The Nimble Man (A Novel of the Menagerie) (21 page)

Katie's hands fluttered as though she had forgotten what to
do with them, and a lightness came over her heart that nearly made her faint. Almost
giddy, she went down on one knee and lowered her head. Once upon a time, years
before, she had read the wrong book and opened the wrong door, and it had been
Ceridwen who had closed it for her. She had pledged her loyalty to the Fey on
that day, like a handful of others she had met in the ages since. But she had
never seen Ceridwen in the flesh again.

Until today.

"My Lady Ceridwen," she said, her voice cracking,
shaking with emotion.

Ceridwen touched her head.

"You've done well, Katherine. You are our loyal friend."

Katie took a deep breath and looked up at Ceridwen, at the
razor cut of her hair and the power in those eyes. This woman was everything
she had ever wished to be, and yet rather than making Katie feel small, somehow
Ceridwen lifted her up, gave her pride in herself.

"Something terrible is happening outside," Katie
said, forcing her voice not to tremble.

"We know," Ceridwen replied, already striding
toward the front of the shop, her companion hard on her heels. "Do not
worry yourself, Katherine. You have done just as we asked, for so very long,
kept that book safe and our secret in your own heart. I can do no less than
keep you safe in return."

At the door, Ceridwen turned and stared at her, and Katie
felt blessed.

"We will weave protections around the house. Do not
step outside this door until the sun returns to the sky."

Then Ceridwen and her companion went out the door, closing
it tightly behind them, leaving Katie with only the delightful scents of Faerie
floating in the air to mark their passing. After a moment she sighed happily
and picked up the book from the floor. Its leather was not scuffed at all from
the fall. She held it in her hands and then allowed herself a bittersweet smile
before sliding it back onto the shelf.

She would have given anything to reverse Ceridwen's trip, to
travel through the pages of that book through to the other side, to Faerie. One
day, she prayed that Ceridwen would grant her that wish. And she knew that if
that day ever came, she would never want to come back.

A tiny ember of fury burned in Morrigan's black heart. She
had not expected to find an errant phantom in Conan Doyle's home, but even had
she known she would not have wasted a moment thinking on it. What was a ghost,
after all, to her power? They were fragments, figments, the echo of a spirit. But
whoever this ghost was, he had knowledge that he should not have, and Conan
Doyle might well have other allies. The damned specter had escaped her,
thwarted her, and Morrigan was not pleased.

She was not concerned about it raising opposition to her. Nothing
could stand in her way now. But just the idea that a damnable figment had
escaped her was infuriating.

No
, she told herself.
Enough
. With great
effort, she forced thoughts of the ghost from her mind. Triumph was at hand. Elation.
Divinity. She was not about to allow a minor annoyance to spoil that. She had
other, far more thrilling matters to attend to.

Several of the Corca Duibhne vermin under her thrall
scattered from her path as she strode down the corridor of Conan Doyle's home
to a room whose broad double doors stood open to receive her. Morrigan swept
into the high-ceilinged chamber and surveyed the room. It had once been used as
a ballroom but now appeared to be a storage place for pieces of mechanical
equipment that she imagined Conan Doyle and his lackeys used to keep their
fragile forms physically fit. The exercise equipment had been pushed out of the
way, up against the mirrored walls, to make room for the amber-encased body of
Sweetblood the Mage.

The chrysalis rested in the center of the room, and though
that strange magickal sarcophagus stifled the mage's power, Morrigan could
still feel it emanating from within. She had stationed several Corca Duibhne
around the chrysalis as guards, but they kept their distance from Sanguedolce. Inert
or no, he was so powerful a mage that their entire race feared him.

Morrigan laughed softly, amused by their furtive glances
toward the chrysalis. Their nearly primitive brains were incapable of realizing
the potential that lay before them, the power that could be drawn from the ancient
fool. But, of course, this was best. Such power was never to be wielded by the
likes of these twisted little barbarians.

Fearful eyes upon her, she approached Sweetblood's cocoon
and stared through the amber encasement at the still features of the mage. The
energy that radiated from Sanguedolce was intoxicating, and she fell to her
knees beside him, a collective gasp going out from the Corca Duibhne around the
room. His magick, the wards around this chrysalis, were trying to repel her,
but she held her ground, letting it wash over her, becoming almost drunk with
its potency.

Morrigan laid her hands upon the imperfect surface of the
chrysalis and was jolted by a surge of magick that struck her, coursing through
with the burning power of a lightning strike. She shuddered and moaned aloud,
but did not remove her hands. Her teeth gnashed, pain spiked through her flesh,
pushing up into her head. She bit her lip and blood dripped down her chin. Through
the amber surface of the cocoon she stared down into Sanguedolce's frozen
visage.

She remembered the first time that she had ever laid eyes
upon the magician, ages past, in Faerie. During the Twilight War the forces of
the righteous had fought valiantly to stem the flow of darkness into the world
of the Fey, and the worlds beyond it. She and her brother, Finvarra, had stood
together at their father's side. The daughter of the king, she had been his
trusted advisor and his personal bodyguard. In the midst of battle, Sweetblood
had appeared, hovering above the battlefield, observing the conflict with a
cold, unwavering eye, as if attempting to determine whether he should bother to
become involved.

This memory awakened others in Morrigan. Clearly, now, she
remembered her physical response to the sight of Sweetblood on that day, the
warmth that had tingled in her belly, the pulse of arousal that had begun to
throb inside her. Now, as then, she felt a ferocious heat thawing the deep
chill that normally enveloped any such urges within her. She had felt his
potential for power then, as she did now, and it inflamed her lust.

Sweetblood had not taken part in the Twilight Wars. Upon
discovering the presence of Conan Doyle among the ranks of the virtuous, he had
returned to the world of Blight in a flash of magickal exhibitionism. There
were those among the Fey who thought Sweetblood had a rivalry with Conan Doyle,
and would not fight at his side. Morrigan, however, had felt certain that
Sanguedolce had simply deemed the conflict to be beneath him. She had never
forgotten him, or the power he wielded; it had haunted her always. Here was the
key to everything that she desired. With that power, her darkest dreams could
be made real. She had sworn to have it for her own, at any cost.

Now here was the power, beneath her very hands. Morrigan
brought her face closer to the surface of the chrysalis.

"You can't keep me out forever, my sweet," she
whispered, running her fingers sensually across the jagged surface of the amber
encasement, pressing her supple, leather-clad body against it, as if attempting
to arouse the sleeping figure within.

She began to mutter beneath her breath, words that were
ancient before man had dropped from the trees to walk erect.

"Moggotu sandrathar,"
Morrigan hissed
. "Memaritus
gosov iknetar shokkar-dos fhinn."

Arcane power snaked from her clawed fingertips, flowing
across the surface of the chrysalis, attempting to find a weakness to exploit
upon its unyielding exterior.

"Tann-dissarvar, Bottus, Nava-si, Tiridus valkinsu!"

Morrigan spread herself across the cocoon. There was a flaw.
She knew it. She sensed it. The chrysalis was damaged; otherwise, she would not
have been able to feel Sweetblood's power leaking out. Already she had been
able to use some of the magickal radiant thrown off by the chrysalis to strengthen
her own sorceries, to shatter the wards Conan Doyle had set up around his home.
Ironic, that the power of the master should be used to destroy the sanctum of
the student. Morrigan had a taste of Sanguedolce's magick. But it wasn't
enough, for she knew the full extent of what awaited her once the enchanted
shell was breached, and she wanted it all. She lay atop the cocoon, letting her
own magick flow outward, sensing, probing, searching for the flaw so that she
might permeate the chrysalis.

She writhed atop Sweetblood's amber sarcophagus, ancient
incantations issuing from her mouth as she rubbed her body against its
unyielding skin. Her magick slipped across its surface, hungrily searching for
a way inside, and for a moment, she thought she had succeeded.

The chyrsalis shuddered, and Morrigan exerted even more of
herself, eagerly grinding her sex against her prize in an attempt to coax the
magick from the entrapped sorcerer within. If she searched for the flaw from
without, and she could cause Sweetblood's own power to search for an exit from
within . . . she sensed the power building within the amber and called to it
sweetly in the voice of the ancients, urging it to burst forth from its
confinement.

The chrysalis shook yet again and she cried out with passion.
Morrigan was riding the crest of everything she had ever hoped for. The
renegade Fey sorceress could see it all before her mind's eye as it came over
the rise, glorious to behold. Her enemies vanquished, the world of Blight and
then Faerie bowing to her every whim, with so many others to follow.

And all in the name of her true love. Her true passion.
All
that I do and all that I am, I dedicate to you,
she thought. For though she
had desires of her own, they existed solely for the glory of another. She would
have all that she craved, but what she craved the most was the glint of loving
approval in the eyes of The Nimble Man.

It is all so close, and coming closer. Close enough to
touch.

Morrigan suddenly cried out, not in pleasure, but in
excruciating pain. The chrysalis lashed out at her defensively, a pulse of
arcane energy that repelled her, sent her sprawling across the room with such
force that she struck the wall, cracking the mirrored glass, and fell limply to
the floor.

The Corca Duibhne were terrified, but for the moment their
fear of the mage was overwhelmed by their loyalty to their Mistress. Or,
perhaps, their fear of Morrigan was simply greater. They swarmed around her,
concerned for her safety, but none daring to put a hand upon her.

She lay upon the wood floor, her body smoldering. Morrigan
had known that it was unlikely she would be able to breach the chrysalis so
simply, even with its flaw, but still her blood burned with rage and
humiliation. She wanted Sweetblood's power
now
.

Fury consumed her, and she gave herself over to it
willingly. Morrigan sprang to her feet, lashing out at the Night People that
huddled about, concerned for her. Her claws tore into their dark flesh and
stinking blood spattered off the ballroom's mirrored walls. Rage contorted her
features, surged through her veins, and magick would not satisfy her. She used
her hands to tear at them, to break their bones, to eviscerate them. It had
been some time since she had let herself go, giving into the bloodlust that had
been with her since birth. It was ecstasy.

Dead Corca Duibhne lay at her feet, their blood collecting
in shimmering dark puddles as Morrigan wrestled the rage back under control. The
stink of new death around her, she took several long breaths before she felt
capable of looking once more upon the object of her desire and her fury. The
chrysalis stood unchanged, untouched, in the center of the room. But not for
long. She would have the power she desired.

"Mistress."

The word was spoken by two voices in concert, and Morrigan
turned toward the broad double doors of the ballroom. There stood Fenris and
Dagris, the twin Fey warriors who served as her lieutenants. Each of the
brothers held in his arms a struggling human child. The twins were freaks
amongst their own kind, psychically bonded, one unable to exist without the
other. They had some skill with magick, and great skill in battle, and their
loyalty to her was the only emotion either of them felt that was not clouded
with insanity.

The twins entered the room with proud smiles upon their
gaunt faces. They had done precisely what had been asked of them, as always. As
she had many times before, Morrigan congratulated herself on the decision she
had made to free them from their imprisonment in Finvarra's citadel. She could
not have found dogs more loyal.

The children wailed in terror, beating at their captors. Morrigan
motioned for Fenris and Dagris to approach. The twins stepped forward, each of
them holding out their terrified package. The babes were young, a boy and girl
each no more than four years of age.
Perfect
, Morrigan thought, reaching
out with a single claw to prick each of the children's mottled cheeks, drawing
beads of blood. The babes screeched all the louder, and she brought the taste
of them to her mouth.

"Yes," she said, satisfied with what she had
sampled in the blood. "They should do nicely."

Morrigan smiled, her pleasure gradually returning. She had
been impatient. Attempting to breach the chrysalis with only her own power had
been vain and self-indulgent. Now, though, her hopes and dreams were only a
blood ritual away.

"Do you have any sour cream?" the twisted little
man with the strangely pointed ears asked her, even as he helped himself,
yanking open the refrigerator to peruse its contents.