by Terry Brooks
“Off to his Saturday Challenge Class,” Winnie said, “armed with a shotgun and a heart full of hate. What’s that tell you about today’s children, Nest?”
“Remember that boy down in Tennessee last year?” Addie Hull asked suddenly. Her thin hands crooked around her coffee cup more tightly. “Took some sort of automatic rifle to school and ambushed some young people during a lunch break? Killed three of them and wounded half a dozen more. Said he was tired of being picked on. Well, I’m tired of being picked on, too, but I don’t go hunting down the garbage collectors and the postal delivery man and the IRS examiner who keeps asking for those Goodwill receipts!”
“That IRS man they caught dressing in women’s clothes earlier this month, good heavens!” Winnie Ricedorf huffed, and took a sip of her coffee.
“His wife didn’t mind, as I recall,” Blanche Stern advised primly, giving Nest a wink. “She liked to dress up as a man.”
Nest excused herself and moved on. Similar topics of conversation could be found almost everywhere, save where clusters of out-of-season golfers looking forward to a few weeks in Florida replayed their favorite holes and wrestled with the rest of the sports problems of the world while the teenagers next to them spoke movie and rap and computer talk. She drifted from group to group, able to fit in anywhere because she really belonged nowhere at all. She could talk the talk and pretend she was a part of things, but she would never be anything but an outsider. She was accepted because she had been born in Hopewell and was a part of its history. But her legacy of magic and her knowledge of Pick’s world and the larger life she led set her apart as surely as if she had just stepped off the bus from New York City.
She sipped at her coffee and looked off at the blue winter sky through the high windows that lined the west wall. What was she doing with herself anyway?
“Wish you were out there running?” a friendly voice asked.
She turned to find Larry Spence standing next to her. She gave him a perfunctory smile. “Something like that.”
“You could still do it, girl. You could still get back into training, be ready in time for St. Petersburg.”
The Olympics in four years, he was saying. “My competitive days are over, Larry. Been there, done that.”
He was just trying to make conversation, but it felt like he was trying to make time as well, and that annoyed her. He was a big, good-looking man in his mid-thirties, athletic and charming, the divorced father of two. He worked as a deputy sheriff with the county and moonlighted nights as a bouncer at a dance club. His family were all from Hopewell and the little farm towns surrounding. She had known him only a short while and not well, but somewhere along the line he had decided he wanted to change the nature of their relationship. He had asked her out repeatedly, and she had politely, but firmly, declined. That should have been the end of it, but somehow it wasn’t.
“You were the best, girl,” he said, putting on his serious-guy mask. He always called her “girl.” Like it was some sort of compliment, an endearment intended to make her feel special. It made her want to smack him.
“How are the kids?” she asked.
“Good. Growing like weeds.” He edged closer. “Miss having their mother with them, though. Like there was ever anything about her for them to miss.”
Marcy Spence had not been what anyone could call dependable even before she had children, and having children hadn’t improved her. She was a party girl with a party girl’s tastes. After numerous flings with just about anyone inclined to show her a good time, and a number of screaming knock-down-drag-outs with her husband, the marriage was over. Marcy was on the road and out of Hopewell even before the papers were filed, husband and kids be damned. She was twenty-four when she left. “Babies raising babies,” Nest had heard the old ladies tut-tut.
“Got any plans for Christmas?” Larry asked her suddenly. His brow furrowed. “You know, it would be good for the kids to have a woman around for the present opening and all.”
Nest nodded, straight-faced. “Sort of a stand-in mother.”
Larry paused. “Well, yeah, sort of, I guess. But I’d like it if you were there, too.”
She gave him a pointed look. “Larry, we barely know each other.”
“Not my fault,” he said.
“Also, I’ve met your children exactly once. They probably don’t even know who I am.”
“Sure, they do. They know.”
She shook her head. “The timing’s not right,” she said diplomatically. “In any case, I have my own plans.”
“Hey, just thought I’d ask.” He shrugged, trying to down-play the importance of the request. “No big deal.”
It was, of course, as any teenage girl, let alone a woman of Nest’s age, could see in a heartbeat. But Larry Spence had already demonstrated with Marcy that he was far from wise in the ways of women. In any case, he was in way over his head with Nest. He had no idea what he was letting himself in for by pursuing her, and she was not about to encourage him by spending Christmas at his home with his children. In this instance ignorance was bliss. Let him tie up with someone normal; he would be far better off.
She caught sight of Robert Heppler across the room. “Larry, I see someone I need to talk to. Thank you for the invitation.”
She hurried past him before he could respond, anxious to forestall any other misguided offers he might be inclined to make. Larry was a nice guy, but she had no interest in him at all. Why he couldn’t see that was a mystery to her, but it was the sort of mystery commonplace in relationships between men and women.
She came up to Robert with a grin. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey, there you are,” he replied, grinning back.
She reached out and gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Still rail thin and towheaded, still looking very much like a mischievous little boy, Robert might have been mistaken by those who hadn’t seen him in a while for the same smart-ass kid he had been all through school. But Robert had grown up when no one was looking. Right out of graduate school, he had married a small, strong-minded young woman named Amy Pruitt, and Amy had set him straight. Forthright, no-nonsense, and practical to a fault, she loved Robert so much she was willing to take him on as a project. Robert spent most of his life with his head somewhere else, developing codes, languages, programs, and systems for computers. Always convinced of his own brilliance and impossibly impatient with the perceived shortcomings of others, he had gotten as far as he had mostly on grades and the high expectations of his professors that one day they could point to him with pride in cataloging their academic accomplishments. But the real world has an entirely different grading system, and Amy was quick to recognize that Robert was ill equipped to succeed in the absence of a serious attitude adjustment.
She performed the surgery with flawless precision. Nest could hardly believe the difference in Robert between the time he met Amy and the time he married her, scarcely ten months later. Robert seemed totally unaware of the transformation she had wrought, believing he was just the same as he had always been. But after getting to know her a little better, Nest was quick to realize that Amy was the best thing that could have happened to her old friend.
Now they had one child, a boy of two who was clinging to Robert’s leg playfully, and another on the way. Robert had a family and a life. He was a real person at last.
“Hey there, Kyle,” she said, bending down to ruffle the boy’s blond hair. “We missed you downstairs today.”
“Was ’n churtch,” the little boy mumbled, then blew her a kiss.
“I kept him with me,” Robert admitted, shrugging. “I wanted some companionship. Amy stayed home. Not feeling so good this morning when she woke. This pregnancy has been a little rough.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, sure. You know Amy. Tough as nails. But she’s being careful. She’s a little over six months. Kind of a touchy time.”
“You’ll let me know if I can do anything?”
Robert laughe
d. “I’ll let you know if I can do anything. With my parents and my sister and her husband hovering over her twenty-four hours a day, I can’t get close enough to find out!”
He glanced over at Larry Spence, who was watching surreptitiously from behind his coffee cup. “I see you can still draw bees like honey. Or maybe horseflies would be a better choice of word.”
She arched one eyebrow. “I see you still haven’t lost your rapierlike wit, Robert.”
He shrugged. “I’m just being protective. He reminds me a little of that guy who kept coming on to you the summer before we entered high school, the one I would have decked if you hadn’t hypnotized him into falling over his own feet. What was his name, anyway? Bobby something?”
“Danny Abbott,” she said quietly.
“Yeah. That was a summer, wasn’t it? I was in trouble all the time. Of course, you were the one playing around with magic.”
He meant it as a joke, but it was closer to the truth than he realized. Nest forced a smile.
“You remember that business on the Fourth with John Ross and those fireworks exploding all over the place?” he pressed. “I was chasing after you through the park, and I fell down or something, hit my head. I can still remember the way you looked at me. You said afterward you used magic.” He paused, suddenly thoughtful. “You know, I never did understand what really happened.”
Nest reached down abruptly, snatched up a squealing Kyle, and thrust him at his father. “Here, Kyle, you explain it to him,” she urged.
“Splane,” Kyle repeated, giggling.
Robert took his son into his arms, jiggling him gently. “Don’t forget the Christmas party Tuesday night,” he said to Nest, kissing Kyle’s fat cheeks. “You got the invitation, didn’t you?”
She nodded. “Sure. I’ll be there.”
“Good. My parents are sure to find a way to blame me, if you aren’t.”
“Serve you right,” she said, moving away. “See you later, Robert. Bye, Kyle.” She wiggled her fingers at the boy, who hid his face in his father’s shoulder.
“Hey, don’t scare him like that!” Robert threw after her.
She put her coffee cup on a tray near the kitchen door, ready to leave. Larry Spence was still watching her, but she tried not to notice. Life in a small town is filled with moments of trying not to notice, she thought wearily.
She was just departing the reception room to retrieve her coat from the narthex when a tall, angular young woman with wild red hair and acrylic green eyes came up to her.
“Are you Nest Freemark?” the young woman asked, eyes wide and staring like a cat’s. Actually, on closer inspection, she seemed more a girl barely out of her teens than a woman. Nest nodded. “I’m Penny,” the other announced.
She stuck out her hand, and Nest took it in her own. Penny’s grip was strong and sure. “I just wanted you to know how much I admire you. I’ve followed your career, like, ever since the Melbourne Olympics. I was just a little girl, but you were such a great inspiration to me! I wanted to be a runner, but I didn’t grow up with strong enough lungs or something. So I became an actress. Can you tell?” She giggled. “Anyway, I thought you should know there’s someone who still remembers you. You know, when you were famous.” She giggled some more. “Hey, it was nice meeting you. You’ll be seeing me around, I expect. Bye-bye.”
She was gone before Nest could reply, disappearing into the crowd gathered by the coffee urn. Someone who remembers you from back when you were famous? Nest grimaced. What a strange remark! She had never seen the young woman before and had no idea who she was. She didn’t even look like anyone Nest knew, so it was impossible to match her up to a Hopewell family.
Must be someone new in town, she thought, still staring after the young woman. Things around here change so quickly, she thought, mimicking Alice in Wonderland.
Speaking of which, there was Larry Spence, moving in her direction with a decidedly hopeful look in his eye. She turned as if remembering something and hurried out the door.
Chapter 3
Findo Gask stood across the street from the First Congregational Church, just in front of the Hopewell Gazette, waiting patiently for Penny’s return. He was an incongruous figure standing there in his frock coat and flat-brimmed hat, his tall, stooped figure silhouetted against the white stone of the newspaper building by the bright winter sunlight. With his black book held in front of him like a shield, he might have been a modern-day prophet come to pronounce judgment on an unsuspecting populace.
The truth, however, was a good deal scarier.
Even as demons went, Findo Gask was very old. He was centuries old, and this was unusual. For the most part, demons had a tendency to self-destruct or fall prey to their own peculiar excesses rather early in their careers. In completing their transformations, demons shed their human trappings, reducing themselves to hard, winged husks, so that when stripped of their disguises they looked not unlike bats.
But as hard as they worked to shed their human skins, they remained surprisingly dependent on their origins. To disguise themselves, they were forced to resume looking like the creatures they had been. To satisfy their desperate need to escape their past, they were forced to prey upon the creatures they pretended to be. And to survive in their new forms, they were forced to struggle constantly against a small but intransigent truth—they hungered endlessly and helplessly for contact with the creatures they despised.
As a direct result, they were torn by the dichotomy of their existence. In their efforts to give vent to their schizophrenic personalities, they descended swiftly into madness and bestiality. Their control over themselves collapsed, their sanity fragmented, and they disintegrated like wheels spinning so fast and so hard they succumbed to the heat of their own friction.
Findo Gask had avoided this end because he was not driven by emotion. He was not hungry for power or personal gratification. Revenge did not interest him. Validation of his existence was never a cause he was tempted to pursue. No, he was simply curious. Curiosity provided a limitless supply of inspiration for Findo Gask. He was smart and inventive and able. As a man, he might have uncovered secrets and solved riddles. He might have accomplished great things through research. But a man lived a finite number of years and was hampered by rules Findo Gask did not necessarily accept. A demon, he was quick to see, could do so much more. If he was willing to let go of the part of him that was human, a part he considered of no particular consequence or purpose in any case, he could explore and discover and dissect forever.
Moreover, he realized early on, humans made great subjects for his studies. They fit with his needs and his wants perfectly. All that was required was that he separate himself.
He had done so with surprising ease. It was difficult to recall the details now. He had been alive for so long, a demon for so many centuries, that he no longer remembered anything of his human history. Even the century of his transformation had been forgotten. He was the oldest of his kind perhaps, though it didn’t matter to him if he was because he took no satisfaction from it. The Void was his master, but his master was a vague, substanceless presence who pretty much left him alone to do what he wished, appearing only now and then as a brief presence—a whisper, a shadow, a dream of something remembered.
Other demons envied him. Some hated him openly. He had what they wanted and did not know how to get. He was older and wiser and stronger and more immune to the trappings of humanness that still tore at them like razors. His insights into humans were deeper. His assimilation of both demon and human worlds was more complete. He undertook the challenges that interested him and gave himself over to the studies that intrigued him.
Except that every once in a while the Void reminded him there was a price for everything and choice was not always an option, no matter who he was …
He watched Penny emerge from the church, red hair un-coiling from her head like a mass of severed electrical wires, gawky form working its way along the sidewalk and across the street, a poorl
y made marionette, jerked and tugged by invisible strings. He smiled indulgently, watching her progress. Outwardly, she was a mess, but one couldn’t always judge a book by its cover. Inside, she was twisted and corrosive and lethal. Penny Dreadful. She’d heard that the name applied to the dime-store crime novels of an earlier century. That’s me, she’d said with a wicked grin, and took the name as her own.
She came up to Findo Gask with a skipping motion, putting on her little-girl facade, coquettish and sly. “Greetings, Gramps,” she gushed, circling him once, then throwing her arms around him with such abandon that two elderly ladies passing on the other side of the street paused to have a look.
Gently, patiently, he disengaged himself from her grasp. He understood her excesses, which were greater than those of most demons. Unlike himself, she had no interest in staying alive. Penny Dreadful was intent on self-destructing, was enamored of the idea in fact, ensnared by her own special blend of madness and looking to write her finish in a particularly spectacular manner. Gask considered her a live hand grenade, but he was hopeful she would last long enough to be of some use to him in this matter.
“Did you do as I asked?” he inquired, arching one eyebrow in what might have been misinterpreted as a conciliatory gesture.
Penny, missing nothing, played dumb anyway. “Sure. Hey, you know something, Gramps?” She called him that all the time, emphasizing their age difference in a continuing, if futile, effort to annoy him. “That girl isn’t anything special, you know? Nest Freemark. She isn’t anything at all. I could snuff her out just like that.”
She snapped her fingers lightly, grinning at him.
He took her by the arm without a word and guided her down the sidewalk to the car. “Get in,” he ordered, not bothering even to look at her.