blankly.
“Maybe he’s just out for the night,” suggested Kaylee. “Maybe he’ll be back later.”
Chaco shook his head. “No, I mean the house is empty,” he repeated. “No furniture, no servant, nothing. The basement is just as Sierra described it, though—the murals on the walls, anyway. There’s no altar, no obsidian mirror. Jumlin’s packed and gone. I’m sorry, Mama Labadie, Rose. I thought we would need some additional help here. But it looks like we wasted your time.”
The two women began to speak, but Clancy cut in, “What about Sierra?” His voice was sharp-edged. “She’s out there with no protection, alone, and we don’t know where any of these characters are. They may all be after her—we know for sure some of them are. I’m going after her. Now!” He turned on his heel and began striding away, sticks and gravel crunching under his feet.
“Wait,” called Rose in her soft voice. Clancy hesitated, then turned back toward them. “You’re right, Clancy,” Rose said. “But we need to stick together. We don’t want to be like those people in the horror movies who split up and get picked off, one by one.” Clancy’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t actually smile. “We still don’t know what role this Jumlin creature is playing, but we do know where Sierra was heading. I suggest we head out there, too, but we can’t just blunder around. Let’s take the time to plan this out—we can’t put Sierra in more danger than she is already.”
Clancy stood still as a statue for a few moments, then nodded. ”Okay. Let’s head back to Sierra’s house to talk—if we stay here, someone’s going to decide we’re up to no good and call the police.”
Back at Sierra’s house, the group was restless and had difficulty settling down to confer. Clancy finally barked at them and they obediently sat in the living room. Silence prevailed. Each looked at the others, hoping someone else had a brilliant idea. The silence grew oppressive, the ticking of Sierra’s kitchen clock louder. Finally, all eyes turned to Chaco, who had been sitting quite still with his strange eyes closed and a strained expression on his lean face.
Chaco opened his eyes and looked around at their expectant faces. “Why are you all looking at me?” he inquired peevishly.
“Possibly because you’re the only god present in the room?” Clancy suggested nastily. “The only one who has supernatural powers at his beck and call. The only one who can find Quetzalcoatl—and we could really use his help right now. If he can be bothered.”
Chaco shot Clancy a look of irritated frustration. “I’m not exactly a god, any more than you’re a exactly a cop!” Chaco and Clancy glowered at each other.
“Okay, let’s not get our panties in a bunch,” interjected a rich, low voice. Mama Labadie looked from Chaco to Clancy. “If someone wanted to explain one or two things to me, I might be more helpful.” No trace of the Caribbean accent remained in her voice. She was wearing a smartly cut black jacket over tailored trousers, and looked nothing like the exotic figure that had danced over Sierra’s prone body. The only trace of the voodoo priestess that remained was her jewelry, large beads of green and red stones carved with symbols. The chunky beads looked as au courant as the rest of her outfit.
Kaylee looked contrite. “I’m sorry, Mama—should I call you that? Or by the other name? The one you use at work?”
“Mama Labadie is just fine, girl. Get on with it—when you called me out tonight you didn’t give me a lot of data. All you said was come quick, ‘cause you and your friends needed protection. Other than that, I know squat.” She sat back, her full lips compressed, thin eyebrows arched, waiting for answers.
Rose nodded. “I could use more information as well,” she said quietly. “If Coyotl is involved, it must be a great cause, but unless Mama Labadie and I understand what we’re dealing with here, we’ll be useless to you—and to Sierra.”
“They got Fred,” Kaylee choked on a sob, and her words tumbled over one another like pebbles in a stream as the story came rushing out. Chaco and Clancy filled in details, and Mama Labadie and Rose asked questions until the entire tale was told. Finally, words were spent, and Chaco gave Mama Labadie and Rose the two halves of the plaster imprint of Fred’s little paw.
After examining this for a minute, Mama Labadie looked up. “You say these semiconductors are everywhere? Cell phones, TVs, microwave ovens—all over the world?”
“Yes,” responded Chaco. “That’s how they were able to spread this evil so easily. But it seems that some are immune to it, and some are not. We don’t know why.”
“Hmmm,” she said and fell silent, turning the piece of plaster over and over in her long-fingered hands, not seeming to see it.
“I presume,” said Rose in her soft voice, “That you have tried to call Quetzalcoatl?”
They all nodded unhappily. Chaco hung his head, seeming to feel it was more his fault than the others’. “Yes,” he replied drearily. “We even went back to the statue in the park, but—nothing.”
“Well, I suggest we ask for some guidance from Quetzalcoatl. Maybe he will come—maybe not—but it can’t hurt. Then I suggest we figure out how to find Sierra and provide some backup for her without getting her killed.” Rose removed the doeskin bag from her neck and began removing objects from its depths. As Rose sang, waving sweet smoke from her sage bundle over their heads, Kaylee and Chaco joined in and Clancy fidgeted, but Mama Labadie just turned the broken piece of plaster over and over in her hands, staring at nothing.
Sierra opened her eyes and winced. Her head was throbbing, her mouth was dry, and she was tied up like a fly in a spider’s web. Not again! she thought, testing her bonds, Shit! Shit! Shit! The ropes that bound her were tight enough to be painful, and she had lost feeling in her fingers and toes. She was lying on something cold and hard; she fervently hoped it was not a stone altar. There seemed to be something wrong with her eyes; light was flickering crazily, sending stabs of pain through her skull. She shut them again.
She must have lost consciousness again. When next she opened her eyes, the light was still flickering, but the pain in her head had subsided a bit. She could hear voices. Depressingly familiar voices. She shut her eyes and didn’t move, listening intently, straining to hear the words.
“…and brought them here,” said a smooth, tenor voice. “And a blood sacrifice as well.”
“What makes you think you can just barge in here and take over?” asked Jack Clapper, clearly both annoyed and aggressive. Sierra’s skin crawled. Two of the most frightening men she had ever met. And one wasn’t even a man.
Sierra opened her lids a crack. The resulting scene was nearly enough to make her pass out again. She was lying on the floor of the stone hall she had seen in her visions—but this was no vision. Loose rocks poked into her back and she could feel the pounding of the blood in her cramped limbs. She was freezing. Her body was sending her sensory information from every quarter—largely painful sensory information—in a way that made it clear this was no dream. At one end of the hall—the loathsome altar, placed in front of an impossibly large, sheer slab of gleaming black stone. An obsidian mirror. Its midnight facets shone and flashed in the light from torches placed in sconces down each side of the hall. And, crawling across the walls’ surfaces, the brightly painted scenes of torture, sacrifice, suffering, and death. Sierra felt her gorge rise and swallowed repeatedly to make the urge subside. She wanted to call no attention to herself at that moment. Or ever, for that matter.
