Mountain Echoes (The Walker Papers) (19 page)

Morrison shrugged his eyebrows, faintly impressed. “What are the Iroquois doing down here, then? I thought they were from the Northeast.”

“They were, but they moved south and west when the settlers came. There was a huge war that got smeared all over the countryside as resources got scarcer. Mostly beaver pelts, I think.” I wished I’d studied it more, but nobody had warned me I’d be in need of real-life application of the knowledge. “Besides, even if I’m wrong about when, the what is pretty obvious. Wholesale slaughter, captivity and death. And it’s all being dumped into Aidan, who’s going to bring all that misery back to our time once everybody here is dead.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to go in and get him before that happens. There’s a little tiny bit of good news out there. You see those flashes?” I pointed down, then glanced at Morrison again, making sure the Sight was still working in him.

It was. His blue eyes were gold, utterly unearthly with his silver hair. Oblivious to my shiver, he looked where I was pointing and nodded.

“That’s white magic.” I winced. “Life magic. Positive magic. Not magic performed by white guys. You know what I mean.” Morrison nodded and I fumbled on. “Basically it means there’s someone down there doing what they can to stop this. Iroquois or Huron shamans, maybe. Someone who hasn’t been corrupted or captured yet, anyway. We’re not going for Aidan right away. We’re going to go see if we can team up with whoever’s on our side, and maybe together we’ll have a better chance at stopping this.”

Morrison took his attention from the massacre below. “Walker, I hate to ask, but how far are we going to go to stop this?”

“You mean am I going to do down there and shoot Aidan if I have to?”

Morrison nodded. I set my jaw. “Yeah. If I have to. In the leg or arm or something where it’ll get his damned attention. It’s about the worst idea I’ve ever had, but if I can shock him into breaking free for even an eye blink I can get inside and try to help him fight the wights and the mark the Executioner left.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“It will.”

“But if it doesn’t?”

“It will.”

A smile cracked Morrison’s face. “That may be why I love you. All right. How do we get in there without getting killed?”

“That,” I said, “I can manage. I invented an invisibility cloak thing ages ago. The only danger is whether the wights or Aidan notice I’m working magic, but I think they’re involved enough in what they’re doing, or they’d have already wiped that guy out.” I nodded again toward the intermittent flashes of power struggling to hold against the tide of blood. Morrison took my hand, and I called up just about the oldest trick I knew, bending light around us in a sphere of
“we’re not here.”

“We’re good. Let’s go.”

Morrison hesitated. “I can still see us.”

“Look with the Sight.”

He blinked a few times, then bobbled witen stilh surprise. The shields around us warped the world beyond just a little, light refracted ever so slightly wrong. “Too bad we can’t use this on police raids.”

“Just as well. Imagine how many drug runners would get off by declaring their rights violated by magic.”

“If any of them dared admit it.” We shut up after that, concentrating on barreling our way down the low mountains and into a battlefield. I wished the invisibility shield worked both ways, so I didn’t have to see the myriad ways people could die by edged and blunt weapons. Our feet became
caked with mud and gore, and the smell went from bad to worse to vomit-inducing. Morrison kept me going after I did throw up, and for a few minutes I wasn’t certain if he would get through with his innards intact. But we weren’t hampered by fighters attacking us, and I was happy using my shields to keep them farther away than they might naturally have come.

Grim with determination, we worked our way toward the irregular sparks of healing magic that burst through the gloom, until suddenly we were in the heart of a pitched battle, men dying and killing all around, and the frantic blip of light was immediately in front of us. I risked it all, dropped the invisibility shield and bellowed, “Hello?”

The blood turned to roses, and my father walked out of the chaos.

Chapter Eighteen

My knees cut out. Morrison caught me, which took faster reflexes than most people possessed. I wrapped my fingers around his biceps, trying not to collapse further as emotion hammered through me. Mostly shock, but also relief and a vast surge of anger.

I swear to God, Dad hadn’t aged a day in the years since I’d last seen him. His black hair was still worn long but not loose: it was braided now, falling over his shoulder in a thick chunk. He was barefoot—my father never wore shoes if he could avoid it—and clad in jeans and an unbuttoned plaid shirt.

He hadn’t aged, but he had changed. His eyes, at least, had changed. They blazed yellow, as gold as mine ever got. Or they did for half a second, anyway. Then they snapped back to ordinary brown, though his pupils were so large they just about ate all the brown. The misting rose petals became blood again.

Morrison, who was the only one who could find his voice, and apparently his sense of humor, as well, said, “Joseph Walkingstick, I presume,” and stepped forward, me in tow, to offer a hand. “Michael Morrison. It’s a relief to find you, sir.”

Dad shook Morrison’s hand absently, like it was more or less reasonable to be meeting modern-dressed white men in the middle of seventeenth century Indian wars, and finally managed to say,
“Joanne?”

Somebody chucked a spear at us. I snapped my hand up, strengthening shields that didn’t need it, and the weapon bounced away. A brief, startled silence rushed through the warriors around us, and a few more slings and arrows came our way. They all bounced off, too, and that was that. They went back to slaughtering each other, evidently satisfied that we were insufficiently easy targets.

Dad’s eyes glimmered gold again, then widened. I supposed he was checking out my shields, my aura, my whole general shamanic showcase. A mix of regret and pride slid across his face, sharpening the line of his cheekbones. I’d gotten his cheekbones and Mom’s nose, making for some fairly prominent features. My eyes were between theirs, too, hazel to Mom’s green and t. uts. IDad’s brown. They tended to pick up more of the green, but the power-indicating gold reminded me more of Dad. And I had Dad’s shamanic magic and my mother’s magery running in my veins, setting me on the rare warrior’s path.

Oh, yeah. I was my parents’ child, through and through.

“Aidan is here.” Even I was surprised at the coldness of my voice. “Is Lucas?”

Dad’s expression went flat. So did something inside of me. He said, “I’m sorry,” and a wall of white noise rose up, drowning out the sounds of battle in a static rush. Morrison didn’t, or couldn’t, catch me this time: after a while I became aware I was on my knees, fingers dug into the red mucky earth, and that my breathing was harsh and shuddering. Scalding tears dripped from my eyes, still hot as they hit the backs of my hands while I stared wide-eyed and barely seeing at the ground beneath me.

I hadn’t seen Lucas Isaac in more than thirteen years. I hadn’t been much looking forward to it, either, because the best way I could imagine a reunion turning out was awkwardly. I’d wanted the chance, though. I’d wanted to see how he’d grown up.

That wasn’t exactly true. I did want to know how he’d grown up, but what I meant by that, in my heart of hearts, was that I’d wanted to see if he’d apologize for having been a chickenshit and running back to Vancouver. I’d long since accepted we’d never been fated for a happily ever after, and while I understood why he’d done it, I still thought if he’d grown up well he might have apologized.

Dad started talking again, or maybe he was repeating something he’d already said. “...called me Sunday afternoon, after he hadn’t come back from an overnight camping trip in the mountains. He had his compass, and plenty of food and water, but...”

“Why hadn’t she gone with him?” That was Morrison, the consummate professional.

A smile flickered through Dad’s voice. “Sara is the five-star-hotel camping type. She never liked getting out into the woods and getting dirty. She likes things tidy.” The sound of the smile faded. “So I went up to where she’d dropped him off and followed his trail. It wasn’t hard. He’d gone to—” He hitched, and I felt the weight of his gaze on me. I didn’t look up. My breathing was still ragged. “He’d set up camp in a hollow Joanne used to visit, a couple miles back in the hills.”

My stomach dropped again and I bent closer to the ground, making fists to put my forehead against. I knew where Dad was talking about. It had been my sanctuary, far enough from town I couldn’t hear anything but the loudest engines or the occasional airplane. I’d pretended I was a remote survivor of the olden days, or a modern one thrown back in time. That was where the time-travel game had come from, the one Morrison had evidently never played. I’d brought Lucas there because it was special to me, and I was trying so hard to make him like me. I hadn’t been back since I’d realized I was pregnant. I wondered how often Lucas had gone back.

Dad answered the question without meaning to. “You’ll want to go, Jo...anne.”

Jo.
The nickname my father had used for me all my life, no matter how much I protested. He was Joe, I was Jo, like I was some not-quite-good-enough not-a-boy knockoff. I’d come around to rather liking it since Gary started using it, but it still left a mark when Dad said it. He could keep right on calling me Joanne forever, as far as I was concerned. I got hung up on that instead of thinking about why Dad thought I should go back to the holler I’d once er koff. I’shared with Lucas. It was better that way.

Dad went back to talking to Morrison, since I was clearly not going to participate in this conversation. “He camped overnight, and I think he must have decided to find another route home. It took him through the Nothing Holler.” There was no doubt in his voice that we knew what he was talking about. We were here, after all, on the wrong end of time, and we’d gotten here somehow. “His trail led right into it. I followed, but I was too late. It came out here, and I think he must have died before he even knew what had happened. I’m sorry, Joanne. I know you liked him.”

“I barely knew him. Sara is going to be destroyed.” It was pure displacement and I knew it, but I had to do something that would let me get on my feet again. If shoving Lucas’s death into a box was what it took, that’s what I would do. Later I would let myself wonder if Aidan had known him at all, and what the news would do to him. I shut that thought down.
Later.

It took everything I had to get up. Morrison put a hand under my elbow, supporting me, and it took everything I had not to shake him off, too, which wasn’t at all fair to him. My jeans were filthy with blood and mud, and my hands were only clean in the spots where tears had fallen. The coat, the ridiculous gleaming white coat, still gleamed white, unaffected by the mess I’d pressed it against. That was what good guys did, wore white. Made themselves targets, so no one else would get shot at.

Lucas Isaac had not deserved to get shot down, and I was going to wreak some unholy vengeance in his name.

“How did you
get
here, Jo?”

I snarled,
“Joanne,”
and saw Morrison’s surprise as much as Dad’s recoil as I continued, still snarling. “The Nothing killed Carrie Little Turtle and six, no, thirteen others. At least half of them rose again as wights. They kidnapped Aidan—” which was playing fast and loose with accuracy but was close enough for government work “—and when Morrison and I went after him they used Aidan’s power to open a window to this place. Morrison and I got sucked in, but we weren’t tied into the death magic here, so we ended up in a different location. It took us three days to get here. And all that time Aidan has been sucking down death magic. When everybody here is dead, they’re going back to the future—” and I had been trying so hard to avoid that phrase “—and they’re going to release it. They’re trying to finish the job Columbus and Ponce de León started. They want to wipe out the Native Americans, and anybody else they can take along with them.”

“Why?”

“Because they thrive on chaos and pain, and the Native genocides are the biggest thing on this continent for them to feed off. If they restart them in our time, and draw more people into ethnic wars or psycho survivalist modes, they’ll keep gaining power. This is Mom’s enemy, Dad. This is the Master. This is his attempt at a checkmate. He’s trying for an endgame, and there is no way he gets to have that on this territory. I’m going to clean this mess up and then I’m taking it home and I’m going to finish this shit.”

Morrison made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a cheer, cut off deep in his throat. My father, less inspired, stared at me in consternation. “You know about your...about your mother?”

I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten that I hadn’t spoken to Dad in years, much less in the past year when the magical world had come up and bitten me on the ass. I’d forgotten he had no way of knowing what had happened. That I hadn’t eveI hin yearsn told Morrison about the postmortem reconciliation with my mother, never mind having told Dad, whose entire knowledge of my relationship with her was based on my childhood resentment of her having left me with him. That he couldn’t possibly know that I’d finally, finally learned that he himself was an adept, a shaman of some considerable power, and that magic was, if not exactly old hat, certainly part of my everyday life now.

And I did not want to explain it to him while standing in the middle of a battlefield with death and hatred raging around me and feeding monsters that were in turn filling a little boy with all that darkness and evil. So I said, “Yes,” and left it at that.

It took Dad a good long minute to get past that. He eventually said, “You said Aidan is here,” in a voice that suggested we had a lot to talk about, but that he agreed Aidan was in fact much more important.

I pointed at the still-increasing flashes of black lightning. “He’s right there. Getting nailed by that crap every few seconds. What have you been
doing
out here, Dad?”

“Trying to stay alive.” A string of tension came into the words, and I had another moment of recollection: Dad was a shaman. A healer. He couldn’t take the fight to the other guys even if he wanted to, and I didn’t know if he wanted to. He was not like me.

Nobody
was like me, and I knew I should have some sympathy for him because of that, but I was all out of sympathy. Lucas was dead. We were all out of time, not just in the sense of being displaced by centuries, but also in terms of the black lighting flashes coming closer and closer together. The war around us was reaching its peak. Very soon there wouldn’t be enough people left to sustain the increase, and the power would break. And I was a moron, because they weren’t going to wait until everybody was dead. They would move as soon as the frenzy hit its highest point, taking all the passion and pain and anger at its strongest, before it broke and began to fall away again.

If we didn’t get to Aidan before the black lightning became a single sheet, we would be out of time for real.

* * *

The thought had a horribly familiar feeling. It was obvious, but it seemed like it, or one like it, had gone through my head about a thousand times in the past few days. Everything kept coming around to rescuing Aidan. Of course it did, but it seemed like the idea shouldn’t need to reestablish itself every couple of hours. It seemed like it should be at the forefront of my mind all the time.

“It’s a loop in itself.” My father and Morrison both looked at me, but I was staring at the power pouring into Aidan. “You bastard. You fucking clever bastard. You’ve got me spinning my wheels, don’t you. A tiny little time loop built right into my head. It spikes with
‘we’ve got to rescue Aidan!’
So we start off in that direction, but then we hit something personal that’s got just as much punch. Things I’ve been avoiding or haven’t had the chance to think or talk about for months. Important things, but they keep cropping up when I should be making a mad dash for Aidan, and it takes a while to shake it off. And then we start all over. We’ve got to rescue Aidan! And off we go. It keeps happening.”

I couldn’t count how many times over the past few days Morrison and I had gone through that loop. It wasn’t like we’d been spending hours or days moping around being romantic, but we’d hit that emotional circle half a dozen times, and collapsed into sleep afterward more than once. Every time we dieryn’t cod it, it lost us a little time and gained the Master and his minions a little more. “You clever fucking bastard,” I said again. “But I’m fucking wise to you now. It’s not going to work again. Dad, is this one of the places we stopped when I was a kid? Did you work to heal the land here?”

My father’s eyes bugged, just about going
poing!
like a cartoon character’s. “You knew I... Yes.”

“All right. This is what we’re going to do. We’re going to get as close to Aidan as we can, and you’re going to do the magical equivalent of opening up a vein. Whatever it takes to awaken the link between the power you laid down then, and us being here now.”

“Jo, we do—”

“Joanne.”
It was petty as hell and I wasn’t going to let it go. Gary could call me Jo. Morrison could call me Jo. Pretty much everybody in the damned world could call me Jo, but my father was going to have to earn it.

There was a beat in which Dad swallowed before saying, “Joanne. We don’t have a power circle in place, and I don’t think we’ll be able to build one under the weight of that magic. It’ll kill us.”