[Icelander]

Kit almost manages to drops the CamelBak and the pig gives a loud squeal as it is sprayed with water. Fussing with it for a while, Kit finally manages to turn his eyes forward again. “Won’t that violate OpSec?”

The two Night Riders in the front seats look at each other. “Ordinarily, yes, “Wojciechowski says. “But we’re not avoiding technological or HUMINT search methods. Only way our friends in the Esoteric Order of [Sphincters] could find us would be divination or dowsing.”

“And dem cultists ain’t got time for am tonight,” Juman adds. “Dey doing well to stay away from police manhunt themselves. [Excrement], they gone shot up cops and correctional officers every night for three nights. They always gotta be using up more of dem supplies, reserves, safehouses and am, so how much you figure they gots left? Nothing, that’s what, or they would have used am last night. Now they’re all spent, running scared and dem federal task force gonna wex them proppa. They gonna have helicopters and am federal massive on dem bam bam.”

Wojciechowski grins. “That’s our best guess, but even if there’s more of these people looking for us, it’s not all that simple to find us. I don’t know how much you know about thaumatology, boychik, but divining somebody’s location when you don’t even know how far away they are isn’t trivial. Doing it in daytime is harder and at night, it’s still not like Googling it.”

With his hands, the old Night Rider mimics a complicated dowsing gesture. “Even if you’re powerful magician, you still need good ritual space, good vibes around you and you need some luck also. You hope your target is staying put and you hope there’s good vibes around them for you. Worst thing for you is if they pass through areas where your magic won’t work well, like big cities with fancy new buildings and plenty of secular, educated people who know there is no such thing as magic. Or strong Threshold. Very hard to find someone behind strong Threshold.”
Riveted by this glimpse backstage into the occult world, Kit asks, “Threshold?”

Nodding his head gravely, Wojciechowski answers, “Threshold. You know how vampires in movies can’t enter homes without invitations? It’s like that, but not only vampires. It’s all supernatural beings and even thaumatological workings. Threshold [fornicate] up all powers and magic, make anyone not invited inside as powerful as kitten, if good Threshold. Homes are sanctuaries. Especially good homes, with happy families. Nobody really knows why, but it’s true. Doesn’t work in public places, but anywhere people call home, there’s usually Threshold.”
Wojciechowski turns in his seat and stares intently at Kit, “How long your family live in your house? Maybe grandparents live there first?”

Furrowing his brow, Kit muses, “I think it’s built over a century ago. Mom and dad bought it from the estate of mom’s grandparents back when they married, before I was born. I think I remember her saying that the first Muhlbach in Lufkin built it at the height of the lumber years back before the Depression.”
“You were happy child? Good parents? Norman Rockwell, apple pie, church and American flag?”
Smiling politely, Kit rejoins, “I thought you figured out my cliched small-town Americana background with your Sherlock scan already.”

Wojciechowski grins savagely. “Sherlock scan only for fun. Accuracy never better than 80%, maybe 90% when people really boring. This is important. Thresholds are strong if family is strong, people happy, safe, loyal, loving. Bad secrets ruin Thresholds, make them Bad Places instead. So, your family as wholesome as you look, boychik?”

Looking right into Wojciechowski’s cold shark eyes, Kit answers, “Alright, I don’t think we’re as cliched as you make us sound, but I wouldn’t trade my family or my home for anything. Yeah, we were happy. Still are, damn it.”

A significant look passes between the men in the front of the car. Juman says, “Then is na safer place than am house for abedeze. Not for to stay, just a quick cook-up, mebbe. Dem truck stop skite, am is gonna get tired bleddy quick.”

Shrugging, Wojciechowski adds, “We could eat anywhere, but hungry hungry hippo there is not wrong. If our esoteric friends do attempt divination working tonight, best chance of it not working is if we’re inside strong Threshold like your family home.”
With a frown, Kit wonders, “So, if they try it and fail, they get zero information?”

With a glance at his fellow Night Rider in the driver’s seat, Wojciechowski considers things and then says in a reassuring tone, “Not zero, perhaps, but probably not more than this state, maybe not even that if Threshold as strong as I suspect. Someone very good might get East Texas, pinewoods, not far from Big Thicket, something like that. It would take world-class thaumatology, with everything perfectly prepared for a powerful ritual, to get the right town from hundreds of miles away, and finding exact house in town would be like hitting hole in one three times in row. Thresholds are no joke, boychik, they’re something that can make even scariest magicians and supernatural beings pretty powerless.”

“Alright, but improbable is not impossible. Tomasz, would you risk your mother or other family on ‘improbable’?”
The older man laughs softly. “I do, boychik, every time I visit home. There’s no way to guarantee some awful demon spirit behind events we stopped or black magician mentor of some grimoire-gimp we killed isn’t tracking us at any given moment. At certain point, you elect to accept some level of risk or you decide to be crazy loner, like Zamal here, and then you end up with biting muzzle and stylish sleeveless coat in end.”

At Kit’s unconvinced stare, Wojciechowski sighs again and throws up his hands. “Ok, I get it. Accepting risk is easier when it’s just us. We don’t have to stop anywhere near your family. Zamal can eat anything, he just pretends to have palette because he thinks it will fool people into thinking he’s sophisticated.”

“Thank you,” Kit says quietly. “There are plenty of fast food places in Lufkin or we could push on an extra half hour and eat in Nacogdoches. There’s a Whataburger there, about a dozen Mexican places and pretty much anything else you can think of. I mean, neither Lufkin or Nacogdoches are any kind of metropolises, but there’s no lack of fast food. Or real restaurants, if that’s what you’re looking for. Cotton Patch Cafe does home-style cooking and it’s pretty good. Maybe not ‘billionaire personal chef good’, but maybe it’ll be a nice change.”

“Dis ‘home-style’ is just what am big chain restaurants use for trickeration, to get am lonely bachelor cash. It’s all cooked in industrial kitchens by dem illegal immigrants, anyway,” Juman says. “If we’re going to a restaurant, I want a bleddy steak. And if dis lenky illegitimate hasn’t forgotten how to drive, maybe we have a few drinks, banna.”

“Our bovine buddy is, again, crude and obnoxious, but not wrong, boychik. We are still in Texas; we should be able to find decent steaks. If you have local style of barbecue hereabouts, I’d like to try it. Greatest contribution of America to world culture, almost makes up for atomic bombs and institutionalized racism, is good, cheap meat and spicy barbecue sauce. In honor of other animal in automobile, maybe we should have barbecued pork, but sometimes I think all Texans are crypto-Jews. Suggest maybe grilling pork instead of beef and reaction is almost same as in Haredi household.”