As each passing hour pushed Pittsburgh further into my memory, my skepticism returned. What had I really seen? Nothing a good troupe of magicians or illusionists couldn't pull off. Cover spells and teleporting demons? Right. In the light of day, such things seemed ridiculous. Phantasms of night and nerves. Much more likely we were indeed walking into a trap, a clever but very human trap. At the very least, we were about to meet some seriously deluded people.
***
The next morning, as we drove down the highway off the mountain, I could see Sparta ahead, nestled in the valley, lone white church on the mountainside, spire wreathed with cloud or late-day fog. Wood-sided houses, all colors of the rainbow, peeked up from the August greenery. Holsteins and red barns dotted the few fields carved out of the wilderness. Pink cottages ringed a lake to the south. It was picture-perfect… from a distance. The closer you drove, the more you noticed the signs of decay. The brightly colored houses screamed for paint or vinyl siding. The barn foundations were crumbling into piles of stone that barely supported the woodwork above. Rusty fences and rotted posts let cows escape into neighboring fields. The lakeside cottages didn't look big enough to hold a double bed, let alone a bathroom. On the edge of town we passed a sign welcoming us to Sparta, population 600. The cemetery across the road held more people than the village itself. A dying town, bolstered by one remaining source of tourism, a massive campground outside the village limits, jam-packed with trailers and motor homes and not a tent in sight.
The town center swarmed with tourists, some from the trailer park, others presumably from nearby cottages. Not that downtown Sparta was any kind of shopping mecca. There was an Exxon gas station, the House of Wang Chinese restaurant, Lynn's Cut and Curl, the Yankee Trader general store-with signs boasting of video games and hand-scooped ice cream-and the ever-present coffee shop, called simply Joe's. From what I could see, there were only three streets in Sparta, the highway plus cross streets on either end, Baker to the west and New Moon to the east. The two side streets were lined with houses differentiated only by their colors, everything from baby blue to deep violet to lime green. Despite the abundance of open land beyond the town, lawns were barely big enough to warrant a power mower. Flowers came in two varieties: marigold and begonia. Country-craft wreaths hung from front doors, and signs hung from porches proclaiming "The Millers: John, Beth, Sandy, Lori, and Duke. Welcome All! ""Odd that they'd pick such a small town for their meeting," I said.
"Maybe," Jeremy said, "but how many of those people walking around do you think actually live here?"
I saw his point. Both sides of the highway were jammed with SUVs and minivans. Families strolled the street, licking ice cream cones and sipping canned diet soda. Strangers probably outnumbered townies ten to one. A few more wouldn't be noticed.
"Ooops, we passed it," I said. "Sign for the Legion Hall back there. Sorry."
Jeremy pulled into a parking lot, waited for a brigade of baby strollers to pass, then turned the Explorer around and headed back. The Legion Hall was at the end of Baker, a good half-mile beyond the last house on the street. Jeremy slowed to look at the hall, then continued down another hundred feet and pulled into a dead-end lane. We found a path leading toward the Legion Hall through a patch of woods. We debated taking it, but decided against it. While it might have given us a chance to sneak up and look around, there was also the risk that someone from the meeting would pick that moment to pop outdoors and catch us lurking among the trees. Not exactly a dignified entrance.
Taking the road, we still approached with care. When we got to the hall, I surveyed the parking lot and counted four vehicles: two midsized rental cars, a Jeep with California plates, and an Accord with Massachusetts plates.
"I see the witches drove," I said, gesturing at the Accord. "So much for teleport spells and magic broomsticks. And look at this place. It's a Legion Hall. We're going to a meeting of supernatural races in a Legion Hall. On a beautiful summer day, with not even a thunderclap in the background. Couldn't they have found a rotting Victorian mansion somewhere?"
"The mausoleum at the cemetery was booked. If you look up in the far left corner under the eaves, I believe I see a cobweb."
"That's a streamer. A pink streamer. From a wedding reception."
"Well, I'm sure you'll find some cobwebs inside."
"Sure, right next to the Ladies' Auxiliary snack table."
Jeremy bent to read the schedule posted behind a cracked glass case.
"So what are we booked under?" I asked. "The New Age Alternate Lifestyle conference?"
"No, the Corporate Technology Workshop."
"Great. Witches without broomsticks, teleport spells, or imaginations. What's next? If there are vampires in there, they probably drink artificial blood plasma substitute. Sterilized, of course,"
"If there are vampires, they'd be in their crypts right now. It's daylight."
"So, in that case, I can logically conclude that vampires don't exist, right? If they did, they'd be at the meeting. And if they were coming to the meeting, it'd be held at night. Ergo a daytime meeting means no vampires. Bonus."
"Not a big vampire fan?"
"It's not that. Think about it. Witches, sorcerers, magicians, whatever… they're minor-league bad. If such things existed, they wouldn't be more than gifted humans. Werewolves are major league. No magic sleight of hand can top our big trick. Add superhuman strength, preternatural senses, and a really nasty attitude-"
"Speak for yourself."
"Present company excepted. Point being, witches have nothing on us. But vampires? Vampires could be more powerful. They certainly get better press. I might walk into that meeting and find out I'm not the baddest thing in the room."
"Maybe not, but you'll still be the baddest thing alive in the room."
I grinned. "The undead angle. Hadn't thought of that."
"Proper categorization is the key. Now let's get inside."
Jeremy pulled on the door. It didn't budge.
"Locked," he said.
He paused a moment, as if considering whether to knock, but I knew he wouldn't. The Alpha of the werewolves did not wait to be admitted to any so-called meeting of the supernatural. Jeremy yanked on the door, but it didn't break, didn't even quaver.
"Guess the powers are bound to fail once you hit a certain age," I said. "Allow me."
Jeremy stepped aside with a mocking half-bow. I grabbed the door handle and heaved with enough force that the door should have flown from its hinges. It didn't move.
"Oh," I said.
"Oh, indeed. Perhaps you could huff and puff and blow the door down."
An image from Pittsburgh came to me. Lock-pick guy complaining about the Winterbourne's hotel-room door.
"A spell," I said. "They've cast a spell on it. Guess we have to knock."
"Be my guest."
That was embarrassing. Werewolves knocking at the door. What was the world coming to? Still, we had no choice. I knocked and a few moments later, Paige answered.
Her eyes widened as she opened the door. "You're early."
"Is that a problem?" Jeremy asked, his voice pure silk.
Paige glanced up at him, hesitated, then shook her head. "No, of course not. Come in and meet everyone."
INTRODUCTIONS
As Paige led us down the hall, we could see the main room ahead. There were four people on folding chairs around a folding wooden table, the type of furniture found in church basements everywhere. Looking at the four, I was relieved-or perhaps slightly disappointed-to note a complete absence of cloven hooves and unsightly body appendages. The four looked as if they could have really been at a conference, albeit a casual midsummer conference in cottage country.
Ruth sat beside an empty chair. Like Paige, she wore a sundress. Across from them was a woman in her mid-forties, slender with short auburn hair. Beside her sat a young man with broad shoulders, a boyish face, and light brown hair tipped blond. On his left was a man on the far side of middle age, heavyset and graying. He looked aboriginal, probably Inuit, his smooth face a mask of meditative calm. So this was a gathering of the most powerful supernatural beings in North America? Oh, please. Central casting could have found a more likely bunch by plundering the Sunday night television lineup.
Across the room was the Ladies' Auxiliary snack table. Well, not exactly, but close enough. The only thing missing was the blue-haired matron doling out goodies and guarding her cash box. There was a table with a coffee urn, a margarine tub of white powder that was more likely to be creamer than cocaine, a pyramid of Styrofoam cups-one filled with sugar cubes-and a plate of powdered doughnuts. On the rear wall, a handwritten sign reminded snackers that coffee and doughnuts were a quarter each, followed by a line in red clarifying that this meant fifty cents for both a doughnut and coffee, not a quarter for the two combined. I really hoped the Legion folks were responsible for the goodies and the sign. Otherwise… well, I didn't want to consider the alternative. Let's just say if anyone passed around a plate for membership dues, I was out of there.Beside the table was a flip-board and, on the top page of the flip-board, the meeting agenda. I kid you not. They had an agenda, not just a rough list of topics, but a full schedule starting with greetings and refreshments at 10:00, background at 10:30, roundtable at 11:45, followed by lunch from 12:15 to 1:15. I glanced over my shoulder to see Jeremy reading the schedule, lips twitching.