“Lurch faster!” he boomed, then turned back to his assistant. “There, Peter. That is how to control your minions. Mind control is the best control.”
“Got it,” Peter said, frowning.
“I took the trays over to the kitchen,” Doris said, getting a word in edgewise. “Is there anything else you need?”
“And who is this who performs tasks in my con suite yet bears not the lanyard of staff?” the black man asked. “Speak to us, O lady of beauty and worth!”
“Uh,” Doris replied.
“I see thy name is Doris,” the man said. “Shane Gomez is my name, and I am the master of the con suite, the feeder of the hordes, the supplier of provender to the faceless masses. God of Feasting!
“Thank you,” he added, in a much gentler tone. “I appreciate the assistance. And while I’d take you up on your offer to help more, alas, we are required to put anyone on staff through the mandatory training courses where their brains are removed and replaced by straw so that the zombies-the other zombies, that is-don’t eat them. Since your brains are clearly not straw, I must regretfully decline more assistance for your own safety. Besides, right now I’ve got enough people. But feel free to grab a bite to eat before it’s all gone. In fact…”
He took Doris gently by the elbow and walked to the head of the line.
“This is Doris,” he said to the kid who was next up to the table. “She has performed service beyond compare to the good of the con and to the good of the con suite. In doing so, she lost her place in line. I, as master of the con suite, do now place her in front of you. Problems?”
“No problem, Shane,” the tow-haired kid said, sticking out his hand. “Looking good. How you doing this year?”
“Too soon to tell, really,” Shane replied in a much more normal voice as he shook the proferred hand. “But it looks good so far. Take care, man.”
“You too,” the kid replied, waving Doris in front of him. “Eat up. Most of the good stuff will be gone before you know it.”
Doris snagged a hot dog, chips and coleslaw, then went back around to get a drink. She found a corner that wasn’t occupied and filled her stomach, then considered her situation.
Food was covered. She wasn’t sure where she could sleep, though. She didn’t have enough money for a hotel room, and from passing conversations she’d overheard, she knew all the hotels were full, anyway.
Cross that bridge when she got tired. Right now she had to think. With some food on her stomach that was actually a possibility.
She pulled out the program book again and read it more carefully. All the programming track stuff started tomorrow. So she had until then to think about what she wanted to do. Who she wanted to be, as Duncan had put it.
The nice thing about the con, she realized, was the anonymity. Nobody knew her, she didn’t have any defined place, nobody was really paying her any attention at all. She realized in a flash that she could be anybody she wanted to be. She didn’t have to be Dumb-ass Doris. She could create a new Doris.
She looked at the cover of the main program and frowned. She wasn’t sure she could be the person on the cover, but it had a certain allure. It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to be noticed, didn’t want to be liked. She just didn’t want to be harassed because of it. If you were pretty, guys took pictures of you. They didn’t stuff you in a locker because you’d pissed off their girlfriends.
She could be anybody she wanted to be. So who did she want to be?
CHAPTER TWO
“Ms. Rickels,” Germaine said. “This is Lady Lithram, our local contact.”
Janea had been moved to a safe house not far from the hospital. The neighborhood was seedy, and Sharice would normally consider the location not particularly secure. However, Germaine had also arranged for four “executive protection specialists” from Atlanta to maintain security around the clock. In addition, there were nurses monitoring Janea at all times and an on-call MD. On the mystic side, the house was owned by Memorial Hospital, a Catholic hospital. Sharice felt mildly out of place only because the defenses of the house, which were formidable, were so clearly Christian.
When Germaine made certain phone calls to certain people, things could get done very quickly.
“Lady Lithram,” Sharice said, shaking her hand. Lady Lithram was stocky, with short blonde hair, blue eyes and a figure that spoke of manual labor. Her hands were roughly calloused. “I’d prefer traditional rites. No skyclad.”
“Of course, madame,” the Wiccan priestess said, nodding. “And may I introduce my husband, Lord Korgan?”
“Lord Korgan,” Sharice said, shaking the man’s hand. Lord Korgan was quite short, slender, and unusually for Wicca, black. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, but had ceremonial robes over his shoulder. “I’m glad to see that both poles are represented.”
“The universe is balance,” Lady Lithram said. “Light and dark, male and female. Only molds don’t need balance, and who loves mold?”
“Indeed,” Sharice said, grinning. “You’re a gardener.”
“We’re landscapers,” Lady Lithram said. “Which mostly means cutting grass to the level it would be shorn by grazers. But I do a nice flowerbed.”
“I suspect they’re better than the owners realize,” Sharice said. “Tell me about the local powers.”
“Very bad,” Lady Lithram said. “Very negative.”
“Negative or dark?” Sharice asked.
“Negative,” Lord Korgan said. “We have walked the dark paths. This is…different.”
“There are at least three long-term demonic residents,” Lady Lithram said. “And a very large body of supporters. Satanists,” she added, nearly spitting.
“They perform their black rites in Chickamauga Park,” Lord Korgan said, tiredly. “We oppose their powers as well as we can, but Wiccans…”
“Don’t fight well,” Sharice said, nodding. “Some, anyway. If we have major demons in the area, why weren’t we called in earlier?”
“They are generational possessors,” Lady Lithram said, frowning. “They live in families, some of the more powerful in the area. Chattanooga is a very strange place, one of the few medium cities that is still ‘owned,’ if you will, by a handful of families. Some of those, not all, are generationally possessed. They keep the city small and manageable because it suits their purposes. Then there are more outside the powerful inner circle, but controlling towns in the area. Again, we do what we can to turn aside their more evil essences, but the Madness killings have been long coming. Something is rising, perhaps by their action, perhaps against their wishes, but definitely linked to them.”
“We’re supposed to be here,” a loud voice boomed from the front of the house. “Check the damned list.”
“Ah, I see Hjalmar is here,” Sharice said, smiling. “Asatru.”
“We can deal,” Lady Lithram said, grinning.
“The reinforcements are here,” Hjalmar said, hefting his ceremonial axe. He was accompanied by another man, short, thin, black-haired and -eyed, and covered in tattoos.
“Hjalmar,” Sharice said, smiling. “Don’t tell me you’re going to join a circle?”
“The sacrifices I make for Frey,” the massive, blond, bearded man said, giving her a spine-cracking bear hug. “But I’m going to stand outside the circle. This is a very nonviolent coven; I’m afraid I would create a disturbance in the Force.”
“You are a disturbance in the Force,” Sharice said. “Drakon.”
The adept shook her hand abruptly and nodded sharply.
“I am here to assist as you need,” he said. “Please continue your conversation.”
“And the Lady-damned Satanists do not help,” Lord Korgan said, sighing again. “We cannot prove it, but we believe they have begun true blood rites using homeless. It’s possible some of the Madness killings are linked to
