Chapter 22 Real Magic
Farmington Hills, Michigan
Jerry Bucowski ducked through the thinning crowds on the train station in Orchard Hills, heading for his car. The book should have arrived today. It began to sleet as he reached the small compact, opening the door and shoving his briefcase and umbrella inside, twisting the key with excitement.
It probably wouldn't be as good as he'd wanted, he thought, trying to temper his feelings. He wouldn't be disappointed, though, he'd just wait and see.
The small package in his mail box renewed the flush of anticipation and he ran up the two flights, hurrying into the small one-bedroom apartment and dumping his case, umbrella, keys and coat on the chair by the door. He put the package on the table and looked at it for a long moment, then ripped the envelope open.
The book was tiny, pocketbook-sized. But it was thick. The binding was old leather, rubbed and frayed, giving it a nice look of authenticity, the goldleaf title almost vanished from the spine, barely legible on the cover. Opening it, he sank down into the chair at the table, his first quick flipping through the pages slowing as the text and the delicate ink drawings caught his attention.
Two hours later, he looked up, brows rising as he registered the clock above the fridge. It was better than he'd hoped for, a lot better. And it gave him a feeling, an odd and exciting feeling, of being able to change things, really change things from now on. There was so much to prepare, so much to learn.
Setting the book reverently on the table, he stumbled to his feet and grabbed his briefcase, carrying it back and opening it, his fingers frantic as he pulled out a notepad and a pen. He turned back to the chapter he'd just been reading, skipping backwards to its beginning. There were a lot of things he needed to get.
US-2 E, Michigan
The Impala was barely visible in the rain-filled night, gleaming black body against the blackness of the empty asphalt road, only the headlights visible. The wipers kept time with the music playing quietly on the tape deck, and Sam's flashlight beam shone on the papers in the file he was holding on his knees, his hand cupped around the end of the flashlight to dim the glare for his brother, his brow wrinkled as he stared at the notes.
Dean looked over at him, his mouth twisting slightly as he took his brother's concentration. They'd headed east on the promise of a case in Minnesota, but the supposed haunting had been a family of owls, nesting in the roof. The smell up there hadn't been great, but definitely not supernatural.
"You okay, man?" he asked, glancing back at the glistening dark road ahead of them.
"We have the most powerful weapon we've ever had against demons and we can't find a way to use it," Sam said, frustration edging his voice.
"Yeah, well, Kevin's on it," Dean said reasonably. "When he finds something, he'll call. So we wait."
Sam shook his head, looking down at the file again.
"Look, we've both had a rough time over these past couple of weeks," Dean said slowly. "And … I know what you gave up wasn't easy."
Sam lifted his head, turning to look at his brother. They hadn't said anything further about the decision, either of their decisions, although Dean'd mentioned briefly that he'd lost Benny's number. He didn't know how to start a conversation to tell him what he'd thought, what he'd felt. It seemed more like Dean wanted it all to stay in the past and start from page one again. Which, he thought wearily, was okay with him. He hadn't felt that clarity again, or the peace. He thought it would take a lot longer than a single conversation and a single session of thinking about it to get that back.
"Maybe we ought to take the night off," Dean continued, glancing over at him. "You know, go see a flick, hit a bar – or two – have some fun. You remember fun, don't you, Sam?"
The shrill ring of the phone in his pocket saved Sam from having to answer that. He pulled it out and answered it.
"Kevin, what've you got?" He listened and rolled his eyes, making notes on the back of the paper in front of him. "Garth. Hey. Really, uh okay, yeah … thanks, man."
He hung up the phone and looked at his brother. "Garth … has a case for us."
The corner of Dean's mouth lifted slightly. "How'd he know where we are?"
"GPS on our phones. He's been tracking us," Sam said sourly.
"What's the deal?"
"Uh … well, it's close –ish, Farmington Hills, Michigan. Dude got ripped limb from limb inside his locked apartment," he said, reading back his notes.
"That's not good," Dean said, thinking of the quickest way down to Detroit.
"Working a case," Sam said, exhaling. "So long as we're waiting on Kevin, that'll be our fun."
Dean looked at him thoughtfully and turned back to the road. He didn't want to rehash the things they'd decided particularly. Didn't want to have to talk about what had happened at all, in truth. There was a hole in the pit of his stomach at what he'd done. A pit that hadn't lessened or gone away in the weeks since he'd called Benny.
He'd argued with himself that, realistically, no one could save the vampire but Benny himself. He certainly couldn't drop everything and drive wherever to see him if his friend started to feel himself coming off the wagon. And he'd told himself that Benny knew that too. But it still felt wrong. Disloyal. Ungrateful. Cold.
He flicked another sideways glance at Sam. His brother hadn't said anything further about the brief relationship he'd had either, and he wondered briefly if Sam had realised that whatever had gone on between them had been more like need, than love. The constant agitation and anger wasn't obvious in him anymore, but that didn't mean it wouldn't come back. If circumstances pushed Sam's buttons again. He let out his breath slowly.
Maybe the case would be engaging enough to keep them both occupied for a few days. They could head south afterwards, swing back to Missouri, check on Kevin.
Farmington Hills, Michigan
"Body's still up there," Dean said in a low voice, looking at the coroner's van parked haphazardly on the street, and the four-wheel drives that the forensics teams used parked behind it as they walked past them. "Told you we'd get here in time."
Sam showed his badge at the door, walking into the bullpen and looking at the man standing next to a desk. Dean flashed his badge and walked behind him, looking around.
"Sheriff?" Sam said, walking to the man. "Special Agent Taggert, and this is my partner, Special Agent Rosewood."
Dean repressed the urge to roll his eyes, glancing away as he put the ID back in his jacket. He'd been surprised by Sam's choice of Taggert and Rosewood for their latest FBI badges – not only were the names obvious to anyone born before 1980, but the characters hadn't even been particularly competent. His use of Lebowski flickered through his mind and he shoved it all aside.
"FBI? You guys are quick, haven't even got the body out of here yet," the Sheriff said, surprised.
Dean looked at his brother. "Yeah, well, that's the FBI all work – no play."
Sam looked back at him blandly and turned to the Sheriff. "You know, why don't you give me the tour while my partner looks around?"
"I work better on my own," Dean said, smiling slightly.
The Sheriff shrugged disinterestedly. "Your world, Agent. Follow me."
Sam followed the officer into the bedroom. The double bed took up most of the space in the small room. Under a bloodied sheet, the torso looked peculiar. On either side of the bed, small, cloth-covered lumps indicated the position of the arms and legs, where they'd been found. Sam looked around the room. On the walls, a round, metal shield hung, just mild steel, he decided after a closer look, catching sight of other medieval-styled weapons, toys and weapons.
"Vic's name was Ed Nelson, thirty-one years old, an insurance claim adjustor," the Sheriff read from his notes. "He lived alone, which is a real shocker, considering his place is full of toys."
Sam glanced at him. More than toys, he thought. Guy was into some kind of community or society, maybe just online.
"So what happened?" He looked back at the body.
"No sign of forced entry." The Sheriff followed his gaze. "Nearest we can tell, he was tied up and pulled apart. Died of shock, or massive blood loss. Dealer's choice on that one."
"So what about these chains?" Sam looked down at an open gym bag, lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. Inside it, the dull gleam of chain links in a bundle sat on top of clothing.
"That's actually chain-mail."
"Seriously?" Sam turned to look at the Sheriff, who shrugged helplessly.
"We did find clear rope burn marks on his wrists and ankles," he added, gesturing to the limbs.
Sam walked to the arm and lifted the cloth. The rope burns were there, nearly half-an-inch deep, the raw flesh pale and rubbery with the loss of blood. Above the wrist, on the inside of the forearm, there was a very delicate tattoo, black, a silhouette of a tree bare of leaves, the roots shown as well. He'd never seen it before, but it looked stylised. Maybe something to do with whatever the guy had been into, he thought.
Standing up, he turned back to the Sheriff. "So, anything, uh … missing … from the body?"
"You mean aside from the arms and legs?" The Sheriff looked at him disparagingly. "Nope, all there. Twig and berries too."
"What about the neighbours? They hear anything weird?"
The Sheriff looked at him. "Uh, the neighbour downstairs, said she got woke up in the middle of the night by the sound of horses, stomping their feet and galloping. We, uh, didn't find any hoofprints."
Sam nodded.
"Fortunately," the Sheriff continued, turning around and walking back to the living room. "We got a real lead off the cell phone. According to the phone records, Ed's last call was from a guy called Lance Jacobson."
Sam looked past the Sheriff as Dean came out of the kitchen. The quick shake of his head told him that his brother had found nothing in the way of EMF, sulphur, hex bags or any other physical clues to explain the dismemberment of a man in his tiny apartment.
"An accountant, also in his thirties, also lives alone." The Sheriff glanced at Dean as he came into the room.
"And how is he a lead?" Sam asked.
"The two of them talked together for fifteen minutes, and then Lance sent Ed here, all kinds of angry texts," the Sheriff explained. "Some of them were your typical text stuff, but some were a little weird."
"Weird how?" Dean flicked a glance at Sam.
The Sheriff looked at his notes, flipping back the pages. "Like … you shall bleed for your crimes against us … and, uh, this beauty … I am a mage, I will destroy you."
Sam looked at his brother. That was definitely within their purview, he thought. Dean's eyes narrowed slightly in acknowledgement.
"My men just brought Lance in for questioning," the Sheriff added. Sam's brow wrinkled up.
"Well, we're going to need to take first crack at the suspect."
The Sheriff nodded resignedly. "No problem, not sure what we're going to ask him about it anyway."
Dean walked out of the interview room, his head reeling. That the guy had been genuinely broken up wasn't the issue, he thought. He hadn't killed his friend, couldn't've killed him. The force required to tear a limb from the body was significant. No one could've done without vehicles or … horses … or something with more weight and strength than a man possessed. Which brought back the question of demons. They certainly had the strength. Not a single blip from the EMF though, and no sulphur, anywhere in the apartment.
"So," Sam asked as he walked up behind him. "Do you believe Dungeons and Dragons?"
"Well, he didn't put a whammy on us," Dean said, shrugging. "He's not our man."
"So what are we looking for?" Sam looked around the room. "Start with the website? We can see if Lance's story check out."
"It's what they had in common, aside from never getting laid," Dean commented, following his brother to a vacant computer.
Sam typed in the game name and the website appeared.
"Welcome to Moondoor, Michigan's largest LARPing game."
He clicked through a gallery of pictures, slowing as the screen showed Lance in costume, surrounded by other characters. "There's our guy."
He clicked on the video link and they watched the promo video playing.
"Moondoor, a world of intrigue, honour, passion. Four kingdoms. Followers of the Moon. Elves. Warriors of Yesteryear. And the dreaded Shadow Orcs. All will fight on the fields of Never in the bi-annual battle of kingdoms. Pick up a sword, or a mace. Take control of Moondoor, defend the current ruler –"
Dean's attention sharpened as a woman appeared on the screen, dressed in a long, red gown, a crown set on fiery red hair. "Wait … is that –"
"Queen of Moons."
The video ended and the brothers looked at each other. Even with the get up, there was no mistaking the hair or the face of the current ruler of Moondoor.
Charlie Bradbury.
"What the –" the shout came from the interview room and they stood up, watching the cops run into the room, one running back out, grabbing a phone and calling an ambulance.
"What happened?" Sam asked the deputy as he ran back for the room.
"No freakin' idea!" the man snapped.
Ten minutes later, the body was in a bag, being wheeled out through the bullpen. Dean and Sam watched it go.
"You want to follow?" Dean glanced at Sam.
The Sheriff came up beside them. "You're gonna want to see this."
He walked behind the counter and tapped a set of instructions into the computer on the desk, bringing up the security footage from the interview room. The brothers leaned forward, looking at the tape. Lance had been scratching his arm absently. The itch appeared to get worse, and he stood, pulling his sleeve back. Sam's eyes narrowed as he saw the tattoo on the arm that the accountant was scratching at. It was the same as the one on Ed.
Lance coughed and looked at the blood that covered his palm, turning to the two-way glass window behind him. The second cough sprayed a pint of blood across the reflective mirror, and he turned away, blood leaking from his eyes, nose and ears before he fell to the floor.
"God forbid he was contagious." The Sheriff looked at them. "I'm gonna dip myself in hand sanitiser."
Dean's gaze flicked at Sam as the Sheriff left them.
"No EMF, no hex bags, no sulphur – I got nada. You?" he said, as Sam leaned closer to the screen.
"Watch the video again," Sam said, tapping on the keys. "There. See that? Same as Ed's."
Dean looked down at the photograph of the fine tattoo on the Sheriff's desk. It was the same. Exactly the same. Both done at the same time, he wondered? The work was so fine that he was surprised not to see some distortions. Tattoos worked better with bold lines, not the fine, delicate ones. Those tended to get stretched, distorted, faded in relatively little time.
"I don't know, maybe they had matching tattoos … I mean, they were … brothers in arms." Sam frowned at the picture. "You recognise it from anything?"
"Tim Burton movie?" Dean suggested facetiously. "Aside from the mark of the creepy here, the only thing these guys have in common is LARPing."
Sam looked down at the keyboard. "Lucky for us we know the Queen."
The field was dotted with tents, pennants, wood smoke from numerous fires, banners, people in costumes and medieval props and hung over with an air of unreality usually associated with pantomimes in shopping malls. Dean looked slowly around. People had way too much time on their hands, he thought derisively, his gaze caught by a pair of girls in leaf-green tunics and tights, large, pointed ears sticking up through their hair. Way too much time.
He turned to look at Sam, half-smiling at his brother's expression of amused disbelief, then a voice rang out behind them.
"I, Boltar, the Furious, bind you to this stock so that all of Moondoor may see you for what you are. A thief."
They walked around the small group of people gathered around the wooden stocks. Boltar, the Furious, was a slender man in his mid-thirties, wearing multiple layers of leather and suede and cotton under a surcoat of red and white, a large fabric pouch slung over his chest, leather gauntlets covering his expressively gesturing hands.
In the stocks, another man, in a black tent-like covering, was held fast by his hands and head.
"My Shadow orc brethren will descend from the Black Hills," he said, his speech blurred and distorted by the overlarge fake tusks that sat over his lower teeth, every word accompanied by a spray of spittle as he tried to get his tongue to negotiate the impediment in his mouth. "And the tents of Moo–"
Both Boltar and the orc stared down at the ground at the teeth which had dropped out mid-word. Dean and Sam also looked down at the tusks, lying in the dirt.
Boltar held up his hands. "Uh, Halt!"
Around him, the players froze obediently in their positions. Sam looked around at them, one brow raised as he took in their stillness. Boltar bent and picked up the teeth, wiping the dirt from them fastidiously.
"Thanks, Jerry," the orc said quietly. "Sorry."
"Yeah, no problem, Monty," Jerry said, inserting the teeth back over Monty's lower jaw.
Dean ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth in reaction. Even if the dude had gotten all the dirt, there were still the leather gauntlets covering his hands, and whatever they might have on them.
Boltar stepped back and cleared his throat, as Monty gave him a discreet thumbs-up.
"Resume!"
"And the tents of Moondoor will be bathed in blood," Monty bellowed as enthusiastically he could through almost closed lips. "As we unseat the Queen from the throne she stole from the rightful heir, the Shadow King! And you –"
Boltar tossed a soft red ball at the orc, hitting him in the forehead and cutting him off effectively. "Silentiem!"
"Serve your time with honour, heathen," Boltar told the orc coolly. He looked down at the wooden boards the orc stood on. "And if you need to use the chamber pot, stomp your feet – thrice."
He turned away, walking toward the brothers, his cowled hood drawn back over his head.
Dean held up a hand as Boltar approached. "Excuse me. Hi, you are a LARPer, yeah?"
Jerry looked away, his mouth tightening. "I prefer the term 'interactive literaturist'."
"Right," Dean said, nodding as he pulled out his identification. "I am Special Agent Rosewood, this is Special Agent Taggert, we just –"
Jerry winced. "Halt!"
Sam looked at him, brow crinkling as Jerry looked up at him, pulling his hood from his hair, his voice changing back to a high, rather light timbre and his face screwing up in an apologetic grimace.
"Guys, we're not doing the whole genre mash-up thing this weekend – we only do that every third month," he said, looking from Sam to Dean.
"Come again," Sam asked, leaning a little closer as Dean stared at Jerry in bewilderment.
Jerry looked down at the identification in their hands and smiled. "Your fake badges, the cheap suits," he said, looking at them pointedly. "It's very cool, I get it. Your characters are FBI agents who somehow travel to Moondoor, but I'm telling you, it's straight up Moondoor this weekend."
Sam smiled tightly. "These aren't fake badges."
"Ah, yeah they are," Jerry contradicted him, whisking it out from Sam's hand and looking at it carefully. "And they're very good, but … um, well the ID number shifted to ten digits with two letters mixed in with the end of the year, and um, the seal's from last month. Really good work," he said encouragingly as Sam grabbed the billfold back from him. "It's just that it's a tournament weekend, so we gotta follow the rules."
He watched them shove their IDs back into their jackets, his hands spread out helplessly.
"If there're no rules … chaos," he added, raising his hood back over his head. "Resume!"
In character again, Boltar looked at Dean, his voice dropping a couple of notes. "If you would like to join the Army of Moons, the Queen is always on the lookout for new squires."
Dean nodded. "Yes, we would like to see your Queen. Now, please."
"Well, the Queen's calendar is booked up months in advance," Boltar told him, his mouth curling down in a condescending sneer. "But if you wish to see what's in store for you in her army, her Highness is overseeing new squires on the pitch, as we speak."
Dean looked at his brother, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. Sam's mouth twisted up to one side as he nodded. They followed Boltar to the small, grassy arena, and stopped in the crowd that had surrounded the current bout.
The swordsmen fighting were dressed in a mix of historical styles, Sam thought, one brow rising as he realised that under the flowing red and white surcoats of the Queen's army, there was a hell of a lot of padding. Wouldn't do much good in fighting with steel, but the wooden swords were themselves padded and wrapped in duct tape, and the under-padding would probably limit the bruising of a direct hit. The helmets were an odd choice. They were metal, probably just a light steel, but still adding weight high where it affected balance too much, and limiting the vision severely. The heavier man had his visor open, which defeated the purpose of the armour anyway.
The lighter of the two had a pauldron buckled over the shoulder of the leading arm, cut and stitched leather pieces, rather than metal or even boiled leather. He was quicker than his opponent, faster, and had a better technique, Dean thought critically, watching as the wooden swords swung up and around. Wasted energy on those dramatically swinging cuts, and the helmets were a disadvantage, blocking the peripheral vision. Sword and shield would have been a better choice, lighter, more vision and more manoeuvrability.
The lighter swordsman swung his blade around, trapping the other's at the guard and twisted an arm against the heavier man's arm, forcing him to the ground as the sword tip rested on his chest.
"Yield! I yield!" the man cried readily, kneeling before his opponent.
Yield? Dean snorted softly. Fight till you're dead, that was the only way to win.
The victor lifted a gloved hand to the helmet and lifted it off, shaking loose a long fall of red hair over her shoulders. From the arena's sides, the crowd clapped, and the Queen stepped back from her opponent, turning slowly to look around at the faces of the people surrounding her, her briefly triumphant smile vanishing as her expression hardened.
"Grey Fox and Thargrim are missing," she said seriously. "We pray to the Goddess they have not fallen victim of foul play. In their absence, the honour guards' ranks are weakened. To join –"
Charlie froze. In behind the first ranks of the crowd, two tall men in overcoats stood watching her. Two familiar tall men. Two men she'd hoped never to see, ever again.
"Oh … blerg," she said softly, staring at them. She slowly became of aware of the restless shifting of the crowd and looked around, smiling nervously and trying to pull back the shreds of her character. "The Queen needs some royal 'we' time. Talk amongst thyselves."
Turning abruptly away from the crowd, the arena and the two men standing watching her, she walked fast across the grass to her tent.
Sam and Dean eased themselves out of the crowd and followed her across the arena, Dean stopping to pick up the two-handed wooden long sword Charlie's opponent had left lying there. He swung it up, looking along the line of the padded blade. "Not weighted properly," he muttered to himself.
Sam turned back and looked at him. "Dude!"
"Yeah," Dean said, following Sam into the tent.
Inside the royal tent, the walls had been lined with panels of a shiny fabric in carnelian and gold, a cheap synthetic Persian carpet covered the floor and reproduction furniture provided a few home comforts for the Queen, who was standing by her bed, stuffing her belongings into an expandable, nylon gym bag.
"Charlie," Sam said, moving to one side as Dean came in behind him.
"Charlie Bradbury is dead," Charlie cut him off sharply, not looking around as she wrestled with her possessions. "She died two years ago. You killed her."
She unbuckled the long straps of the leather vambrace around her sword-arm, her fingers fumbling with the small buckles. "My name is Carrie Heinlein. Oh, and guess what?" She turned around and looked at them. "Now you killed her too."
"Okay," Dean said quietly, looking around. "Listen –"
"No." Charlie said abruptly, not wanting to hear it. "I buried myself, then Dick Roman went down and his company went belly-up and I figured – hey, it's all good." She looked at him. "And I was fine. I got my life back. And now you're here. And if you guys are here, monsters are here."
She turned away from them, looking down into her bag, trying to think of what she needed to resume a life on the lam. "Why do I have such bad luck? What am I? Some kind of monster magnet?" The thought instantly brought another, much more frightening one and she spun around looking at them. "Is there such thing as a monster magnet?"
Sam opened his mouth and Charlie held up her hands to stop him. "You know what? Don't answer that. I don't care about that. What I care about is not getting my other arm broken. And not dying." She closed the bag, turning and walking toward them. "So, I'm dropping my sword and walking off the stage, bitches. Have fun storming the castle."
"Charlie," Dean said as she went by, raising his voice as she kept going. "Charlie!"
She stopped by the tent's opening and turned unwillingly back to him.
"Grey Fox and Thargrim – they're Ed and Lance. They're not missing," he said, brows drawn together. "They're dead."
She looked from Dean to Sam, who nodded.
"What happened?"
"Put your bag down, Charlie," Sam said, gesturing to the table behind them. "There's a bit to catch up on."
She dropped the bag and walked past Dean, sitting down at the small table, looking at their faces as they took the chairs to either side of her. Something told her that she didn't really want to hear this. Didn't want to get involved in this. She might or might not be a monster magnet … but the two men in her tent were definitely monster magnets and staying, even being within a hundred miles of them, was not going to be a good thing.
"Uh, Ed was found in his apartment, dismembered – somehow," Dean said, licking his lips as he looked at his brother. Sam nodded.
"Lance bled out, internals just ruptured, it looked like he was bleeding from the ears, eyes and mouth."
"Drawn and quartered … and bleeding out?" Charlie repeated to herself. "Please stop talking."
"Well, aside from the mark," Dean said, pushing the photograph of the tattoo across the table to her. "And them both being LARPers, there's really not much else to go on."
Charlie picked up the photograph, her eyes narrowing. "Wait, I've seen this before."
She looked up at Sam. "It's a Celtic magic symbol." She looked at Dean. "At least it was in my favourite video game. Does that help? Can I go now?"
Sam held up a hand. "It's a start but no. Listen, what can you tell us about Ed and Lance?"
She shook her head. "Good guys. Two of the best members of the Queen's ever-shrinking army."
"Ever-shrinking?" Dean looked at her questioningly.
"My kingdom has had a lot of bad luck lately," she told him bluntly. "Probably because of me." She picked up the photo again, staring at it as its familiarity nagged at her. She'd seen that tree somewhere else as well. "But maybe it's tied to this."
She looked at Sam. "A month ago, one of my guys had both of her ankles broken before battle. Before that, I had three people go to hospital where the accidents were at home. Think there's any connection there?"
"Did they have any enemies in common?" Sam asked.
"In real life, no. Everyone gets on famously. In the game though … they had tons of enemies," she said, getting to her feet and walking across the tent to another table. A map was spread over its surface, and a number of coloured figurines representing the forces of Moondoor were arranged over the drawn surface.
Charlie gestured to the table as Dean and Sam got up and followed her over. "Red group's the Followers of the Moon, my people." She leaned over the map. "Green's for Elves, blue's for Warriors of Yesteryear and black's for Shadow Orcs."
She looked from the map to Dean. "This weekend's the Battle of the Kingdoms, to see who wears the Forever Crown," she explained, looking back at the map. "This weekend each faction is definitely an enemy of me and mine."
Dean looked at the army placements, brows drawing together. "You know, if you move your archers back, and your broadswords more to the west …"
"Huh, to fight the warriors?" Charlie nodded.
"Yeah."
"Mmm … good call," she said, moving the pieces around.
"Thanks."
"What about this southern wall?"
"Guys!" Sam interrupted impatiently.
"Yeah?" Dean looked at him guiltily. "Right. Sorry."
"So," Sam straightened up, looking at Charlie. "Maybe someone from one of the other kingdoms got a hold of some real magic and started using it to weaken your army?"
Dean moved the not-even-close-to-scale trebuchet to the south of the red army across the map, nodding discreetly as he saw that Charlie had seen the move. He couldn't help it. He'd grown up on battle strategies, his father's bedtime stories of the battles of the Vietnam War, and of the world wars, hell, Dad had even studied the battles of the English and the French in their perpetual skirmishes on both sides of the English Channel. He'd replicated those battle strategies with his toy soldiers from the age of five and had learned to think in terms of strength and weaknesses, of terrain and weaponry and advantage and disadvantage. He wasn't sure that this setup was quite that organised, but a little strategic thinking didn't do any one any harm.
"But why not just come after me? And why the escalation? Broken ankles to dismemberment? That's …" Charlie looked up at him, unwilling to voice the rest of her thoughts on that.
"Alright, we will canvas the kingdoms," Dean said. "You should get out of here. We don't want you to get hurt."
"What? Wait," Sam interjected. "Charlie knows much more about Moondoor than we do. We need her."
"Sam, I think we can take care of a bunch of accountants with foam swords," Dean said flatly.
"We need all the help we can get, Dean. People are dying. It's not the accountants that are doing that."
"The point, that is usually yours, is that she should get somewhere safe, and get back to a normal life," Dean argued, his voice rising a little. What was going on with Sam? He was the one who'd been advocating normalcy since he'd been old enough to realise that their life wasn't.
"Hey! I am right here," Charlie interrupted, raising her hands between them. "And I want to leave."
"Thank you!" Dean said, his gaze shifting to his brother with a flash of triumph.
"But the Queen," Charlie continued reluctantly. "She has to stay. I mean, Sam is right, people are dying. That can't happen while I'm ruler. They're my people. And you know what?" She looked from Dean to Sam. "I am tired of running. I like my life here. I want to stay and fight for it."
Dean looked down at her exasperatedly. She wanted to fight for the life that was all about escaping, all about running from reality? He drew in a deep breath. One person's idea of normal and safe and secure didn't equate to another's. He knew that. His life had felt normal and secure, to him, at least, until Meg had taken it all away, all of his friends, every safe place they'd had. And the Yellow Eyed demon had taken his father.
Sam's phone rang and broke the silence between them. "Yeah … okay. Thanks."
He closed the phone and looked at his brother. "So, the toxicology report came back on Lance. No drugs, no rat poison. He was killed with Sanguinaria Canadensis."
Dean frowned. "Bloodroot?"
Sam nodded. "Report found no trace of the plant, but the other only thing that destroys the tissue cells like that is haemorrhagic fever. And he didn't have that."
"And they didn't find any physical evidence in Ed's apartment," Dean said. "This is magic, but what kind? No hex bags, it isn't witchcraft, what else is there?"
Sam shrugged. "Charlie, I'm going to need to borrow your laptop."
"There are no laptops in Moondoor." She looked up at his expression. "What? They're rules. But there is a tech tent, four tents down."
Sam swallowed the comment he was about to make and nodded. "Okay, how bout you guys go canvas and I'll dig into these accidents and the mark?"
He didn't wait for an answer, heading for the tent flap. Charlie turned back to Dean.
"Okay, I'm going to need the full wiki on where you guys have been, what you've been up to, but first, you're going to have ditch the suit if you're gonna walk and talk with the Queen." She smiled at the look on his face, turning away.
"Costume? Charlie, I don't think so."
"Rules are rules, Dean. Besides, you want to blend in, right? Look like you belong here?" She didn't wait for an answer to that, walking to the doorway and looking out. Melitta, who'd been serving her quite well as the Queen's assistant, was standing patiently outside.
"Melitta, I need a squire's outfit in a … uh, men's L-tall – 45 – 37."
She ducked back into the tent, turning to look at him. "That's about right, isn't it?"
He shook his head. "Yeah, about right."
"Good," she said, sitting down at the table. "So, sit, talk … what happened – and don't spare the details."
The little sister I never wanted, he thought dryly, standing awkwardly by the table. "Uh, yeah, so not doing this, Charlie."
Her eyebrows rose. "Why not?"
He looked around the tent, and gestured at the brocade-covered bed and the portrait above it. "This is a bit much, isn't it?"
Charlie followed his gaze, smiling. "All perks of being the Queen – of which there are many, some that would surprise you."
"I doubt that," he said, turning as a young woman in a simple, full-length gown, holding an armful of clothing, came in through the inner doorway.
"Uh, your Highness, I have the clothing for the squire."
"Thank you, Melitta. Just put them on the bed." Charlie gestured vaguely in the direction of the bed. Dean moved aside as Melitta walked past him. He could see leather, suede, fabric, the soft, dull gleam of chain-mail links, boots … he sighed inwardly.
"Is this really necessary?" He looked at the clothes when Melitta had left. "I mean –"
"No, it's not necessary. You can keep wearing the douchey suit and no one will talk to you, your choice," she said, looking at what he was wearing.
"Fine." He walked to the edge of the bed, pulling off his coat and jacket, yanking impatiently at the tie around his neck. "We ganked Roman."
"Yeah, that much the papers told me," she said sardonically. "After that?"
He looked through the clothing, leaning against the edge of the bed. "You gonna watch me?"
She laughed. "You think either of us are likely to get in trouble if I do?"
He exhaled gustily and turned away. "I went to Purgatory, got sucked down by Roman as he died. Sam tried looking for me, but couldn't find a way in and he met a girl."
"Are you kidding me?" Charlie sat up, staring at him. He shrugged, dropping the business shirt on the bed and picking up the soft, lightweight cotton shirt, pulling it over his head.
"Nope." He turned to look at her. "Whose story did you want to hear?"
"Both!" She leaned against the back of the chair. "What – what's Purgatory?"
"Hell for monster souls," he said shortly, undoing his belt and stepping out of the pants as they puddled around his feet.
"How'd you get out?"
"Long story."
She sighed. "Alright, Sam fell in love? For real?"
"Yeah, seemed like that," he said, eyeing the leather pants sourly. "I got jeans in the car, can't I just –"
"No," she said firmly. "No denim in times of yore. Besides they're more comfortable than they look."
He bit back the comment that rose to mind and pulled them on. They were going to be hot, he thought. But at least they weren't as tight as he'd thought they'd be.
"So what happened with you and Sam?" she asked, leaning back against the table.
"What do you mean?" he hedged, grabbing the soft leather boots and dragging them on.
"Come on, Dean," Charlie said reasonably. "The two of you barely look at each other, a disagreement escalates to an argument in thirty seconds, neither of you knows who's leading and who's following – something happened."
"To be honest, I don't know exactly what happened," he said, turning around and picking up the suede over-shirt. "And I sure as hell can't describe it."
He pulled the shirt over his head, grimacing at the soft clanging of chain-mail that had been stitched to the shoulders, hanging over his right shoulder and chest. Please.
"I might've ridden him a little hard when I got out," he said, mostly to himself. "He didn't tell me he'd looked for a way to get me out of there, and I couldn't believe that he hadn't." He looked at the lacing up the front of the shirt, and tugged at it.
"Hang on, I'll do that," Charlie said, getting up and walking over to him. She adjusted the rawhide lacing through the holes and drew the edges together. "It's annoying to start with, but you get used to it."
"Yeah," he said distractedly, looking past her. "He told me that he just ran and he found this girl, and apparently, she helped." He shrugged as she stepped back, looking at her efforts and leaning over to pass him the long studded belt.
"You don't believe him?"
"No, that's not it. I do," he said, tying off the long, loose end in a knot. The belt held a pouch over his hip and he settled it flat, retrieving his phone, wallet, keys and gun and sticking them into it. "It was over by the time I got out, but he wasn't over it, you know?"
Charlie sat down again, sighing. "Oh yeah, I know."
He glanced at her, mouth quirking up at one corner slightly. "Anyway, we had this hunt, a little while ago, and I needed him out of the way."
He picked up one of the leather vambraces that lay on the bed, wrapping the curving leather guard around his forearm and winding the long straps around and through the buckles.
"I sent him a text, spoofing the caller, saying she needed help," he said, tightening the strap through the buckle and smoothing it down. "And he took off."
"You sent Sam a phantom text from his ex?" She looked at him disbelievingly. "Dick move, sir."
"Yeah," he said, tightening the other vambrace around his arm and buckling it. "Not my finest hour."
He wasn't going into the details with Charlie. And he didn't need to justify what he'd done. It'd worked. Sam had gone and it'd been for nothing anyway, really. Martin had fucked up Benny's life adequately on his own.
"So, he found some normalcy with this chick, and now it's gone. Again. Thanks to you," she said, leaning across the table.
Dean glanced at her. "I didn't tell him to break up with her, Charlie. I told him to go back, if that's what he wanted."
"But he didn't," she said, looking up at him. "Why not?"
Sam's story, not his, Dean thought uneasily. "I don't know, you'd have to ask him."
"This really sucks out loud, Dean."
"Yeah, well now he's more committed than ever. So … there's that." He rubbed a hand over his jaw, shrugging slightly. "I mean, trust me, this life, you can't afford attachments. You just gotta … let go." He looked away, his exhale audible as he shoved the thought that accompanied that sentiment well down deep.
Charlie looked at him thoughtfully. "Are we still talking about Sam, or did you break up with someone too?"
He looked at her uncomfortably. "Me?"
"Yeah."
"No." He turned away, going back to the bed to get the long, two-handed wooden sword. It had been a betrayal, not a 'break up'. It had been watching a man who could barely swim, who'd done nothing wrong but be who he was, drifting out of sight and not even throwing out a life-ring. It'd been saying that there was no room for anyone or anything in his life that couldn't be jettisoned if that's what it took.
Charlie looked at the tension in his back and shoulders. "You sure, Dean?"
"Yeah, I'm sure," he said heavily, gesturing impatiently the doorway of the tent. "Let's get out of here … your Highness."
Sam looked at the tent opening.
"Beware: This is a gateway to the future," the sign beside the flap read.
He sighed and pushed through the flap, stopping as he took in the tables full of PCs, elves and orcs and warriors sitting in their costumes playing online games and reading their emails and following the stock market. Escape from the escape, he wondered? What could these people possibly have in their lives that it needed the double-whammy?
There was a free computer near the back of the tent and he walked around to it, sitting down next to a young woman in a full, peasant-ey kind of costume. The screen activated when he moved the mouse, and he realised he didn't know what he was looking for.
"Excuse me," he said, turning to the blonde next to him. "Do you know if there's a directory of online players?"
She looked up and over to him. "Yeah, it's on the website. All you need is an account to access it."
Sam looked at the screen, nodding. "Uh, thanks … um."
"Marie," she said, smiling at him warmly before she realised she'd slipped out of character. Again. "I mean, Gallandrea … the Wicked," she added, rolling her eyes slightly.
He looked back at his screen, smiling nervously. Setting up the account took a couple of minutes and he looked through the list of players, noting the names of those who were out of play. He logged into the local police database and searched by name, bringing up the case files of the players. The police had been as thorough as they could be, he thought wearily, looking at the photographs of the reported injuries. Phyllis Norton. Broken ankles. Jamie Parker had multiple puncture wounds over his face, head and shoulders … and a tattoo of the tree on his arm. Michelle Bump had a broke nose, two black eyes, contusions over the ribcage. Assault, mostly. Until Ed.
He became aware that Marie was leaning slightly toward him, her gaze glued to his screen. "It's all just part of the game," he said quickly as she leaned closer.
"Genre mash-up," she nodded, looking at the screen. "Cool."
Sam shifted the mouse and she suddenly leaned much closer, staring at one of the photographs. "Hey, I know her, that's Phyllis. I heard she broke her ankles or something."
Sam frowned, clicking on the file to enlarge it. The photographs of Phyllis' ankles were large and clear. Both feet were pointing in a way that nature had not intended.
Sam stared at them. "Wow, it looks like she got –"
"Hobbled," Marie finished the sentence with a grimace, looking at the next picture as Sam minimised the case file again. "And that's Jamie … he said someone broke in, beat him with his own mace, but –"
"No signs of a forced entry," Sam read the file notes, frowning. He looked at Marie, enlarging Jamie's case file so that the tattoo was clearly visible. "Do you recognise this from Moondoor? I think it's Celtic?"
"No." She stared at the tattoo. "Sorry. But I'll look it up?"
"Thanks." He looked back at the screen as he heard her begin to type. "Mace attacks, hobbling, medieval poisoning … someone's targeting the Queen's people."
Marie looked at the images that her search had listed, shaking her head as she glanced back at Sam. "No, not only them. Those four, are with the Queen. But these two? They're elves," she said, leaning over and pointing at two others who'd suffered attacks. "And those, they're warriors."
She looked at him. "The only group not to get hit are the Shadow Orcs."
She looked back at the images filling the screen. "Got it. Here."
Dean looked at the plain wooden sword leaning up against the tent's small veranda rail as they came out, swapping it for the padded foam one he was carrying. It felt a little better, the weight more even, although the hilt should've been heavier still for balance.
Sliding the long sword through his belt, he faltered as a woman walked towards them, bowing as she approached Charlie. Charlie inclined her head in response and the woman walked past them without stopping.
"You always been into LARPing?" he asked her curiously.
"Nah … the role-play I prefer is table-top. All in your imagination. D&D, Gamma World, Car Wars. That's why Cthulhu invented multi-sided dice, right?"
He looked away. How the hell should he know? He'd only recognised one word in her last sentence. Cthulhu. And that one only because Bobby'd talked about the books endlessly when they were trying to find the way into Purgatory. The memory bit down at him and he shoved it aside.
"But a buddy of mine was into LARPing. It seemed like a good, closed kind of community to lose myself in. It's an escape. I mean, here, I'm Queen, a hero," she said, smiling slightly. "Out there in the real world, I'm just hacking out code and chugging coffee all day long."
Dean stopped as he heard the resignation in her voice. "Now, wait a second," he said, looking at her when she stopped and faced him. "If it wasn't for you, we would never have been able to take down Dick Roman. Out there, in the real world … Charlie, you are a hero."
"Why … thank you, kind sir," she said, smiling as she looked down.
He stared at her, seeing the – what? – relief? – pleasure? – under the lightly spoken words. She'd helped, a lot. Maybe they hadn't said that much to her when they'd seen her off at the bus station. Maybe they didn't say thanks often enough, to the people who were a small part of their lives. Maybe he needed to think about doing that more.
"Yeah, well, I'm not great at saying stuff at the right times," he said, turning back to the path.
"You know, for an anti-social, hard-as-nails, don't-give-a-damn hunter, you don't do too badly at all."
"Hmm." He looked around at the people walking this way and that along the grassy road. "Where do we start?"
"With the elves," Charlie said, nodding down the way slightly. He turned and saw a small, slender woman talking to a taller, equally slender man several yards from them.
Charlie walked over to them and the taller elf nodded and withdrew.
"It's Glassada, isn't it?" Charlie smiled at the woman, whose green and grey clothing suited her olive skin.
"Suil, rhien-Bereth," Glassada said softly, bowing before her.
"Ah, in English, if you please, Glassada," she said, glancing back to Dean. "My … um … kinsman has no knowledge of Sindarin."
"As you wish," the elf said, glancing at him briefly. "How may I serve you?"
"We are looking for this symbol," Dean said, stepping forward and handing the girl the police photograph of the tree tattoo. "Have you seen it?"
Glassada took the photograph by the edges, studying the image. She looked at Charlie, shaking her head.
"I have not seen a mark like this in my travels throughout the realm, your Highness," she said.
Charlie nodded, taking the photograph from her. "Thank you, may your travels be easy and your arrows fly true."
Glassada's mouth tucked in at the corners and she bowed again, withdrawing a few feet and then turning and leaving.
"Well, scratch the elves off the list," Charlie said, handing the photograph back to Dean.
"Based on what one said?" He frowned as he watched the slender girl walk away.
"She's the most capable archer and hunter they have," Charlie said, watching her go as well. "And she's been through this forest. If any of them knew of it, it would be her."
"Alright. Who's next?"
"Warriors of Yesteryear," Charlie said, pointing to a separate encampment a few hundred yards away.
"And their story is?" He sighed as they changed direction and headed toward the camp.
"Oh, well, kind of Viking thing, really," Charlie said, shrugging.
"Viking-Braveheart-LOTR thing maybe," she revised as they passed a warrior whose costume consisted of a ragged and dirty kilt, chain-mail vest, a great axe held by a broad, leather band slung diagonally over shoulder and chest, and sheepskin boots, bound tightly to his calves with rawhide. The wild, dark brown hair was held back at the forehead by another rawhide tie, and charcoal had been rubbed along the man's cheeks and jawline in place of stubble. Dean rubbed his jaw reflexively, wondering at the wig and make-up. Surely it broke the illusions of the place to get into that every day?
They came up between two tents made of cow skins and Charlie stopped in front of a group of several men and women, wearing a variety of leather, skins, leather and metal armour and carrying everything from bows and arrows and swords to chunky maces and axes.
"My Lady," the largest man there said, walking to her and bowing his head. His gaze flicked over Dean dismissively.
"Alrek, greetings, my faithful ally," Charlie said formally. "Your warriors have travelled the kingdoms extensively; I would ask if you have seen this image, anywhere in your travels?" She held out her hand to Dean without looking at him, and he suppressed the urge to snap at her as he pulled the photo from the pouch at his hip. The Queen-courtier thing was getting kind of old. He put the photo into her hand and she passed it to the warrior.
Alrek took the photograph and gestured to the group behind him. "Has anyone seen this mark in the land?"
Dean watched their faces as they shook their heads. Accountants? Secretaries? Lawyers? What did these people do every day from nine-to-five that made camping out and dressing up such an imperative for their free time, he wondered? It was a difference, he guessed, to sitting home, watching TV, sitting on the computer or whatever it was that normal people did when they weren't working.
The man to the left of him was dressed in the light-weight alloy chain-mail, a leather jerkin over it, and some kind of softer clothes underneath. The wide leather belt at his waist held a scabbard for his sword, something that looked a little like a claidheamh mòr, and another for the long, straight knife that rested behind his hip. Neither weapon was real, or even steel, both made from wood or foam, taped to resemble metal. Beside him, a tall woman stood in a costume that must have been freezing in colder weather, a few scant pieces of leather over her breasts, joined together by silver mesh. Her legs were bare, sheepskin wrapped around the calves and bound … her arms too, except for a leather pauldron that was supposed to protect her sword arm. He looked at all the fatal targets that were clearly visible and vulnerable on her body and sighed inwardly. Too much Conan, not enough common-sense.
"Your Highness, this mark is unknown to us. Is there danger?" Alrek handed Charlie the photograph and she passed it to Dean.
"I believe that it is, Alrek," Charlie said quietly. "Tell your people to go in pairs, to stay together."
He nodded and she turned away, sighing. "Three down, one to go. Last group on the list, the Shadow Orcs. Impossible to find."
"Wait." Dean stopped. "I know where we can find one; I met him on the way in."
"Perfect," Charlie said, looking up at him. "Maybe he can tell us what the frack this thing is?"
"Come on, he was near the road," Dean said, turning around and heading in the other direction. "He was in … uh … some kind of restraint."
"The stocks?" She hurried to catch up with his longer stride. "Head and hands?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
"Well, he won't be going anywhere then."
Marie clicked on the image and the website loaded. Sam looked at it, reading down the blurb. "The Tree of Pain. If you are tagged with this mark, you'll be a victim of fairy magic."
"Wait … fairy magic can be bad?"
Sam snorted, recovering himself as he saw her expression. "Uh, yeah, every kind of magic can be good or bad."
"Huh, I thought fairies were always … you know, helpful. Good."
In his memories, a voice came back to him, wry and amused and evil. We faery folk? We're all about energy. I'm talking about real magic, sonny. From my side of the fence.
"No, and there's always a price to pay," he said softly. Dean could see them. He'd been there and back and they couldn't hide from him any more.
He pulled out his phone, hitting the speed dial. The phone went to voicemail and he closed it again, turning slightly in his chair to offer a goodbye smile to Marie.
"Alright. Well, thank you very much … Gallandrea."
"Anytime." She smiled widely at him. "I've never done genre mash-up before. That was – fun."
"First time for everything, right?" he said, getting to his feet and walking behind her.
"First time for a lot of things if you want to come by my tent later?" she said quickly as he reached the aisle between the tables.
Sam looked down. Was there something painted on his forehead that everyone but him could see? Something that said, wounded man here … offer services? It was the third offer he'd had in two weeks, after … hell … after years of offers coming damned few and far between. He looked at her, wondering if he was overreacting. Probably. Seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.
"Some other time," he said, aware from her expression that what he'd meant had been received loud and clear. He turned away. There were times when he wished he was more like his brother. Love 'em and leave 'em and don't even worry about names or any other irrelevant details.
"Death to the Queen! Death to the usurper!" Monty yelled as Dean and Charlie walked toward him.
Dean frowned, pulling the long wooden sword from his belt automatically. A glance at the woman walking beside him showed her unmoved by the orc's threats.
"Death to her manservant," Monty added, spraying spit across the grass. Dean tapped the sword on the back of his head, once, with feeling, glancing back at Charlie.
Charlie looked at him and the sword pointedly.
"What? If there's no laptops in Moondoor, then there's no Geneva Convention either," he said defensively as she rolled her eyes at him. He looked back at the man held in the stocks.
"Hey," He pulled out the photograph from the pouch and held in front of Monty's face. "Seen this around?"
Monty glanced at it and nodded. "Yeah, of course …"
He stopped, noticing the interest on Dean's face. "No – no – nope, I haven't seen it," he said, looking away.
Dean lifted the long sword up, until the blunt edge rested under the orc's jaw. He exerted just a little more pressure and Monty's hands twitched.
"Okay, it's the Shadow King's family crest," he admitted quickly. "You'll never find him in the Black Hills."
"The Black Hills?" Dean repeated, turning to Charlie.
"The forest behind the playground," Charlie said, nodding. "Come on."
She turned and started to run and Dean followed her through the tents and down past the play equipment, to a broad path that ran into the small conifer and birch forest on the other side of the field.