And what if – for whatever reason – tonight’s awfulness had its origins up here as well? It made my heart thump irregularly just to think about it. Could someone be quite that crazy? Woodard was a nut, I knew, but I didn’t think him capable of savagery on this kind of scale. I tried to imagine who else it might be, but no one came to mind.
The plain fact is – peculiarly for somebody born in this town – I’ve always plain hated magic. That was true even before what happened to my wife and kids. Maybe it was my upbringing – my folks never used the stuff, understanding the harm it could do. Whatever, since an early age I’d always shied away from using it. An instinct.
Because … the truth of the matter. However you might define it, whatever excuses you might make for trying to harness its powers, magic genuinely amounts to just one thing. Attempting to change reality and bend it to your will. Trying to alter things you shouldn’t, things that were designed to be immutable and fixed.
And that’s asking for trouble to my mind, any way you care to cut it.
My surroundings came back to me dimly.
Occasionally, we’d pass a massive gate and catch a glimpse of the residence beyond. Most of them were large but fairly normal looking. But one house that we went by looked remarkably like the Taj Mahal. And behind the barriers to the Vernon estate, a massive dog with three heads was on guard. Old Gaspar Vernon is, among other things, a classical scholar of note, and so I reckoned that made sense.
Raine Manor, of course, was at the very top.
The original wood-built mansion burnt down at the turn of the last century. And was replaced by what must have been, even by the standards of its time, the Gothic monstrosity looming up ahead of me. Viewed sideways on, from the road, it was all dark shapes and shadows. But there were gargoyles at the guttering. Innumerable buttresses. There was a broad, low cupola – in the roof – that seemed to have no purpose whatsoever. And there were more wings than a swarm of dragonflies.
Woodard Raine’s great-grandfather designed the place himself. So it’s possible insanity always did run in the family.
The gates – both of them topped with a curlicued R – were wide open. In truth, they were rusted into that position. He doesn’t exactly look after the place, our Woodard, and his sole employee was Hampton here. But the Rolls could only take us to the start of the broad driveway and no further. Roots from the surrounding trees had pushed their way up through the gravel everywhere you looked. There were thick saplings climbing through it. The whole thing was impenetrably overgrown.
My door swung open, by itself again. Hampton simply sat there, his peculiar eyes studying me in the mirror. He was waiting for me to make myself scarce. Lord, I hated coming up here, but I got out all the same.
The Rolls moved off a moment later. I looked back the way I’d come.
I could see fully half of the town from here. The center, with its statues and its spires and the wide, elegant bulk of the Town Hall. The northern and the eastern suburbs – I lived in the north – with their parallel rows of streetlamps and their postage stamp sized yards.
Churches and schools and movie houses. A hospital. A fire station. And the river running through it all, a darkly silvered snake, just like its name. A wholly ordinary provincial town, to the naked eye. Rather larger than it properly should be, but quite unremarkable apart from that.
If only that were true. I lit a cigarette. Took one drag from it, wheezed, and threw it down and stamped on it.
Then I turned around again and started heading for the Manor.
Back when Woodard’s father had been running things, this had been a beautiful garden, manicured to the last blade of grass. By way of a patrician thank you, he’d invited us boys in the department up here once a year, for lemonade and crustless sandwiches on the lawn. There’d been a pagoda, a massive greenhouse, and even a bandstand. None of them remained in view save for faint skeletons, dim, ivy-covered outlines these days. Almost like they had been slowly scoured away. They were entirely overgrown.
Every single tree, and there were hundreds of them, used to have a small brass plaque screwed into its trunk that told you what it was and which part of the world it had originated from. I imagined that they were still there, but thick dark moss had covered them completely.
All the branches were deformed and spindly. There was not a single leaf. As though some poison had seeped up through the earth into them. Swarms of huge mosquitoes span around beneath their barren branches, setting up a dismal whining.
It turned out bigger creatures were abroad as well. There was a sudden, heavy crackling from the dense undergrowth to my left. I caught a glimpse of something the size of a Labrador and the shape of a potbellied pig. It was, doubtless, neither. All kinds of bizarre things here just come oozing out of Raine’s imagination, taking root, of a sort, in reality.
And this was obviously one of them. But was it dangerous? I caught a glint of something off it that was probably a beady eye. But thankfully, no sign of claws or fangs. It moved parallel to me for a while but got no closer, so I mostly just ignored it. I felt glad, however, for the Smith & Wesson snuggled underneath my coat.
The creature peeled away after a while, without revealing itself. I was still breathing slightly heavily, but for a different reason this time. The house itself was bobbing more clearly into view. And, as was usually the case, its owner had made a few more changes to it.
Not the west wing. That always remained the same. Half its windows were open to the night air, the glass in them shattered, heavy black soot stains above them. That was where the blaze had started that had killed his parents six years back, a death as mysterious as any in this town. He’d not touched the place since then. Simply from respect for them, or out of guilt? I’d always wondered. Had he anything to do with it? There was no telling, either way.
Whatever, their passing had marked the start of Woodard’s descent into total gibbering lunacy.
He had always been a wild kid, drugs and booze and sports cars, girls. A selection of dreadful friends. I’d even busted him myself a couple of times, although he never remained in the tank for very long. His family had too much influence for that to happen. But once his parents’ wiser, calming influence was gone …
Well, you only had to look at this place to see what had happened to his mind.
Once, it had simply been a sprawling, ugly mansion house. But there was now, incongruously, a high spire on the building, just like on a church. Instead of a crucifix, the letter W stood at the very top. He hadn’t built it in any conventional sense. He’d simply made it appear one day, on a whim, which was the way he generally did things.
He’d hung wind-chimes everywhere. But – there was still a soft breeze blowing – not one of them made a sound. A thin veil of mist clung about the place. None of the dozens of windows had an interior view beyond them, there was only darkness. And up at the guttering – I squinted – some of the gargoyles seemed to have changed position since the last time I’d been here.
As I watched, one of them abruptly straightened up a little. Then leaned forward and peered down at me, its stone face contorting.
Christ. That had never happened before. But a few more of them seemed to be trying to do the same. My heart slammed up against my ribs. I jogged the final few yards to the porch, went in through the open front door, and banged it shut behind me before the damned things got it into their heads to come on down from there.
Darkness folded its grasp around me and I sucked in a breath.
Something scuttled across my foot. It seemed to make a faint chittering noise as it retreated. I didn’t like to imagine what it was.
My eyes fought to adjust to the gloom. There was an extremely weak sheen of pale light coming down the stairway from the floor above. Heaven only knew what its source was. But it cast about enough illumination to make out the dim outlines of antique furniture around me. Chairs that looked like Louis Quinze, a little table in the same style with a lamp on it, but not
switched on. Were those crossed swords on the wall? Crossed muskets? Could that large bulk be a precious vase? I edged slightly away from it, worried that it might start moving too.
Woodard Raine’s fruity tones came swirling to my ears, next moment. Not from any particular direction, you understand. From the thin air, so that they reverberated.
“In the ballroom, sport.”
Another door came open at the far end of the hallway, a faint glow – yellow this time – emanating from it.
My footsteps echoed as I went on through. It wasn’t only the floor that was wood, all the walls were paneled. It was a candle casting this more palatable light. A solitary black one on a plinth, not nearly bright enough to make clear the details of this massive, vaulting section of the house. The faint glitter above me, when I looked harder, turned out to be a crystal chandelier. And the silhouettes looming around me on the walls were portraits of Woodard’s ancestors. But that was all I could make out.
Of the master of the house, there was no sign at all.
I felt more relaxed in here, though, than I had outside. Woodard Raine might be a nutbag with the power to squash me like an ant. But he had, curiously, picked up one concept from his father that he clung to almost religiously. That of ‘hospitality.’ Don’t ask me why that one had stuck. Don’t ask me why he arrived at any of the conclusions that he did. But if Raine invited you into his home, he would do you no harm while you were his guest there.
At least, that had been the case so far. Today? Tomorrow? Who knew?
But the truth is, if I don’t use the arts myself, then I’m not much intimidated by their practitioners either. I could see no sense in being scared of something when I didn’t even quite know what form it was going to take. My attitude to the whole business was, let the cards fall where they may and play the game from there. Perhaps Raine, in his own peculiar way, respected that, and it was why he gave me so much leeway, letting me get away with things that others wouldn’t dare.
I picked up the candle and approached the far wall. And there it was, carved into the dark mahogany, the Raine family tree.
Almost at the very top was Theodore Raine’s only son, Jasper, who had married twice during his eighty years in Massachusetts. His first wife, Mary, had died mysteriously just short of her thirtieth birthday, and had borne him no children.
But his second wife, who’d more than helped him continue the bloodline … I stared at the lettering. Sephera McBryde, originally. And she had hailed from Salem.
This was not what I was here for, I reminded myself. I turned round, peering through the gloom.
“Where are you, Woody?”
He hated being called that. So I hoped it would provoke him into finally showing himself. Other folks are deferential around him. Not me, not ever. I rarely felt anything but disdain for the man. Or maybe the correct word is repugnance. I never use magic, as I’ve said. He never uses anything else.
“What is this, Woods? Stop playing games!”
Just beyond the plinth that I had snatched the candle from, a pair of eyes suddenly blinked open. And I have to admit, it made me jump. Had he been standing there the entire time, and I’d passed close enough to touch him?
It was the type of game he liked to play. I think it simply amused him. His eyes flashed, catching the flame that I was holding and then throwing it back sharply. They were massive eyes, far larger than a human’s ought to be. And were bright gold in color, with the slit pupils of a cat. I could still remember the time Raine’s eyes had been deep blue.
And when his lips parted, the teeth were slightly jagged, like a cat’s as well. The rest of his face could not be seen at all. His gaze seemed to float freely in the dark. I wondered, for a brief moment, if he still had a body at all. But no, even he wouldn’t go that far, would he?
As was usually the case, he sounded a little bored and peevish.
“Do you have to call me that, old chum?”
“I’m not your ‘old chum’ and I’m not your ‘sport,’” I told him. “And there are far worse things than ‘Woody’ I could call you.”
The eyes blinked again, extremely slowly.
“You could simply call me ‘Raine,’” he suggested. “It’s such an interesting name. There are so many phrases one can conjure with it.”
Conjure?
“‘Hard Raine.’ ‘Raine of Terror.’ ‘Tis better to Raine in Hell than serve in Heaven.’”
He was always babbling these days. I was already sick of hearing it, and it hadn’t even been a minute.
“Why have you brought me here, Woody?” I insisted.
He looked puzzled for a moment, as though he had plain forgotten.
But then, “I’m not really sure. I just thought that you could … help me figure a few things out.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. “Such as?”
“What’s been happening this evening. It’s terrible. I’d really like to help, if I could.”
Okay, then. Why not try that notion out?
“Did you see any of it?” I asked him.
He does not merely see with his eyes, you have to understand. Has a power of second sight that extends well beyond these grounds.
“No. At least, not till after the event.”
Which was odd. He hadn’t left this house in years, I knew. Agoraphobia had become a part of his more general madness. But Woody usually kept a psychic eye on what was happening in town. He regarded it as his, after all.
“Why do you reckon you saw nothing of the actual killings?”
He turned that over. “I think there was something blocking me.”
But then, his thoughts wandered off again. They were always taking new directions.
“All those poor dead people. Maybe I should try to bring them back?”
I felt myself go a little rigid at that, afraid he might try. That was definitely a bad idea. In the next moment, however, he seemed to remember something.
“Perhaps not.” His bright gaze became a little sadder. “I tried it once with dear mama and pops. The result … wasn’t very satisfying.”
And then, he took a step toward me, his footfall clacking on the ballroom floor. The candlelight reached his face at last, revealing it to me dimly. It was gray and pale, with a high, stark structure and those leaf-shaped ears that were the mark of all his family. He’d grown a beard since I’d last seen him. Long, dark hair now framed his features. Was he imagining himself, these days, as some form of Messiah? It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least.
His head swung around slightly and he pursed his narrow lips.
“I would like to pay you for your services,” he informed me, apropos of nothing.
What was he talking about now?
“I’m pretty sure, Devries, that something new has come into Raine’s Landing. I can sense it.”
What? That went entirely contrary to Regan’s Curse. Whatever had gone on tonight, it couldn’t be blamed on any outsider. That just wasn’t possible. No one ever came here. Or at least, no one ever stopped here long enough to make a difference.
But that wasn’t completely accurate, now was it. Dr. Willets? Jason Goad? So I tried to accept what he was telling me might have some element of truth to it. It was hard to grasp, but not impossible.
“Don’t you mean ‘someone new’?” I asked him.
“No.” Raine was insistent. “Not a human being at all.”
And he seemed so definite about it. For the time being, it was probably best to humor him.
“What kind of ‘something,’ then?”
He looked away from me a moment.
“I’m not sure, but I can feel it. I can tell it’s here. It saw this place and it came in, and it doesn’t want to go away again.”
He was one the most powerful adepts in this town, for all his lunacy. Could he tell me nothing more than that?
He seemed slightly affronted when I asked, like I was questioning his abilities. His yellow eyes narrowed. And for a moment, I was con
cerned that he might get agitated, even mad. I’d seen – several times before – unpleasant things come spilling out of his unconscious mind when that happened.
There was a sudden noise, a fluttering. Something with wings like a bat, moving through the air above us. Had it been there all along, or had he inadvertently created it?
But his face relaxed, he got himself under control. The noises went away, and I untensed.
“Whatever it is, it seems to be strong,” he told me. “Strong enough that I can’t look at it properly, or even tell exactly where it is.”
He paused, thinking the matter through.
“Oh, and one other thing. I get this feeling – call it instinct – that whatever it’s up to, it has only just begun. I suspect it has it in for all my little babies.”
Which is what he sometimes calls the local populace. An irritating habit, but it gave me the opportunity to challenge him for once.
“You’re the big cheese, Woody. You hold all the magic cards. So why don’t you do something about it?”
He stared at me as if he wasn’t really sure what I was on about. His bright eyes seemed to lift a few inches higher. Maybe he had levitated slightly. He sometimes did that as well, although I don’t think he meant to. He simply forgot to stay rooted to the ground.
“How can I, when I’m not even certain what it is? You know how much I hate to go outside, old chum. And I’ve never been much of a one for the rough stuff. You though, with your more prosaic talents? And your little band of chums?”
He looked like he was, any moment, going to move back from me and simply float away.
And that was typical of him. I felt my shoulders tighten. Partly it was his aristocratic distaste for getting his hands dirty. In good part though, it was also his dementia at work. He was reasonably lucid at the moment. But to him, most of the time, what happened in the world below had no more substance than a dream.
Tonight, he actually cared about what had befallen us, enough to consult with me at least. But tomorrow, he might not at all. He might have completely forgotten.
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