The Keeper

Chapter One

 

“Out of life’s school of war–what doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger.”-Nietzsche

 

As soon as Lachlan Quinn came off the job site, he sensed the swirl of spell-craft. He had zero talent for manipulating magic himself, but like some people can taste colors, he had an odd synesthesia and could smell it working every time. This spell carried the scents of peppermint and sage, so two witches were doing the casting.

He looked around and spotted them about fifty meters away. Two redheaded teenagers staring wide-eyed at him from a beat-up gray VW Bug.

He stowed his tools, his mind racing–maybe it wasn’t him they were after.

The VW slotted in behind four car lengths behind his white F-250 pickup right after he pulled out.

Their “ignore me” glamor was adequate, good enough for the average mundane. Unfortunately for them, while he was mundane, he’d grown up around witch-crafters, so he wasn’t average. Quinn figured they were neophytes, probably from one of the Emory Covens.

Small favors–even neophytes could be deadly.

He couldn’t imagine what must have stirred the Aunties up to make them send shadows after him after all these years. He was a nobody, a small-time finish carpenter and furniture builder. A vet with PTSD. So, the question was–what the hell was going on?

It was the letter. He shouldn’t have tossed that fucking letter.

Sweet Mother of All, he fucking hated witches.

After Quinn was lucky enough to get out of the Navy in one piece, no small thing when you spend the whole hitch tending to a bunch of combat Marines, he had planned to build a smooth-running life for himself, one full of well-ordered routine. He wanted to know for certain on a Monday what things would be like three Mondays hence. Boring was good–adventure or drama was bad.

His goal was control over his life. He’d never had it, and he wanted it.

The challenge came because his life had been anything but ordinary. He’d had to study up on ordinary. Quinn had spent the last five years watching other people, teaching himself to act normal. Regular people didn’t check automatically for exits or appraise every person they met to determine their threat level. Regular people don’t make sure to sit with their back against a wall with a clear view of an exit. Regular people just seemed to blend in.

Quinn put a lot of effort into blending in.

He told himself not to be pissed at those two young witches; they were just doing what they’d been told to do, but their presence was a capper on the irritants that had turned his spring and summer into crap.

He’d found out too late that the supervisor on his latest job was lazy and incompetent. The custom home they were building on the south end of Seattle’s Mercer Island had so many shoddy shortcuts that it embarrassed him to have his name associated with the place. He knew he shouldn’t care so much and for once just go with the flow, but old man Finn’s lessons had set his work philosophy in concrete.

He had signed on to build a white oak and stainless steel three-story circular staircase. The finished product was flawless–Quinn built nothing he wouldn’t be proud to show the grouchy old masters who taught him. The problem came from the fact that he’d had to build it, then take time to follow-up and often re-do the structural support the framing crew often just slapped together. He had anger issues on his best day–working on that house drove him to distraction daily.

And then this morning, like a bad omen, his truck’s check-engine light flicked on. The way his luck was running, he was convinced it would be big bucks coming out of his dream house fund to fix it.

He smiled at the sudden memory of Finn and muttered the old man’s refrain, “Lad, some days it’s just one fucking thing after another. Deal with it and quit your fucking whining.”

The good news was this job was complete. All he had on his agenda was a fishing trip up on the Big Hole River in Montana.

The bad news was that now he had two Covens of witches meddling in his life. Some of whom were no doubt preparing to send the flying monkeys his way for the slimmest of reasons.

His cell rang, interrupting his gloomy thoughts.

“This is Quinn.”

“Hi Doc, you on for some poker tonight?”

“For sure, Gunny. I’ve got to stop by the house, change and jump in the shower and I’ll be there. Maybe I’ll win for a change.”

“Good to have a dream,” he laughed. “See you around 1900. It’s the Nun’s turn to bring snacks, so there’ll be some good chow.”

“Aye aye, Gunny, see you then.”

Quinn disconnected. Okay then, a bright spot in this day–the twice monthly poker game with his VA group.

 

**

 

Just before Quinn mustered out, the company’s Gunny had pulled him aside and suggested (strongly) he sign up with the VA as soon as he got home to get help to deal with the PTSD that was sure to come.

So far, he’d had limited success with the VA’s program. His fault he knew–for the process to work you had to share your thoughts, experiences, and feelings–something he was willing to do but couldn’t–as soon as they heard what he had to say, they’d be locking him up and throwing away the key.

Nobody alive had experienced what he’d been through.

Quinn also agreed to attend the group’s poker game because he figured that was something a normal guy would do–play poker with his buddies twice a month. After the first night, he was grateful that they had invited him. The game was as close as he could come to being back with the platoon.

He arrived at the Gunny’s combination garage and workshop to find Billy and the Nun in the middle of an argument.

Billy O’Day, a former grunt from the 10th Mountain, had some serious burn scars, a prosthetic hand, and a bubbly irreverent outlook on life. He had no censor between his mouth and his brain. If a thought popped into his head, he said it.

He had named Captain Mary Agnes O’Malley, the Nun, because of a seventh-grade teacher he’d had at St Mary’s Catholic School in Philadelphia with that exact name. Mary Agnes was no nun, however, a fifty-something retired CSH operating room nurse, she was profane and profoundly cynical. Mary Agnes put up with the name good-naturedly; she gave as good as she got. She was also a lesbian–a source of endless fascination for Billy.

“Gunny, for Christ’s sake, go get me a ruler,” she yelled. “I can see there was too much Mr. Rogers in this boy’s childhood. He’s not okay by any stretch, but two good whacks across the knuckles on his good hand might make him fit for polite society.”

Billy jerked his right hand behind his back and grinned at her.

“What’s going on, Barbie,” Quinn whispered. Warrant officer Barbara Sessions was a burn-scarred former medivac chopper pilot. Billie had named her Barbie over her vociferous objections. He had stopped slinging Ken jokes after Barbie had pulled a knife out of her boot and threatened to cut off an ear after he had offered to help find her a Ken one too many times. Quinn pulled her up short before things got out of control. Barbie, a serious weightlifter, could wring Billy’s neck like a chicken, as she often threatened too.

“Hey Doc, ’bout time you showed up. Dumb ass found out next Saturday is Mary Agnes’ birthday. So, he’s been going on and on about how we should all take her to Honey’s and buy her some beer and table dances as a birthday present.”

Quinn shared a grin with her and settled down to enjoy the show. He had a regular seat at the end of the table, his back to a wall and with a view of an exit.

The LT called Billie and Barbie, the twins. Maybe because they were both carrying burn scars, or more likely because they were both bat-shit crazy. Excitable, LT called them with his understated southern drawl.

First Lieutenant Lamar Jackson was a big solid black guy, a medically discharged Texas A&M graduate from the 4th Stryker Brigade. He had almost made it through his second deployment when a bit of hot shrapnel from an IED sliced through his cheek and right eye. He was due for a prosthetic eye, so he wore a patch. Billy called him the Pirate (behind his back).

Gunnery Sergeant Kevin Murdock, a marine with a prosthetic foot, was the eldest of the group. He’d almost made his twenty before he got wounded. He was a proto-typical gunny–he projected an effortless calm leadership.

Quinn was Navy, an HM2 corpsman. He figured he was the lucky one. He’d come through four deployments with the second of the sixth marines without a scratch, but there was no doubt in his mind that he was the craziest of the bunch. While the others suffered PTSD from the combat they’d experienced, Quinn’s had roots that stretched farther back.

Billy had tried to name him Doc Quinn, Medicine Woman. But he only did it once. Quinn had zero ego, but he was proud of the Doc title. Months into his first deployment, when the gunnery sergeant finally called for Doc Quinn instead of that fucking squid, Quinn felt like they’d awarded him the Navy Cross.

“Billy shut the fuck up. Nice to see you Doc. Okay everybody, let’s play some poker,” barked the Gunny as he dealt the cards.

“You okay Doc?” Mary Agnes asked him. “You seem a bit off tonight.”

The others looked up sharply. They made it an ongoing habit to keep track of each other. They’d gone to funerals of guys who had slipped through the cracks before.

“I’m okay,” he said. “The last job’s been a bastard.”

“Did you decide to go back home for the will reading you told us about last week?” The nun was like a dog with a bone. She’d keep digging and digging until she got a real answer.

Quinn winced at the reminder of the letter he’d tossed. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Jeez, Doc,” said Billy. “Why not. Maybe you’re gonna be rich.”

Barbie laughed at Billy. “Good thing it ain’t you that’s getting rich. You’d be like my uncle Fred and spend it all on hookers and blow.”

“Shut up you two,” the Gunny said. “What’s the issue, Quinn? Whose estate is it?”

“A guy named Cayden MacLeish. He was my foster father.”

“Seriously?” said Barbie. “I didn’t know you grew up in a foster home.”

“Homes,” Quinn said. “I was in four. My parents died when I was little. Never had a family for long.” That slipped out before he could stop it. What the hell is wrong with me?

“You got us, brother, don’t forget that,” the gunny said in a gruff voice.

“Yeah Doc, you got us,” Billy and Barbie chimed in together. The two black sheep of the family.

“Ante up. Draw, jacks or better,” Barbie dealt another hand while the others threw in a dime.

Quinn looked at his cards. Sweet Mother, she’d dealt him a royal flush.

“I’ll open for fifty cents.”

The others promptly folded.

“You guys suck.” He growled as he reached out and grabbed the tiny pot.

They all laughed.

“Thing is, I want nothing to do with God-forsaken town, besides, I’ve been planning my fishing trip for months.”

“Okay,” said the LT. “Why not just call and tell ’em that?”

“I did, but they told me that the old man himself had required my presence.”

“What’s your girlfriend, what’s her name Beverly or Belinda have to say about all this,” asked Mrs. M, the Gunny’s wife.

“Is she the tall blonde model,” Billy asked. “I kinda liked her.”

“You would,” Barbie said. “That was Sierra, the one who was like ‘I’m so special–look at me–look at me’. She was seriously high maintenance. Doc, I gotta say you have a terrible taste in women. What was the latest one’s name?”

“Bailey,” he said. “she’s no girlfriend anymore. We agreed to see others when I found out she already was.”

“I rest my case. She was a skank,” Barbie said. “At the LT’s Christmas party, she was flirting all over LT’s neighbor, that lawyer guy.”

“It would have been nice if you would have told me.”

Barbie snorted. “Like you would have listened.”

“Quinn is all ‘no impact–no idea,'” Billy laughed. “He has no more idea how to deal with women than…”

“Any more than you do, Billy,” interrupted the Nun. “Someone ought to dally a rope on both of you two ground-pounders, corral and halter-break you.”

“I’ve been trying to do that to Himself for years, so far it hasn’t worked,” Mrs. M laughed. “Let me go get you all some more coffee.”

“Anyway,” Quinn said, “I may be out of touch for a while if I decide to head up there and see what it’s all about. After that, I’m going on my fishing trip.”

The Aunties picked that moment to cast the summoning.

A powerful spasm of pain tsunamied into both of Quinn’s legs. His chest constricted. Couldn’t breathe. Vision blurred. A booming–ETORRI HONA sounded in his head. The command sparked a desperate need to move — to go–NOW.

The dormant glyphs that had been spelled onto the muscle and bone of his back–flared into life. They blocked the spell but not before Quinn had lunged to his feet, took a step, and slammed his head into one of the two by eight beams in the Gunny’s garage roof.

He dropped to the floor, stunned.

“Fuuuckk that hurt.”

“Damn, Doc, what the hell was that?” the Gunny asked.

“Just a bad muscle spasm, I hurt my knee at work,” he improvised. He climbed to his feet, policed up his chair and sat down, and rubbed the swelling bump on his forehead.

The others stared at him; concern written on their faces.

Quinn’s mind raced with the implications. He had grown up among witch-crafters. He recognized a Summoning when he felt one.

I need to get out of here now before they send something else.

“My knee is really bothering me,” he said. “I think I’ll head on home and put some ice on it. I’ll see you all next week.” He flipped the others a sketchy salute and remembered to limp as he walked to the door.

“Okay then, you take care, Doc,” the Gunny said as he dealt the next hand. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Aye aye, Gunny.”

Mary Agnes followed him to the door and pulled him into a fierce hug.

“I suspect you’re not telling us the entire story, Lachlan,” she said quietly. “I worry about you. You’ve always been remote, but you’re getting worse. As far as I can tell, all you do is work, exercise, and sleep. It’s not healthy.”

“I date,” he protested.

“Yes, but I notice you choose women you are in no danger of committing to. You’re too young to live like this. You’re a good man–you need to take care of yourself better.”

“I’ll try Mary Agnes,” Quinn smiled at her. He knew was a long, long way from being a good man, but her caring touched him. Her hug was like cool water in the desert.

I wonder what she’d think if she knew what a monster I am.

“And don’t you disappear. We care about you here, so you better keep in fucking touch– you read me, Doc?”

“I will, Mary Agnes.” He winced inside at the lie. He doubted he’d see any of them again.

Quinn pulled the door open and walked out into the rain.

 

**

 

A glowing nimbus surrounded the large black cat that sat grooming itself on the hood of his truck.

They’d sent a fucking Fetch.

He should have expected something like this. The two red-headed witches gawking at him from the VW down the block had no doubt drawn the hosting glyph.

His second thought was that he should have thought to hide his tracks better–maybe moved to Antarctica. But then he realized it wouldn’t have done any good. They probably still held some of his fingernail clippings or hair that they’d squirreled away for a rainy day.

The scent of lilacs filled his nose–Charming Delancy. No surprise, she always bragged about how she was best at traveling. She was also the snarkiest pain of all of the sisters.

The green nimbus that surrounded her feline flygja form pulsed with each beat of her heart.

“What do you want, Charming?”

“It’s about time. Been waiting out here for ages. Wow, you have changed! I barely recognize you.”

“I assume that was you, using a sledgehammer in there. You could have just called like a normal fucking person.”

“Wasn’t me. The Aunties crafted the summoning, and thirteen of them sent it.”

A circle of thirteen! Sweet Mother, it’s a wonder my head didn’t explode.

“I’m just the messenger. They don’t like being ignored. You, being the idiot you are, ignored the letter they sent. You know the Aunties. They get what they want, and they want you back to attend the reading of the old man’s will. You were stubborn. So, they took steps.

She eyed Quinn and licked a paw and groomed her face.

Same old Charming, over-the-top method actor, Quinn thought sourly.

“Althea has been struck down. The Keeper has passed.”

“Seriously? Next, you need to say ‘Winter is Coming’ in a spooky voice. I want nothing to do with you, bitc… people. You all can’t even get along with each other. Come on Charms, you know as well as I do, even if I were dumb enough to show up in Emory, it would be like pouring gasoline on the latest drama fire you all got going. And I for sure want no part in your wars.”

“Nevertheless, you will obey. The Aunties told me to tell you that the old man owed us a Life-Debt and it falls to you to honor it. They are calling it due. You have no choice.”

With that, she smiled that smug smile that had made her insufferable ever since the fifth grade and vanished–like Alice’s Cheshire Cat, only way more irritating.

Quinn was left standing in the alley, rain soaking his sweatshirt. He tried to sense the others beyond the visitation, but all he picked up were faint traces of peppermint and sage from teenagers still trying to maintain their half-assed concealment spell down the block.

He opened the door to his truck, climbed in, and sat there, one hand on the steering wheel, the other slowly rubbing the swelling lump on his head.

A fucking Life Debt. The old man was fucking up his life again–this time from the grave.

Chapter Two

 

Interlude

 

 

Twenty years ago

 

The fight started it all.

Eight-year-old Lachlan Quinn arrived in Emory on a rainy March day holding tightly to a faded blue pillowcase that held all his worldly possessions: a tattered book of poems by Kipling that a visiting Santa gave him two Christmases ago, two pairs of underpants, seven mismatched socks and his play jeans with a hole in the knee. He was wearing his good ones.

The social worker, a tired-looking thin-faced woman, had smoked one cigarette after another during the silent drive up from Seattle. As soon as they arrived, she pulled over, parked, and turned to him. Lachlan was an old hand at this, he knew a lecture was coming, so he put on a well-practiced attentive look and pretended to listen.

“Young Man, you are stubborn, stiff-necked, and disrespectful. You better get a handle on that temper of yours or you’re going to end up in Greenhills. You are lucky to be here, so don’t mess up and embarrass me.”

She placed him in a regular family with a mother, a father, and a little sister.

To young Lachlan, the new place was like winning the Lotto. His new father even bought him a warm coat and some brand-new Nikes. After the first couple of months, he had even started sleeping in pj’s instead of being fully dressed down to his shoes in case he had to run. He’d had to run before–twice–a caregiver’s boyfriend, Jack Daniels, and meth was a dangerous mixture to any small boys hanging around.

He tamped down the surety that this was too good to last and let himself believe that his life from now on would be clean sheets on a bed in his very own room–with so much food that he didn’t have to worry about hiding some away for the hungry times.

Later, Lachlan knew he should have known better–but he just couldn’t seem to stop himself from hoping.

He had been in Emory nine months when a little second-grade girl with big blue eyes and blond pigtails walked up to him on the playground of Lincoln Elementary School and breathlessly announced that her name was Amanda Teague, but everybody called her Mandy.