Beeve swore and pedaled harder as yet another car honked and swerved around him. He was already riding on the shoulder. How much farther over did they think he could go? His t-shirt was stuck to his back with sweat, and he was only halfway there. Ah well, at least the rest of the trip was downhill.
Another car honked and swerved. “Skinhead!” the passenger yelled. The car’s rear tires pelted him with gravel as they sped away.
Beeve was not a skinhead. He simply liked shaving his pate. Being all-bald was preferable to the unwanted monk’s tonsure that his genetics forced on him.
He wasn’t even thirty, for gawdsake. If there were a potion or spell to bring back his hair, he would have gone right for it. He counted himself fortunate that most of the women he liked were fine with bald heads. As he approached the crest of the hill he pedaled harder, huffing and puffing his way up.
In the distance, he could see the fence that surrounded the old missile silo. It was surrounded by a shimmering haze that was either a heat mirage or magick, depending on who you asked.
Beeve sat back and coasted, enjoying the rush of cooler air downhill brought. By the time he pedaled back, the sun would be setting behind him. It was a much cooler ride in the evening in more than one way.
At the silo, he did a 360 to make sure there wasn’t anyone else around. It took a bit of care and wiggling to slide himself and the bike through the hole in the fence. The first obstacle overcome, he breezed past the rusting “Rattlesnake Nursery, do not Proceed!” sign and spun the combination lock on the chained door.
Both the bogus sign and the not-so-bogus chain and lock were compliments of the high priest of the coven that Beeve belonged to. Recently, too many video-seeking explorers creeping around the silo had disrupted the wards. The adventurers also left trash that was sure to attract the attention of the government. Hence the lock and the regular ward checks.
Inside, it was darker than he remembered. The cooler air inside dried the sweat on the back of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. This was his first solo trip into the silo.
It was a great honor to be trusted with strengthening the wards. Beeve had ascended to the second circle of the coven last month. As such, he was entrusted with new duties. He would rather have waited to do this particular duty when his car was fixed, but Lord Aurthuriel had asked him personally.
Of all the new Second Circles magicians, Beeve reckoned himself the least special. He was anxious to prove himself.
He flicked his headlamp from the flasher setting he used for bike riding to steady red and started his descent. A drip of water sounded somewhere far below, along with a slither of something on something.
Nothing here to be afraid of on this mortal plane, he reminded himself. Watch out for rusty stairs. The first rule of the silo was to watch your step. At least he, unlike the usual abandoned places explorer, knew that his coven mates would come looking for him if he had an accident out here.
Unwanted visitors aside, the wards seemed to be weakening quicker these days. When Beeve first joined the coven, they only had to strengthen the wards twice a year. Then it was every quarter. Now they were doing it every month. Something was going on. That Whose Name Shall Not Be Spoken was growing stronger. Maybe.
Beeve blamed part of the problem on Lord Arthuriel’s distraction. Mikaela. To be fair, Beeve rather liked Mikaela. She wasn’t too bad, for a mundane. She didn’t poke fun at things she didn’t understand. She even gave everyone from the coven a 10% discount at her vet clinic.
But Lord Arthuriel was so busy training Lady Mikaela in the Ways of Magick that many of his usual duties now fell to the Second Circle.
Beka was in charge of making the moon water. Not a problem. It always tasted better when she made it. Phillip took care of the website and screening of possible new recruits.
Morgana, who had been High Priestess of the coven until her mundane job had transferred her to Akron, still was everyone’s spiritual counselor by phone and email. The rest of them pitched in, even Mikaela, who knew nothing.
Still, Beeve liked things better when Art was a single man. Like Beeve. His sneaker-clad foot found concrete as his ruminating descent came to an end.
“Gross.” His complaint echoed off the hard circular walls of the silo.
The floor was wet with an oily sheen. In the center of the puddle, the chalk marks of the latest strengthening of the wards glimmered in the red glow of his headlamp.
They looked intact. Lucky break there. Drawing with chalk in the wet was a tricky business. Beeve picked his way around the perimeter to check the elemental sigils inscribed on the walls. As he passed by Air and was on his way to Fire, the whispering began.
“Bevis Anthony Fletcher.” The voice was as dark and oily as the floor.
Beeve plodded over to Fire. All his training said to ignore this sort of thing. While it was beyond exciting that Something had finally happened, he wasn’t about to fall down in his duties over it. He dragged his chalk from his pocket and repaired a spot where the drips had smudged a line of the Fire sigil.
“Bevis Anthony Fletcher!” The voice resolved into one that sounded a bit like his grandma. Dad’s mom. Bitch hadn’t spoken to Beeve from the day his Dad left him, his mom, and his two sisters. Left them for an exotic dancer who went by “Fluffy”.
Grandma had welcomed Fluffy into the family with open arms and forgot that she ever had grandchildren. Whelp, neither he nor “Fluffy” had gone to Grandma Fletcher’s funeral. His sisters had gone only to spit on the old woman’s grave. Grandma could rot alone in the Place of Contemplation of Past Mistakes as far as he was concerned. Fluffy, wherever she was now, could join her. Worst stepmom ever.
Earth was fine. Beeve nodded to himself and started back to the stairs.
“Bevis!” The grandma voice turned pleading.
Fine. He would play along a bit. In the back of his brain, he could imagine Lord Arthuriel’s disapproving glare. But Something was happening. Finally! How could he resist?
“What do you want, grandma?”
“I want to say I’m sorry. Why won’t you forgive me? We could be a family again. I know how lonely you are!”
A shimmer formed in the center of the circle. Beeve sat down on the rusty steps, careful to tuck his feet away from the fetid water. Chill dread crept toward him.
He was Second Circle, he reminded himself. He had the resources. He could deal with this.
“Why would I forgive you?”
“Oh, Bevis. You know you were always my favorite. But Fluffy needed me more.”
“I wish you the joy of her, then. Go bother her. Leave me alone.” Beeve switched his headlamp to UV, to see if that made the shimmer more or less visible. No effect. Interesting.
He should have brought his infrared camera. But did he want to see the shape of the Beast? Or Grandma Fletcher’s crabby old face? Which would be worse?
“Fluffy was escaping an abusive relationship, Bevis. She needed your dad’s help. And yours. You deserted your dad. Left your stepmother to die. And now you want to keep me imprisoned in this awful place? Your own grandma? Don’t you remember that hat I knitted you when you were five?”
Bevis leaped to his feet as the oily shimmer strengthened and reached for him. His life did not flash before his eyes. But something did.
A sudden, blinding light filled the silo from above. It fell sizzling and crackling to land in the puddle on the concrete. After a stunned few seconds, Beeve realized it was a flare. The stairs rattled above him. He looked up.
Lord Aurthuriel was charging down the rickety metal stairs two at a time, paying no heed to the groans and sways of the aging structure. He was wearing some kind of robe that Beeve didn’t recognize as official coven wear. And plant-based flip flops, woven out of reeds or some shit.
For a moment, Beeve forgot the Beast as he realized that Lord Aurthuriel was charging to his rescue with wet hair. In a bathrobe and house slippers. Then the gravity of the situation snapped back in focus as Authuriel shoved past him, lit another flare, and shouted.
“You shall not pass!”
In the flash of a moment, the silo became nothing but a silo again. They were just two dudes in a decommissioned missile silo. The strangest thing present was definitely Lord Arthuriel with his tangled and soggy waist-length ginger hair.
Beeve started to stutter out an apology. Arthuriel cut him off with a chopping motion from his off-hand.
“Nice work patching up the Fire sigil. We’ll need to come out next full moon and redraw everything, but your work should hold well until then.” Arthuriel cast the second flare alongside the first, adjusted the tie of his bathrobe, and began his ascent.
Beeve trailed after, carrying misery, foolishness, and ineptness like an overfull backpack. Both men were silent as Arthuriel secured the lock. Beeve thought he saw a flicker of shadow trying to creep out of one of the silo’s many roof vents. Arthurial’s hand clamped down on his bicep and drew him away, leading him toward the fence.
About halfway between the fence and the concrete entrance, Beeve began to feel better. Arthuriel, somehow sensing this, let go.
He reached into the pocket of his bathrobe and pulled out a handful of salt packets pilfered from some restaurant or another. He opened a few, muttered something over them, and then threw handfuls at Beeve. The salt hitting his still-damp skin kinda stung.
“Hey! What’s that for?”
“You brought up a lot of negative energy with you. I’m making sure you’re clean before you get into my car.”
Even though Arthuriel’s voice was even and non-judgmental, Beeve’s shoulders sagged. Arthuriel only used his little smart car for emergencies, and Beeve having caused such an emergency could only be a strike against him. They might demote him back down to First Circle.
“I can pedal home.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re tired, and it’s very late.” Arthuriel sniffed the air and took off in the direction of the bush where Beeve’s bike was stashed.
Looking around, it was much darker than Beeve expected. How long had he been in the silo? His watch was stopped at 10:30 pm. Impossible. Could it be that late? He dragged out his phone and waited while it rebooted. Twenty past midnight. How could he have been in the silo for over four hours? The earlier chill dread returned.
“Stop it.”
“Pardon?”
“Stop ruminating, Mage Bevis. You’ll draw the negative energy back to us again.” Arthuriel looked over his shoulder at him like a ginger owl as he finished extracting Beeve’s bike from the shrub.
Beeve put himself back into gear and collected his bike. After they wriggled themselves and the bike through the fence, Arthuriel seized the bike again, wheeling it off to his Smart car.
“Um, Lord Art? I don’t think my bike will fit in your car.”
“I brought my bike rack.”
The bike looked ludicrous strapped to the back of Art’s tiny car. Art insisted that it would hold. They fell into silence as Art maneuvered the bike-burdened car back down the long, potholed driveway to the main road.
Once they hit solid asphalt, Art flashed him a rare, brief grin. “Well, Mage Bevis. Quite the adventure you had this eve.”
“Lord Arthuriel. I am so sorry. I gave into temptation and let the Beast distract me. I’m not worthy of being a Mage of the Second Circle.” Beeve’s apology ground to a halt at Art’s chuckle.
“Beeve. We all succumb to temptation sometimes. It’s how we extricate ourselves from it that matters the most. As you gain more experience, the lies of malevolent forces will be less tempting. Try not to be too hard on yourself.”
“But you had to come all this way for me, and on my first time out there on my own.”
“I always check on the new mages on their first time out.” Arthuriel glanced at him again, then returned his eyes to the road. “I meant to come out earlier to check on you, but I got distracted.”
Beeve thought he saw a hint of a blush creeping onto Art’s face in the dim light of the dashboard. He also thought that the name of Art’s distraction was Mikaela. These were thoughts better kept to himself, especially when he was the true failure of the evening.
“You know what I saw in the silo? I saw a Second Circle Mage backing away from temptation. A man repulsed by darkness, not drawn to it. This was not a test, Mage Bevis. But if it were, you passed with flying colors.”
Something adjacent to pride settled into Beeve’s chest. He sagged back into his seat, feeling as though he had done okay after all.
“Tomorrow, we’ll have to go clean up those flares.”
Lord Arthuriel grimaced at a dark patch in the road. Animal or creature of darkness, it scurried away before the High Mage’s headlights.
One day, Beeve told himself. One day, he’d be able to glare at the darkness and make it flee. Art turned the radio to some classic Country and started to sing along to some Waylon Jennings. Off-key.
Huh. Not even high mages were perfect after all. Beeve smiled to himself and joined in
