Pick shrugged. "Well, I don't know about that, but I do know he's standing right over there, looking at you."
She glanced quickly to where he was pointing. Sure enough, Wraith was standing in the shelter of the trees in the Peterson backyard, as still as stone, tiger face lowered, bright eyes staring at her. She stared back in surprise and disbelief. What was he doing?
"Pick?" she said softly.
"I know, I know," he muttered in response, fidgeting in her palm. "He's backed off of you for some reason. Are you sure you didn't do anything to him?"
"What would I do?" she snapped angrily.
"I don't know! Call him! See what he does!"
She did, speaking his name softly, then more firmly. But Wraith didn't move. Snow gathered on his dark, bristling fur, pinpricks of white. All around, the night was silent and cold.
"Maybe he doesn't want to come back inside you just yet," Pick mused. He shifted in her palm, a bundle of sticks. "Maybe he wants to stay out there awhile."
"Fine with me," she declared quickly, frustrated and confused. "I'm not too happy with him living inside my skin anyway. I never have been."
Pick looked at her. "Maybe he senses that."
"That I don't want him to come back inside me?"
"Maybe. You made it plain enough to me. You probably made it plain enough to him."
She shook her head. "Then why didn't he leave sooner? Why didn't he just—"
Then suddenly she realized why. Suddenly, she knew. Her revelation was instantaneous and stunning. He had stayed not because he wanted to, but because she wouldn't let him go. He was living inside her body because she demanded it. It might not have been that way in the beginning, when she was still just a girl. He might have been responding freely to her need, which was genuine and compelling. But at some point, the relationship had changed. Subconsciously, at least, she had decided she could not give him up. She hadn't been aware of what she had done, of the chain she had forged to keep him close. She had thought him gone, after all. It wasn't until he had revealed himself in Seattle ten years ago, that she had even realized he was still there.
She was staggered by the enormity of her discovery, thinking at first she must be wrong. She had wanted him gone for so long that it seemed ridiculous to believe she could have bent him to her will, even in the most subliminal way, that she could have imprisoned him inside her without realizing it. But his magic belonged to her; her father and grandmother had given it to her. It was the way Pick said: magic didn't just wander off of its own accord. Wraith was hers, and the strength of her need had persuaded her that she must keep him close, always and forever.
She stared at him now through the night shadows with fresh eyes, seeing the truth. "It was me," she told Pick softly.
"What are you talking about?" he demanded.
"Don't you see? I wouldn't let go of him. I didn't intend it. I didn't mean for him to become a part of me. But I made it happen without ever realizing what it was I was doing. I thought it was his choice. But it wasn't. It was mine. It was always mine."
Pick rubbed his beard. "That doesn't make any sense. You haven't been happy about him living inside you for years. He must have known, yet he didn't do a thing about it. So why is he standing up to you now? If he couldn't or wouldn't break free before, why is he doing so now? What's changed?"
She looked back at Wraith, at his tiger face, fierce and challenging, at his gleaming eyes fixed on her as if they could see what she could not. "The morph," she whispered.
"What?" Pick was confused. "Speak up!"
"The gypsy morph," she repeated. "That's what's changed."
She could almost see it then, the truth she had been searching for since John Ross and the morph had appeared on her doorstep three days ago. It was a shadowy presence that darted across her consciousness in the blink of an eye and was gone. It whispered to her of Little John, of why he took the form of a four-year-old boy and spoke her name and came to find her and called her Mama. It whispered to her of a revelation waiting to be uncovered if she would just believe.
She thought suddenly of the Freemark women, of the way the magic passed from one generation to the next. She thought of Gran, and the sacrifice she had made for Nest so many years ago.
When she spoke, her voice was distant and searching. "Pick, if I set Wraith free, will I lose him? Will I lose his magic?"
Pick was silent for a long time. "I don't know," he said finally. "Maybe."
She nodded slowly. "I'll have to chance it. I'm leaving him out there to do what he wishes. I won't take him back inside me." She took a deep breath and turned away from the ghost wolf. No words were necessary. Wraith would know.
"Call Jonathan," she ordered Pick. "Fly to the house on West Third and start checking. But be careful. I'll take John in the car and meet you there."
Pick grumbled to himself for a moment, then whistled sharply. The barn owl reappeared out of the trees, gliding past Nest's outstretched hand, his great wings brushing her shoulder softly. The sylvan jumped onto his back, and in seconds they were gone, winging away into the night.
Nest watched them fade into the snowfall, keeping her back to Wraith. When they were gone, she turned to see if he was still there. He wasn't. The ghost wolf had vanished. She stared at the space he had occupied, then glanced around quickly. There was no sign of him.
"Good hunting, Wraith," she whispered.
Then she was running for the house and John Ross.
CHAPTER 27
They drove through the mostly deserted streets of Hope-well, Nest at the wheel and Ross beside her in the passenger seat. Neither spoke. Snow continued to fall in a curtain of thick, soft flakes, and everything was blanketed in white. The main streets had been cleared by the plows on their first pass, but the side streets were mostly untouched, the snow spilling over onto sidewalks and lawns in a smooth, unbroken carpet, the metal roofs of parked cars lifting out of the winterscape like the humped backs of slumbering beasts. Streetlights glistened off the pale crust in brilliant bursts that spread outward in halos of diminishing radiance. Everywhere, there was a deep, pervasive, and enveloping silence.
As she steered through the shaken-snow-globe world, Nest was shot through with doubt. She could not fathom doing what she knew she must without Wraith to stand beside her, even though she had accepted that it might be necessary. She tried not to dwell on the enormity of the task that lay ahead— getting into the demon lair, finding the children, and getting them out safely, all without having Wraith's magic to aid her. She tried not to question her belief that giving up Wraith was somehow necessary in order to discover the secret of the gypsy morph, even though that belief was essentially blind and deaf and paper thin. She had not told Ross of it. She had not told him of freeing Wraith. If he had known, he would never have let her come with him. She had told him only what she felt necessary—that Pick had gone on ahead to scout the grounds and entrances to the demon house in order to find a way in. What happened from here forward must be on her conscience and not made a burden on his.
When they reached the intersection of West Fourth Street and Avenue G, Nest pulled the Taurus into the mostly invisible parking lot of a dry-cleaning service two blocks away from and out of sight of their destination. From there, they walked through the deep snow, down unplowed walks and across deserted side streets until the old Victorian came in sight. West Third was plowed, but empty of traffic, and the old houses were mostly dark at the ends of their snow-covered lawns and long drives. Even the one in which Findo Gask and his demons took shelter had only a few lights burning, as if electricity were precious and meant to be rationed.
They were almost in front of the house, keeping to the shadows and away from the pale glow of the streetlamps, when they saw the sheriff's cruiser parked in the drive.
Nest shook her head at Ross as they paused beneath a massive old hickory. "Larry Spence." She spoke his name with disgust and frustration. "He just can't manage to keep out of this."
&
nbsp; Ross nodded, eyes fixed on the house. "We can't do anything about him now. We have to go in anyway."
She took a deep breath, thinking of all the chances she'd had to put Larry out of the picture, to scare him so badly he wouldn't dream of involving himself further. It might have spared them what they were about to go through. It might have changed everything. She sighed. That was the trouble with hindsight, of course. Always perfect. She hadn't even considered doing harm to Larry. She had always thought he would lose interest and drop out of the picture on his own. But maybe that was never an option. Maybe the demons had gained too tight a hold over him for that to be possible.
She glanced at the cruiser one final time and dismissed the matter. She would never know now.
They worked their way along the edge of a hedgerow separating the old Victorian from an English manor knockoff that was dark and crumbling. They drew even with the front entry and paused, kneeling in the snow, staying low to the ground and the shadows.
If I'm wrong about this, Nest kept thinking, unable to finish the thought, but unable to stop repeating herself either.
She didn't see where Pick came from. He just appeared, dropping out of nowhere to land on her shoulder, giving her such a fright that she gasped aloud.
"Criminy, settle down!" the other snapped irritably, grasping her collar to keep from being shaken off. His mossy beard was thick with snowflakes, and his wooden body was damp and slick. "Took your time getting here, didn't you?"
"Well, navigating these streets isn't like sailing along on the open air!" she snapped back, irritated herself. She exhaled a cloud of breath at him. "What did you find?"
He sniffed. "What do you think I found? There's traps and trip lines formed of demon magic all over. The place stinks of them. But those are demons in there, not sylvans, so they tend to be more than a little careless. No pride of workmanship at all. There are holes in that netting large enough to fly an owl through—which is exactly what I did. Then I slipped through a tear in the screen on the back porch, which they forgot about as well, and got inside through the back door. They've got the children down in the basement in a big playroom. You can get to them easy."
He scrunched up his face. "The bad news is that something's down there with them. I don't know what it is. Might be a demon, might be something else. I couldn't see it, but I could sure as heck smell it!"
Nest nodded. She knew what it was. She glanced at Ross, then back at Pick. "Could you tell exactly where it was? I mean, where in the room?"
"Of course I could!" he snapped. "You could tell, too, if you had my nose!"
"Which is my point," she went on quickly. "Will you go back inside with me and show me exactly where it's hiding?"
There was a long silence as he considered the matter, rubbing at his beard and muttering to himself furiously. Don't say anything about Wraith, she begged him silently, knowing he would be thinking about doing exactly that.
He surprised her by merely shrugging and saying instead, "Well, you probably can't do it by yourself. Let's get on with it."
They conversed in low tones for a few moments more, she and the sylvan and John Ross, setting up their plan of attack. It was agreed that Nest would slip in through the back door with Pick, then hide while Pick checked out the basement once more, located whatever was down there, and gave Nest whatever chance he could to reach the children first. Twenty minutes would be allotted. At the end of that time, Ross would come in through the front door and attack the demons, distracting them long enough for Nest and the children to escape out the back.
They stood staring at the old house for long moments, statues in the falling snow. Its walls rose black and solitary against the backdrop of the steel mill and the river, rooflines softened by the snowfall, eaves draped in icy daggers. Nest wondered if she was committing suicide. She believed that Wraith would come if she needed him, that he would not deny her the protection of his magic. She believed it, yet she could not be certain. Not until it was too late to do anything about it if she was wrong. Everything she was about to do was built upon faith. Upon trust in her instincts. Upon belief in herself.
"Okay, Pick," she said finally.
They skirted the hedgerow to where it paralleled the back of the old house, then cut swiftly across the snow. Pick guided her, whispering urgent directions in her ear, keeping her clear of the snares the demons had set. They reached the back porch, where Pick directed her to the gap in the screen. She widened it carefully, rusted mesh giving way easily to a little pressure, and climbed through. She stood on the porch, a dilapidated, rotted-out veranda that had once looked out on what would have been a long, flowing, emerald green lawn. She moved to the back door, which was closed, but unlocked. With Pick settled on her shoulder, she stood listening, her ear pressed against the door.
She could just make out the faint sound of a television playing in the background. She checked her watch. She had used seven of her twenty minutes.
Cautiously, she opened the back door and stepped inside. She was at the end of a long hallway in an entry area that fed into the rest of the house. Coat hooks were screwed into an oak paneled wall, and a laundry room opened off to the left. Ahead and to the right, a stairwell disappeared downward into the basement. Light shone from the room below, weak and tiny against the larger, deeper blackness of the well.
She looked for Pick to tell him to be off, but he was already gone. She stood motionless and silent in the entry, listening to the sounds of the house, creaks that were faint and muffled, the low hum of the oil furnace, and the drip of a faucet. She listened to the sounds of a program playing on the television set and, once or twice, to one of the demons speaking. She could tell the difference between the two, the former carrying with it a hint of mechanical reproduction, the latter low and sharp and immediate. She forced herself to breathe slowly and evenly, glancing at her watch, keeping track of the time.
When Pick reappeared, she was down to three minutes. He nodded and gestured toward the basement. He had found the children and whatever watched over them.
It was twenty-five minutes to midnight.
She took off her boots, coat, gloves, and scarf, and in her stocking feet, she started down the stairs. Slowly, carefully, placing one foot in front of the other to test her weight on the old steps, she proceeded. Carpet cushioned and muffled her stealthy advance, and she made no sound. Pick rode her shoulder in silence, wooden face pointed straight ahead, eyes pinprick bright in the gloom.
At the bottom of the stairs, she was still in darkness. A solitary table lamp, resting atop an old leather-wrapped bar, lit the large L-shaped room before her. The children sat together in an easy chair close by, looking at a picture book. Harper was pretending to read, murmuring softly to Little John, who was looking directly toward the stairs at Nest.
He knows I'm here, she thought in surprise.
Pick motioned toward the darkness at the open end of the bar, back and behind where the children sat. Whatever stood guard was concealed there. Nest felt a sudden rush of hope. Her path to the children lay open.
She took a deep, slow breath. What to do now?
The problem was solved for her by the explosion that ripped through the house upstairs.
-=O=-***-=O=-
John Ross stood watching as Nest and Pick crept down the concealing wall of the hedgerow, across the side yard and into the back of the house. He listened carefully for any response from within, but there was none. He waited patiently for ten of the twenty minutes allotted, then made his way across the yard to the sheriff's cruiser and crouched next to it in the darkness. He had been in a lot of battles in his time as a Knight of the Word, both in the present and in the future, awake and in his dreams, and he knew what to expect. The demons would react instinctively, but for a few moments at least, they would be confused. If he struck at them quickly enough, they would not be able to use their numbers to overwhelm him.
He studied the windows of the house for movement. There was none. He looke
d at his watch. He had less than five minutes. A whisper of fear swept through him, and he tightened his grip on the black staff. The house would be warded by demon magic; he could not hope to get past it as Nest had done. His best bet was to get as close as possible, then move quickly from there. He tried to think where the warding would begin. At the edge of the porch, he decided. It probably did not extend out into the yard.
But there was only one way to find out.
He waited until he had two minutes remaining, then left the cover of the sheriff's cruiser and advanced quickly toward the front entry. He crossed the yard to the lower steps and stopped, watching the house and its windows as he did. Nothing moved. Nothing changed.
His watch said Nest's twenty minutes were up. He braced himself. There was no more time to think, and nothing left to think about.
He went up the steps swiftly, using the railing and his staff to lever himself onto the porch, set himself in place, and hurled his magic into the door with such force that he blew it right off its hinges. He was through the opening and into the house in seconds, taking in the scene beyond. A living room was visible directly ahead through a veil of smoke, lights bright against the entry darkness. A television screen flickered with muted images. Figures moved through the roiling haze, swift and purposeful. In a wing chair to his right, Larry Spence sat stiff and unmoving in his sheriff's uniform, staring at nothing.
Ross slid to one side of the entry, crouching low. The girl Penny flashed across his vision, face contorted, eyes wild, throwing knives in both hands. She flung them at him with a shriek but, deflected by the staff's magic, they sailed wide. He turned the magic on her then, knocking her backward. She tumbled away, her cry high-pitched and laced with rage. Frock coat trailing as he slid along the wall, Findo Gask moved to attack. Ross struck out at the demon instantly, caught him a solid blow, and knocked him flying, flat-brimmed hat sailing away, arms windmilling helplessly.
Then Twitch, materializing from the other side of the entry, was on top of him, voice booming as he lumbered forward. The giant slammed into Ross, knocking the wind from his lungs, sending him sprawling against the wall. Ross scrambled up, fighting for air, and sent the staff's fire hammering into the albino. Enraged, Twitch was shouting unintelligibly as he advanced. Ross burned him with the magic again, more fiercely this time, and the giant reeled away in pain and anger, clawing at the air.
Brooks, Terry - Word vs. Void 03 - Angel Fire East (v1.0) Page 32