Angel Fire East

by Brooks, Terry

  "Will you calm down and listen to me for a minute?" she demanded.

  "Not if the rest of the conversation is going to be like this!" Pick was on his feet, arms windmilling. "I'm a sylvan!" he repeated. "I don't fight demons! I don't charge off into battle with things that eat me for lunch! All I do is take care of this park, and believe me, that's work enough. It takes all of my energy and magic to handle that little chore, Nest Freemark, and I don't need you coming around and asking me to conjure up some sort of…"

  "Pick, please!"

  "… half-baked magic that won't work on the best day of my life against a thing so black…"

  "Pick!"

  He went silent then, breathing hard from his tirade, glaring at her from under mossy brows, practically daring her to say anything more about the subject of demons and sylvan magic.

  "Let me start over," she said quietly. "I don't really expect you to conjure up antidemon magic. That was a poor choice of words."

  "Humph," he grunted.

  "Nor do I expect you to sacrifice your time and energy in a cause where you can make no difference. I know how hard you work to protect the park, and I wouldn't ask you to do something that would jeopardize that effort."

  Her attempt at calming him seemed to be working, she saw. At least he was listening again. She gave him her best serious-business look. It wasn't all that hard considering what she had to say. She told him about what had happened during the snowstorm, with the disappearance of Bennett Scott and the attack by the black thing hiding in her basement. She told him about Wraith coming out to defend them, and of his struggle with their attacker.

  "Findo Gask, for sure!" Pick snapped. "You can't mistake demon mischief for anything but what it is."

  "Well, you'll understand then when I tell you I am more than a little on edge about all this." She relaxed a hair, but kept her eye on him, waiting for his mercurial personality to undergo another shift. "I can't have this sort of thing hanging over my head every time I walk through the door. I have to find a way to prevent it from happening again. John Ross says he should take the gypsy morph and leave Hopewell. But if he does that, we lose all chance of finding a way to solve its riddle. It will last a few more days, then break apart and be gone. The magic will be lost forever."

  Pick shrugged. "The magic might be lost anyway, given the fact that no one knows what it is or how to use it. Maybe Ross is right."

  Now it was Nest's turn to glare. "So you think I should just give up?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "All I should worry about is helping you in the park? The rest of the world can just be damned?"

  He grimaced. "Don't swear. I don't like it."

  "Well, I don't like the idea of you giving up! Or telling me to give up, either!"

  "Will you calm down?"

  "Not if you're telling me you won't even try to help!"

  "Criminy!" Pick was back on his feet, shuffling this way and that on the narrow ledge of her shoulder. "All right, all right! What is it you want me to do?" He wheeled on her. "What, that is, that doesn't involve antidemon magic?"

  She lifted her hands placatingly. "I'm not going to ask you to do anything I know you can't." She paused. "What I want you to create is a kind of early-warning system. I want you to spin out a net of magic and throw it over my house so that the demons can't come in again without my knowing it."

  He studied her doubtfully. "You're not asking me to use magic to keep them out?"

  "No. I'm asking you to use magic to let me know if they try to get in. I'm asking you to create a warning system."

  "Well!" he huffed. "Well!" He threw up his hands again. "Why didn't you say so before? I can do that! Of course, I can!" He glanced at the sky. "Look at the time we've wasted talking about it when we could have been putting it in place. Criminy, Nest! You should have gotten to the point more quickly!"

  "Well, I—"

  "Come on!" he interrupted, jumping from her shoulder and scrambling back up the tree trunk toward Jonathan.

  * * *

  He flew the owl back across the park to her house while she followed on foot. Midday was approaching, but it was still misty and gray, the clouds low and threatening, the air sharp with cold. The wind had not returned and no new snow had begun to fall, but the return of both seemed altogether likely. Nest stared at the houses bordering the park, indistinct and closed away, their roofs snowcapped, their walls drifted, and their eaves iced. There were cars on the roads, but not many, and they moved with caution on the slick surface. It was Christmas Eve day, but she thought people would try to confine their celebrations to their homes this year.

  When she reached the house, Pick was already at work. She had seen him do this before in the park, when warding a tree. The process he used was the same in each case. Here, he flew Jonathan from tree to house, to tree, back to house, and so on, forming a crisscross pattern that draped the threads of magic in an intricate webbing. At each tree he stopped long enough to conjure up a sort of locking device and receptor, invisible to the eye, but there to serve a dual purpose—to anchor the magic in that particular place and to feed its lines of power. No materials were used and nothing of the work was visible, but the result was to render the house as secure as if a fine steel mesh had been thrown over it. All passageways in or out were covered. All entrances were alarmed. Any attempts to pass through, whatever form they took, would be detected instantly.

  It took him almost an hour to complete the task, working his way slowly and carefully from point to point, all around the house, spinning out his lines of magic, making certain that nothing was missed. She stayed out of his way as he worked, watching in silence. There would be no more surprises like last night's. If the demons tried to come back again, she would know.

  "Now here's the thing to remember," Pick advised when he was done. He sat on her shoulder once more, Jonathan perched in a sycamore some distance off, awaiting his summons. "Any attempt by a demon to get past the net and into your house will trip your alarm. This alarm isn't something that rings or honks or whistles or what have you. It's a feeling, but you won't mistake it."

  He lifted a ringer in warning. "A human entering the house won't trip the alarm. A human going out won't trip it either. But if you open up a window or door and leave it open, you invite the demon in and the system fails. So close everything up and keep it closed."

  She frowned. "I didn't know that part."

  "Well, it hardly has any bearing in the park, when we're warding the trees, because there isn't anything living inside the net that would open it up in any case. It's different here. Keep everything shut tight. If you do that, the demons can't get past the system without you knowing. Think you can remember that?"

  "I can remember." She gave him a smile. "Thanks, Pick."

  "Just remember what I told you. That'll be thanks enough."

  He looked exceedingly proud of himself as he jumped from her shoulder and scurried across the yard to climb back aboard Jonathan. Together, they flew off into the haze. She watched them go, thinking that Pick, of all her friends, over all the years, was still the most reliable.

  She looked at the house. There was nothing different about it; she felt nothing different inside. She was taking this entire warning system business on faith, but where Pick was concerned, faith was enough. Certainly the demons would detect the system's presence. Maybe that would be enough to keep them at bay for a day or so. Maybe that would be time enough for her to find out what it was that would unlock Little John's secret.

  She found herself wondering suddenly how she had ever gotten to this point in her life. She was trapped in her home with a creature she did not understand and under attack from demons. She was struggling with her own magic and with the magics of other beings, the combination of which threatened to overwhelm her at any moment. She was hiding secrets that could destroy her. She was twenty-nine years old, adrift in both the purpose and direction of her life, her future uncertain.

  What was her reaso
n for being? Her gift of magic seemed pointless. Her life appeared to have led nowhere. She had been special since birth, but nothing of who she had been gave her insight into who she was meant to be. She was at an impasse, and the events of these past few days only pointed up how thoroughly lost she was.

  If Gran were still here, would she be able to tell me what I ought to do? Would she understand the reason for all that has happened in my life? Or would she be as lost as I am?

  Likely, she would just tell me to get on with it.

  There was no steadying influence in her life. No parents, grandparents, husband, or children. No family. There were friends, but that wasn't the same thing. She felt the lack of an anchor, of a touchstone that would give her a sense of belonging. The house had provided that once. And the park. All the places she had grown up in, the tapestry of her journey out of childhood. But somehow they weren't enough anymore. They served only to trigger memories that locked her in the past.

  She stood thinking on the matter for a long time, staring off into space, traveling distances too far to be seen clearly.

  Then the door opened, and John Ross stepped out onto the back steps. "Better come inside, Nest," he said quietly. "The sheriff's office is on the phone. They've found Bennett Scott."

  Chapter 22

  As she drove to Community General Hospital, nosing the Taurus between the dirt-and-cinder-encrusted snowbanks plowed up from the streets, Nest found herself reflecting on the cyclical nature of life. Her thinking wasn't so much about the fact of it—that was mundane and obvious— but about the ways in which it happened. Sometimes, in the course of living, you couldn't avoid ending up where you began. You might travel far distances and experience strange events, but when all was said and done, your journey brought you right back around to where everything started.

  It was so in an unexpected way for Bennett Scott. She had almost died on the cliffs at Sinnissippi Park fifteen years ago, when she was only five. Nest had been there to save her then, but not this time. It made Nest wonder if the manner of Bennett's death was in some way predetermined, if saving her from the cliffs the first time had only forestalled the inevitable. It was strange and troubling that Bennett should die this way, after escaping once, after it seemed that whatever else might threaten, at least she was safe from this.

  Thinking on the cyclical nature of Bennett Scott's life and death reminded Nest of her mother. Caitlin Anne Freemark had also died at the bottom of the cliffs in Sinnissippi Park, shortly after Nest was born. For years, there had been questions about how she had died—whether she had slipped and fallen, wandered off by mistake, or committed suicide. It wasn't until Nest had confronted her demon father that she had discovered the truth. He had instigated the events and emotional trauma that had led to her mother's death. Call it suicide or call it a calculated orchestration, the cause and effect were the same.

  Now she wondered if demons were responsible for Bennett's death as well. Had Findo Gask and that girl Penny and whoever else might be aiding them set in motion the events that culminated in Bennett's death? Nest could not escape feeling that they had. As with her mother, as with the children in the park she and Pick had saved so often in that summer fifteen years ago, Bennett Scott had been prey to demon wiles. She could still see Bennett as a five-year-old, standing at the edge of the cliffs atop the bluff at the turnaround, feeders gathered all around her, cajoling her, urging her on, taking advantage of the fear, doubt, and sadness that suffused her life. It wouldn't have been all that different this time. Bennett Scott's life hadn't changed all that much.

  It was Larry Spence who called with the news. A young woman had been found at the bottom of the cliffs below the turnaround in Sinnissippi Park, he advised. She fit the description of Bennett Scott, reported missing earlier this morning. Could Nest please come down and identify the body? Nest found herself wondering, irrationally, if anyone else worked at the sheriff's office besides Larry Spence.

  She parked the car in the visitor zone of the hospital, went into the lobby, crossed to the elevators, and, following the signs, descended to the morgue.

  Larry Spence was waiting when the elevator doors opened and she stepped out. "Sorry about this, girl."

  She wasn't sure exactly what he was sorry about, but she nodded anyway. "Let me see her."

  Spence walked her through a pair of heavy doors and down a short corridor with more doors on either side. They turned into the second one on the left. Bright light flooded a small chamber with a surgical table supporting a body draped with a sheet. Jack Armbruster, the coroner, stood sipping coffee and watching television. He turned at their entry and greeted Nest with a nod and a hello.

  She walked to the table and stood quietly while he lifted the sheet from Bennett Scott's face. She looked almost childlike. Her features were bruised and scraped and her skin was very white. The metal rings and studs from her various piercings gave her the appearance of being cobbled together in some fashion. Her eyes were closed; she might have been sleeping. Nest stared at her silently for a long time, then nodded. Armbruster lowered the sheet again, and Bennett was gone.

  "I want her taken over to Showalter's," Nest announced quickly, tears springing to her eyes in spite of her resolve. "I'll call Marty. I want him to handle the burial. I'll pay for everything."

  She could barely see. The tears were clouding her vision, giving her the sense that everything around her was floating away. There was an uncomfortable silence when she finished, and she wiped angrily at her eyes.

  "You'll have to wait until Jack completes his work here, Nest," Larry Spence advised, his voice taking on an official tone. She glared at him. "There are unexplained circumstances surrounding her death. There has to be an autopsy performed."

  She glanced at Armbruster. "To find out how she died?"

  The coroner shook his head. "I know how she died. Prolonged exposure. But there's other concerns."

  "What he means is that preliminary blood samples revealed the presence of narcotics in her system," Spence interjected quickly. "A lot of narcotics. In addition, she has needle tracks all up and down her arms and legs. You know what that means."

  "She was an addict," Nest agreed, casting a withering look in his general direction without making eye contact. "I knew that when she came to see me. She told me she was an addict then. She came back to Hopewell with her daughter to get help."

  "That may be so," Spence replied, shifting his weight, hands digging in the pockets of his deputy sheriff's coat. "The fact remains she died under suspicious circumstances, and we need to learn as much about her condition at the time of death as possible. You see that, don't you?"

  She did, of course. Rumors of drug sales in the park, an addict living in her house, and mysterious strangers visiting. Larry Spence had already formed his opinion about what had happened, and now he was looking for proof. It was ridiculous, but there wasn't any help for it. He would act on this as he chose, and anything she might say would do nothing to change things.

  "Who found her?" she asked suddenly.

  Larry Spence shook his head. "Anonymous phone call."

  Oh, right, Nest thought.

  "There's some damage to her body, but nothing that isn't consistent with her fall," Armbruster observed, already beginning preparations for his work, laying out steel instruments and pans, spreading cloths. "But I don't think that's what killed her. I think it was the cold. Course, I might find the drugs affected her heart, too. I can't tell, until I open her up."

  Nest started for the doors. "Just see that she goes over to Showalter's when you're done poking around, okay?"

  She was out the door and down the hall in a rush, so angry she could barely manage to keep from breaking down. She was aware of Larry Spence following, hurrying to catch up.

  "There's a possibility," he called after her, "that the young lady didn't go over the cliffs by accident. In cases like this, we can't ignore the obvious."

  Don't get too close to me, Larry, she was thinking.
Don't even think of trying to touch me.

  She walked back through the heavy doors into the little waiting area and punched the elevator button. The doors opened, and they stepped inside. It was uncomfortably close.

  "I told you about the rumors," he persisted. His big hands knotted. "Maybe they weren't just rumors; maybe they were fact. It's possible that this young lady was mixed up in whatever was going on."

  You are such a dolt, Larry, she wanted to say, but kept it to herself. He had no idea of what was going on. He couldn't begin to understand what was involved. He had no clue he was being used. He saw things in ordinary terms, in familiar ways, and that sort of thinking didn't apply here. His reality and hers were entirely different. She might try to educate him, but she didn't think he would listen to her. Not about demons and feeders. Not about magic. Not about the war between the Word and the Void, and the way that war used up people's lives.

  "I'll have to come out to take a statement from you," he continued. "And from Mr. Ross."

  Her anger dissipated, replaced by a cold, damp sadness that filled her with pain and loss. She looked at him dully as they stepped off the elevator and into the hospital lobby.

  "Look, Larry, everything I know is in the missing-persons report I made earlier today. If you want me to repeat it, I will. John will give you a statement, too. You come by the house, if that's what you need to do. But I'm telling you right now this isn't about drugs. You can take that for what it's worth."

  He stared at her. "What is it about, then?"

  She sighed. "It's about children, Larry. It's about keeping them safe from things that want to destroy them." She zipped up her parka. "I have to be going. I have to figure out how to tell a little girl she isn't going to see her mother again."