Page 5
Story: Thunder Road (Badlands #7)
5
SIMON
“ T hanks for granting me access on such short notice.” Simon followed the special collections librarian at St. Cyprian College down a long, narrow corridor in the stacks of the research room.
“Thank you for brightening up my rather dull shift,” Mrs. Ames, the research librarian, said with a conspiratorial grin. “It’s not every day people come looking for information on trolls.”
Simon fought the urge to cringe and looked around to see if anyone was listening. He still couldn’t quite believe the turn this case had taken. “I appreciate you taking my request seriously.”
“Our saint is the patron of occult and mystical practice,” Mrs. Ames replied. “It takes a lot to surprise us.” She leaned toward him. “My hair didn’t used to be gray until I started working here,” she added with an impish grin.
Mrs. Ames looked to be in her late fifties, with dark skin and short-cut silver hair. “I like a challenge, and this isn’t a topic anyone’s ever asked me to look into.”
To Simon’s relief, she didn’t ask the reason for his interest. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the possibilities himself.
“You know, I always think of trolls as European entities.” She led him deeper into the stacks. “I forget they’re organic to the world, not to any particular geography. They show up under one name or another in pretty much every folklore.”
As they passed the carefully shelved books, Simon swore he could sense glimmers of power from some of the tomes. When he concentrated, it sounded like voices whispered on the edge of his hearing. Along the wall, special runed boxes and carved wooden cases fitted with elaborate locks made him wonder what dangerous books or materials they held.
Mrs. Ames brought him to a section across from a large wooden reading desk with an antique brass library lamp.
“Here you go—these three shelves should be our collection on trolls. Most of the books are in English. None of them require special handling—arcane or otherwise. Did you bring acid-free gloves?”
Simon nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Plus plenty of pens and paper.” Graduate school had trained him in the etiquette of rare book rooms.
He already felt at home in the archive. The air smelled of wood, aged leather, and the very particular tang of old paper.
“Very good. Come get me if you need anything. I’ll reshelve the books—just leave them on the desk.”
“Do you have any favorites on this topic? Somewhere you’d suggest I start?” Simon had learned long ago that librarians were the Indiana Joneses of hidden knowledge, and a few good questions could save hours of frustration.
“Unless you’re looking for general background, I’d focus on the accounts based in Canada and the United States. Of course, the Kaplan Turner books are classics, but they take a rather broad brush and so while they’re good for background, I think you’re looking for something a bit more focused.”
Simon nodded. “Ideally, I’d like to find older works that are less mythologized, that treat trolls like rare beasts instead of fanciful creatures. To be honest, I’m more interested in something like a game warden’s handbook than colorful folktales.”
Mrs. Ames adjusted her glasses and gave him a look that made Simon wonder if she had some psychic talent. “You’re looking for something tactical, not just scholarly.”
He tried not to squirm, hoping she wasn’t about to lecture him on taking things too seriously. “I’m looking into a pattern of disappearances over a period of years that doesn’t match normal circumstances. And when something doesn’t fit into the natural order, it requires moving farther afield.”
To his relief, she didn’t laugh. “That helps. Disclaimer—many of these books are very old. While some of them have taken the tone of cultural anthropology, the authors might just have been gifted storytellers. I’d start with these.”
She went down the shelves with a practiced eye, selecting books with faded covers until she had half a dozen on the reading desk.
“The Ormondson brothers are what I’ve always described as what you’d get if you crossed Hans Christian Anderson with Jane Goodall,” she told him. “Part fabulist and part neutral observer. Whenever I read the Ormondson books, I have the feeling I’m reading fact slightly disguised as fiction.”
“The investigation has hit several dead ends pursuing normal leads. We’re hoping that taking a different tack might open up other possibilities.” Simon didn’t want to fuel speculation, but he needed the librarian’s help, and she seemed predisposed to be more accepting than he had dared hope.
“Hamlet was right about there being more things than we’ve dreamt of.” Mrs. Ames’s smile told him she enjoyed being on the hunt. “If there’s anything else you can tell me to help you narrow the selections, I promise to keep it in confidence.”
She dropped her voice. “I’ve always believed librarians function under the seal of the confessional.”
Simon glanced around, confirming they were alone. “There’s a pattern of recurring disappearances that may be linked to an old bargain with a troll.”
“You mean like that odd motorcycle accident everyone’s talking about? The one where the rider just up and vanished?” she asked.
“Among others. You can imagine that the media would make hash out of anyone looking into trolls to explain it.”
She nodded. “Your secret is safe with me. This is a college dedicated to the esoteric and arcane. That wouldn’t be the oddest thing anyone has ever researched here.”
Simon didn’t think he wanted to know what counted as strange if trolls in Myrtle Beach didn’t. “Thank you.”
“The two-volume work by Sanders might be good, too,” she added. “It gets into some of the details that might seem less exciting on the mythic side but important for practical reasons. For example, trolls can’t make people disappear on a regular basis. It takes too much out of them. So there’s a recharge period between disappearances that provides a chance to attack.”
“Interesting,” Simon replied, reaching for the books she mentioned. “We were trying to figure out how to confront one without getting poofed.”
“Good to consider,” she said, although he sensed that his wording amused her. “If I recall correctly—and please verify this before you go into battle—they still have some formidable abilities short of killing someone. Like distorting time and sending nightmares.”
Simon shivered, unconsciously clutching the books a little tighter. “That’s something I need to know more about.”
“Make yourself comfortable at the desk. There’s a button that will buzz my station if you need help,” Mrs. Ames pointed out. “As usual, no eating, drinking, or marking in books. Cell phone photography is permitted for personal use, but please do not post your photos publicly without permission.”
Simon thanked her and made himself comfortable at the old wooden library desk. The stacks were quiet, but he didn’t sense any dangerous energies. Simon felt more at peace in the library than anywhere else except the beach.
The Sanders books proved remarkably readable for scholarly tomes, and well-organized. Simon felt his heart skip a beat as he read more about troll magic.
The legends vary about the recharge period—the stories say it differs by the species of troll. But the odds are good that we’re safe from being disappeared for at least five days after the last person was poofed. Give or take. Might not want to push the margin on that.
So the clock is ticking.
He read further and caught his breath.
Trolls can make walls and buildings collapse. Good thing the house and shop are warded. I wish I could ward the police station too.
He had done his best, with Vic’s help, to add what magical protection he could, but being a public building ruled out some of the spells.
Nightmares and phantom pain don’t sound like fun. I bet the vision I got was the troll trying to make me back off. We’re fairly safe inside the house and store, and the car is warded, but everywhere else, we’re only as protected as the charms and amulets we wear can provide.
Does the troll know I’m after it? Can it sense my abilities? I don’t want to endanger people by going to public events like the Boo he needed hot and fast, proof of life.
“Don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I like it.”
They tumbled into bed, a tangle of limbs. Simon thumbed open the button on his jeans, got them halfway unzipped, and pushed them and his briefs off as Vic hurriedly shed his clothing.
“Want you on top,” Simon murmured, pulling Vic into his arms, kissing him open-mouthed and hungry.
“Any way you want it.” Vic ran his hands over Simon’s body. They explored with fingers and lips and mouths for a while, licking and stroking until touch became an exquisite caress.
“Want you in me,” Simon breathed. “Need to feel you move.”
“That can be arranged,” Vic chuckled in a low rumble.
By now, they knew each other’s favorite spots, and Simon shivered as Vic kissed his jaw and moved down the column of his neck, then let his tongue tease at Simon’s nipples as his hand slipped between Simon’s legs to fondle his cock and balls.
“Oh, yeah.” Simon brought his hands up to stroke Vic’s back and grip his ass.
Sometimes they could stretch out lovemaking for hours on lazy weekends or vacation days. Tonight, Simon wanted connection and release, needing to feel Vic’s fingers dig into his biceps and relish the stretch and burn of taking his cock even after they came.
Vic seemed to sense Simon’s mood and took control, which Simon willingly relinquished. One of the things he loved about their partnership was how equally they balanced roles, able to switch back and forth, leading and following in everything, not just in bed.
Now, he let pleasure banish worries and drive repetitive thoughts from his mind. Vic knew what Simon liked and how to turn his crank. Simon reached for Vic’s cock, and Vic gently batted his hand away.
“Let me drive for now,” Vic murmured. “I’ve got you.” Vic took his time prepping Simon, opening him carefully and slicking the way. Preparation was part of the pleasure.
Simon knew how lucky he was to have a partner who knew him so well and accurately read his mood. He gave himself over to being loved and letting arousal drive all other thoughts from his mind.
“That’s it,” Vic coaxed. “Just feel.”
Simon wrapped his legs around Vic’s waist, and Vic slid inside, pausing for a few seconds fully seated and then starting a slow, regular rhythm. Simon let his head fall back, completely open to Vic, focusing on the growing intensity of sensation.
Reaching climax didn’t take long, and Simon arched as his orgasm overtook him. Vic’s hand stroked him through the orgasm, sending sticky ribbons of come to paint his chest. Seconds later, Vic’s hips jerked, and he followed him over the edge.
They lay tangled together for a moment, just breathing, enjoying the afterglow.
“That was…perfect.” Simon kissed Vic on the temple.
“Yeah.” Vic sounded just as blissed out as Simon felt.
Reluctantly, Vic eased out and rolled to the side, handing Simon a fistful of tissues and using another wad to help clean up.
“Better?” Vic asked as he tossed the bundles into the trash.
“Uh-huh.” Simon floated in a post-orgasm haze and wasn’t in a hurry to lose the moment.
“Good.” Vic licked a stripe up the middle of Simon’s chest with the flat of his tongue and then kissed him on the lips. “If that didn’t distract you, we can try again. I have a few more tricks.”
“Mmm. Definitely did distract me, but I won’t turn down your tricks.” Simon knew he sounded spent.
Vic got up and went to the bathroom, then returned with a warm, wet washcloth and wiped Simon down and then himself, and lobbed the cloth toward the doorway. “Shower in the morning?” His voice was a low rumble that made Simon want to go again, despite his sated body’s desire for sleep.
“Definitely. After round two,” Simon pulled Vic in for another kiss.
“Promises like that could make me into a morning person.”
“I can make that happen.” Simon did his best not to lose the afterglow, keeping his thoughts in the here and now and pushing aside anything to do with lighthouses and trolls.
In the morning, after a spirited round of wake-up sex, Simon fixed scrambled eggs and bacon while Vic showered.
“Anything going on at the shop today?” Vic poured them both cups of coffee.
“Things always get busy in the lead-up to Halloween.” Simon plated the eggs and brought them to the table. He settled in across from Vic and smiled when Vic’s first bite yielded a pleased moan.
“I’m still looking for the details of the protections that lapsed when the lighthouses were automated.” Simon paused to dig into his breakfast. “Once Mrs. Brighton finds her uncle’s journal, I was wondering if you’d take a road trip with me to check the South Carolina locations.”
“Certainly.” Vic made short work of his eggs, nibbling at the last piece of bacon. He refilled their cups as Simon worked through the food on his plate. “What are you hoping to find?”
“From the journal, clues about the old protections and rituals and what it would take to activate them again without full-time lighthouse keepers. From the road trip? I’m not sure except that sometimes you get a lot of information from the feel of a place, even when you think you’ve read everything about it.”
“Worst case, we don’t find anything paranormal and we have a nice day driving up and down the coast. Works for me,” Vic assured him.
Simon’s schedule of readings and séances kept him busy most of the day. In between customers, he mapped out the route to the lighthouses and searched for nearby sites that might dampen or amplify supernatural power. They might not be able to check out everything in one trip, but Simon wanted to try to take as many factors into consideration as he could.
For fun, he also noted possible restaurant stops and nearby roadside attractions to break up the drive.
Most of his appointments that day related positive news to clients, either from his psychic read of their situations or from the ghosts contacted in the séance. Simon preferred days like that to times when the interactions did not go as smoothly, or the connections shared disappointing information.
Still, a full calendar of doing psychic readings or using his abilities to contact spirits left Simon tired by the end of the afternoon, despite Pete’s diligence in bringing him coffee with cream and sugar throughout the day to keep up his energy.
More than once Simon got up and glanced out the shop window, looking up and down the street.
“Expecting someone?” Pete asked.
Simon shrugged, a little out of sorts because he couldn’t articulate what prompted his actions. “Not really. I just can’t shake the feeling of being watched.”
“You think someone is staked out to keep an eye on us?”
“That’s just it—I haven’t seen anyone suspicious loitering around. So my imagination might just be getting to me,” Simon admitted. “But it doesn’t change the way it feels.”
“Go with your gut,” Pete replied. “I’ll refresh the wardings, just in case.”
Simon’s last client had just left when Mrs. Brighton arrived. “Sorry to catch you late in the day, but I thought you’d want to see what I’ve found so far.”
Simon ushered her to the table as Pete flipped the sign on the door and started closing the register.
“My uncle considered being a lighthouse keeper a holy obligation, like the priesthood,” Mrs. Brighton said. “I would follow him around whenever we visited and ask questions. He never seemed to mind.”
“I know the decision to automate the lighthouses was out of your uncle’s control. But do you think your father would have followed in his footsteps if the lighthouse had not been automated?” Simon asked.
“Oh, no,” she replied. “My father made it clear early on that he had other plans. He went to college and only came back for holidays. It’s not something most folks are cut out for. More of a calling.”
Simon could understand. With computers, cell phones, satellite television, and the internet, living at a lighthouse wouldn’t be as isolated as before modern times. But the lack of day-to-day, face-to-face connection wasn’t for everyone.
“He kept a journal and made notes every day—we found boxes of them, one for each year. This is the one his ghost wanted me to find, the one he mentioned in our séance as his first year at the lighthouse. He noted the weather and the ships that came by, as well as the wildlife. I think he loved being able to see the birds and dolphins. He left the journals to me.
“But one was set aside—for the first year he was at the lighthouse,” she went on. “I think it was because it had information about how to maintain the wardings and what rituals he needed to do to keep them strong.”
She pulled the old leather-bound book from her purse and passed it across the table to Simon. “Maybe you’ll make more of it than I could. To me, the pretty verses sound like a prayer, but I guess I don’t understand how these things work.”
Simon’s fingers traced the leather, getting a frisson of old memories and faint power.
“It’s not so far off thinking of them as prayers, but not meant for a particular listener,” Simon told her. “More like speaking to the universe itself, using the words to harness the speaker’s will and intentions, an act of creation by voicing something into being.”
“That’s very poetic.”
Simon shrugged. “It’s a deeply-rooted reaction at the core of every belief system, so it touches something in how we’re wired. I can’t explain it, but I’m not going to discount something that old and powerful.”
“He makes comments in his first journal about how important it is to keep the wardings strong, do the ritual on a regular schedule, and not skip over anything in the incantation,” Mrs. Brighton said.
“And he mentions something I didn’t expect. The South Carolina lighthouses are in a pretty straight line down the coast. But the North Carolina ones are a little more spread out. According to his notes, seven of those are more supernaturally powerful than the others, and it’s possible to draw a seven-pointed star in a circle using them as the key points.”
“A pentagram in a circle is an old protection sigil,” Simon mused, acknowledging the validation of the story he had heard. “Probably not something they bring up on the lighthouse tours.”
She laughed. “No, I’m sure they don’t.”
“Thank you for sharing this with me,” Simon told her. “I’ll take good care of it.”
Mrs. Brighton laid her hand over Simon’s. “Do with it whatever you need to do to bring back the protections. I know that’s what my uncle would want.”
“Would you mind if I digitally scanned it? That way it’s preserved for the future.”
She gave a vague wave. “Fine with me. That sounds like a good idea. For as important as the wardings seemed to my uncle, it’s a bit scandalous that they’ve just gone by the wayside.”
“Thank you.” Simon gripped her hand gently. “I think this is going to be very useful.”
“I’m glad to help. I hope everything goes well.” She waved goodbye to Pete and left the shop. Simon watched from the window until she was out of sight.
“I’m going to put the journal in my bag and shut down my computer,” Simon told Pete, who had nearly finished closing. He had barely gotten to his office when he heard someone rapping at the front window.
“It’s Ricky,” Pete said when Simon came up front. “What do you want me to do?”
Simon glanced at the clock and figured one more conversation wouldn’t make him too late for dinner. “Let him in. And if you don’t mind, stick around, please. We won’t be long.”
“You’ve got it.” Pete headed for the door, unlocked it long enough for the newcomer to enter, and locked it again afterward.
“Sorry to come so late,” Ricky said. “But I heard something I think you’ll want to know.”
Ricky was one of the Skeleton Crew, but Simon hadn’t heard from him in a few months. His untrained ability as a medium had sent him spiraling until Simon helped him get the training he needed to manage his gift and control his abilities.
“What’s up?”
Ricky rubbed his hands on the front of his jeans, a nervous gesture that went with his twitchy way of looking around even though the shop was empty except for Simon and Pete. “I’ve been working at the shelter for the last six months. It’s part of qualifying for my certification, but I really like it there. I feel like I’m helping people.”
After Ricky had gained more control of his mediumship, he had been able to go back to school. He was working on a counseling certificate and hoped to be able to steer others with paranormal abilities to resources that would help them learn about their gifts instead of writing them off as imagination.
“Beach towns get a lot of drifters,” Ricky said. “People down on their luck, looking for a fresh start, or who just give up and plan to fade away by the ocean.”
Simon could relate, having come to Myrtle Beach after his personal and professional life exploded. He had been fortunate to have the resources to rebuild. Not everyone was as lucky.
“So we have our regulars and our newbies,” Ricky went on. “Some of them keep their distance, but the ones that stick around, we get to know at least a little. Unless they get picked up by the cops for vagrancy or stop at a soup kitchen, we’re likely to be one of their only points of contact.”
Simon nodded. He quietly kept track of the younger psychics he mentored, knowing that without a support system, their gifts could be overwhelming.
“We don’t track our clients. But we notice when they aren’t around for a while. I got talking to James, one of the other volunteers, and we realized that a couple of regulars haven’t been in for several weeks or longer. That’s unusual for them.”
“Maybe they moved on? Found a better situation?”
“Maybe,” Ricky said. “And I hope that’s true—but that’s not what my gut says.”
Simon took intuition seriously. “What do you think is going on?”
“The guys who haven’t come around are hard cases. No family, no real social connections. Most of them have serious health conditions that aren’t getting treated—lung cancer, that sort of thing. They’re marking time until they check out,” Ricky went on. “We try to steer them into residences and other programs, but it’s up to them whether they stay. Some of them like being loners.”
Simon felt a prickle on the back of his neck as he guessed where Ricky’s tale might be going. “What’s changed?”
“For one thing, the ghosts that hang around the neighborhood seem edgy. I know it’s silly to talk about dead people being scared?—”
“Not at all. Spirits can be preyed upon by some supernatural creatures,” Simon mused.
“That’s—not comforting. Anyhow, I noticed that I hadn’t seen some of our regulars for a while. It’s not like we can check up on them. But we’re a free meal and a hot shower and a place to watch TV for a couple of hours, so clients have a reason to come back,” Ricky said.
“I made a list—for what it’s worth. I don’t even know last names for most of them, and the names I do have might be fake. I think they’ve gone missing, and no one else has noticed.”
Simon picked up troubling vibes the longer Ricky talked.
“These are folks at rock bottom. They didn’t have bus fare, and I don’t think anyone would pick them up hitchhiking. I asked the ghosts, thinking that maybe some of the clients just died somewhere and got taken away as John Does,” Ricky said. “None of their ghosts answered, but the spirits that hang around got real freaky.”
“Freaky—how?”
“Like they were scared and didn’t want to talk about it. What scares ghosts?”
Really bad things. Simon could think of a number of entities that could scare spirits, usually with the threat of consuming them. The troll would definitely qualify.
“I think you’re onto something, but that’s a difficult group to prove someone has gone missing,” Simon replied.
“I know, which is why I didn’t go to the cops. Here’s my list.” Ricky slid a folded piece of paper across the table to Simon. “I’m sorry I can’t suggest how to find them.”
Simon took the paper and put it in his pocket. “I can check the John Does at the morgue and the vagrancy arrests. Also the involuntary commitments. My husband is a cop—he should be able to access the information. It’s difficult without full names, but we might be able to account for some of them. If they just moved on, there’s no way to tell.”
Ricky nodded. “I know. And I hope that’s what happened. But when I ask my intuition, I get that Magic 8 Ball answer, outlook not so good.”
Privately, Simon agreed. If the troll wanted to break the truce without getting caught, that’s the group to target. And if he just makes them disappear, there’s nobody to find, no proof. I’m getting the same feeling as that Magic 8 Ball.
The disappearances happened over time, so maybe the creature sneaks in a snack when he builds his power back up. The trick is going to be catching him at a low point.
Having a store along the beach and boardwalk meant Simon had gotten a crash course in homelessness. People who fell on hard times found their way to the beach, looking for a second chance or hoping to tune out. During busy seasons, the demand outstripped the town’s resources and services.
That could provide a banquet to a creature like a troll that chose targets no one would miss and left no evidence behind.
“Thanks for letting me know,” Simon told him. “We’ll take it from here. Please don’t go investigating on your own.”
Ricky crossed his heart. “No need to say that twice. But I’ll let you know if I hear anything else.”
Simon let him out the door, locking up afterward. He and Pete gathered their things and headed out.
“You think the troll is grabbing some extra meals?” Pete asked.
Simon winced. “Yeah. Predators are usually good at knowing how to pick off the ones that won’t be missed. There’s no way to issue a warning without sounding like a crackpot. We’ll have to figure out a way to stop the troll.”
He walked Pete to his car. “Remember, I’m going up the coast with Vic tomorrow, so I won’t be in. Call if you need me.”
“Sure thing. Be careful, okay? I have to admit, this whole troll thing freaks me out.”
You and me, both, Simon thought. “I’ll do the best I can. Thanks for holding down the fort.”
He still couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, although there was no one in sight. Once Pete was gone, Simon drove home, lost in thought about what to do about the missing people and how in the hell they were going to stop a troll.
Simon stayed alert for the short drive. The car was warded, so he knew no one had placed a hex bag or laid a spell on it. While he was inside the vehicle, Simon benefitted from the additional protections.
Is the troll watching me, or have I freaked myself out? How did he figure out that I might be a problem—and what does he think I can do to him? If there’s a way that I really can pose a threat, I’d like to know what it is so I can make the troll stop killing people.
He glimpsed a tall, raw-boned, broad-shouldered man standing on the sidewalk near an intersection on Ocean Boulevard. Seconds later, just as Simon’s car approached the crossing, someone yelled a warning, and the traffic signal poles swayed, toppling to the ground along with wires and a steel pole as bystanders screamed and horns honked.
Simon practically stood on the brake to get stopped without hitting anything, and he braced for impact in case the drivers behind him weren’t as quick. Tires squealed, but the cars managed to stop without a collision.
Two cars were pinned beneath the toppled poles, which made deep dents in the roof and trunk. He couldn’t see whether the drivers were injured. Pedestrians congregated on the sidewalk, and a few gawkers approached the damaged cars, checking in with the occupants.
Simon’s heart pounded, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. On the other side of the wreckage, he spotted the tall man who fit the description of the troll that Vic told him about, pieced together from witnesses. The man stared directly at him, smirking. Simon reached for the door handle, but the troll stepped back into the shadows and vanished before Simon could get out of his car.
He settled back into his seat with a frustrated grunt, trapped in the snarled traffic until the police and ambulances arrived. Simon slowed his breathing and collected his wits as sirens blared.
With the protective charms, the troll can’t come at me, Vic, or Pete and Ross directly. The shop and house are warded, as well as the car and Vic’s motorcycle. So the troll has to threaten in a different way—by showing he can hurt bystanders because he knows that might slow us down.
Magical extortion—"nice beach town you’ve got here, sure would be a shame if anything happened to it.”
Simon knew they couldn’t afford to let the troll carry on unchallenged, despite the danger. This means we have to find a way to shut him down fast before he hurts other people or figures out a weakness in our protections. The game has changed—and it’s a race to the finish.