Nodding to them, Blue set off. The halls echoed strangely with his footfalls. The darkness beyond the windows seemed more liquid than gaseous. In his imagination, he could see the windows bulging under the pressure of that darkness, saw shadows seeping and dripping through the cracks where sill met wall. He tried to shake the feeling of dread that hung over him.
“Just hang on,” he whispered to the House. “For Christ’s sake, don’t let whatever’s out there in.”
The hairs on the back of his neck were prickled. The last time he’d been this close to something that wasn’t quite of this world was during the half year or so when he’d stayed with Charlie Nez on the Navajo Reservation near Flagstaff in Arizona. He’d been doing a lot of mescal and mushrooms in those days and sometimes it got a little hard, trying to separate the real from the drug visions.
He could remember strange nights out on dry rock plateaus just staring at the stars and listening to stories, or night hunts when they were soft-stepping in a single file—five or six of them—down shallow arroyos, looking for porcupines or kangaroo rats. There was the pinch of sacred pollen that Charlie’d given him to ward off witches, the chanting in the firelight at a Sing (he could still hear that eerie “Ya Ha He Ya Ha He” drifting off into the night), the great green slopes of the Lukachukai Mountains, the puffs of dust that Charlie’d tell him were dust devils—kicked up by one of the Hard Flint Boys to play a trick on the Wind Children. They built sweat baths, looked for turquoise to make totems from, and Charlie’d taught him sign language—fingerspeak. “This is how First Man and First Woman talked, when they didn’t want Snake to hear what they were saying, Blue.”
And always the stories, about Changing Woman and the Sun, about Diving Heron bringing witchcraft and giving some to Snake and how it turned to poison in Snake’s mouth, about Coyote and the Hero Twins. They were just stories, except Charlie’s eyes never smiled as they did when he was putting you on.
Blue frowned. He didn’t like the way his thoughts were going because it made everything that was happening now too real. Still, his fingers twitched at his side as he hurried down the halls, shaping a Blessing Way, and he wished he still had that sacred pollen that Charlie’d given him, or even the turquoise toad totem that he’d chipped out himself and carried in his pocket for years.
He found Fred in the west wing, just about to go out into the gardens.
“I’ve got to go out,” the gardener protested as Blue took his arm. “With this storm, the plants will be frantic. . . .”
“It’s not a storm, Fred.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s no time to explain. Just wait for me here and don’t open a door or a window. Is Sam still staying in the West Library?” There was a small room, more like a large closet really, set off the library that Sam Pattison had laid claim to by the simple expedient of putting in a cot and a chair to pile his clothes on.
Fred shook his head. “I don’t know, Blue.”
“Well, wait for me here, okay? I’ll go have a look.”
He found Sam outside the door of his room, trying to staunch an ugly wound on the left side of his head with a shirt. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, and his eyes had a somewhat glazed look to them when he glanced up. His frizzy hair was matted with blood around the wound. The once-white shirt was red.
“You okay?” Blue asked, kneeling beside him.
“I think so.” He indicated a small brass figurine of the Cornish piskie Jan Penalurick that lay on the floor nearby. “That bloody thing leaped off the shelf and gave me a good whack on the head. What’s going on, Blue? Are we in the middle of an earthquake?”
“Worse.”
Brushing aside Sam’s hands, Blue investigated the wound. It wasn’t as bad as it looked. Tearing two strips from the shirt, he made a pad of one and used the second to tie it in place. They’d get it patched up properly when they had a chance.
“Come on,” he said, helping Sam to his feet.
With Sam leaning on his arm, he led the way back to where Fred was waiting. The gardener was staring out a window, trying to make out how his wards were surviving the bizarre weather.
“Just for a moment,” he said to Blue, but the biker shook his head.
“No way. Let’s go.”
Halfway back to the Patterson side of the House where Jamie and Sally were waiting for them, the sudden sharp clamor of thunder heralded another attack. Blue pulled Sam down to the floor. Fred tumbled, the shaking knocking his feet from under him. Under the roar of the attack, they could hear the crash of falling tables, vases smashing, books falling from their shelves. Then the lights went dead, silence fell, and it was as black inside the House as it was outside.
Blue crouched like an animal at bay, his gaze darting left and right, trying to penetrate the stygian dark. He felt utterly helpless. When the sound of scratching—like Tuck’s claws on wood only magnified a hundred times—came from the nearest door, he jumped nervously. He turned in the direction he thought the sound was coming from, then blinked, because he could suddenly see again. But the light—
“Jesus!” he murmured.
A vague illumination crept up from the baseboards—a pale blue-green, faint and shimmering, but more than welcome after the empty black that had left him thinking they were in limbo. He reached a hand out towards it, not touching it, just close enough to feel the heat if there was any. It wasn’t hot or cold.
The scratching set his teeth on edge. When it finally faded and died, he let out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. He stared at the weird light. More of the House’s power? He didn’t even want to think about it.
He got up, helped Sam to his feet, and started them off down the corridor again. From time to time, they heard the odd clawing at doors they passed. Blue clamped his teeth tightly and hurried them on. The next bout of shaking and thunder was mild compared to the previous one and Blue began to hope that whatever was trying to get in was weakening. By the time they reached Sally and Jamie, everything was quiet again.
“Now what?” Jamie asked when they were all gathered together.
Blue shook his head, trying to think. Sara’s cat Tuck had found its way down to where they were and was crouched in a corner, hissing, his orange fur standing on end. Blue was very aware of everyone looking to him. They expected him to do something. Which was fine, except what was he supposed to do?
“The phone?” he asked, thinking aloud.
“We tried it while you were gone,” Sally replied. “It’s dead.”
None of them spoke of the pale illumination, nor where it was coming from. Nor did they wonder what had caused the scratching sounds—at least not aloud. The scratching was the worst of all, because if you stopped to picture what it might be that was making it, the size of the creature’s claws and the power in its limbs. . . .
Blue took a deep breath. Okay. So far they’d ascertained that there was something outside trying to get in, that it had cut the electricity and phone lines, that it couldn’t get in because somehow the House was stopping its entry. So why hadn’t the auxiliary generator cut in? That at least was easy to figure out, Blue realized. Nobody’d gone down to switch the sucker on. And in the meantime, the House’d been nice enough to provide some light for them—creepy light, no doubt about that, but it was better than shitting bricks in the dark waiting for God knows what to come busting in on them.
“We’ve got to find out what we’re up against,” he said at last, “before we can do anything about it.”
“We know what it is,” Jamie said.
Blue shook his head. “We’ve got a vague idea from what Tom Hengwr told you but that’s no man—sorcerer or not—scratching at the doors.”
“You’re not going to go out there and find out, are you?” Sally asked.
“Dunno. Let me think a minute.”
While he did, Jamie tried to explain to Sam and Fred, but gave up halfway through. He kept ge
tting mixed up and ended up feeling as confused as they were. The besieger chose that moment to start up the next round. Thunder boomed. The doors sounded like they were being clawed to ribbons. A side table turned over and crashed to the floor, narrowly missing Fred. The remaining paintings were flung from the walls. Anything that wasn’t bolted down hopped and shifted and fell.
It dragged on and on, a cacophony of sound and motion that left them in a helpless tangle against one wall, shielding themselves as best they could from the broken glass and shifting furniture. Then finally it died away.
“Okay,” Blue said.
Their heads were all ringing, the blood pounding in their ears. Blue crawled over to a side table and broke off one of its legs with a well-placed kick. With the jagged end held out before him, he advanced on the door.
“No more screwing around,” he said.
“Blue!” Sally and Jamie cried at the same time.
Ignoring them both, he slipped the chain onto the door, took a deep breath, and slowly opened it. He thought he was prepared for anything, but when the door suddenly smashed against him, opening to the end of the chain’s limit, he thought his heart was going to stop. Something that was a cross between an animal’s furred paw and a man’s arm thrust through the opening. It reached in as far as its shoulder, the taloned paw raking the air.
Recovering from the first shock of the attack, though not from the horror of it, Blue jabbed the paw with the sharp edge of his club and was rewarded with a howling withdrawal. Before he lost his chance, he slammed the door shut with his shoulder and bolted it. The shaking and pounding returned with a renewed fury. Blue turned from the door and, knocked to his knees, crawled back to where the others crouched. His knuckles were white around the end of his club.
“I don’t believe it,” he kept saying. “It was some kind of—what the hell was it?”
The pale faces of his companions held no enlightenment. They looked sickly in the weird light and for a moment Blue was sure he was just having a very, very bad nightmare.
They huddled together as though they were the component parts of one organism, gazes fixed on the door, each praying in his or her own way that whatever strength it was that had let the House prevail against their attacker thus far would not now fail. Slowly, the attack fell off, but still they clung to each other, not able to believe that it was over, even though the silence dragged into minutes, then into a full half hour. It was Blue who first noticed the change.
“Look,” he said, gently disengaging himself from Sally and Fred.
The House’s supernatural illumination was fading as light began to come through the windows once more. Blue stood up, the club still in his hand, and made his way to a window. For a moment he thought he saw the expanse of a great wide field with a dark pine forest behind it; then all there was outside was Patterson Avenue, lying calm and peaceful in the morning light. There was no sign of their attacker, no way to tell that any of it had ever happened.
“It . . . it’s gone,” Sally said wonderingly.
“It’ll be back,” Blue warned.
Jamie tried a switch and light from the overhead fixture joined the sunlight that washed the room. He looked down the hall and saw that the other lights—the ones whose switches they hadn’t been flicking back and forth—were all on as well.
“Electricity’s back,” he said blankly. Somehow hearing it said aloud seemed to comfort them.
Blue turned to the door.
“It could just be a ploy,” Jamie said.
“I know. But I’m ready for it this time.”
The others stayed back from the door as he stepped forward. His own hand trembled as he reached for the knob, but he was the only one aware of that. To the others he seemed unnaturally calm. The lock disengaged with a click and then the door slowly opened. Blue peered out. The first shock was that the outside of the door was unmarred—it didn’t have even a scratch on it. Then his shoulders stiffened and from behind him, the others could hear him murmur: “Je-sus!”
“What is it?” Sally asked.
Blue shut the door before anyone could look and rested his back against it. He felt sick.
“Someone better call the cops,” he said.
“What is it?” Sally repeated, a hint of hysteria in her voice.
“There’s a body out there,” Blue replied dully. “It looks like it was torn apart by whatever it was that tried to get through the door. But there’s not even a mark on the door!”
“A body?” Jamie took a step forward. “Whose?”
“I don’t know. Just call the cops. Jesus! How are we going to explain any of this?”
Jamie didn’t really want to see, but he had to know. A vague premonition was stirring in him. Gently he pushed Blue aside, opened the door and looked for himself.
“Oh, God!” he said, recognizing the clothing. Slowly he closed the door, his face paler than before, the features tight.
Blue swallowed. “You . . . know him?”
Jamie nodded. “It’s Tom Hengwr. Or at least what . . . what’s left of him.”
He felt nauseous. Crossing the room, he headed for the phone, paused with his hand on the receiver. Blue was right. What could they say to the police? They’d all be taken in for questioning and then, away from the protection of the House. But they couldn’t just leave the body lying there. Someone was going to see it and—God! Why hadn’t the police shown up already? With the tumult out there. . . .
Blue tossed his club into a corner where it clattered before lying still. Everyone started and Tuck jumped, spitting, and took off down the hall. The others just looked at the table leg, then at Jamie.
“You want me to do it?” Blue asked.
Jamie shook his head. He knew whom he had to call now. He pulled out the phonebook, looked up a number, then dialed. “Hello?” he said when the phone was picked up at the other end of the line. “I’d like to speak to an Inspector Tucker.”
The news hit Tucker hard. It wasn’t as though he’d liked Hogue or anything, but it was weird the way he’d just keeled over like that.
“What a way to go, Wally.”
Madison, who was sitting across from Tucker’s desk, nodded.
“I got our own men onto it as soon as word came in,” he said. “The preliminary reports all point to a heart attack.”
“Did he have a history of heart trouble?”
“You’ve got the file, John.”
“Yeah. I guess I do.”
And besides, Tucker thought, fat men were always susceptible to coronary problems—especially uptight fat men like Hogue had been. His gaze dropped to the desktop and fell upon a small three-by-five card that he hadn’t noticed when he first came in. He glanced at it idly, then stopped in shock, picking it up.
“John?” Madison said. “What is it?”
Silently, Tucker handed over the card. Typed on it was the message: “you could be next.” Just that. No capitals, no punctuation.
“Je-sus!” Madison said, looking from the card to Tucker. “So Hogue was. . . .”
“What else? Him first. Me next.”
“How did this get here?” Madison asked.
“Christ! How should I know? I just got here myself.”
“But this means there’s someone inside involved—”
“I know what it means!” Tucker clenched his fists, staring at the small card in Madison’s hand. He took a breath, trying to steady the anger that was burning in him.
“Look, I’m sorry, Wally. I didn’t mean to snap like that. But don’t worry. We’ll find the sucker that left that here.”
Madison dropped the card on the desk.
“I forgot,” he said. “There might’ve been some prints on it.”
Tucker shook his head. “No. They’re too slick for that.”
It was hard to keep the anger from boiling over. He hadn’t cared too much for Hogue, that was true. But it had just become a whole new ball game. First Thompson, then Hogue. Now th
is card. Someone was playing games and they were playing for keeps. Well, they were going to find that Tucker played for keeps too—and he didn’t play by any rules.
“Inspector?”
Tucker looked up.
“What is it?” he asked the constable standing in the doorway of his office.
“We can’t raise Warne.”
“Warne?”
“He’s on the Tamson stakeout. He took over from Bailey at eight and hasn’t checked in yet.”
“Jesus. What’s next?”
At that moment the phone rang. “Call for you, Inspector. It’s a Jamie Tams. He says its urgent.”
Tucker stared blankly across his office. He’d felt so fucking calm coming in this morning. How come it all had to fall apart in five minutes? So Jamie Tams was calling, was he? Calling to make some demands, maybe? To see if his note was found? Well, let’s see just what it was that he wanted.
“Put him on,” he said.
Chapter Four
The Otherworld forest was alive with sounds. Above them a lazy wind stirred the pines. In the distance a jay—the self-appointed rumormonger of the eastern woodlands—could be heard scolding. All around them insects hummed. Kieran leaned against the trunk of a tree as he spoke, the rough bark catching in his hair when he moved his head. His story made a stark counterpoint to the peaceful background.
Sara lay on her stomach, her head propped up on her arms as she listened to him. She proved—much to Kieran’s surprise after their heated exchange earlier this morning—to be a good listener. But she seemed so unsurprised with what he was telling her that Kieran wondered from time to time if she really was listening. When he’d brought her up to date, she looked off into the forest for a long time and said nothing.
“Well?” he asked finally.
“Well what?”
He shrugged. “You’re taking it all very well. You don’t seem the least bit startled by anything I’ve said.”
Sara sat up, a rueful smile on her lips.
“You’ve told me a lot of weird stuff,” she said, “but after all I’ve been through in the past twenty-four hours, I’m not sure anything’d surprise me anymore.” She pulled up her legs, resting her chin on her knees, and regarded him critically. “There’s some things I don’t understand though.”
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