Dark Rain (9 page)

“Have you ever had a mildly bad dream?”

I remembered what the Penobscot had called him. That was where he liked to dance.

“Yes, plenty.”

Since none of my dreams were mild these days, that was not quite the truth. I should have had more sense. The Girl looked agitated for a few long seconds, like she might be on the verge of reprimanding me. But then she calmed down and continued.

“They barely bother you. A seriously bad dream, however? It makes you sweat and thrash about, and then wake up and even scream. It affects you, you see. Has power over your whole body. Saruak is the same way – an expanding and engulfing nightmare.”

I still wasn’t sure that I entirely understood her. But there was no mistaking just how definite she looked.

“Why bring that nightmare here? Why us?”

“It’s our own magic, Mr. Ross. That’s what drew him to Raine’s Landing in the first place.”

She stopped rotating for a while and simply hung there, facing me.

“This place, unlike the normal world, is far more like the dimension he came from in the first place. Magic fuels more magic, see? Spells lead on to stronger ones. The Landing is like rich dark soil in which he’s planted his first roots. And when we use our magic, Saruak drinks deeper.”

But
I
never used it at all. Maybe that was what had drawn him to me. Maybe there was something about me … that was puzzling him.

Another thought occurred.

“Then why send his creature after me, if he’s so all-fired powerful? Why didn’t he snuff me out himself?”

“I said that he came from a
race
of great power. But he has been on the road a long time since his last stop, and has barely fed at all.”

At last I – and the whole town – were being thrown a lifeline.
Now
I could see what she was driving at.

“So it’s all potential?”

The Girl nodded, then began slowly rotating on the air once more.

“He needs time for his strength to gather?”

Her smile was gentler, this time. “Yes.”

I should have let Cassie shoot him from the window, I could see. Taking that on board, I almost kicked myself. But maybe it wasn’t too late. If I could get to him again, before he fed …

“Where is he?” I asked urgently.

My chest was thumping with the prospect of it. Might we have another chance?

But one glance up put paid to all of that. It’s hard to look unhappy with your eyelids closed, but the Little Girl still managed it.

“He is an expert at concealment, I’m afraid,” she told me apologetically.

I felt stunned and abandoned. Apparently, not even she could see him.

“He’s had centuries to practice it. I’m sorry, Mr. Ross.”

I could see it on her features. She was conscious that she’d let me down. And was taking it badly, exactly the way a girl of her age might.

There she hung, revolving on the blue-tinged air. Apparently nothing but a child. And … what was she even called? Where had she come from?

We’d simply found her one evening, drawn to her by the strange blue glow behind her drapes.

There didn’t seem to be anything more that she could tell me. So, trying to make her feel better, I thanked her for the help that she had given.

“You’re welcome,” she murmured back, all softly and politely.

She’d given us some degree of hope, at least. Given us some kind of fighting chance. And that was worth more than all the riches on the Hill.

I shot one last glance back at her as I went out through the door. She was still rotating at the same languorous speed, and seemed to have forgotten I was even there. Her expression was blank again. And her eyes remained tightly shut.

You want to know what I think?

Well, despite the fact that she has simply watched events unfold so far, I’d guess that she has other gifts. Enormous power of her own, maybe. I think that one day – who knows when? – her eyes will finally open, something new will be unleashed here in the Landing. Although whether for good or bad is anybody’s guess.

There are times I even play with the idea that she’s not genuinely a Little Girl at all.

In which case … what is she?

ELEVEN

I found myself going past a public library on my way back. So I parked by the curb beyond it, headed back on foot into its mildew scented dimness. The amber light was low in here and there were green-shaded lamps switched on. There were a load of little grade-school kids reading up on some class project about the town’s history, and so the noise level was slightly buzzier than it should have been. I went past them to the section on mythology, prized out a tome on Iroquois folklore, and learnt what more I could about Manitous.

They were as old as the continent itself, born out of its lakes and rivers and its woodlands. Were secretive, mysterious beings, masters of concealment. They ranged, in nature, from the mischievous to the downright malevolent. And the worst of them were pretty damned powerful things.

They could not only do tricks like changing their appearance. They could call up lightning and storms. Get into people’s minds and play with them in bizarre ways. And possess a human body, controlling it as if it was some living marionette.

They could even shift the very borders of reality, and re-create the rules.

One odd thing began to strike at me, after a while. In every reference that I came across, the same thing was repeated. They had just one serious limitation. Because they had been born from natural elements, they were tied to the area where they had first come into being. That was a pretty big one, when it came to the New England woods. And Saruak hailed from these parts, for sure.

But the Little Girl had told me – and he had implied – that he’d been wandering the entire nation, these past centuries. And I started to wonder how he’d managed that.

Nothing else that I read lifted my mood even slightly. Nothing gave me any better cause for optimism. We were up against a Big Bad Something, without any doubt.

Study – so I’ve always heard – is good for the mind. But mine didn’t feel any better, by the time that I went out of there.

Which begs the question, Who thought that whole notion up?

There were more people about, in cars and on the sidewalk, as I headed back toward the office. And I studied them whenever I slowed down at an intersection or a set of lights.

A few of them were going about their business exactly as usual. Hardy souls, battle seasoned, who were used to taking what the Landing threw at them and simply getting on with their lives. Living proof that human beings can adapt to almost any circumstance.

Most of them, however, the majority …

It wasn’t the case that they were doing anything out of the ordinary. It was far more that they seemed to be doing it at a slightly warier, slower pace than they had yesterday. Eyes were a touch wider, faces stiffer. And the near distance was being studied constantly, to see if there was anything wrong. Brief glances were being thrown at corners, over shoulders, or at rooftops, at the sky.

A whole town on edge, in other words. Worried and – with no small justification – paranoid. Everyone had to have heard what had transpired down in Garnerstown last night. And they were starting to form small huddles now, on street corners and before storefronts, at bus stops and park benches. And the question being asked – I didn’t need to be able to hear it to know what it was.

What had happened last night … might it happen once again?

I kept on thinking about what the Little Girl had told me, regarding Saruak making his presence known and gaining power that way. And, although these people didn’t even know that he was here, I felt sure that I was watching the start of the whole strange process she’d described. People were afraid of something, even if they couldn’t put a name to it as yet.

And once they could. How strong, then, would our visitor grow?

I took a right at the lights at Firmont, past a shoe store with a half-price sale on, heading down to Union Square. Everywhere I looked, it was the same. It occurred to me – consciousness of Saruak’s evil might be seeping through the town the same way Salem’s magic had once done. Would insects soon hum with the knowledge of him, and the night winds moan his name?

It ground at me, the whole thing, almost to the point of sheer infuriation. Because there was nothing I could think to do about it. Not yet, anyway.

There’d be parking restrictions on Union Square by this hour of the morning. So I stopped the car in a little alley off behind my office, and then went in the back way.

Cass had been trying to tidy up – fairly unsuccessfully, she’s not much good at stuff like that. In fact, she’d already given up. And was crouched over the pile of matchwood that had been my desk, with her cell phone to her ear. Apparently, she was on the line to her half-sister, Pam. Her tone was light and comfortable – she obviously didn’t want to freak the woman out. But she made her excuses quickly and hung up when I walked in.

Her expression was an apprehensive one. But not for the same reason as the people on the street. She always hates me going to 51 Bethany. Has only ever met the Little Girl one time. And got so upset by the experience, she’s never ventured back.

“Jesus Christ! You
trust
that aberration?”
she was fond of asking me.

The real reason for her abhorrence, it has to be said, was probably a good deal closer to home. Cass had once, exactly like me, had a family of her own. Three little kids, to be precise. And she’d lost them to magic too. One – I’d seen the photos, many times – had been a girl of the same appearance and age, except her hair had been a few shades darker. And so going into that blue-lit nursery had to be – to her – like seeing the ghost of her own baby, still in the world and floating there. It had startled her far worse than all the monsters we had fought put together.

“So?” she asked me, her features rearranging themselves gently. She was trying to look unconcerned. “That weird kid have anything to tell you?”

I arranged my thoughts as best I could, then started in. And Cassie became more and more subdued as I conveyed it all. Until, by the time that I was finished, she was not even looking at me anymore. Still squatting on the floor, she’d put her elbows on her knees, and was staring at the bare boards with a tired exasperation.

“He’s really that much of a threat?”

I was forced to clear my throat before I answered.

“If everything that I’ve found out is true, then he’s the worst kind by a long chalk.”

“The way that he gains his power? If we just ignored him …?”

“My guess is, he’s going to make that pretty difficult.”

Cassie finally looked up, her eyes filled with a quiet dread. “There’s going to be more like last night?”

“I’d reckon. Or perhaps worse still.”

She peered at me questioningly.

“You weren’t there, Cass, talking with him face-to-face. Didn’t see the way he really looked at me, the way he gloated. He’s malevolent to the core, and very cruel. I think that it’s embedded in his nature.”

She absorbed that, her lips parting a slight crack. But all she did was gnaw her lower lip. The muscles in her shoulders had bunched tight. She was preparing herself, mentally, for whatever was coming our way.

“What now, then?” she asked in a hollow whisper.

“First? We pass this information on.”

There were plenty of figures of authority in our town. Hierarchies, powers-that-be. And if they didn’t know the full story already, then they at least needed to be warned.

It wasn’t exactly the longest walk to the Town Hall. We took it slowly all the same, wondering how the information that we’d gathered up was going to be received. Edgar Aldernay – our esteemed mayor – was a good administrator, but not precisely famous for his bedside manner. He was as likely, we both knew, to blow up in our faces as to listen to us sensibly. The only consolation was, he was only a mouthpiece, any way you looked at it. A figurehead or, if you wanted to be cynical, a puppet. There were other forces, far more savvy and intelligent, lurking in the shadows off behind his throne.

Union Square was busier than it had been before. At the northern end, two huge flatbed trucks had pulled up. One was loaded with dismantled scaffolding, the other with big stacks of wooden boards. Burly guys in hard hats were carefully bolting it all together. The stage for this season’s Reunion Evening was already taking shape.

Down at the opposite end, two pale blue vans were parked, their rear doors open. Guys from these were paying out long reels of cable and attaching loudspeakers to the lampposts round the square.

It might work. Probably wouldn’t. But the authorities were making sure this year’s Reunion Eve was going to be an impressive show.

We went up the steps, under the huge clock and past the big stone lions. There was nobody to stop us, when we went inside. It’s pretty much a come and go as you like kind of place, with no real need for security. People were stood around talking in the lobby, some of them with files under their arms. But all they did was glance at us, then go back to their conversations.

We knew the way and headed up toward the second floor, the ornate ironwork of the stairwell taking us in broad ascending circles. A mailroom boy was going along the main corridor, when we reached it. From the office doorways that we started passing, electric typewriters chattered, photocopying machines let out a busy hum. As I’ve already said, computers have never really caught on here. The whole building smelled of ink and aged oak and history.

The mayor’s personal assistant for these past twenty-five years – Mrs. Dower – wasn’t at her desk when we went in. But beyond it was a double-doorway, open just a fraction. We could hear the great man himself, shouting on the phone.

“No, goddamn it, I do
not
accept that this could happen again! It was a one-off and that’s
all
it was! A freak accident –
that’s
the official line! Everybody’s panicked quite enough, thank you! If the slightest word to the contrary slips out from anyone in your department, I will have your goddamn
badge
!”

So I imagined he was yelling at Saul Hobart.

We went in as he slammed down the receiver. When he saw that we were there and looked up, he was florid faced. Which is not an unusual complexion for Mayor Aldernay. There are days when he seems barely capable of staying calm at all.

He was a man of mediums, both in terms of height and stoutness. But impeccably dressed as ever, in a sharp Brooks Brothers suit. His slightly greasy brown hair reached down almost to his collar. And he sported what I’ve always thought of as a rather thin moustache. His eyes were rather dull and far away. His nose had a few pink blemishes that might be down to alcohol. I’d never seen him drink too much in public, but who knew.

The man eyed us fiercely. He was either wondering what we wanted, or just wishing we would go away. He didn’t look in the mood to be bothered.

“Don’t people even knock these days?” he
asked. “I’m still the goddamn mayor, you know.”

I murmured, “No offence intended.”

All Cassie did was look away. She’s as much time for officialdom as she has for the adepts – namely, none.

To give the man credit, he seemed to figure out pretty quickly why we were here. The fire in his gaze eased off a little. Aldernay tented his knuckles underneath his chin. Glanced down for a second, then puffed out his cheeks.

“Let me guess? You have your own two cents to put in about what went on last night.”

“Might do.”

“Well?” he said. “I’m listening.”

“That ‘happen again’ part you mentioned on the phone? That’s what we need to talk to you about.”

“A
what
?” he exploded, several minutes later.

Well, so much for him being reasonable. His fingers pressed down on the desk. I thought that he was going to stand up, but he didn’t. Just sat there, his knuckles going white.

“Have you gone
insane
, Devries? An ancient spirit? That is simply
horse manure
!”

I stood my ground, unimpressed by his show of anger. It was pretty much what I had been expecting, after all. There’s a theory as t
o why our mayor descends so often into such atrocious moods. Only gossip really, but …

Edgar Aldernay hailed from one of the most distinguished families in the Landing, when it came to the practice of magic. His late father was the renowned Rufus Aldernay, so skil
lful at his craft he earned the title of Grand Adept. His grandmother was Beatrice Bratt, who had ended the drought of 1931, when the Adderneck ran almost dry. And the Salem witch who started his line was Constance McBryde, cousin and close friend to Sephera herself.

And rumor had it that – in spite of all of that – Edgar here was no good in the slightest at the hocus-pocus stuff. He tried and tried during his early years, but couldn’t find it in himself. He couldn’t get so much as a puff of smoke out of a cheap cigar, much less fill a river up.

Maybe that is why he’s clung onto his job so fiercely all these years, when others would get tired of it. It makes him believe he’s in control, and good at something. And it would certainly explain the way he acts – like the whole world knows his guilty secret.