Prairie Poltergeist Read online

  Icy ash hit the Clydesdale’s broad torso. The horse reflexively kicked out, connecting only with air. He gasped as ice blossomed painfully within his chest. He closed his eyes and grimaced as the pain threatened to overwhelm his senses. Winston found that if he stood there, perfectly still, it hurt a little less. Only when he tried moving did the icy pain flare up.

  He heard his wife’s cries and he latched onto the sound. She was saying his name, calling out for him.

  When he opened his eyes, Winston saw a monochromatic landscape. The steer was there, dead on the ground beside him, near the shallow creek. Beyond was the thicket of buffaloberry and the other calf’s carcass. Beyond that was the top of the narrow valley and his wife’s voice. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but he knew she would come for him.

  The realization shook him into action. He could not let Jeri near this place. Which meant he needed to leave it, to go to her.

  The pain was blinding. His vision flashed in shades of grey and red with every step. He had to rely on her voice to guide him. Though it was only a short distance up the slope, he was sure he would pass out. The Clydesdale dug in, his massive hooves finding purchase on the soft, upturned soil and loose rocks.

  If he was to look up, Winston would have seen what Jeri saw: the swirling clouds ever darkening, angry and terrifying and hinting at unimaginable turmoil. He didn’t look at the sky, though; he looked only at his wife.

  He could see her now as he arrived at the top of the ridge. She had shifted back into human form. Long, chestnut hair blew across her face as wind from the newly-forming storm swirled around the coulee. Jeri wore jeans and leather work boots, her plaid long-sleeve shirt rolled up above her elbows. Her skin was deeply tanned, weathered from constant exposure to bitter cold winters and sweltering summers. He felt a tinge of guilt as he recognized the sacrifices she made to be with him, the career and life she gave up to be his mate.

  “What’s going on? What happened? What happened to you?” Her voice was quavering, her hand uncertain against his broad neck.

  He met her eyes and knew them to be a soft brown, though now they appeared only grey to him. He blinked away involuntary tears. Even the act of breathing caused him pain.

  Winston was incredibly strong. A lifetime of throwing square bales and carrying buckets of grain created a stout figure. It was with good reason his subform was a Clydesdale. Yet that was now a burden. She would never be able to get him out of there, not if he passed out in his present form.

  He mustered what energy remained and shifted. His spine and legs shrank, the white tufts of hair around his hooves fading into callused hands and booted feet. His dark mane and tail disappeared, and his eyes migrated from the sides of a long face to the front of a rounded one.

  The burning, icy pain in his chest remained.

  He tasted dirt. He didn’t remember collapsing to the ground but realized he must have when Jeri rolled him onto his back. His head was in her lap. Winston looked up at her face, her soft brown eyes wet, tears dripping from her cheeks to land in his hair. He did not know what had happened to the calves, what happened now to him, but decided that he would survive whatever this was. He had to, for her.

  “What should I do?” Jeri asked, her lips tremulous as she spoke.

  Just before he lost consciousness he said, “Get word to Ember Wright.”

  2

  Better Than a Square

  Well-worn ASICS crunched against the lonely gravel road, their outsoles randomly kicking up loose aggregate. The runner’s long, blonde hair was tied back in a tail, swinging between shoulder blades in a steady rhythm.

  Ember’s exposed skin soaked in the warm September morning. Waterfowl honked and quacked encouragement from waterlogged ditches, while she focused on her gait. She was careful not to roll her ankle on the rough surface of the country road, proud of herself for gaining confidence over the past month. Prior to this, she usually only ever jogged on groomed trails and pavement. She wasn’t a clumsy, timid girl anymore.

  Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four. Her breathing evenly matched every fourth footfall. The steady percussion of crunching gravel lulled her into a meditative state. A focused trance accompanied the runner’s high.

  A casual observer might have mistaken Ember Wright for an athlete. Though a tad short at five-three, her muscles were toned, partially concealed beneath the black-and-red tank and matching shorts. Her suntanned figure was lean, despite a weakness for pastries and sweets.

  When she emigrated from Great Britain to North Dakota, she was provided with an apartment upstairs from a bakery. The proprietors of the Sweet and Flour came to know Ember by name. They jested with her about being a predictable customer with unpredictable tastes.

  That was all before. Before the quirky blonde with fire-blue eyes and an English accent suddenly moved away from Minot. Before the Souris River overflowed its banks, drowning parts of the city and ending the startup bakery’s brief life.

  When Ember returned to the city, she did so in full force. Through a series of bloody skirmishes, she and her friends won back the Parker Building and the precious ley line hidden within its sub-basement. They fended off counter-attacks by officers of the Druw High Council and their henchmen. Ember lost close friends in the uprising. Her people were hit hard, but they hit back even harder.

  They declared their independence, naming their new organization the Druwish Free Nation. Elections were held to establish a governing council, with Ember elected as Vice President.

  The fighting only ceased after she and her crew ambushed the Jade Tigers, a notorious gang of foreign mercenaries. Ember was moments from ending her nemesis, Elton Higginbotham, when he convinced her of a greater, shared threat: the alien god, Moraff. It was Moraff, after all, who had collapsed all but two ley lines. It was he who infected Elton with an implanted copy of himself.

  Reluctantly, Ember agreed. This deity from Aedynar was a wildcard with powers neither of them could comprehend. Justice for Elton would have to wait for another day.

  Elton in turn pressured his allies back in England into a truce. The cease-fire held. Thus far.

  Ember was no fool; she knew she could not trust Elton nor the corrupt High Council. Yet, both sides had taken heavy losses and unacceptable risks. More than once, they nearly exposed their existence to NonDruws—to the nonmagical humans of the world. However much they despised each other, mutual destruction was not an outcome either side could accept.

  As the weeks went by without incident, life began to return to some semblance of normal. Cleanup from the flood continued. The Parker Building was in a state of remodeling with the first floor transformed into a secure community hall exclusive to Druwish people and the basement clinic expanded and modernized. The DFN council busily screened and hired among the ever-growing pool of mage and changeling refugees from Chile, New Zealand, Eritrea, and China. Against a backdrop of the historic flood and an ongoing oil boom, construction and housing were the top pressures on the burgeoning community. These challenges were easily preferable to the horrors of an internecine war.

  An approaching vehicle interrupted Ember’s introspective trance. The sedan slowed as it approached. Some part of her subconscious invited uncertainty and anxiety. Memories of recent assassination attempts boiled to the surface.

  A Cranial Liquefaction spell would always be her nuclear option; it was terminal and unsubtle. She would only ever use that as a last resort.

  She could summon one of her ghost friends to spy on the car’s occupants, to relay their conversation and intent. But no, it was too late for Boundary Transcendence.

  A Cloaking Spell was only useful in a crowd, when she could convince others she was someone else. That simply wasn’t an option on the open prairie where the nearest human was a mile away.

  That left her with the old standby: a Containment Net. She stopped running and stood on the grassy shoulder of the road, her chest rising and falling as she tried to calm her breathing. She
began to pull mana from within, readying it.

  The huge Oldsmobile slowed to a crawl, the driver’s window easing down as the car pulled up. A wrinkled man with liver spots on his balding head leaned out of the driver’s side. “Are you alright? Needing a ride?”

  Ember blinked, her gaze squinting from the driver to the passenger. Their auras were thin, weak. NonDruws. The woman in the passenger seat wore a light blue floral dress and what appeared to be a doily pinned to her permed silver hair. The man behind the steering wheel sported a dark brown corduroy suit jacket and a silver horseshoe bolo tie.

  “How was church?” Ember asked between breaths.

  “Eh?” the old man raised a bushy grey unibrow. “It was fine. How’d you know—”

  “Lucky guess,” Ember said with a smile. “And thanks for stopping, but I’m just out for a jog.”

  “A jog?”

  “Right,” Ember nodded. “You know, a morning run.”

  The old man glanced at his wife, who in turn shrugged. He said, “We don’t see too many people out running on these roads. Not unless they’ve got car trouble.”

  “No trouble here. Just trying to get in shape, yeah.”

  The old man’s fog-colored eyes appraised her. “What shape are you trying to get into?”

  “I’m aiming for a rhombus, but I’d settle for trapezoidal.”

  “Eh?” The man’s liver-spotted brow furrowed. “Better than a square.”

  “Miles better than a square,” Ember agreed.

  “Are you visiting one of the neighbors?” The wife asked.

  “No, I live here. Well, not here, here. Over that way.” Ember pointed at a cluster of mature trees a mile up the road. Their leaves were shades of green and gold, the last vestiges of summer giving way to Fall.

  “Oh, that Schmitt boy?”

  “Rik, yeah.”

  “I never knew he was married. And to an Australian lady, no less.” The elderly couple conferred with one another. “When did you two exchange vows?”

  “Oh,” Ember chuckled. “We haven’t. He’s just my boyfriend. And I’m actually English.”

  “Eh? Well, that’s nice too,” the old man said. “How’re his folks doing?”

  “Ron and Muriel?” Ember wiped the back of her hand across her brow, catching beads of sweat before it could sting her eyes. “They’re doing well. We’ll be heading over there in a bit for Sunday brunch in fact.”

  “They liking their new house?”

  “Sure, yeah.”

  “Such a pity what happened with their old one. Terrible, tragic fire.” The old man sucked at his teeth and shook his head. “You just never can tell with a gas leak though. Us, we’ve been lucky I suppose. Never had any fires at our farm. Not in 45 years. Nothing other than grass fires during haying season and drought years, anyways.”

  Ember chewed her lip and nodded. “It was a shock to all of us. But they’re recovering. At least nobody was home at the time.”

  “Everyone in Plaza was concerned for them, when the fire happened. Then the whole family up and disappeared for, what, a year?” The old man looked up at Ember, seeking confirmation.

  “Not quite a year, but yeah.” Ember had practiced the cover story with the Schmitts, until even the twin children could relay it convincingly. “They all just needed to get away from it all after that. An extended holiday, yeah. But they’re back now, and in high spirits.”

  “Where’d they go, anyway?”

  “Oh, down south.” Ember waved her hand noncommittally. “Somewhere warm.”

  “Florida? Arizona?”

  “Yeah. Arizona.”

  “Tucson? Phoenix?”

  “You know, I’m not really familiar with the geography of your country.” Ember offered a self-effacing shrug. It was easier than going into details. For all she knew, these people would surprise her by being snowbirds with a winter home in whichever city she randomly chose. “It’s so nice of you to stop to see if I needed help. I had best resume my run though, before Rik starts worrying about what happened to me.”

  The elderly couple both nodded, though they seemed disappointed with the conversation ending so quickly. Before rolling the window up and driving away, the old man gave her a wink and said, “Tell Ron and Muriel ‘hi’ from the Herberts, will ya? And good luck becoming that rhombazoidal shape.”

  * * *

  Ember was intercepted a second time at the end of Rik’s driveway. A German shepherd and two bicycle-riding children cut across the rough section line trail. The dog barked as she ran ahead, eager to accept pets from the mage.

  “Well hello to you, too, Lucky,” Ember breathed as she slowed to a walk. She buried her fingers in the dog’s fur. “Marta, Max…what are you doing so far from home?”

  “We came to visit Marmite. Oh, and you and Uncle Rik, too!” Marta announced as she pedaled. Pink and white plastic tassels sprouted from the handlebars of her rainbow-painted bike. Maxim’s bike was metallic blue and held two pinochle cards strapped against the frame’s rear yoke. The wire spokes of the wheel flicked the cards noisily. In the young boy’s mind, he was no doubt riding a throaty motorcycle.

  “We’re heading over for brunch in a half hour or so, silly kids,” Ember laughed. “You mean to tell me you rode all the way over here, just to turn around and head back?”

  “It’s only three miles,” Maxim said with a shrug. He locked the brakes on his bike, skidding purposely against the loose gravel. The boy looked over his shoulder, admiring the shallow gouge and cloud of dust he created. “Did you see, Aunt Ember? I can even spin in place, too. Wanna see?”

  “Um…yeah. Of course I do, Max.”

  The boy found a suitable spot of uncompacted gravel near the shoulder of the road, flicked out the bike’s kickstand, and leaned precariously until the rear wheel barely contacted the ground. He stood over the frame and pedaled furiously, throwing aggregate and dust in a rooster tail pattern.

  “Right. Um…brilliant,” Ember said, waving the dust away. “Maybe you could do that downwind next time?”

  “You’re such a show-off,” Marta said. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, unimpressed with her twin brother’s talent.

  The trio joined Ember on the final leg of her morning jog. The twins chattered endlessly, often interrupting and overlapping one another as they shared stories with their audience. Lucky hurried along the driveway, familiar with the destination ahead.

  Alarik Schmitt’s farmstead was bordered to the north and west by rows of aging elm and mature pine. The grass was neatly mowed and mostly shades of beige, complementing the golds and yellows of the elms’ leaves. The white-and-red house she shared with him had a steep pitched roof with modern shingles. Beyond that was an old gambrel roof barn painted red with white trim. The barn’s doors were wide open, giving the impression the old building was yawning.

  A black-furred, year-old crossbred pup darted out of the barn when he saw the arrivals. Marmite hurried to his mother, yipping and dancing around the German shepherd.

  Ember called out to the barn as she and the kids approached. “Hey Rik, I picked up a couple of lost children along the road. Think we should keep them?”

  The man’s voice emerged from somewhere in the barn. “Are they troublemakers? A couple of rapscallions?”

  “No rapscallions, Uncle Rik!” Marta giggled. “It’s just us!”

  “Hmm, definitely troublemakers then.” Alarik stepped out from behind a white welding truck bearing the logo of “Schmitt Brothers Welding Service.” His hands massaged a blue paper towel bearing black oil stains. “You know we’re getting ready to head over to your place any minute, right?”

  Ember smirked. “That’s what I said. It seems they’re here to visit Marmite, not us.”

  “We’re here to visit you, too,” Marta protested. “Max and I’ve been practicing our shifting.”

  Alarik discarded the greasy paper towel and held out a callused hand. “You’ve been relaxing like I showed you?”

 
“Yeah,” Max said, “but we’re not very good at it yet. We’ve only been able to hold a form for one or two seconds.”

  “That’s completely normal,” Alarik said. “You’re in that special phase we changelings all go through prior to our Manifestation Day. It’s when your body’s still trying to figure out what its subform should be. Some changelings shift into their final subform on their first go. For most of us, we take a few tries before finding ours.”

  “Like how yours and Dad’s are coyotes, right Uncle Rik?” Marta asked. “It’s because you wanted to be coyotes, right?”

  “Not exactly.” Alarik scratched his stubbled chin with a thumbnail as his brow furrowed beneath shaggy brown hair. His umber-colored eyes studied the twins. “I’ve never told either of you this before, but I think you’re maybe old enough to understand.”

  Maxim and Marta took this as a cue to dismount from their bikes. The boy sat on the concrete slab near his uncle, while she chose a place beside Ember.

  “The truth is, I never really wanted to be a coyote,” Alarik said. “I never talked about this sort of thing with my Dad or Ma—with your Grandparents. Growing up, we never really talked about what it meant to be a changeling, about our hopes and dreams, that sort of thing. They were harder folk back when I was your age. In fact, it wasn’t until you two were born that they started to become so warm and relaxed.”

  “That’s why Grandpa’s form is a wolf?” Marta asked. “And Grandma’s is a grizzly?”

  “That probably played a big part, sure,” Alarik said. “Your subform is a reflection of your personality and experiences. Your grandparents grew up during hard times. They were children of the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl era. And as stubborn as they are, their parents—your great-grandparents—were even tougher still. They were pioneers on the prairie during the time of the Indian wars. None of them had easy childhoods.”

  Ember thought of Ronald and Muriel Schmitt. Though she had only ever known them as hospitable, inviting hosts, it was clear that they were proud, hardscrabble individuals at their cores. She had never considered the seeming disconnect between their changeling subforms and how they behaved now. Whatever challenges they faced during the year since meeting them, the elder Schmitts had likely endured worse as children.