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Chapter Three

It took Barb fifteen minutes to haul her bags into her room and they just about filled it. She pulled out the dresses and hung them up, then unpacked the bags as she contemplated the schedule booklet that had been in her room. Registration opened at 5:30, then there was a "Get Together" in the Philosophy Center. There were two seminars in the evening: Advanced Demonic Identification and Cabalistic Symbols: They're Not Just For The Bad Guys.

Her schedule had helpfully been marked up by someone, with certain seminars highlighted. She had a full schedule for tomorrow, starting with "Introductory Demonology" and running through "Introduction to Pan-Theology." But other than registration and the get-together, which apparently was when dinner would be served, she didn't have anything marked for today.

She considered Sharice's suggestions on dress but simply couldn't appear in public with these people for the first time in jeans and a T-shirt. So she chose a simple dress, cotton-polyester and patterned, and a pair of low pumps. She intended to bring along a down duster against the chill that hung in the air and that would get worse after dark. She contemplated her makeup and touched it up, stuck the pistol in her purse and went forth to find registration.

As she entered the Administrative Center, which was designed like a temple of some sort, she got her first real look at her fellow attendees. There were two Buddhist monks in saffron robes, a man with "punked" hair and a number of piercings on his face, two women in what she could only describe as "ceremonial" robes covered in what she supposed were "cabalistic" symbols and a number of other people that she categorized, aware that it was uncharitable, as "geeks." Two of them were obviously a pair, possibly husband and wife, the man tall with dark hair and heavyset and the wife short and . . . okay, she could lose a few pounds.

She stood in line behind them, patiently waiting and, okay, eavesdropping.

"I'm worried that they're going to assign us to the Lycaean case," the woman was saying. "I hate New York."

"Dartho said there's a case going on at the cons," the man said. "Maybe we'll get that."

"I could do cons," the woman said, grinning. "At least we'd be able to fit in. I hate working directly with the Bureau. The damned agents are always looking down their collective nose."

"I know," the man said, frowning. "And it's not like they can outshoot us or outthink us."

"I'm sorry," Barbara said, touching his shoulder. "I couldn't help but overhear that you shoot."

"Is there a problem with that?" the woman said, somewhat nastily.

"None at all," Barb said, smiling at her. "It's just the person that picked me up from the airport seemed very . . . down on violence. And I enjoy shooting. So I was surprised."

"Oh," the man said, trying not to look at her chest and failing miserably. "Well, there's a range here. But, yeah, a lot of the operators are really down on guns. They seem to think that that's what the cops we work with are for."

"Part of it is a misunderstanding of the three-fold path," the woman said, shaking her head. "Evil given returns three fold, you know? But using violence in the service of good is good. It's not violence itself that stains the soul but the nature of the feelings when violence is used."

"I see," Barbara said. "What if . . . what if when you use violence for good you know that the . . . side of you that is doing that is not, essentially, good?"

"That can be a problem," the woman said, earnestly, talking a bit fast so that the words ran together. "That is a crack that the Enemy can use to strike through to your soul. The best way to use violence is to be so steeped in the muscle memory that when you enter combat you simply respond, emotionlessly. Or so it seems."

"Have you . . . ?" Barb asked.

"No, actually," the woman admitted. "So far we've never had to draw our weapons. But we're fairly new to all of this. My name's Julie Lamm, by the way," she added, smiling and holding out her hand. "And this is James, my husband. And you are . . . ?"

"Barbara Everette," Barb said, holding out her own as she tried to keep up with the rapid patter of the woman's voice. She had never realized it was possible to both have a southern accent and talk like a New Yorker.

"Crap!" James said, his eyes widening. "You're Barbara Everette?"

"I'm very pleased to meet you," Julie said, her own eyes wide. "And I take back any suggestions that I made."

"I don't see why," Barb said, shaking her hand and James'. "I'm here to learn."

"Learn what?" James asked. "You took down a sixth level avatar! There are only about three agents in the U.S. that might have been able to do that!"

"James, stop that," Julie said, wise understanding in her eyes and her speech slowing. "Barbara, you have to understand that what you did is considered . . . amazing. I hadn't known who you were or I wouldn't have been so . . . definite. To simply hold your soul against such an adversary shows that your soul is very tough, very strong. Yes, using anger in combat might open up a channel to the Enemy. But it would take a strong avatar to use it, especially if Almadu was unable to do it. Almadu is one of the Children of Tiamat. A very ancient and powerful godling. If you were able to withstand his glamour, then it's likely that your soul is . . . very pure."

"I was protected by the hand of the Lord," Barbara said, simply. "I . . . felt the . . . what did you call it?"

"Glamour," Julie said. "It's one way of saying a mental projection. They come in various . . . guises. But each tries to use the evil that you feel in your soul against you. If he was unable to . . ."

"Oh, but he did," Barbara said, relieved that she could actually talk about her experience with people that didn't think she was insane. "I . . . walked through . . . horrible visions. But then the Lord entered me and they . . . stopped. I could feel His light in my soul, shielding me."

"I heard you had a full manifestation," James said, interestedly. "Actual physical projection."

"I'm not sure about that," Barb said, humbly. "But I could not have done what I did without the shielding hand of the Lord over me."

"Christian?" the man with piercings asked, somewhat hostilely. He had died black hair and blue eyes that were almost black. He was wearing a tattered pair of black jeans and a plain black T-shirt. Barbara realized that if you ignored the piercings he was actually good looking in a thin and hollowed out way. He had gotten his badge and it read simply "Dragon-Kin."

"Yes," Barb said, simply. "I'm an Episcopalian."

"This is Barbara Everette, Dartho," James interjected.

"Oh," Dartho said, nodding. "Pleased to meet you. Good job in Louisiana. For a beginner." He didn't really sound as if he was pleased to meet her.

"Thank you," Barbara said, dryly, cocking her head to the side. "I take it you're not a beginner?"

"No," Dartho said, turning and walking away.

"Wooo," James said, shaking his head. "I hadn't expected that."

"Dartho's a powerful adept," Julie said, shaking her head. "And highly trained. Not one of the ones that think violence is only for the police, either. But probably not powerful enough to have done what you did. That has to grate on him. Especially since you're . . ." Julie gestured at her and shrugged.

"Good looking?" Barb said, hotly. "Well dressed? Normal looking? A . . . what's the term, a 'mundane'?"

"Yep," Julie said, grinning. "That would be it. Between who you obviously are, what you represent, and how much more powerful you are, as a newbie, he has to be sort of hot under the collar."

"That is so . . ." Barbara said and stopped.

"Human?" Julie asked. They'd reached the head of the line and she nodded at the person handing out badges. "Julie and James Lamm."

"Right here, Julie," the woman said. She was heavyset with teased out red hair wearing a T-shirt captioned in Latin. "Good to see you again."

"Glad to be here," Julie said, sighing. "But there's a lot of tension."

"Barbara Everette is attending," the woman said, nervously. "We're all on pins and needles. I hear she's a real . . ."

"Mundane?" Barb finished for her. "Barbara Everette," she added, smiling.

"Actually," the woman said, shaking her head ruefully. "I was going to say 'Bible-thumper.' " She handed Barbara her badge and shrugged with a grin. "I think you're the only Christian attending this time. We'd heard that you get your power from the White God and you don't get powers like those without being steeped in faith."

"You also don't get them by simply going to church on Sunday and looking down your nose at everyone else the rest of the week," Barb said, hanging the badge around her neck on a provided lanyard. "Or, for that matter, by looking down your nose at all."

"That's . . . true," the woman said, rapidly reevaluating her.

"So I won't be Bible thumping this week," Barbara said. "Or standing in the hallways screaming at everyone that they're going to hell."

"Oh," the woman said, chuckling. "Good."

"Although I may point out that there is but one path to Heaven," Barbara added, grinning. "Through the Saving Grace of Our Lord. But only if anyone asks."

She turned to see that Julie and James had been waiting through the by-play and joined them.

"I can see that this is going to be an interesting week." Barb sighed.

"You're not what anyone expected you to be," Julie said. "Some of the high-level adepts, like Dartho, tend to be sort of . . . stuck on themselves. That doesn't interfere with their work, but I sort of expected you to be . . ."

"Pride is a sin," Barb said, shrugging. "Sin destroys the soul and closes it to God. And I'm here to learn. I am a . . . newbie. What my dad would call an FNG. And . . .  yes, I feel like a fish out of water. I hadn't expected . . . this," she finished, gesturing to the people in line. There were more weird outfits than she'd ever seen in her life. At least Julie and James were dressed normally. "But I have to learn if I'm to do this job to the best of my ability. And doing less would also be a sin against God."

"Not to mention getting killed," James said, frowning. "And getting your soul ripped out and tossed into eternal torment."

"That too," Barbara admitted. "There are things . . ." She stopped and shook her head at the visions. "My husband has been complaining about the nightmares I've been having. I can't exactly tell him that I'm reliving watching a demon feeding on its worshippers. Not to mention trying to feed on me. Nor is there an analyst I can approach about it."

"There are some here," Julie said, leading them off. "And you might want to talk to them. What you're suffering from is straight-forward post-traumatic stress. There are aspects of it that learning about help. There are probably things that you think about your experience that bother you. And those are, quite often, very normal and have a logical basis. Dr. Braun can probably help you quite a bit."

"That would be nice," Barbara admitted. "But I'm not sure I'll have time this week."

"Don't worry, you will," James said. "There's only so much you can absorb at once. They'll probably suggest that you take a heavy load at first, then trail off towards the end of the week. Besides, a lot of the learning in this field is what's called institutional memory. You'll pick up the theory in the seminars but you can only really learn by doing and then talking it over with more experienced operators."

"Are you operational?" Julie asked as they left the building.

"I'm not sure what you mean by that," Barb admitted. "But I was told I was going to be given a mission of something like a week's duration at the completion of this week."

"That's operational," Julie said, with a note of curiosity. "They generally pair a new operator with an older one. Do you know who you're going to be with?"

"No," Barbara said. "I very much hope it's not Dartho, though."

"He's not that bad once you get to know him," James said.

"Yes, he is," Julie contradicted. "Stuck on himself doesn't begin to cover it. His guardian is . . . weird. A Chinese dragon-god with odd tastes. If it weren't for his actions I'd say that he was on the side of the Enemy. But he has done too much good to believe that."

"I'm sort of following you," Barb admitted as they crossed one of the many bridges, this one made of twisted bamboo.

"We're heading for the First Night get-together," Julie said. "They're serving a buffet for dinner. It's . . . traditional. We gather for the first meal and new people, like yourself, get introduced. You won't have to make a speech or anything, just stand up and wave so everybody knows who you are."

"Ah," Barbara said. "I feel like I'm in a fishbowl already. This should be great."

The Philosophy Center was the largest building in the facility. Barb didn't recognize the architecture immediately, but she suspected it was northern European. Heavy logs made up most of the structure and they had been elaborately carved with looping abstract figures and staring faces.

"It's based upon a long house," Julie said, following her gaze. "An Asatru worship center. They call it the Philosophy House because it's where people tend to gather to talk. And debate. Lots of debate."

"What is there to debate?" Barbara asked as they entered the high entrance.

"Well, take what I said about anger," Julie said, frowning. "The Asatru have a philosophy that is far away from Christianity or, to an extent, even Wicca. Their highest calling is to become berserker, angry beyond the level of control. To destroy their enemies as servants in Valhalla and, most important, to die courageously in battle. To die in bed sends you to the Cold Lands, Hel, rather than Valhalla. And the Cold Lands are rather boring. So anger is, to them, a manifestation of their gods rather than a weakness for the demons to exploit."

"I see," Barb said, looking around at the crowd in the room. "Oh, my."

"Yeah," James said, grinning. "People have a tendency to dress up on First Night."

In one corner of the room where what she had to assume were the Asatru, a group dressed up in medieval clothing, some of them in partial armor and all of them armed with swords, axes and hammers. One of them definitely went for the "fantasy" version: a tall, statuesque redhead who could have been, might be, a super-model, in a chain-mail bikini with a sword slung over her shoulder. There were any number of what she had pegged as "druid" types, Wiccan probably, in hooded ceremonial robes. The two Buddhist monks were seated with a dark-skinned group she figured for Hindu in elaborate costumes, the women in saris, their hair pinned up with gilded combs, and the men in embroidered pajamas.

She saw Sharice near the front of the room, talking with a group of older women, some of them in outfits that she could only call "witchy." And Dartho was surrounded by a group of even younger men and women, all of them pierced, spiked and tattooed.

There were more people in "mundane" outfits in the room than in "costume" but it was hard to realize. The costumers just stood out from the crowd. Probably one of the reasons they costumed.

"I underdressed," she said to Julie, chuckling. "If I was going to dress as 'myself' for this, it would have been the little black dress, heels and the pearl necklace. My version of costume."

"I could have worn my ceremonial robes," Julie said, shrugging. "But they're not particularly comfortable unless you're sky clad underneath."

"I take it you're not Christian, either," Barbara said as they made their way into the room. She still hadn't asked what sky clad meant, but that description gave her a very good idea.

"No, we're Wiccan," Julie replied. "We were originally handfasted but we did the whole official marriage thing with a justice of the peace when we were buying a house. I'm a priestess. We're both computer consultants in our 'mundane' life, which gives us time for the work of the Foundation."

"I see," Barb said, shaking her head. "I thought Sharice was a bit of a shock," she continued, nodding in the direction of the woman.

"Sharice is a doll," Julie replied, grinning. "She used to be a fifth level adept, a very high high priestess, one of the few that made it out alive, I guess you would say. And sane. Enormous power, you can feel it when you're near her, and very wise in its use, wiser than I am. When the time came she just . . . walked away. Now she's more or less permanently resident here. She's . . . offended a lot of the major powers that we battle, so being in a stronghold is a good idea."

Sharice had gotten up from where she was sitting and now strode through the crowd to the trio.

"I see you've found some friends," Sharice said, hugging Barbara. Barb wasn't a huggy person, too many people, even females, that wanted to hug her just gave off the wrong "vibes." But she gratefully accepted one from Sharice, feeling the power that she emitted in this, to her, comfortable setting and basking in it for a moment. "That's good. Julie and James are good people."

"So I've noticed," Barbara said. "I guess I really am a mundane, though. This is all a bit . . ."

"Weird," Sharice finished for her, smiling broadly.

"I was going to say strange," Barb admitted.

"Come meet some of my friends," Sharice insisted, pulling her towards the table she had been occupying. "Of course, most of the people in the room are my friends, but we have to start somewhere."

Sharice introduced her to a bewildering array of people with names like "Klandar" and "Persemon" and "Vashto" and she came to realize that all of these people cloaked themselves in alter egos. The names were almost like code names for spies and she suspected they had the same reason; a cloak to hide behind. Persemon, a woman in her forties with graying blonde hair, turned out to be a consultant in business administration. Barbara just knew that when she was working she was as "mundane" as it got, probably a bit of a ball-buster in a businesslike skirt-suit. But here she could be . . . her other face. The face that she assuredly didn't show to CFOs and CEOs. Which was more true might be the real question.

She was dragged over to meet the Asatru delegation. They ranged from factory workers to more computer consultants. The girl in mail turned out to be, yes, a model and "exotic" dancer named Janea. That threw Barbara for a moment, although she hoped that she hadn't revealed her shock. She was beginning to be able to accept that her fellow . . . warriors of the Light, she supposed, were not all, or even at all, Christian. But one that was an exotic dancer was a bit hard to take. She had always pegged such women as, being frank, dumb, low-class sluts. But Janea turned out to be not only friendly and funny but wise and intelligent. She'd have liked to talk to her more, but she was dragged away to meet another group.

The buffet was opened without ceremony, the men and women who had been putting out the covered dishes joining into the crowd imperceptibly. Nobody rushed it; groups just got up from their talking to wander over and serve themselves. There was a keg set up in the corner, close to the Asatru delegation and probably why they'd chosen their seats there. In addition there were bottles of wine and at one point someone thrust a glass into her hand. It was a nice, light white, probably a pinot grigio, and she sipped it as she followed Sharice around, being introduced.

The reception at each group was interesting. Some were apparently friendly, but she could feel a strong defensive reaction from them. However, after a few words, when she didn't immediately start telling them they were going to hell for being pagans, the defensiveness seemed to melt. Some were overtly hostile and that was harder to overcome. She could tell that Sharice had been right, these people were, by and large, outcasts from "normal" society and they didn't like the intrusion she represented. But most got over it quickly and by the time she'd made the rounds of most of the room the word seemed to have gotten around that she was "okay, for a mundane."

She also faced something that she had never dealt with before: hero worship. She was used to being automatically accepted and even admired for her looks. But this group mainly was interested in her battle with Almadu and the reactions to her brief synopsis ranged from awe to understanding but respectful nods. The Asatru delegation was especially enthusiastic, roaring in joy when she explained how she'd shot her way into the corrupted church and killed the high priest and his acolytes then blown it up, destroying the avatar. The Hindus touched their heads in honor while the monks, one of whom turned out to be among the top prelates of Buddhism, bowed to her.

She could feel it going to her head and brutally suppressed it. Pride, even in a difficult job well done, was a sin. She knew that her main strength in this group was her constant struggle with sin. And in that struggle, pride could come in on sneaky cat feet.

Julie and James had wandered off at one point but she and Sharice linked back up with them when they went to the buffet. Sharice led the way, talking as she ladled her plate.

"You are a very interesting person, Barb," Sharice said, taking a spoonful of what looked, and smelled like, Szechwan vegetables. "Very wise for your years and very open at the same time. I can see why your White God has gifted you and called you to the field of battle."

"It was an accident," Barbara said, looking over the offerings. Most of the dishes were vegetarian and she had to admit that she still was a carnivore. And many of them were heavily spiced and she'd gotten a strong aversion to spice overseas. "Yes, The Lord worked through me, but my being there was accidental. I thank Him every day, though, for His blessings upon me. Not only the power to do His work, but the life He has given me."

"You truly believe it was an accident?" Sharice said, chuckling. "Why didn't you go to Gulfport, which was what you'd been planning for so long? How did you end up in a small town in the middle of nowhere, as far from what you'd been looking for as it was possible to be? How did you, a warrior of the Light, come to be in the one place you needed to be for the battle against darkness? And you believe it was an accident?"

Barb opened her mouth to reply and stopped. Put that way, it didn't look like an accident.

"Some of us are recruited to this work," Sharice continued. "I saw Janea at a Renn Faire and could feel the untrained, untapped power in her. I recruited her on the spot. It took a bit for her to realize that the situation was real. And if you think you have problems, imagine hers. She thought she'd gotten dragged into a very bizarre cult. That was, until her first mission. Then there are those among the fringe who have wrapped themselves so into the supernatural that they believed without proof. But those are, by and large, useless to our work. Anyone who really believes in vampires without having met someone who fought them is . . . essentially broken in a way that is useless. But the ones who are prepared to accept it, are powerful, are balanced—those are precious to us."

"I wasn't prepared to accept it," Barbara said. "I was forced to accept it. It was that or ignore what all my senses were telling me."

"And then there are those," Sharice said, nodding. "Most, however, don't survive. And a sixth order avatar! Good Mother of All! In my prime I would have hesitated at that. Understand, I know you are having a hard time accepting the adulation you are getting. But I am the only person in this room who would stand a chance against such a being. And your weapons skill, much as it pains me to admit it, was crucial. There is no way to have shielded a tac-team against the glamour. Only a high order adept who was also capable of fighting the acolytes and believers could have done what you did."

"Xiao?" James said, curiously.

"He would have been Augustus' choice," Sharice said, nodding definitely. "However, at the time, he was in the hospital. Otillia was in New Mexico, tracking down a manifestation of the Coyote that was spreading bubonic plague. Hertha was in Los Angeles, dealing with a pack of windigo. He might have pulled her off of the latter and set someone like, oh, Dartho or Virdigar on it. Probably would have if Barb hadn't taken care of it for us. But those are the only three that I can imagine would have succeeded. And now, four," she finished, looking at Barbara, calmly.

"But you must learn where your power truly lies. Often, the gods will give great power to the believer who is facing their enemies. But it is a capricious thing and it is likely you would not be given as much again, in the same situation. You are going to have to learn to hold it, to use it and to know its breadth and depth. This is something that is rare in Christians, this working with the Power of God. Finding just how much your White God will Gift you, and how. There is more than just the power to do harm. The gods can send understanding of the situation, healing, protection and even a touch of foresight. You need to learn your powers, all of your powers, their extent and form, then blend them into a whole."

"I wish I had had healing," Barbara said, sadly. "Kelly literally died in my arms. I wish that I could have . . ."

"In time, perhaps," Sharice said, nodding. "There is that in you, I can feel it. You are a very nurturing person, which is the first step to being a Healer. You are a violent one as well. It is a dichotomy that is hard to manage. You do so by revealing the nurturer and hiding the killer. Turning a face of love to the world while the bloody hands rend at your heart. I would say you need to be careful of the bloody hands, but, truly, you must be careful of both. Sometimes our adversaries are tricky to a fault and they will seduce you through your nurturing side if you let them."

Everyone seemed to have gotten a plate and was eating or already done when a man stood up from one of the tables and walked to the front of the room. He was unassuming, a bit tall, with brown hair and regular features, wearing a long purple ceremonial robe covered in golden stars. Barbara had been briefly introduced but could not for the life of her remember his name.

When he reached the front of the room conversation slowly drifted off and he raised his hands above his head ceremoniously.

"Let the Light shine upon this gathering," the man said. "Let the Powers of Good guard us and our counsels. Let us feel joy for our triumphs and grieve for our fallen, knowing that the battle goes on and will go on as long as the stars shine and the sun burns. And let us come to know our fellows as warriors of the Light." He paused and looked around the room, apparently picking out faces.

"We only have three new persons to introduce this time," he said. "Hsu Hsiu and Jiao Hicheng come to us from Nepal." He gestured to the two monks and they rose, bowing deeply. "Jiao Hicheng is the Kotan Lama and Hsiu his apprentice. They have traveled here to brief us on some of the more esoteric deities which are being seen in modern China and which we can anticipate will eventually start cropping up in the immigrant areas. I would like to thank them for coming all this way." He bowed in return and there was a brief spattering of applause as the monks sat down.

"And then we have our newest warrior," the man continued. "Barb? Could you stand up? This is Barbara Everette, everyone. Most of you know the story and if you don't I'm sure someone will relate it. Suffice to say that Barb manifested powers of an order that flatly floored everyone in the leadership of the Foundation. She has agreed to join with us in our battle for the Light and against Darkness. She, unusually, is a Christian, but as firm a believer as anyone in this room and a kind and gentle lady. A wise and loving addition to our group. However, anyone who can blast their way through a room full of Maenad worshippers, kill a high priest and acolytes and then destroy and dispel an avatar of Almadu, is far more than a pretty face and a nice smile. Do not get on her bad side."

Barbara blushed and waved to the scattered chuckles and applause and then gratefully sat down. As she did she caught what could only be called a baleful look from Dartho.

"Well, that's all I have," the man said. "You've got your schedules. The highlighted panels are only suggestions, feel free to sit in on any that you prefer. There's a previously unscheduled worship service for the Wicca contingent on Friday, that being the night of the gibbous moon. Sky clad is optional."

With that he simply walked back over to his seat and the conversations started again.

Barbara touched Sharice on the arm and frowned when the woman turned to her.

"Would it be . . . unwelcome if I went over to talk to Janea?" she asked, diffidently.

"Mother of All, child," the woman said, smiling. "That's what this evening is for. Go! I could see that you two bonded."

She covered the move by putting her plate with the other dirty dishes and getting another glass of wine. She usually only had one but she figured she could handle two if she nursed the second one. Then she wandered towards the Asatru delegation.

Two of the men were clearly drunk, roaring out an off-key song that had something to do with making people die. Several of the others, slightly less inebriated, had joined in. Janea was talking with a bear of a man, big, blond, bearded and hairy to the point that his back hairs were sticking through the weave of his light tunic. Barb came over and sat down, not interrupting.

" . . . wondered if we'd ever find it," the man said. "The manifestation wasn't a shape-shifter, but it was very good at make-up and it was stalking the costuming parties so it just looked like . . . a made-up human being."

"What about the feet?" Janea said, frowning. "Its feet were reversed."

"It had a prosthetic on that made it look as if it had clubbed its 'normal' feet and the others were for show," the man said, shrugging and taking a drink of beer. "Of course, when the tac-team blew in the door, they were in big trouble. I'd warned the Special Agent that bullets weren't going to hurt it."

"Iron," Janea said, frowning again in thought. "Fire. Cold steel?"

"Cold steel," the man said, half drawing his sword. "One thrust, a jolt of power and it dispelled. Badly injured one of the tac-team members. Fortunately, it was HRT and they more or less expected it. They hadn't been briefed on its resistance and they really tore the special agent a new one."

"I still haven't had a live one." Janea sighed theatrically, then brightened, putting on the face of a little girl. "But the year is young!" she added with a giggle.

"You will," the man said, turning to Barbara and grinning. "Just like the woman of the hour."

"Nothing of the sort," Barb said, firmly. "I'm here to learn. I'm learning just listening. What was it you were fighting?"

"A Tikoloshe," the man said, shrugging. "South African. Preys on women, but most of the various demons do. It had been haunting rave clubs in the Baltimore area, probably summoned or brought by one of the immigrant witch doctors. We finally found its lair and, well . . ."

"You haven't been introduced," Janea said. "Hjalmar Johanneson, this of course is Barbara Everette."

"Pleased to meet you," Barb said, taking his hamlike hand.

"Likewise," Hjalmar replied. "My mundane name is Quenton Barber. I used to work in a plywood mill. These days I do construction when the Foundation doesn't have need of my services."

"I take it . . . well, actually I don't know," Barb said, uncertainly. "Do you get paid?"

"Quite well," Janea said, laughing. "The Foundation draws on various sources of funding. Quite a bit from churches that are aware of our mission for example. About a third from the Catholic church alone. But, of course, when we're called in as 'consultants,' the Foundation is paid and then we get paid." She paused again and bounced up and down in her chair so that her breasts jiggled like gelatin. "I'm saving up for a boobie job!"

"The one thing you don't need is a boobie job," Hjalmar said, shaking his head.

"I'd sort of been wondering," Barbara admitted, still unsure if she got paid and if she did how she would explain that to Mark. "But to get back to the point. You knew it was susceptible to . . . what? Iron and fire?"

"Part of training," Janea said, shrugging. "There's a bunch of books you'll be getting. Some of the information is . . ." She shrugged again.

"The thing about demonology," Hjalmar said, scratching deeply at his beard, "is that most of the source books are . . .  semi-fictional. Very few serious researchers realize that demons and such are real. And witnesses tend to be . . . well, any eyewitness is a poor witness. They generally can't get their heads around the reality of demons, especially, and they see things that aren't there even if there's not a glamour. Or they miss things that are there. And as to dispelling methods and the like, normally demons are only engaged in battle. There have been very few captured and studied and those only by the Foundation and a few other groups. Then there's the fact that they're so . . . incredibly abundant in history. So you study these books, most of them more alchemical than scientific in nature, and hope like Hel the source book is right and your identification is right. Take the Tikoloshe, for example. The primary source book doesn't list it as having reversed feet. But all of our case studies have recorded it as having reversed feet. Nor does The Book have it as susceptible to iron and fire. But it is. Cold steel, as well, if you add power to the equation."

"So if HRT had used, say, bayonets?" Barb asked.

"Wouldn't have worked," Hjalmar said. "Unless they were meteoric iron. Well, pure elemental iron would probably work. I had to have Frey work through me to dispel the demon. Even then it was touch and go. I could feel its power working against the god's and it had built up a lot of power in its killings. But we, together, were able to overcome it."

"HRT has first class shooters," Janea said. "But they don't have anyone that channels. There's some talk of rearming them, but they generally don't do Special Circumstances and trying to explain why they're taking courses in special entry techniques using, oh, swords and crossbows . . ." Pause. " 'Why, yes, Congressman," she said in very businesslike tones, " 'we're quite serious about that line item . . . ' I can just see it now."

"Generally if we know that we're going to need heavy help, we can call on the experts," the man said, grinning faintly. "Such as Opus Dei."

"Opus Dei?" Barbara said, aghast. "That's a Catholic religious group."

"Yeah, sure," Janea said, laughing. "That's all. 'Hallo,' " she said in a thick and bad Italian accent, " 'My name is Cardinal Enrico Sarducci. You killed my father. Prepare to die!' "

"Sure," Hjalmar agreed, laughing. "That's all they are. But when you see a bunch of guys in cassocks and collars carrying ballistic nylon bags show up, you know the shit has well and truly hit the fan. I think they might have called in Opus for Almadu, if they'd known how powerful he had become. But even Opus doesn't have a channeler as strong as you are. They are, though, very well shielded by their faith and their sacraments. They could have, oh, cleared the way for a more powerful channeler. There are a few in the Church," he admitted, grudgingly.

"The Wiccans seem to produce the strongest channelers," Janea said, seriously. "But their strongest channelers are, as far as I know, exclusively nonviolent. Full up vegan, sky clad, the works. And really nonviolent. The top operators are all from fairly minor sects who have a strong connection to a fairly weak god. Take Dartho; his god is virtually unknown and not particularly powerful."

"And very chaotic," Hjalmar added, rubbing his beard thoughtfully.

"And chaotic," Janea admitted. "He might even be a face of the Jester or Pan. But Dartho has such a strong connection to him that he can get more power from less source than some who have stronger deities as backing." She paused and sighed, putting on a little girl face, mooning like at a rock star. "Ahhh, Darthoooo . . . he's so . . . sick," she finished, changing back to her "normal" personality. "His god, well, he's really into pain. Voluntary, mind you, but so was Aztec sacrifice, certainly the greater sacrifices. You know what BDSM is?"

"Yes," Barbara admitted. "Sort of."

"Well, can you imagine a good sect based around BDSM?" Janea asked.

"No," Barb said, definitely.

"I actually can," Janea said. "But it's a stretch. And that's the . . . nature of Dartho's sect, of his god. They feed the god with pain, voluntarily derived, and the god feeds them with power."

"That's sick," Barbara agreed, glancing over at the table Dartho had occupied and finding all of "his" group gone.

"You do what you have to for power," Janea said, shrugging. "And sometimes more," she added in a husky contralto, wriggling sexily.

"Our gods have, for millennia, been weak," the man said, frowning at Barb, then shrugging. "They were displaced by the White God."

"Well, I didn't do it," Barbara said, wincing.

"No, of course not," Janea interjected. "But it's one of the reasons Christianity is a sore point. Especially Protestantism, which doesn't recognize saints."

"What does that have to do with it?" Barb asked, totally confused.

Janea and Hjalmar looked at each other for a moment as if trying to decide which one had to tell the little girl that Santa wasn't real.

"Well," Hjalmar said, blowing out. "You see, most saints are old gods that got . . . assimilated by the religion of the White God. Michael, for example, is probably an avatar of Mars and Frey, who are almost certainly the same god. There are others. But when the Protestants took away even those souls, those prayers, it truly bit the old gods in the butt. So they sort of tolerate Catholics and Eastern Orthodox, but they've got a bug up their butt about Protestants. And . . . some people tend to bring that annoyance along with them. I mean, most of us went in the direction that we took because we didn't find normal society . . . normal. For us. Add to that, in this group, actual communication with their gods, and the gods having a case of the ass with Christianity and, well . . ."

"I'm not the most popular girl in town," Barbara said.

"You're not the most popular girl in town," Janea agreed. "But . . . you're clearly a woman of great inner strength and beauty. That simply shows through in everything you do and say. And you have a strong channel to one of the most potent sources of power on earth. From our perspective," she added, gesturing around, "you are also a fell warrior. So we Asatru accept you as if you were our own, despite being a representative of the White God. For your warrior skills if nothing else. Dress her in a chain-mail bikini and she'd be the talk of the town!" she added, giggling like a schoolgirl. "Ooh, we could go around as a pair of twins! Twins always make more . . ."

"Not on your life," Barbara said, laughing at the woman's constant change of character. "I most certainly would be the talk of Jackson, if I ever wore something like that. Even in private," she added, somewhat bitterly.

"But we are all one in this struggle," the man interjected. "Don't take the occasional odd reactions to heart. We know that you are a fellow warrior and accept you as such. It's simply hard for some of us to grok your presence here."

"Grok?" Barb said. "I feel as if half the time you're speaking an alien language!"

"Well," Janea said, laughing. "In this case, he was. It's from a science fiction novel called Stranger in a Strange Land . . ."

"That's from the Bible," Barbara said, frowning.

"Many of Heinlein's titles were," Hjalmar said.

"I won't get into the story," Janea continued. "But, to grok means to understand something so completely that it is part of you. Reading Stranger was one of the things that made it easy for me to become a dancer."

"I was wondering about that," Barb said.

"I could sense your shock when Sharice told you," Janea said, nodding. "You hid it well but part of my power is understanding and reading emotions that aren't visible. But . . . well . . ." She paused and tried to figure out how to explain to this nice "church lady" why she did what she did. "There are several reasons that I'm a dancer. I've never even decided which is the most important. One reason, and the easiest to explain, is that it's supplementary income to the Foundation. We get paid when we're on assignment, but only then. So everyone has to have a 'day job' except the real pros like Otillia and Hertha, who are so busy it's not funny. And it needs to be a day job you can take time off or simply walk away from. I'm a top dancer at several major clubs. When I tell the club owners 'I'm going away for a couple of weeks on another assignment' they don't blink. And they don't give me any hassle when I turn back up. And the money's very good. I pull in a grand pretty much every night I'm working and more, sometimes quite a bit more, on some nights."

"That's a lot of money, but . . ." Barbara said.

"You're worried about my soul," Janea said, smiling. "Asatru does not hold the same things as sin that the White God holds as sin. My patron, Freya, can be seen as another face of Ishtar/Hathor, the God Mother, Aphrodite/Venus if you will, the All-Woman and Mother of Fertility. She is my patron and through my use of my body to bring pleasure, I worship her."

"Okay," Barb said, cocking her head and frowning. "Now, that I have a hard time with."

"But can you accept it?" Janea asked.

"For you, perhaps," Barbara said thoughtfully, after a long pause. "Not for me."

"Of course not," Janea said, nodding seriously. "Your White God would be most angry with you if you chose my path. But my path worships my goddess. I not only dance, I am a very expensive call-girl; a priestess of Freya should be paid through the nose as a form of worship. Men come into my hands, angry, upset, mad at their wives, having difficulty at work. I soothe them, I placate them, I bring them joy and teach them to bring themselves joy, and I don't mean with their hand but with their spirit. When men come away from me, they take a mystical memory, but no sense of bonding. This, too, my goddess gives to me. And they return to their lives, to their mates, with a better sense of balance in the world."

"Wait," Barb said, closing her eyes and raising one hand. "You have sex with married men?"

"Very few unmarried men can afford me," Janea said, laughing. "I'm neither cheap nor easy, honey," she added in a credible Mae West imitation. "I adore the kindness of strangers. But I assure you I have saved far more marriages than I have broken," she continued, seriously. "And those that I broke, needed to be broken. Parasitical marriages with one partner sucking the life from the other like a leech or an ugly succubus. I remember one partner I had, an older gentleman and quite sweet. His wife had died and he married a much younger woman. She was sucking him dry, emotionally, and giving him nothing, not even her body, in return. He came to me, suggested by a friend who knew me. And when he went away he divorced the little tramp and sent her packing."

"Okay," Barbara said. "Now that I can . . . grok."

"Men who come to me are either very rich and in marriages where neither partner is truly bonded to the other," Janea said, "or simply well-to-do and in dire straits. They pay through the nose for my time and in turn I give them . . . healing and understanding of where their hurts center. It is my gift. It was a gift I first practiced because of the dictates in Stranger, and other Heinlein novels, trying to be a 'Heinlein Girl.' But later I came to an understanding of my place in the world, and of my goddess. This gave it a spiritual dimension that had been . . . limited if not entirely lacking. And, in turn, it led me to this place, at this time, to explain this to you, who would make a wonderful hetaera. But I hope you never do, for your White God would surely turn his face from you."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Barbara said, shrugging. "He is merciful beyond reason or understanding. However, my own . . . upbringing would never allow me to be so . . . open . . ."

"Wanton?" Janea said, pouting theatrically, arching her back and stretching. "Sens-you-ous?" she added, raising an eyebrow and writhing in the chair.

"I'll stick with . . . open," Barb replied, grinning. "I can arch with the best of them, sweetheart! But, within me, if I felt it to be a sin, that would damage my relationship with God. I have enough demons to contend with; I don't need more."

"We none of us do," Hjalmar said, nodding. "But, remember, they are different for the different creeds. Wicca is not so much different from Christianity as they would like. It is a constructed religion. Well, all neopagan religions are constructed religions. But Wicca is very much a constructed religion and they know it. And it was constructed in a very Christian environment and many of the 'evils' in Wicca are Christian evils, evils that never would have mattered to, say, the druids that they harken back to. Their demons are much like yours, the fear of anger and so on and so forth. But for the Asatru," he said, standing up and flexing, "power is our highest calling. We are not a slave religion. Fear is our demon. Death in battle, our eyes red and staring, in anger so great it is transcendent, this is our calling," he boomed, his face hard. He closed his eyes, suddenly, and breathed deep and long, his jaw flexing, until finally he relaxed, sighing.

"Thus easily does a god take one once you become fully open to your channel," he said, sitting down, shakily. "I simply opened a channel to my inner aggression, to show you the true nature of Asatru, and Frey took me. I think, to take a look at you. But his warrior anger was filling me, calling me to battle even in this place of peace. Someday," he said, wistfully, quietly. "Someday I will be called to a hopeless battle and my god will fill me and I will berserk into mine enemies and be slain. Then shall I be taken up upon the arms of the Valkyrie and ride with them to Valhalla for all eternity. . . ."

"I think I finally understand why I came here," Barbara said after a long pause.

"To hear the word of Asatru?" Janea said, grinning.

"Perhaps," Barb replied, seriously. "I hold a great deal of anger in my soul. I'm very careful to not let it out, to Witness as a Christian should, every day of my life. And the anger at petty people, daily frustrations, I still feel that those are sins. Turn the other cheek is the right way to deal with those. But . . . I wonder if . . . if righteous anger, the anger of Samson in the temple and the anger of David, if this is not a facet of . . . God."

"The White God has been a very angry and vengeful god on occasion," Hjalmar said. "Sodom and Gomorrah come to mind."

"But not since the Coming of Jesus," Barbara pointed out. "Jesus was a man of peace and he brought peace wherever he went. Well . . .  except to the moneychangers in the temple," Barb admitted. "Even with the Devil he simply ignored his temptations."

"True," Janea said. "But what if the Devil had attacked the children who were listening to His sermon?" she asked, cocking one shapely eyebrow. "Those that he called forward to sit at his very feet. Would he have been so forgiving?"

"Probably not," Barbara had to admit. "I'm surprised that you know the Bible that well," she added.

"Well, it used to be a case of know thine enemy," Janea admitted. "I mean, I generally work in the Southeast. I especially did when I was just getting started. And, well, the Bible-thumpers . . ."

"But you'll also find that learning a lot of comparative religion is a good idea in this job," the man said. "There's no religion or myth you want to overlook. The foundation has an extensive library and I wish I could read absolutely everything in it but I don't have the time."

"I've read the Bible, the Talmud and the Koran," Janea said, ticking off the list on her manicured nails. "Each in multiple translations. And the Apocrypha. And the Dead Sea Scrolls translations. As well as all the Vedas and shamanistic Buddhism tracts. And I still feel like I only scratched the surface."

"America is a country of immigrants," Hjalmar pointed out. "In, oh say Borneo, you'll only find the spirits of Borneo."

"Interesting choice," Barbara said with a laugh. "I lived there once."

"Yes, but Westerners are few," Hjalmar corrected. "They don't bring . . . northern European werewolves or vampires with them. Very few people are acolytes of the dark powers and they tend to stay in the U.S. if they're from the U.S. Ditto Europe. But the immigrants that come to these shores . . . many of them are from the far places where evil still waits on quiet feet for the unwary. It is not only the workers and the farmers and the hunters that come to these shores, but the various shamans and priests that they support. And the acolytes of the dark powers that hide in their midst. Then there are all the idiots who buy a grimoire in Barnes and Noble and think they're playing when they try to summon. Little do they know."

"You can find summoning spells in Barnes and Noble?" Barb said, aghast.

"In at least one book that was published there is an accurate method for summoning a Persian daevas. It was a minor daevas, but nonetheless we were busy for a while and Ahriman was reinforced strongly by the souls of many . . . well, call them innocents. It was called the Green River Slayings."

"I thought they caught the guy who did those?" Barbara asked.

"Well, he was one of the ones who read the spell, wasn't he?" Janea said. "There have been several mass murders and serial killings driven by that particular daevas."

"Fortunately," the Asatru said, "we were able to get the second printing modified so the spell was wrong. And, of course, the summoner had to do certain rites that guaranteed their soul was tarnished. They also had to have at least a trace of power. But between the acolytes that come from other shores, where they had been in balance with shamans combating them, and the penchant for study that some Americans have—"

"We're getting overrun," Janea said, shrugging. "There simply aren't enough operatives, especially high level ones. Expect to be busy."

"Well, that should go over well with my husband," Barb said, dryly.

 

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Framed