Queen of Wands-eARC Read Free

up now , of all times?”
    “I think it took me this long to work up the courage,” Allison said.
    “What I do on these trips is not open for discussion,” Barbara said and then held up a hand to forestall a reply. “It’s simply not. Among other things, there are aspects that are really and truly legally classified. And there are things I just don’t want you to know. There are things I don’t want to know. But the current problem is…complicated. I’m not going to discuss it with you, but I am going to get help. Okay?”
    “Okay,” Allison said, biting her lip. “You are going to be okay, right?”
    Barb stopped considering blouses and decided to get it over with. Digging into the back of the closet, she finally found the Black Bag.
    The bag had at first resided in the back of the Honda. But as she came to accept that her place was in Algomo, not slaying demons, it had crept slowly through the house and eventually been covered by shoes in the back of the closet. Pulling it out was a wrench, the final statement that it was time to go be Other Barb.
    She didn’t like that side of her. It was more than the fear of pride, one of the deadliest sins. It was that that side of her awoke an anger she fought every day. She had tagged that side of her Bad Barb and, at first, she had mentally translated Bad as Evil.
    Over time she had come to realize that the words were right, but the meaning wrong.
    “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,” Barb said, pulling the bag out and setting it by the bed.
    “Because He comforts you?” Alison asked, tearing up. “Because that’s not a comfort to me , Mom.”
    Barb reached down and slid open the zipper of the bag, throwing back the cover.
    Only the top layer of the materials in the bag were revealed but that was enough. One side of the bag held a katana, a long, curved, Japanese sword that had already slain one demon. The other side held an AR-10 carbine that had helped slay another. Between the two were a cluster of stakes, knives, bottles of holy water and a King James Bible.
    “No, sweety,” Barbara said, kissing her on the head. “Because I am the baddest bitch in the valley.”
    * * *
    “Sharice,” Barbara said, hugging the woman.
    Coming to the Foundation had been a good choice. Apparently the mystical barriers that protected the fortress of the Foundation were proof even against the voices. They’d stopped the moment she drove through the gates.
    The Center for the Foundation was located in the western North Carolina hills, not far from Asheville. A collection of buildings from several different architectural styles, it rambled through a fifteen-acre wooded park.
    The main parking area was by the administrative building, which was a Chinese pagoda. It was flanked by the Asatru House, a mostly traditional Norse longhouse. There were Swiss chalets, Japanese teahouses, a small Gothic chapel and still more buildings on the rambling walkways.
    Sharice Rickels was a plump, bright-eyed, silver-haired woman in her late sixties. She was dressed for work in a paisley patterned dress and wearing her normal collection of gobs of silver jewelry; the woman lugged around at least ten pounds of metal. One of the most notable Wiccan High Priestesses in the United States, she had been a field agent for FLUF for over thirty years before going into semi-retirement. Given that the normal lifespan of a field agent was less then ten years, she was both a survivor and a powerful and fey mystical fighter. She hugged Barbara back then looked her in the eye.
    “You are a mass of energy, girl,” the witch said, frowning. “Your aura is out of control. What have you done to yourself?”
    “I didn’t do anything!” Barb said, almost crying. The relief at finally having the voices stop, and being able to talk about it with someone who wouldn’t think she was crazy, was almost overwhelming.
    “You need tea,” Sharice said, nodding firmly.