What Befalls the Children: Book 4 in the Troop of Shadows Series, стр. 44

Harlan gave him a beseeching look.

“I understand. The astral traveling is between us.” He patted the shaggy, brindle hair, then watched as the slender boy, still a half-head shorter than his twin, took off at a full run.

Did children ever simply walk?

The thought made him feel tired and old. After his mission at Whitaker Holler, perhaps he would spend some time down in Cthor-Vangt’s vast confines where he didn’t age even a day. Oddly, the notion of spending time there was appealing but also distasteful. That sometimes happened when he spent years above ground, mingling with modern humans.

When he returned to the cabin, Skeeter was awake, rubbing his mostly bald head and lifting a dented tea kettle from the squatty wood stove.

“What’d the boy want?” the old man said without turning.

“I thought you were asleep.” Fergus smiled at the two chipped ceramic cups Skeeter had set out beside a Tupperware container filled with instant coffee. The aromatic grounds might have been gold, so precious now in areas without volcanic soil.

“Not much escapes me. ‘Specially these days.”

“Interesting. You believe your...talent...has increased since Chicksy?”

“No doubt about it. Now, quit hedging and tell me what Harlan was in such a froth to talk to you about.”

“Froth is not a term I would apply to your grandson.”

Skeeter cackled. It was an exhausted cackle. Even though the old man was chronologically thousands of years younger than Fergus himself, his body was that of an eighty-year-old. No matter how healthy, Skeeter was still subject to the aches, pains, and fatigue of a body in decline.

That was Fergus’s future if he didn’t get his ass back to Cthor-Vangt soon.

“True ‘nuff. He’s enigmatic, for sure. That’s one of Willa’s words. So, what did he want?”

Fergus accepted the steaming cup of coffee, breathing in the aroma before answering. “He didn’t make me swear a blood oath, but it amounted to the same thing. What I can tell you is I have an inkling as to the location of the murderess.”

Skeeter twirled like a man in his prime. “Where?” he demanded.

“About two miles west of the cemetery.”

The old man set his cup down, sloshing a bit on the spotless countertop. “Let’s go, then.”

“Hold on a minute. We can’t go riding into danger like our lives don’t matter. And that’s not because I’m a coward, but because there are people counting on us to stay alive for myriad reasons.”

“What will we do, then?”

Fergus sat on one of the wooden chairs. “This woman cannot be underestimated. She is brilliant, she is remorseless, and she loves to kill. I doubt you’ve ever been up against someone like her before.”

“She’s still a woman.”

Fergus laughed. “Ah, there’s the backwoods sexism I’ve been expecting.”

“Ain’t sexism if it’s true. Men are stronger than women. Period. You can’t argue ‘bout that.”

“That’s generally correct, but my experience is that intelligent women figure out workarounds for any physical disparities. Consider your daughter.”

“Hmmph.”

“Lizzy will be expecting us to pursue her. So I think rather than approach this like a hunting situation, we should entice her to come to a place of our choosing. Lure her out, like one of those corn feeders that deer hunters use.”

“Amateurs use those, not real hunters. How you reckon on doing that?”

“With the perfect bait.”

“What would that be?”

“A fresh potential victim.”

“Who?”

Fergus sighed. “Me, of course.”

***

“Why would you sacrifice yourself like this?” Serena Jo asked later that evening.

Fergus was savoring his second cup of coffee of the day, courtesy of Whitaker Holler’s leader. Apparently being willing to die for the safety of the mountain folks scored major points, redeemable for hot coffee.

“That word invokes a lamb scampering off to slaughter. I do have a few skills, you know,” Fergus replied.

“Right. Otis told me you’re former Special Ops.”

It had been a convenient white lie, but wasn’t far off the mark. He did, in fact, possess expertise surpassing that of elite military types. “I think I’m well-suited to confront this threat. Plus, I’m expendable.”

“Not as expendable as when you first arrived,” she replied, tapping slender fingers on her kitchen table and studying a pine-knot bullseye on the opposite wall.

“You’ve fallen in love with me! I knew it. I’ve been picking up vibes for dozens of minutes now.”

Serena Jo didn’t laugh often, but when she did, it was the music of a hammered dulcimer. He couldn’t picture the taciturn woman singing with abandon, but he could imagine the voice that would flow from that lovely mouth.

“Hardly,” she replied. “But for some inexplicable reason, I have decided I like you. More importantly, so do the children and my father.”

“Clearly you all have exquisite taste. So you agree to my plan?”

“Yes. I don’t see a downside.”

“Other than I could be killed and strung up in a tree.”

“Yes, other than that,” she replied, unsmiling.

“Mister Fergus!” Willadean said from the darkened bedroom. “Don’t get yourself killed. You’re the most interesting person in this backwater hell hole.”

“Language,” Serena Jo said.

He grinned. “May I?” he said to their mother, who answered with a distracted nod.

Standing in the bedroom doorway, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Both children sat upright in their beds. Of course they had heard everything about his plan, which was good. Harlan needed to understand how helpful the information he might gather from his astral excursions could prove.

“I promise not to get myself killed. But if I do, please make sure I’m buried in the cemetery’s most choice location.”

“When will you leave?” Willa asked.

“In the morning. I need a good night’s sleep first,” he said with a pointed look at Harlan. The boy gave him the barest of nods.

“How long will you be gone?”