Night of Demons - 02

by Tony Richards

  The bright lights of the conservatory filled his vision. The old man’s back, turned to him, was a solitary dark column, like an exclamation mark. The guy was mumbling something, maybe reading from a book. If so, it had to be a foreign one. He didn’t recognize a single word.

  Everything seemed to be hurting Cornelius slightly, as it usually did by this point in the proceedings. The intense electric glow, pressing at his eyeballs. And the unfamiliar murmured phrases banging at his ears. His lungs were getting painful, and his ankles ached from his own weight.

  He had to stop this. This discomfort and uncertainty. And there was only one way he knew how.

  The old coot still hadn’t noticed he was there. And so Cornelius raised the blade a little higher, then continued to creep up on him.

  “Partez!” the old man shouted suddenly. “N’existez pas!”

  Cornelius jerked, then cast his gaze about. Who was he talking to? They were completely alone here. Blackness pressed at the conservatory’s panes, so that they might as well have been in outer space. Only the distant stars were looking down. Except Cornelius knew the word “alone” was not entirely true. The Old Ones were still watching him. Expected certain things of him. And he’d not fail them.

  “Un oeil invisible!” the man chanted.

  “An oily”…? What was the old fellow yammering about? He’d met some strange ones in his day, but this guy seemed to be out dancing with the fairies.

  Shifting his weight again, he didn’t test his footing carefully enough. His toes came down on a loose section of tile. Which rattled.

  Finally, the old man turned around.

  This happened occasionally. Cornelius had gotten used to it, and knew what to do. He beamed at the man hugely. And spread his arms to display himself.

  You see? Aren’t I beautiful, so close to transformation? Aren’t you glad I came into your home tonight?

  But the old man, just like all the others, didn’t seem impressed by that. His gaze darted to the knife instead.

  Viewed up close, his face had even more irregularities than could be picked out from outside the windows. One of his irises, the left, was cataractous, milky. The other was a shade of turquoise that Cornelius had never seen in human eyes before tonight. It put him in mind of a cat. There were two large moles on the guy’s cheek. And his eyebrows sprouted like white crabgrass, beetling.

  The aged face filled up with startlement at first. But then, to his surprise, it blazed with anger.

  And that was when Cornelius saw the man was holding something in his own right hand.

  He thought, at first, it was some kind of weapon. But it didn’t seem to be that. It was a rod, for sure. But not large enough to do any harm. About a foot long, and as narrow as a pencil. A pure matte black, like the man’s clothes. So dark it almost seemed to draw the light in very slightly. Except that there was something shining at its upper tip.

  What had he been doing with something like that? And more importantly, Cornelius wondered, what was he planning to do with it now?

  The man wasn’t reacting in the way that the folk who he dropped in on usually did. There was no apparent fear. He didn’t try to back away. Instead, he simply stood there, almost casually, working the stick between his wizened fingers. And he still looked angry, certainly. But a puzzled air had blended in with that. There was a question in his one good eye.

  Then he pursed his lips, and voiced it.

  “You are…an outsider?”

  His voice crackled like a pile of leaves. But…what exactly did that mean?

  The old man looked him up and down.

  “You shouldn’t even be here. How on earth did you get in?”

  Which was a stupid question. Cornelius felt bored, answering it.

  “The back door was open.”

  All he got was an offended look, as if he’d just said something genuinely dumb. Or maybe they were talking at cross-purposes, somehow?

  “No. I understand which of my doors are locked and unlocked. How did you get into the Landing? How did you get past the curse?”

  Past what? This made no sense in the slightest. Maybe the coot was insane, or senile. It would be better for everyone concerned if they got to the business in hand.

  Cornelius took another step forward, and announced, “I’m here to teach you Special Fun.”

  And those words normally sent people on a fast descending spiral. They’d start begging him. Their eyes would fill with tears. But this fellow simply held his ground. And then, to his surprise, grinned nastily.

  “Now I see why you are here. You’re one of the disturbed ones, aren’t you? The destructive ones. Like Saruak. Like Jason Goad. You’re so messed up in here”—he tapped his forehead—“you ignore the voices, and the curse has no effect on you. We have dealt with your kind several times before, my boy. Do you seriously imagine I’m afraid of you?”

  This was the first time—ever since he had become the Shadow Man—that anyone had spoken to him in such a way. Cornelius could scarcely believe his ears. A tremor ran through him, mostly indignation. He was the one with the power, the knife. Who did this elderly degenerate think he was?

  He reached into a pocket of his baggy sweatpants and produced a roll of duct tape.

  “I have to bind you first,” he said. “And gag you. I realize it’s uncomfortable, but I need to have your complete attention.”

  The nasty smile remained in place. “Is that so?”

  “I won’t lie to you. There’s some actual pain involved after that. But it’s necessary. A means to an end, you see?”

  The good eye glinted with sarcasm.

  “Yes? And what might that be?”

  “The End is coming soon. The End of Days. And to survive it, I must do the Old Ones’ bidding. If I do it properly and well, they will allow me to transform, become a higher being. I’m already most of the way there.”

  The fellow simply shrugged.

  “As I first suspected, you’re completely crazy. Listen to me carefully, now. It would be far better for you if you left here right away. Nothing good will happen to you otherwise.”

  Which left Cornelius’s head reeling with astonishment. What…was the old man planning to fight him off with only that little stick? Or was there something else? He could see no bulge beneath the tailcoat or in any of the pockets. So the fellow didn’t seem to have a gun.

  But something happened, the next instant, which utterly astonished him. The old man’s face abruptly glowed, a startling pure white. His massed wrinkles were flensed away by the stark brilliance of it. He suddenly looked forty years younger. His body filled out, and he held himself completely straight.

  The cataract had gone too. Both of his eyes glinted with a turquoise sheen. He looked very vital and alive. He bared his teeth and snorted. Then he threw his right hand—the one holding the stick—back across his shoulder, a motion like a coachman drawing back his whip.

  And when he brought it cracking down…?

  Panic tore into Cornelius. He felt sure he was in danger, though he wasn’t sure exactly how. A startled yelp came from his throat. Then he went rushing at the man, as quickly as he could.

  The tip of the rod was shining brighter. Maybe it was a taser of some kind? It began swinging down at him. The figure wielding it looked thoroughly triumphant.

  But he wasn’t so smart, really. People always made the same mistake. They looked at him, the doughy mass of body. And they never guessed how fast he really was.

  The rod was barely halfway down when Cornelius’s blade reached its target, pushing in through the fabric of the coat and plunging deep into the old man’s body. And Cornelius didn’t stop at that. He turned the blade in its bed of flesh, then dragged it up until a rib bone stopped it.

  The transformation was immediate. The old man’s wrinkles all came back. And his expression changed one final time, despair replacing triumph.

  Until finally, even that was gone.

  The corpse was lying crumpled by his
feet, blood spilling out across the floor.

  Cornelius felt disappointed. Thoroughly let down, to tell the truth. It had been enjoyable, yes, watching the old man understand that he was beaten, for all of his superior airs. But it had been so very quick. Over and done with in less than a heartbeat. And where was the special fun in that?

  It was like expecting a banquet, and winding up with a bag of potato chips instead. Cornelius pressed his eyes shut, feeling beads of sweat run down between them. Then he started to think more clearly.

  There were certain things that the Old Ones expected him to do. Certain rituals. He was obliged to carry them out.

  He crouched over the figure. Unbuttoned the tailcoat, and then ripped away the black shirt underneath. And, working diligently, he began to carve into the loosely withered flesh.

  Once that he was satisfied, Cornelius stood back up and looked around again.

  The stick the fellow had been brandishing had rolled away, and was lying against one leg of the antique bureau. He gazed at it. It looked like the blackest thing he’d ever seen, a bottomless strip of shadow on the patterned tile. Except for its tip, which was still subtly gleaming.

  Wiping the blade and pocketing it, Cornelius went across. He stooped, examining it more carefully. It was not smooth, as it had first appeared. There were dozens of small symbols carved into its rounded surface, none of which he recognized. They made him feel anxious again. What precisely did they represent?

  But symbols could not harm him, surely? So he picked it up.

  He almost dropped it immediately. Because, when his chubby fingers touched the rod, he felt a mild charge run through them. The tip gave a shimmering flash.

  There was one simple reason that he held on to it, in the end. The stick was so light he could barely feel it. Scarcely heavier than air, in fact. What, in the names of the gods…?

  No more pain came. So he held it up to eye level, gazing at it closer. Might it be a pointer? A baton, like a conductor might use?

  A…wand? Could it possibly be that?

  Cornelius answered to many descriptions, but “cynic” was not one of them. He already believed in magic. How could you explain the Old Ones’ existence otherwise? He knew the world was full of things that science could not possibly account for. But an actual embodiment of sorcery?

  Standing back up, he held the rod the way the old man had. And shook it gently. Its tip released a few sparks, and they lingered several seconds before vanishing.

  He chortled. Oh, this might be even more fun than the special type he usually had. The real question was figuring out how to make this work.

  “What do you do, huh?” he asked the rod.

  He shook it a little harder, letting out a few more sparks. And nothing more than that.

  “I represent the Old Ones, you know. So you’d better reveal your secrets, or they’ll be mad at you.”

  He lashed it back and forth, but that got no reaction whatsoever.

  “Whatever that old fool used you for, I own you now! So do the same for me!”

  He swung it around in a broad circle. What little weight there’d been between his fingers disappeared completely. Cornelius could still see the thing. Except its shape and color were changing.

  As he watched, it ceased to be so very dark. The wand became pale gray. Then its edges started breaking up.

  It turned to smoke before his startled gaze. Cornelius lurched back, trying to let go of the thing. But it would not drop from his grasp.

  Looking down, he could see why. He let out a shriek. It was not simply the wand that was dissolving into vapor. The same was happening to his fingers. They had turned a similar pale gray.

  It spread out right across his hand. There was no pain, but terror overwhelmed him. He shook his wrist furiously, turning around in circles, making small, horrified gibbering noises. Nothing that he did made any difference. His wrist turned to gray smoke—then his upper arm.

  And that was when a new idea occurred to him. Maybe this was supposed to happen. Maybe this was what the wand actually did. Cornelius stopped moving, trying to calm down. It wasn’t easy, but he forced himself. Because…perhaps this was part of his destiny. What the Old Ones had wanted for him all along.

  He watched as his whole arm dissolved. His body broke up the same way.

  He felt his head begin to fade, and peered at his reflection in the dark, surrounding glass. There were only his eyes left. They let out a glint, then vanished too. His entire frame was lost from view, just pale mist by now. He tried to move around, and found that it was easy. He just had to will himself in a direction and he drifted there.

  High in the conservatory, a single panel was propped open. Presumably for ventilation, since it was still warm, despite the rain. Cornelius wafted up toward the opening, spilling out through it into the night air. He swept across the grounds in the direction of the rusted gate. Went by the abandoned Chrysler.

  Floated back to Plymouth Drive, then headed back the way he’d come.

  Lord, so many lights below him. So many dwellings filled with people, drowsy, unaware. And there would be no stopping him in this new form he had assumed.

  Those newspapermen, back in Boston, had been right about him without even knowing it.

  He really was the Shadow Man.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Ross, are you up?”

  I pressed the receiver against my cheek. A thin, pale shaft of moonlight was streaming in between the drapes, casting the bedroom’s furniture into shadowy relief. The full-length mirror. The dim outlines of the dresser. The bowlegged stool in front of it. I seemed to inhabit a world of shadows a lot of the time, these days. More than any sane man would reasonably want. And I could see Alicia sitting there a moment, applying brief touches of makeup. It’s the first thing I remember, every time I wake.

  And then I blink, and she is gone again. The flat, empty normality of my bedroom returns. Her perfume, the smell, faded a long time ago, and I missed that.

  “Well?” Cass asked.

  “I am now.”

  “Then you haven’t heard?”

  I sat up sharply. Hadn’t the Little Girl just warned me something bad was going down?

  “Heard what?”

  “Lucas Tollburn’s been murdered.”

  And Lucas Tollburn was the oldest, most respected adept in the Landing. So I pulled myself together pretty quickly after that.

  One of the rarest sights on Sycamore Hill is flashing lights up there. The pulsing red of police beacons cutting through the expensive gloom. As I’ve said, it’s where the very richest live. And rich—exactly like in any other town, I’d suppose—means cosseted, aloof. Means powerful. Except that word has some very different connotations, in the Landing.

  When the genuine witches of Salem arrived here—fleeing the trials back in 1692—they were single to the last. Men and women both, they’d lived that way their entire lives. But, having only narrowly escaped an ugly death, they saw they needed to change their ways and blend in better. Some of them had married into the few well-heeled families of that era. Others had chosen bloodlines that were not rich yet, but would be one day. Gaspar Vernon and Judge Levin were both good cases in point.

  Whatever, people here are careful not to mess with them. So there is little in the way of robbery or violence on the Hill. But I was still thinking of what the Little Girl had told me. This was someone from outside, who didn’t know the usual rules.

  “A very bad man indeed, for the moment.”

  And now I was in my aged Cadillac. It had started drizzling gently again, damp smearing my windshield. The lights up ahead looked unreal, like a glow from a television screen viewed through a blurry pane of glass. I fished out my cell phone, speed-dialed Cass, and started talking to her again.

  “How did you get in on this?”

  “I was out for a ride, just cruising around. And then I spotted some patrol cars heading up here, so I followed.”

  On a night like this? Hardly the
time for joyrides. Cass lived over in East Meadow. She’d been a good long way from home then, to spot anything on Plymouth Drive. But Cassandra Elspeth Mallory ranks among the walking wounded, the same way I do. She’d lost her family to magic too, in equally grim circumstances. And so when she’s not busy helping out, she kills time any way she can.

  But there’s something else as well. She has the keenest nose for trouble that I’ve ever come across. Almost like she’s born to face it. That is something that I always try to keep in mind. It stops me from acting like her boss, which I am not. She backs me up of her own choosing.

  “Tollburn lived alone, didn’t he?”

  “Ever since his wife died, yeah.”

  “Then how—?”

  “Your friend Levin simply got this feeling. Spirited himself over here. And that was when he found the corpse.”

  And the judge was one of the few adepts who I really trusted. He had a code of honor, at least, which made us similarly inclined.

  “He still there?”

  “No, he was too upset. Tollburn and his father were close friends, apparently. There’s only Hobart and his men, a medical examiner. And me of course. How long are you going to be?”

  “I’m almost there,” I told her.

  Then I hung up and turned onto the darkened lane at the end of which the Tollburn house stood. Three patrol cars and Saul’s dark blue Pontiac were parked by the front gate. And there was a fifth car in among them—an aged, grimy Chrysler—that I didn’t recognize.

  At first, I thought that everyone had gone inside. But I was wrong. Matt Chalker’s face appeared out of the tree-filled darkness, seeming to float weightlessly above his navy uniform. I knew him well, from my own time on the force. He’d always been a decent guy. But Matt rarely looked at ease these days. His best friend, Davy Quinn, had been killed not long ago by Saruak, another interloper to this town.

  When he saw me climbing out, he scowled. Maybe, when he looked at me, he simply saw more disaster coming. Which wasn’t my intention in the least. But you cannot help the way that other folk perceive you sometimes.