From last time: “Lord Arthuriel! We have a problem. There’s been a breach at the gate!”
A young, panicked voice quavered through a surprising amount of static for a smartphone.
“Shit. I’m sorry, Phillip. I was distracted.” He gave my rump a playful squeeze. “Did you call Morgana?” He slid out from under me and sat up, flipping his hair over one shoulder.
“She’s in Pittsburgh at a work conference. She’s been holding the wards as best as she can from the Second Plane. But even with her skills, that’s a long way to do any serious workings from.”
“I’ll go as soon as I find my pants.” Art slid from the bed and started rummaging through his dresser, leaving his smartphone on his pillow top.
“In person? Do you think that’s wise? You’d have to go alone. My mom won’t let me drive after midnight, and nobody else I’ve called has even picked up. Can’t you help Morgana fix it from the Second Plane?”
Although in theory, I had no idea what they were talking about, it almost made sense. I tried to follow the rest of the conversation about various herbs and talismans while I got myself dressed. Whatever was going on, it sounded like the end of our date.
“Don’t worry. I’ll use a square.” With that cryptic remark, Art ended the phone call.
He yanked open his closet door. From inside, he extracted a thick stack of giant squares of poster board, about two feet long on each side. Each had a grid full of numbers, like a giant Sudoku gone awry. He rifled through them, muttering, and then extracted one from the stack.
“Dearest Lady Mikala. I must leave you now. And I must renege on my offer to drive you home. We must indeed bend to the lesser of evils and oppress a gig worker, for I go do battle against the forces of darkness.”
“I’m happy to call an Uber. But can I help?” The remaining sanity in my mind tried to backhand me and missed.
Art stared at me, wide-eyed. “I dare not ask. You are powerful but untrained.”
“Maybe I can’t help with whatever you’re going to do with that doohickey, but in the middle of the night at some dodgy location, at least I can guard your back? I’ve got mace in my purse.”
Art nodded, his expression becoming resolute. He went back to rummaging in the closet and emerged with a black velvet cloak. It smelled of incense, perfume-like and overpowering. Dragon’s Blood, he said, a mighty protective herb.
Then he handed over a shimmering dagger with a wavy blade. I gulped as I dropped the weapon into my purse alongside my mace. He wrapped me in the cloak, dropping a kiss on my neck.
“Be on guard, but do not fear. I will keep you safe, my Lady!”
One would assume that a man who named himself Lord Arthuriel Malodruga would drive a luxury sedan or at least a beefy SUV. One would be mistaken.
Art’s car was a two-seat Smart Car, chosen for its low impact on the environment. He was saving up for an electric car, being unwilling to buy anything on credit, ever. When I inquired about his aversion to credit, he snorted.
“No need to contribute overmuch to the capitalist hellscape. My 750 credit score will never determine my self-worth! Nor do I have time for anyone who judges people by such shallow measures.”
The smart car felt like it was about to go up on two wheels every time he went around a corner. It didn’t feel safe to complain. He white-knuckled the wheel and muttered to himself as we got further and further from town.
After about the second turn onto an even more potholed road, I started to worry. Maybe I was about to end up in a shallow grave, a victim of a date-to-murder serial killing.
Art stopped the car alongside a gaping hole in a chain-link fence topped with concertina wire. He opened the car door for me and grabbed my hand. Hopefully, I wouldn’t have to try to mace and/or stab him before this strange date was over.
Inside the fence was a lot of concrete and strange fixtures, plus what looked like a giant set of steel plates. A heavy door with the lock set drilled out led into a concrete tunnel that went down and down.
In the light of Art’s high-powered flashlights, we skirted past rooms full of decommissioned radio and computer equipment. Every console was gutted and smashed and covered with dust and mold. Several rickety metal circular staircases took us down even further. Finally, we stood at the bottom level of a giant, empty circular room.
“Is this a missile silo?” I whispered, the sane part of my mind seizing control again. My aggrieved tone made my sibilants bounce off the concert walls, though I tried to be quiet.
“It was once. Now it is a prison for that which must not pass.” He turned his face up to a crack in the giant doors overhead, then laid the magic square in the exact center of the silo.
He had me stand next to the square and pulled out chalk and candles from the big satchel of supplies that he’d brought along. He chanted and drew a giant pentagram with many other squiggles adorning its outer ring. I slid the weird knife from my purse and hid it in the folds of my cloak. If he tried any ritual sacrifice with me, I’d be ready.
The atmosphere in the silo loomed, bleak and malevolent. As I stood there shivering in the black cloak, dagger in hand, I felt like I was being suffocated by an invisible darkness. The candles at the points of the pentagram flickered and the flashlight in my off-hand dimmed.
Art, firmly in his Lord Arthuriel persona, chanted in what sounded like Latin, his words loud and commanding. Meanwhile, he brandished a censor full of the strong Dragon’s Blood incense. The feeling of suffocation passed. After a bit, he motioned to me to join him at the edge of the circle.
“Can you help me turn this crank?” It was a big, rusty thing on a mechanism attached to something like a bicycle chain that led all the way up to the doors in the roof of the silo.
I nodded and dropped the wavy knife back into my purse. His eyes followed the movement and he flashed me an incongruous, grateful smile.
“You really did stand guard the entire time.” He gave me a quick kiss, and then we got to cranking. But not the fun kind of cranking.
It seemed to take forever to close the doors, inch by squealing, protesting inch. Then Art picked up his candles, scuffed out his chalk marks, and gathered up the magic square.
He entrusted the poster to my care as we worked our way back up to ground level again. It felt different, limp and lifeless. I told myself that it was my imagination or the dampness from the oily old concrete making it soggy.
Art looked exhausted as he drove me to my house. I scrambled out of the tiny car on my own, not wanting him to waste the energy on opening the car door for me. Something about him seemed fragile after whatever happened in the silo. I was worried about him. I leaned back in and laid the cloak and knife on the car seat. Art looked down at them with concern.
“Lady Mikala. You must keep the cloak and dagger. Now that the forces of darkness know of you, you must be on guard. Always.”
I wanted to protest, but his expression looked too tired and serious to argue with further. I nodded and picked up the items again.
“You look terrible. Do you want to come up and sleep a bit before you drive more?”
“Beautiful lady. I’d like nothing more. But I dare not sleep outside of my wards after what transpired. For now, at least. I’ll be fine and recharged anon. I’ll text you when I get home.”
He watched until I went in and locked my door, and then the little car puttered off. I collapsed onto my comfy overstuffed sofa and considered calling in to work.
I opened cans of food for my latest batch of foster kittens. This litter contained two gray tabbies and a ginger that now reminded me of Art. I might have to keep that one. My phone chimed at an incoming text message.
“Home safe. Shall we have a second date, Lady Mikala? We still haven’t fully explored our past life connection.”
Was he out of his mind? Cloaks and daggers, forces of darkness, “Lady” Mikala? Ouija boards? Past lives? Trespassing in decommissioned missile silos? Magic sex?
Preposterous. My fingers flew faster than the Ouija board planchette.
“Yes.”
