Before she could stop him, Spar reached out and turned the knob to find the door unlocked. He pushed it open and stepped inside while Fil dug her heels in at the threshold and yanked at the back of his shirt.
“You can’t just walk into someone else’s house,” she hissed. “No one is home! We could get in trouble for this!”
“Who will give us trouble? There is no one here,” he reasoned as he stepped through the foyer.
“The police, as soon as one of his neighbors gives them a call!”
He shrugged and passed through an open doorway.
Behind him Fil groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. “The last time I committed breaking and entering, it did not go well for me. Please, please do not let this end up the same way. I can only carry so many demon marks at one time.”
Fingering the vial of holy water in her pocket—and fervently hoping Tim was right about it bringing her luck—she stepped reluctantly into the house and hurried to catch up to Spar.
The front parlor looked pretty much like she’d pictured it. Dark, original wood trim framed the door and windows and matched the heavy fireplace mantel with its intricate carving of leaves and acorns. An antique camelback sofa upholstered in green velvet sat facing the fire, flanked by leather wingback chairs. Hand-crocheted doilies topped the tea table, and she would have bet twenty bucks that the beautifully inlaid cabinet in the corner housed an antique Victrola. She’d have added a twoonie that it worked, too.
Spar had already crossed through the pocket doors that separated the parlor from what looked to her like a study. An enormous partners’ desk held pride of place in the center of the room, its tooled, spiraling legs wider around than her arms. Looking at the top, she had the immediate impression of controlled chaos. Nearly every surface was covered, with stacks of papers, boxes, pens, cups, a clock, at least three different antique desk sets that she could identify, and books.
There were books everywhere, stacks of them, shelves of them, and volumes lying open on almost every available surface. Either Jeffrey Onslow was a voracious reader with the attention span of an ADHD gnat, or he was in the middle of some kind of research. Fil wasn’t sure she’d prefer either of those answers.
Spar pushed aside the wooden clerk’s chair behind the desk and flipped through the papers laid out in the center of the blotter. “You were right. He is not here.”
“I suppose he could be upstairs, but no, I don’t think he’s in the house. It feels too empty in here. Do you think we should go back to the front porch and wait for him? He could be at work, or at the grocery store or something.”
“No, I mean he is gone. He fled from the Order.” Spar looked up and caught her gaze. “But he left us a note.”
“What?”
“Come and look.”
He waved her around to stand beside him and pushed a piece of paper toward her. The sheet of stationery was the color of fresh cream, thick, expensive, and ridiculously old-fashioned. It suited the house to a tee. On it, someone had used a wide-nibbed pen to scribble a hasty note.
“To the Guardian,” she read aloud. “I could see you coming, but not soon enough. Having run out of time, I have concluded that my best course of action is to leave now and hope to draw our enemies after me. If I have succeeded, you will find an envelope in my favorite book of poetry. I hope its contents will aid you and your female in what you must do. I fear there is One who sleeps no longer.”
She flipped the page over, but saw nothing else. “That’s it. Nicely cryptic, no? I hope you know what it means, because I’m really not up for guessing games right now.”
Spar had already moved to the bookshelves lining the room’s back wall. “It means that we must find this envelope, first of all.”
“Really? Did you know Jeffrey Michael Onslow, Spar? Were you guys buddies?” she asked, the sarcasm all but dripping down her chin. “Close enough to chat about your favorite poets, I hope.”
“I have never heard of him before.” He grunted and pulled a heavy volume from a middle shelf. It was the size of a photo album only thicker and bound in worn leather. “But his clue was an old and familiar one used by the Guild. Every Warden for several centuries has kept a copy of this book in his library.”
Fil let him set the book on the desk and flipped open to the frontispiece. “Paradise Lost? Seriously? Are you trying to tell me that the Guild has a sense of humor?”
“You find the poem humorous?”
“The poem, no. The Guild calling it their favorite book of poetry, yes. I mean, come on. It’s all about the fall of Satan and the war between the angels and the fallen.” He continued to look at her blankly, and she rolled her eyes. “You really don’t think that hits just a little close to home?”
Spar shook his head. “Again, religion is merely a language used to understand the incomprehensible. I can assure you that none of the Seven is a creation of a God who cast it out for the crime of arrogance. Each is a piece of the Darkness itself, torn apart to weaken them all and kept imprisoned for the sake of the living universe. This story is nothing but a bedtime tale.”
“Okay, so the Guild has a sense of humor, but you don’t.”
He ignored her and began flipping through the pages of the book. He grunted when several fell back and exposed a cavity cut into the paper. Inside was a seven-by-nine brown manila envelope.
Fil huffed out a breath. “Wow. After that note sounded like something out of a low-budget spy movie, I had myself half convinced this guy was a lunatic, but at least that much of what he wrote was true. How on earth could he have seen us coming?”
“I suspect he employed some manner of scrying, unless he had the ability to foresee the future naturally.”
“Like precognition? Are there really people who can do that?”
He shot her a sideways glance. “Are there really those who can look at a person and know his character and ability to channel magic at a glance?”
She stuck her tongue out at him. It just seemed called for.
“Don’t be a jerk. I mean, my grandma’s aunt always knew when someone was coming to visit before the doorbell rang, but that’s like five minutes of foresight. Judging by the looks of this place, Onslow had to have left at least several hours ago. It could have been days, for all we know.”
“It is possible. I have seen oracles predict wars a hundred years in the future. I believe that after your recent experiences, you might want to rethink your definition of what is and is not possible, little human.”
He flicked a fingertip down her cheek. Fil grabbed his hand and squeezed.
“Not a bad point, I guess.” She plucked the envelope from his grasp and reached for a letter opener that lay amid the clutter. “Let’s see what Mr. Onslow thought we ought to know.”
Slitting open the edge, she pulled a thick sheaf of papers from the envelope. They had been folded inward on themselves inside a sheet of standard computer paper, but she could see a mix of materials and sizes, including photocopies, lined notebook pages, and newspaper clippings. Her curiosity stirred.
A thumping sound registered in the distance, and Fil’s head shot up. “Please tell me that was not a car door. Like the car door of the RCMP coming to arrest us for breaking into the house.” She tried peering out the window, but this side of the house gave onto the orchard, not the front yard.
“We broke nothing. The door was open.” Spar’s voice remained as even as ever, but she noticed he had already moved toward the door. “Plus, we were obviously expected. I will explain this to the authorities.”
“Yeah, you do that. I’m still getting ready to get the heck out of here. We can go through all this at home.”
She found herself speaking to thin air and heard the screen door at the front of the house thump closed behind the disappearing gargoyle.
“I’m telling you,” she muttered to herself, refolding the stack of papers and trying to stuff them back into the envelope. “Breaking and entering never turns out well for me.”
Spinning like a top, she clutched the envelope in front of her like a particularly pathetic shield and watched in horror as a fist the color of mud reached in through the broken window and grabbed at her. She caught a glimpse of the thick, dark arm attached to a muscular shoulder that stooped down to allow a craggy face to peer in through the window. Considering that the set of steps to the front porch put the floor of the house an estimated five feet about ground level, the fact that whatever stood outside trying to get in had to bend down to look inside did not set Fil’s mind at ease.
Yelling Spar’s name, she threw herself backward onto the desk and tried to scramble out of the thing’s reach. Globs of soil seemed to drop from its skin as it swiped at her again, and she realized the entire thing wasn’t just the color of dirt; it looked like it was made out of dirt. In fact, the red, unearthly glow of its eyes appeared to be the only thing that didn’t look like clay, soil, or tiny plant roots that had been ripped violently from the land.
And, oh, ew, was that an earthworm wriggling along its wrist?
Fil heard the ominous crack of the wooden window frame as more glass tinkled to the floor. With a sudden lunge, the creature shoved its arm through the window up to its shoulder and just managed to catch Fil’s ankle in its filthy paw. Frantic, she grabbed on to the edge of the desk, but it felt like a skeleton of iron lurked beneath the crumbling topsoil. The creature pulled, and she screamed, but inevitably she felt her grip slipping until she lost hold of the desk and went flying backward out the window.
The thing managed to get her legs outside and grabbed her other ankle for a more solid grip. Fil jackknifed her body at the hips, trying to keep at least her upper torso in the room. Plastering her chest against the wall beneath the window, she scrambled for something to hold on to. Her fingertips caught the arm of the desk chair and brought it rolling straight at her head. With a curse, she batted it away and sent it crashing into the bookshelves. The only thing left in her reach was the edge of the tasseled rug. Curling her fingers around it, she clung like a barnacle with separation anxiety and tried desperately to kick the thing holding her into next week.
The creature roared its frustration. The sound shook the window frame until Fil felt the vibrations deep in her gut. Poor baby, she thought, not getting to kill her so easily. As far as she was concerned, tall, dark, and dirty could go screw a gopher hole.
When the door to the library crashed back against the wall, Fil nearly wept with relief. Well, until the gargoyle took one look at her and disappeared back the way he’d come.
“Spar!” she screamed. “Get back here, you underprotective son of a bitch! I could use a little help here!”
The monster holding her gave an almighty yank on her ankles, forcing an entirely different scream from her throat. It felt like her hips were about to pop right out of their sockets. Either that, or he’d just about ripped the limbs off completely. Pain combined with the pressure on her abdomen to send a wave of intense nausea crashing through her. Goddamn it, she was not going to vomit again. She’d already met her quota for the week. Hell, for the bloody year.
A new roar shattered the silence, and this one Fil recognized. Somewhere outside, a Guardian had morphed into full battle mode.
“About frickin’ time, Rocky.”
All at once the grip on her ankles released and her knee crashed into the clapboard siding hard enough to make her see stars. She yelped and gripped the rug hard while gravity pulled her legs down and threatened to send her the rest of the way out the window.
Behind her, she could hear the sounds of outright war, but all she could see was the inside of the library and the underside of Onslow’s desk. She believed in Spar’s ability to protect her, but was the thing that had attacked her hurting him? And what the hell was it, anyway? Somehow she doubted dirt demon counted as the technical term.
Her uncomfortable position was not helping Fil’s state of mind. Quickly weighing the pros and cons of her choices, she realized finishing the trip outside would be a heck of a lot easier than attempting to drag her butt back in through the window. She just had to count on Spar to keep the monster distracted while she went out and then hauled ass for cover.
Saying a quick prayer, she released her hold on the rug and pushed off against the floorboards, sending herself backward onto the hard ground. The impact jarred already aching muscles, but she ignored the discomfort. As fast as she could she rolled to her feet and glanced around. Less than twenty feet away, Spar hovered in the air above what she could now see clearly looked like the Incredible Hulk. You know, if a little kid had molded him out of dirt, like a beach-free sand castle.
Dirt Hulk swatted at Spar, but the gargoyle just beat his wings and lifted up out of reach. Darting around, Spar came at the thing from another angle, aiming for its chest. The creature spun and grabbed again, but Fil could see it was slow and clumsy. Strong, yes, she could testify to that, but in reality it was no match for a Guardian.
Spar attacked like a raptor harassing its prey. He would dart in, tear off a chunk of earthy flesh, then retreat too fast for the creature to catch hold of him. The thing began to dance in circles in response to the gargoyle’s constant movement. It was awkward and graceless; she predicted no future for it in music videos. The sight might have been enough to make Fil laugh if the monster hadn’t been trying to kill her five minutes ago.
She tended to hold grudges over things like that.
Hulk circled again until he faced the house once more. Catching sight of Fil, he seemed to forget all about the Guardian currently attempting to kill him and lurched in her direction. Spar bellowed in outrage and dove in for the kill, wrapping his hands around the creature’s lump of a head and ripping it clean off the shoulders.
The thing just kept coming.
Fil blinked and yelped, scrambling backward until she came up hard against the house’s clapboard siding. Even without a head, the creature lumbered unerringly in her direction. Apparently it didn’t need to see her to attack her. It reached out to grab her way too early, so maybe its sense of depth perception had been thrown off at least.
The movement flexed the mass of its chest, and something strange caught her eye. Right where she assumed its breastbone would have been, the clean, well-defined shape of a medallion appeared to have been embedded in the soily flesh. It had some kind of symbol carved into it, but frankly, Fil was too busy looking for an escape route to try to identify it.
She calculated that if she timed it right, she could duck under the creature’s arm when it got close enough to grab her. She’d seen how slowly it moved, and despite her aching, bruised muscles and joints, she figured she was still faster. After she ducked past it, she intended to keep running all the way to the motorcycle. Once on the Tiger, she could keep out of range until Spar dealt with the damned thing.
Luckily, she didn’t have to wait.
With a furious roar, the gargoyle landed on the thing’s shoulders. Unable to make a sound without its head, the creature still made its displeasure known by reaching up to grab the Guardian around the waist. Before he could flip his attacker to the ground, Spar grabbed for the strange medallion and tore it from the brute’s chest. Immediately it collapsed to the ground like a mudslide, leaving nothing but a pile of rich, dark soil in its wake.
“Holy shit.” Breathing the words seemed to drain the last of the strength from Fil’s legs, because the moment they passed her lips her knees buckled. She slid down the side of the house to land on her butt beneath the ruined window. “What the hell was that?”
“Golem,” Spar spat, closing his fist and crushing the medallion into dust.
Shocked, Fill heard a piercing shriek and watched as a cloud of sickly green mist shot into the air above them. It writhed for a moment, and she swore she could see the image of a familiar face in the vapor.
“Oh, my G
od! Did you see that?”
Spar watched as the mist dissipated and the scream faded to an echo and died. “Who was it?”
“It looked like the Hierophant. That’s who I saw in my vision, anyway.”
Spar simply growled and reached for her hand. “Come. We will collect the envelope and leave this place. You need to be home where I can defend you properly.”
Without waiting for a reply, he hauled her to her feet and began dragging her around to the front of the house.
“Wait a second,” she protested, pulling back. “What just happened? Where did that mist come from, and why did it form an image of the Hierophant? Spar, you have to tell me what’s going on.”
He ignored her attempts to slow him down, but at least he answered her questions. “The golem is a creature made of earth and animated by the power of its creator. It has no mind, no will of its own, but it makes for a relentless and unquestioning servant. The medallion on its chest contained the magic that gave it life, and when I destroyed it, you saw the essence of the nocturnis who made it returning to his body.”
Fil followed him into the library and scooped up the envelope where she’d dropped it when the golem attacked. “Then the Hierophant made the golem and sent it after me. That’s why when it saw me, it stopped fighting you and came after me again.”
Spar grunted and herded her back toward the door. “Yes.”
“Crap.”
Pausing to shift back to his human form, Spar opened the door and glanced down at her. “You appear uninjured, but I may have missed something. If you are unable to make the drive back to Montreal, I can fly us, but we would have to leave the motorcycle here, and we would have to wait for darkness. I prefer to leave now, but I will not risk your health.”
Fil felt herself soften and reached up to touch his face. “I’m okay,” she reassured him. “I got yanked on and thrown around some, so I’m probably covered in bruises, but nothing serious.”
“You are certain?”
His dark eyes blazed down at her, their inner fire clearly overwhelming his ability to contain it. She could read his worry in the tense set of his features and remembered the way he had claimed her the night before. She knew he felt responsible for her safety, but the uncomfortable feeling began to take hold that he might mean that “mine” business just a touch too literally.
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