by Terry Brooks
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.”
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.
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 looked 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.
Ross went by him quickly, into the living-room light, determined to place himself where he could keep them from reaching Nest. But Gask was back on his feet, white hair wild, a cottony halo about his leathery face. He gestured toward Ross, throwing his arms forward, and Ross brought up his staff protectively. But it was Larry Spence who responded, grabbing him from behind, pinning his arms and staff to his sides. A puppet to Gask’s gestures, the deputy sheriff turned Ross toward Penny, as she uncoiled from the wall, both arms cocked. Another pair of the slender throwing knives streaked through the air so swiftly there was barely time to register their presence. With Spence still clinging to him, Ross twisted desperately, hands tightening about the staff, and the Word’s magic flared protectively. Larry Spence grunted in pain, released him abruptly, and staggered back, Penny’s blades buried in his shoulder and side. Dropping to one knee, he fumbled for his .45, dragged it from his holster, and began shooting at everything around him, people and furniture alike. Ross caught a glimpse of his face as he did so. His eye sockets were bleeding and empty. The eyes had been gouged out.
Then Penny catapulted out of the haze, another deadly knife in hand. Screaming and spitting, she raked at his midsection. Buttressed by demon magic, the slender blade broke through his defenses and pierced his side. He gasped from the force of the blow and the sudden pain. Penny yanked the knife free and stabbed at him again, but he deflected the second blow and sent her spinning away.
Almost immediately, Twitch reappeared. Reaching down, he fastened both massive hands about Ross’s neck and began to squeeze.
When she heard the front door explode off its hinges, Nest called to Pick, “Hang on.”
She broke from the darkness of the stairwell into the light and raced for the children. But she had forgotten she had removed her shoes, and she couldn’t find sufficient purchase in her stocking feet. She was sliding on the tile floor almost instantly.
Harper was clinging to Little John, both of them frozen in place, uncertain what was happening.
“Run!” she shouted at them.
She was expecting the guard demon to come at her, had readied her magic to combat it, and still wasn’t prepared when the ur’droch hurtled out of the shadows. A blur of darkness, it crossed in front of the children to intercept her, pushing through her magic as if it wasn’t there. It slammed into her with stunning force, unexpectedly solid for something that seemed so insubstantial. The blow spun her sideways into the wall, where she sagged to her knees. Pick went flying off her shoulder and disappeared.
Wheeling back, keeping to the shadows until the last moment, the ur’droch attacked again. Dazed and gasping for air, she sent her small magic lancing into it, to gain a moment’s respite. The demon was staggered this time, and it careened into the sofa, knocking it askew. Swiftly, it slid back into the gloom.
Nest looked quickly for the children. Harper and Little John were hanging on to each other only a few yards away.
“Run!” She screamed again.
Overhead, the ceiling shuddered from the impact of colliding bodies and expended magic. The lamp shade on the bar counter tilted crazily, and the dim light sprayed the darkness, casting strange shadows that rocked and swayed.
Nest braced herself against the wall, willing herself to remain upright. Everything in her body felt broken. The children were running to reach her, arms outstretched. The ur’droch shot out of the darkness in pursuit, a roiling black shadow. Nest threw her magic at it, trying again to keep it at bay. But she had little strength left and almost no focus she could bring to bear, and she could feel both crumble in the face of the other’s determined assault.
Then Wraith appeared, suddenly, explosively, in response to her desperate need, in answer to her unspoken prayer, launched from the layered darkness as if from a nightmare’s epicenter. Tiger-striped muzzle drawn back, the big ghost wolf hammered into its enemy and sent it flying into the shadows. Barely pausing, it gave pursuit. Seconds later, they emerged in a ball of dark fury, tearing at each other, emitting sounds that were primal and blood-chilling. Across the shadowy room they surged, back and forth, locked in their life-and-death struggle.
The children reached Nest safely and latched on to her legs. She was so weak, she almost went down again. Her head spun. She had to get them out of there, but she had no strength to do so.
And she couldn’t leave Wraith. Not after he had come back for her. Not without trying to help.
The ghost wolf and the ur’droch wheeled and lunged through the pale spray of tilted lamplight, through the hazy gloom, back and forth across the
furniture’s debris.
Harper was sobbing and clutching tightly at her legs, and Little John was saying “Mama, Mama,” over and over.
Get them out! Wraith is only something made of magic! He isn’t real! It doesn’t matter what happens to him! Get the children out!
She hugged them against her in paralyzed confusion, eyes riveted on the battle taking place before her.
Do something!
The ur’droch continually tried to carry the fight into the shadows, to maneuver at every opportunity toward the room’s shadowy edges. It dragged at Wraith, hauling him out of the light …
Impulsively, Nest stumbled toward the stairway and the bank of wall switches she had passed coming in. When she reached them, she threw them all on.
Light blazed the length and breadth of the rec room, flooding through the shadows, and suddenly there was no more darkness to be found. The ur’droch wheeled about in confusion, and Wraith took advantage. Boring in with single-minded fury, he fastened his jaws on some part of the demon that Nest could not identify and began to shake his enemy. The ur’droch jerked from side to side as if made of old rags. Bits and pieces of it began to come loose. It made no sound, but things that might have been clawed feet scrabbled at the tile floor and flailed at the air. Still Wraith shook it, braced on all fours, tiger face lifted to hold it aloft.
Then abruptly the ur’droch exploded into black smoke and disintegrated into ash. The small, winged creature that was its withered soul made a futile effort to escape, but Wraith had it in his massive jaws instantly, crushing it to pulp.