“The gain isn’t worth the risk. Too many ask why they should risk getting bitten, if it only gets them a mad dog on a leash. Leave that mad dog in the wilderness. Mark trees and stones with wards, to keep people away. More runes to keep the roads intact. Let it have the woods for itself.”
“But Conquest wants it.”
“Conquest wants everything. But yes, Conquest wants this in particular.”
“Why?”
“I would be betraying my master if I answered that. Simply see to your task. You have until midnight.”
“Right,” I said.
Again, my eye caught a glimpse of another spirit in the Hyena’s woods.
A ghost, I was pretty sure. A child in a long hooded jacket, running between the trees.
I wasn’t sure, but I hadn’t seen any wounds.
I shivered, settling in for the drive to visit the Knights of the Basement.
Things settled down when we hit the proper road, without the crust of ice. I was left with only my thoughts. The items I’d need, the precautions I’d need to take…
I’d torn the front off a pad of paper, and I pulled the folded paper from my pocket. I began taking notes.
Time flew. Fell didn’t volunteer anything.
“Here,” he said.
A convenience store, with far too many cars parked out front. I was put in mind of a biker gang in some pitifully small town.
With no empty spaces, Fell had to block one car in as he parked.
“Would you like me to wait, or would you prefer I pick you up at a later time?” he asked.
I debated, then said, “Wait, please.”
“They’re expecting you,” he said, gesturing.
I got out.
Not two seconds later, Fell peeled out, tires crunching on snow. He revved as he disappeared down the road.
He’d asked what I preferred, but… hadn’t committed to it.
And he’d promised to deliver me to each location in turn, but… hadn’t promised to bring me home.
Well, at least he hadn’t left me in the goblin’s woods.
I wasn’t halfway to the front of the convenience store when a man sauntered out. A large cat leaped onto the snow-covered railing, then the top of the ice box.
I could see the connection between them.
“Diabolist?” he asked.
“I prefer Blake,” I said.
His saunter had hid the object in his other hand.
He leveled a shotgun at me.
“You have two seconds to keep me from shooting,” he said.
“Stop Conquest?” I asked. No hesitation.
Which amounted to half a second.
He deliberated for a long second.
The shotgun dropped back to his side.
“Come in.”
4.10
The Knights weren’t quite what I’d expected, as far as practitioners went.
I wasn’t sure what I did expect, or why my expectations were high. Laird was… a cop. Sandra was a well dressed, prim woman. Maggie wouldn’t draw any particular attention.
Maybe when I started looking at the likes of Briar Girl or Fell, I could start pointing out odd stuff, but that was more along the lines of Briar Girl not wearing clothes a hundred percent suited to winter, or Fell’s penchant for wearing white. Not something that would turn heads, but it raised an eyebrow if one paid too much attention.
These guys… they were pretty much exactly the sort you’d imagine would be spending their time in a no-name convenience store on a side road in the middle of nowhere. Four of them. Three guys and a woman. Very casual, slouching and entirely at home in their individual seats, a young man behind the counter, man and woman at a table beneath the front window, and Mr. Shotgun standing beside me at the door.
“Blake Thorburn,” I introduced myself.
“Not interested in pleasantries,” Shotgun said. He was thirty-something, with a scraggly mustache and beard, longer hair, jeans, misshapen sweater and lumpy jacket. The large cat lurked near him.
The others were similar. Large t-shirts, jeans, a little tattered. More comfortable than fashionable. The guy sitting by the window was rather heavy, and unshaven, wearing a baseball cap even though it was winter.
“Names make things easier,” I said.
“Names have a kind of power, don’t they?” the youngest of them said. A boy, about fourteen, with a resemblance to Shotgun. No mustache or beard, though, a t-shirt instead of a sweater.
“As far as I’m aware,” I said. “But I suspect there’s a difference between having power and having power over something.”
“How does that work?” Shotgun’s son asked.
“Hush,” Shotgun said. “You’re the enemy of… not an enemy, but a problem. That fair to say?”
“I suppose it is,” I said.
“That doesn’t mean you’re trustworthy. I can’t say I know much about demons or diabolism or any of that, but I’ve got a good eye and a good gut instinct, and one or both are telling me there’s a reason I really wanted to pull the trigger on you, back there.”