A Knight of the Word

by Terry Brooks

  “Nest figured it out, though,” he continued. “She explained it to me. She said you saw me in the same way her father had seen her grandmother, when her grandmother was a young girl. Her father was drawn to her grandmother’s magic, and you were drawn to mine. But demons need to possess humans, to take control of them in order to make the magic their own, and sometimes they mistake this need to possess for love. Their desire for the magic confuses them. I think maybe that’s what happened to you.”

  “John—”

  “No. Don’t say a word to me. Just listen.” His fingers knotted about his staff more tightly. “The fact remains, I was no good to you dead. Because if I were dead you couldn’t make use of the magic trapped inside the staff. And you wanted that magic badly, didn’t you? But to get it, you had to do two things. You had to find a way to persuade me to recover it from the dark place to which I had consigned it and then to use it in a way that would make me dependent on you. If I could be tricked into killing Simon Lawrence, if I could be made to use the magic in such a terribly wrong way, then I would share something in common with you, wouldn’t I? I would have taken the first step down the path you had chosen for me. I was halfway there, wasn’t I? I was already very nearly what you wanted me to be. You’d worked long and hard to break me down, to give me the identity you wanted. Only this one last thing remained.”

  He shook his head in amazement. “You killed that demon in Lincoln Park to protect your investment. Because it wanted me dead, so it could claim victory over a Knight of the Word. But you wanted me alive for something much grander. You wanted me for the magic I might place at your command.”

  She stared at him, her perfect features composed, still not moving. “I love you, John. Nothing you’ve said changes that.”

  “You love me, Stef? Enough that you might teach me to feed on homeless children, like you’ve been feeding on them?” He spit out the words as if they were tinged with poison. “Enough that you might let me help you hunt them down in the tunnels beneath the city and kill them?”

  Her temper flared. “The homeless are of no use. No one cares what happens to them. They serve no real purpose. You know that.”

  “Do I?” He fought down his disgust. “Is that why you killed Ariel and Boot and Audrey? Because they didn’t serve any real purpose either? Is that why you tried to kill Nest? That didn’t work out so well, did it? But you were quick to cover up, I’ll give you that. Burning down Fresh Start, that was a nice touch. I assumed at first that you burned it down just to undermine its programs But you did it to hide the truth about what happened in Lincoln Park. You marked yourself up pretty good going after Nest, smashing down doors and hurtling through windows. You couldn’t hide that kind of damage. So you killed two birds with one stone. You’d drugged me earlier so I wouldn’t be able to meet Nest. When you woke me, after you’d set fire to Fresh Start, you did so in the dark so I couldn’t see your face, and while I was still barely coherent, you ran on ahead on the pretext of waking the women and children sleeping on the upper floors on the building, thereby providing yourself with a perfect excuse for the cuts and bruises on your face and hands.”

  His laugh was brittle. “It’s funny, but Nest figured that out, too. When she came looking for me, she stopped by Pass/Go, and Della told her she looked just like you. Nest got the connection immediately. She knew what it meant.”

  She leaned forward. “John, will you listen …?”

  But he was all done listening, and he pushed relentlessly on. “So you set me up with this story about Simon firing me, and you quitting, and how strangely he’s been acting, and how every time something bad happens, he’s among the missing, and I’m just like a loaded gun ready to go off. I take the bus down to the museum, which you know I’ll do, and it takes me a while because I don’t walk very well with my bad leg, and you catch a cab, and there you are, waiting, disguised as Simon, ready to point me in the right direction.”

  He was so angry now he could barely contain himself, but his voice stayed cool and detached. “I really hate you, Stef. I hate you so much I can’t find the words to express it!”

  She studied him a moment, her perfect features composed in thoughtful consideration, and then she shook her head at him. “You don’t hate me, John. You love me. You always will.”

  His shock at hearing her say it left him momentarily speechless. He had not expected her to be so perceptive. She was right, of course. He loved her desperately, even now, even knowing what she was.

  “You aren’t as honest with yourself as you think,” she continued calmly, her dark eyes locking on his own. “You don’t want any of this to be so, but even knowing it is, you can’t get around how you feel. Is that so bad? If you want me, I’m still yours. I still want you, John. I still love you. Think about what you’re doing. If you give me up, you become the thing you fought so hard to escape being. You become a Knight of the Word again. You give up everything you’ve found this past year with me. You go back to being solitary and lonely and rootless. You become like the homeless you’ve spent so much time trying to help.”

  She rose, a smooth, lazy motion, and he tensed in response, remembering how strong she was, what she was capable of doing. But she didn’t try to approach him. “With me, you have everything that’s made you happy these past twelve months. I can be all the things I’ve been to you from the beginning. Are you worried you might see me another way? Don’t be. You never will. I’ll be for you just what you want. I’ve made you happy. You can’t pretend I haven’t.”

  He smiled at her, suddenly sad beyond anything he had ever known. “You’re right,” he acknowledged softly, and all the rage seemed to dissipate. “You have made me happy. But none of it was real, was it, Stef? It was all a sham. I don’t think I want to go back to that.”

  “Do you think other people live any differently than we do?” she pressed. She took a step away from the couch, then another, moving out of the circle of lamplight, edging into the shadows beyond. Ross watched, saying nothing. “Everyone keeps secrets. No one reveals everything. Even to a lover.” He winced at the words, but she didn’t seem to notice. She brushed back her hair, seemingly distracted by something behind him. He kept his eyes on her. “We can do the same,” she said. “You won’t ever find anyone else who feels about you the way I do.”

  The irony of that last statement must have escaped her entirely, he thought. “How you feel about me is rooted mostly in the ways you hope to use me, Stef.”

  He was moving with her now, a step and then two, a slow circling dance, a positioning for advantage.

  “You can make your own choices about everything, John,” she said. “I won’t interfere. Just let me do the same. That’s all I require.”

  His laugh was brittle. “Is that all it would take to make you happy, Stef? For me to ignore what you are? For me to let you go on feeding on humans? For me to pretend I don’t care that you won’t ever stop trying to turn the Word’s magic to uses it was never intended for?” She was shaking her head violently in denial. “Just forget about the past? Forget about Boot and Audrey and Ariel and Ray Hapgood and several dozen homeless people? Forget about everything that’s gone before? Would that do the trick?”

  He saw a glimmer of something dark and wicked come into her eyes. He took a step toward her. “You crossed the line a long time ago, and it’s way too late for you to come back. More to the point, I don’t intend to let you try.”

  She was silhouetted against the bay window that looked down on Waterfall Park, her slender body gone suddenly still. Outside, feeders were pressed against the glass, yellow eyes gleaming.

  There was a subtle shift in her features. “Maybe you can’t stop me, John.”

  He straightened, clasping the staff in both hands, the magic racing up and down its length in slender silver threads.

  Her smile was faint and tinged with regret. “Maybe you never could.”

  In a single, fluid motion she dropped into a crouch, wheeled away, and catapul
ted herself through the plate glass of the window behind her. Before he could even think to try to stop her, she had dropped from sight and was gone.

  Nest Freemark was standing on the sidewalk outside Waterfall Park when the apartment window exploded as if struck by a sledgehammer, raining shards of glass into the night and sending feeders scattering into the shadows like rats. She turned toward the sound, her first thoughts of John Ross, but the dark thing that plummeted through the gloom was screaming in another voice entirely. Nest stood frozen in place, watching as it began to twist and reform in midair, as if its flesh and bones were malleable. It had been human at first, but now it was something else entirely. It struck the jumble of rocks midpoint on the waterfall, bounced away, and tumbled into the catchment.

  Nest raced for the narrow park entrance, her heartbeat quick and hurried and anxious. She burst through the un-gated opening as the dark thing climbed free of the trough, a two-legged horror that was already losing what remained of its human identity, dropping down on all fours and shape-shifting into something more primal. Its legs thinned and lengthened and turned crooked, its torso thickened from haunches to chest, and its head grew elongated and broad-muzzled.

  Stefanie Winslow, she thought in horror. The demon.

  Re-formed into something that most closely resembled a monstrous hyena, the demon shook itself as if to be rid of the last of the disguise that had confined it and lifted its blunt snout toward the heights from which it had fallen. Feeders leaped and scrambled about it in a frenzy, like shadows flowing over one another, eyes bright against the dark. The demon snarled at them, snapped at the air through which they passed, and started to turn away.

  Then it caught sight of Nest and wheeled quickly back again.

  Even in the scattered light of the street lamps, Nest could see the hard glitter of its eyes fix on her. She could see the hate in them. The big head lowered, the muzzle parted, and rows of hooked teeth came into view. A low-pitched, ugly snarl rose from its throat. Maybe it intended to finish what it had started in Lincoln Park. Maybe it was just reacting on instinct. Nest held her ground. She felt her magic gather and knot in her chest. She had fled from this monster once; this time she would stand and face it. The demon, it seemed, had made up its mind as well. It could have turned away from her, could have scaled the park fence and escaped without forcing a confrontation. But it never wavered in its approach.

  In a scrabbling of claws on stone and with a bone-chilling howl, it attacked. Feeders converged in its wake, leaping and darting through the shadows in a wave of yellow eyes. Nest had only a moment to react, and she did so. She locked eyes with the demon and threw out the magic she had been born with, her legacy from the Freemark women, thinking to stun it, to throw it off stride, to cause it to falter. She need only delay it long enough for John Ross to reach her. He would be coming; the demon was clearly in flight from him. A few moments was all she needed, and her magic would give her that. She had used it on Simon Lawrence and the security guards at the museum not two hours earlier. It was an old and familiar companion, and she could feel its presence stir deep inside even before she called it forth.

  Even so, she wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

  The magic she had called upon did not respond.

  Another magic did.

  It came from the same place as the magic she had been born to, from inside, where her soul resided in a conjoining of heart and mind and body. It exploded out of her in a rush of dark energy, taking its own distinctive form, unleashed by instincts that demanded she survive at any cost. Its power was raw and terrifying, and she could not control it. It did not release from her as she had expected, but swept her along, borne within its storm-racked center, and it was as if she were caught inside a whirlwind.

  She was seeing the demon now through darker, more primitive eyes, and she realized suddenly, shockingly, that those eyes belonged to Wraith. She was trapped inside the ghost wolf. She had become a part of him.

  Then she was hurtling into the demon, with no time left to think. Claws and teeth ripped and tore, and snarls filled the air, and she was fighting the demon as if become Wraith, herself grown massive through the shoulders and torso, rough-coated with fur, gimlet-eyed and lupine.

  Back against the rocks she drove the demon, steeped in the ghost wolf’s strength and swift reactions. The demon twisted and fought, intertwined so closely with her she could feel the bunching of its muscles and hear the hissing of its breath. The demon tried to gain a grip on her throat, failed, and leaped away. She gave pursuit, a red veil of hot rage and killing need blinding her to everything else. They rolled and tumbled through the wrought-iron furniture, against the maze of rocks and fountains, and she no longer thought to wonder what was happening or why, but only to gain an advantage over a foe she knew she must destroy.

  Perhaps she would have succeeded. Perhaps she would have prevailed. But then she heard her name called. A sharp cry, it was filled with despair and anguish.

  John Ross had reached her at last.

  White fire lashed the air in front of her, turning her aside. But the fire was not meant for her. It struck the demon full on, a rope of searing flame, and threw it backward to land in a bristling heap. She caught sight of Ross now, standing just inside the park entrance, his legs braced, the black staff bright with magic. Again the fire lanced from the Knight of the Word into the demon, catching it as it tried to twist away, knocking it down once more. Ross advanced, his face all planes and sharp edges, etched deep with shadows and grim determination.

  The demon fought back. It counterattacked with a stunning burst of speed and fury, snapping at the scorched night air. But the Word’s magic hammered into it over and over, knocking it back, flinging it away. Ross closed the distance between himself and his adversary, ignoring Nest, his concentration centered on the demon. The demon wailed suddenly, as if become human again, a cry so desperate and affecting that Nest cringed. Ross screamed in response, perhaps to fight against the feelings the cry generated somewhere back in the dark closets of his heart, perhaps simply in fury. He went to where the demon lay broken and writhing, a thing barely recognizable by now. It was trying to change again, to become something else—perhaps the thing Ross had loved so much. But Ross would not allow it. The black staff came down, and the magic surged forth, splitting the demon asunder, ripping it from neck to knee.

  Feeders swarmed over it, rending and digging hungrily. The winged black thing that formed its twisted soul tried to break free from the carnage, but Ross was waiting. With a single sweep of his staff, he sent it spinning into the darkness, a tiny, flaming comet trailing fire and fading life.

  What remained of the demon collapsed on itself and scattered in the wind. Even when the last of its ashes had blown away, John Ross stayed where he was, silhouetted against the shimmer of the waterfall, staring down at the dark smear that marked its passing.

  Thursday,

  November 1

  Chapter 25

  It was a little after ten-thirty the following morning when Andrew Wren walked into the offices of Pass/Go, announced himself to the receptionist, and was told Simon Lawrence would see him. He thanked her, advised her that he knew the way, and started back. He proceeded down the hall past the classrooms and offices, contemplating a collage of children’s finger paintings that decorated one section of a sun-splashed wall. He was dressed in his corduroy jacket with the patches at the elbows and had worn a scarf and gloves against the November chill. He carried his old leather briefcase in one hand and a newsboy cap in the other. His cherubic face was unshaved, and his hair was uncombed. He had overslept and been forced to forgo the niceties of personal grooming and had simply pulled on his clothes and headed out. As a result, he looked not altogether different from some of the men standing in the soup line at Union Gospel Mission up the street.

  Rumpled and baggy, he shuffled through the doorway of the Wiz’s cramped office and gave a brief wave of his hand. “Got any coffee, Simon?”
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br />   Simon Lawrence was immersed in paperwork, but he gestured wordlessly toward a chair stacked with books, then picked up the phone to call out to the front desk to fill Wren’s order and one of his own.

  Wren cleared the chair he had been offered and sat down heavily. “I watched you perform for the assembled last night with something approaching awe. Meeting all those people, shaking hands, answering questions, offering prognostications, being pleasant. To tell you the truth, I don’t know how you do it. I couldn’t possibly keep up the kind of pace you do and stay sane.”

  “Well, I don’t do it every night, Andrew.” Simon stretched and leaned back in his chair. He gave Wren a suspicious look. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what brings you by this time?”

  Wren managed to look put upon. “I wanted to see how you were, for one thing. No more episodes, I hope?”

  The other man spread his hands. “I still don’t know what happened. One moment I was standing there on the stairs, talking with Carole and those workers from Union Gospel, and the next I was down on the floor. I just seemed to lose all my strength. I’m scheduled to see a doctor about it this afternoon, but I don’t think it’s anything more than stress and a lack of sleep.”

  Wren nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Anyway, I also wanted to congratulate you on last night. It was a huge success, as you know. The gift of the land from the city, the offer of additional funding, the pledges of support from virtually every quarter. You should be very pleased about that.”

  Simon Lawrence sighed, arching one eyebrow. “About that, yes, I’m very pleased. It helps take the edge off a few of the less pleasant aspects of the day’s events.”

  “Hmmm,” Wren murmured solemnly. “Speaking of which, have you seen her today?”