The Nimble Man (A Novel of the Menagerie) (32 page)

"We won't be needing this anymore," she said, using
her elemental staff to burn away their cover of shadow.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Danny asked.

But she was no longer listening. Her focus had been captured
entirely by the crystalline sarcophagus lying in the center of the room. That,
and the fact that they were not as alone as she had thought.

"Oh, shit," Danny whispered.

A trio of Corca Duibhne sentries dropped from the ceiling
and two large boggart beasts emerged from behind the sarcophagus, Sweetblood's
magickal chrysalis, and charged toward them.

"Morrigan cannot be allowed to tap into Sweetblood's
power. No matter what the cost," Ceridwen said.

There was no time for prolonged conflict, and again she
called upon the elementals, summoning the spirit of the air for assistance. The
atmosphere grew very still and then a primordial roar filled the room. The
Night People and their fearsome pets were tossed away by screaming gusts of
wind like so much chaff, their bodies striking the walls with a chorus of
snapping bones.

"Remind me never to make you mad," Danny said,
staring awestruck at the broken and twitching bodies of their enemies scattered
about the room.

Ceridwen rushed to the chrysalis and knelt beside it. Already
there was a breach in it, a tiny crack, yet enough that Sweetblood's magick was
seeping out, emanating from that bizarre shell. Yet there was other magick here
as well. Ceridwen waved her fingers, dragging ripples in the air, and she could
feel what had been done. A spell had been cast — by Morrigan, she
presumed — a hex that utilized the blood of an innocent. Morrigan had
tried to break the chrysalis open. Ceridwen felt her stomach roil with disgust.
The atrocities Morrigan would perform in the name of her dark faith knew no
boundaries.

I shall have to move him
, Ceridwen thought, glancing
around. If she had the time, she might be able to remove Sweetblood from the
townhouse, to bring him to Conan Doyle. If she could manage it, they would have
the advantage over Morrigan. First, though, she would have to try to seal the
breach in the chrysalis. She did not have the power to permanently restore the
encasement created by Sweetblood's magick, but she could perform a temporary
repair.

Ceridwen raised her staff. The orb glowed with the ferocity
of a white-hot star and the sorceress began the process of undoing what her
aunt had begun.

"Can I help?" Danny asked, standing nervously by
her side.

Ceridwen felt the magick build, flowing from the center of
her being up through her arms to be channeled through her staff.

"Just watch the door," she whispered. Then she
bent closer to the strange chrysalis, peering at the figure frozen within. "But
if
you
can hear me, mage, I could use your assistance."

Sparks of magick leaped from the ice sphere atop her staff,
fingers of power that caressed the blood-stained chrysalis, seeking out
imperfections — cracks upon its surface. The scent of the spilled blood
permeated the room as it the chrysalis was cleansed.

"Aid me in repairing that which contains your power,
which prevents your might from being used for ill. Time is short and —"

A crackling sound filled the air. Ceridwen glanced up just
in time to see Danny tumble through the air and crash on the floor, clothes
smoldering. She spun to see Morrigan framed in the doorway, elegant features
made ugly by a hideous sneer. One of the doors had been torn nearly from its
hinges.

"Time?" her aunt asked. "You have run out, I'm
afraid."

Arcs of power erupted from her fingers and struck the
surface of the chrysalis, creating a backlash of magick that whipped at Ceridwen.
She cried out in pain as her connection to Sweetblood's magick was violently
severed.

"Ceridwen?" Danny called as he began to rise.

Morrigan paid no attention to the demon boy, and that was
best. Ceridwen did not want Danny hurt more than he already had been. The taste
of her own blood filled her mouth, mixing with the bitterness and rage that she
felt as she stared at Morrigan, and at the twin Fey warriors who now stepped
with her into the ballroom.

"You won't believe this, but I'm actually quite happy
to see you," Morrigan told her.

Ceridwen shot a glance at Danny. "Prepare yourself,"
she said, though she doubted that he understood the full meaning of her words.

The boy crouched down, a fierce gleam in his eyes. "Ready
when you are." His voice was a rumbling growl, in tune with his bestial
nature.

Morrigan and the twins moved further into the room,
proceeding with caution. "I knew that something wasn't right. I could feel
it in my bones, so to speak, but I just couldn't put my finger on it." She
smiled, and Ceridwen wasn't sure if she had ever seen Morrigan's teeth look
quite so sharp. "I thought that I might actually be going mad."

"Too late for that," Ceridwen spat.

With her free hand she wove a spell and a wall of fire
blazed up from the floor, with Ceridwen, Danny and the chrysalis on one side,
and Morrigan and her lackeys on the other.

Danny was at her side, then, nostrils flaring as he tried to
see through the flames. "Nice!" he said. "But I don't think that's
going to stop them."

"It's not meant to," Ceridwen said, and she bowed
her head, holding her elemental staff before her. A wind began to swirl around
them and her cloak billowed behind her like the surge of an ocean swell.

"What are you doing?" the boy asked, as the
whirlwind buffeted him. "Hey, you can't —"

"A traveling wind. Go to Conan Doyle," she
interrupted. "Tell him what we've learned."

He started to protest, but his words were drowned out by the
roar of the flames Ceridwen had summoned. The two of them glanced at the blaze,
only to see that Morrigan was stepping through the fire. Her mouth was open
wide and she was consuming it, eating the flames.

The traveling wind wailed around the boy, taking him back to
where he had come from, and not a moment too soon.

Morrigan and the twins crossed the charred floor.

"All right, then. It's time, now. Time for us to settle
family business. I promise you, it's going to hurt," Ceridwen said,
extending her arms, the sphere atop her staff beginning to glow with menace.

Her aunt grinned, black smoke drifting from her mouth.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," she growled.

And the twins began to giggle.

Conan Doyle came awake with a gasp, as if during his trance
he had been holding his breath. His lungs burned, and his heart beat against
his ribcage like a caged bird. It was like awakening from a deep winter's
sleep, his thoughts a jumble. He breathed deeply in and out, attempting to calm
himself, to gather his wits.

His face felt strangely damp and he reached up to touch his
cheeks. There were tears running from his eyes, and he recalled the dream he'd
had of his son. Conan Doyle took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and
dabbed at his eyes. He couldn't remember the last time that he had dreamt of
Kingsley, or the last that he had cried for that matter.

Images from his psychic communication with Sweetblood
flashed through his mind. The pictures in his head of what the future held in
store if Morrigan succeeded were nearly more than he could bear.

"Dear God," he whispered, returning his
handkerchief to his pocket with a trembling hand.

Yet amongst that jumble of images, certain facts surfaced. If
he had understood correctly, some of the horrors he had been shown were not
Morrigan's scheme, but a secondary result of her actions, unforeseen even by
the Fey witch herself.

Footsteps marching across the floor above distracted him
from his ruminations, and Conan Doyle realized that during his trance, Julia
Ferrick had taken her leave.

He listened to her footfalls on the staircase. All that he
had asked was for her to stand watch over his body while he was within his
trance. "Blasted woman," he growled, indignant that she had left her
post.

Julia raced around the corner into the dining room, a look
of absolute terror upon her wan features.

"Was it too much to ask that you adhere to my wishes,
or is that —"

"He's gone," she said, ignoring his reproach. "Danny's
gone."

Conan Doyle stood, wincing as the bones in his spine and
popped. It wouldn't be long before he had to partake again of the Fey elixir
that staved off time's ravages. "Are you certain? Where would he have
gone? I forbade him from involving himself with my operatives' assignments."

Julia laughed, a disdainful barking sound. "You forbade
him," she said with a shake of her head. "Like that's going to mean
anything to a fifteen year old boy. You forbid him. Give me a break."

Conan Doyle recoiled as if slapped. "Madame, please."
He knew that he now lived in an age far different from that in which he had
been born, but was still taken aback when such language was unleashed by a
member of the fairer sex. "Get hold of yourself."

"You get hold of yourself!?" she screamed,
starting to pace. "My son is missing, Mr. Doyle, and if you can't
understand why I'm upset, I suggest you take a look outside the window."

He considered a spell of tranquility, but decided against
it, choosing instead to steady the woman's nerves with words. "Losing your
wits will not help you find your son, Mrs. Ferrick."

Conan Doyle reached out a comforting hand, and the moment he
laid it upon her shoulder she seemed to collapse into him. All her fury
disappeared, leaving only her fear for her son. She shuddered and began to cry.

"When was the last time you saw Daniel?" he asked.

Julia wiped at her leaking eyes, stifling the sobs, trying
to compose herself. "It was right before you went into your trance. He
said he was going up to bed."

Conan Doyle pulled thoughtfully at his gray beard. At that
point, Clay and Eve had already departed on their mission. That left only
Ceridwen, but he could not imagine that she would even consider allowing an
inexperienced youth to accompany her.

"I . . . I know he's . . . different," Julia
Ferrick stammered, "but he's still just a kid . . ." Her eyes began
to tear again, and she pressed a fist to her mouth to as if she might stifle
the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.

Conan Doyle wanted to tell her otherwise, to explain what
little he knew about the creature that she had raised as her son, but he erred
on the side of sensitivity. He could be a callous man, at times. He knew that. But
he never meant to be.

"Mrs. Ferrick. Julia," he began. But his words
were interrupted by a sudden roar that rattled the windows in their frames, and
caused the pressure in the house to change so dramatically that his ears painfully
popped.

"What the hell was that?" Julia asked, blinking,
wincing as she opened and closed her mouth to relieve her own discomfort.

Conan Doyle was already in motion. The sound was familiar to
him, and he knew that it signified answers. A traveling wind had arrived, but
it would never have created such a thunderous roar unless it had been conjured
quickly and carelessly.

"What was that?" Julia demanded as she pursued him
from the dining room. "Doyle, answer me!"

He did not want to get her hopes up, choosing instead to
lead her to the answer, and hopefully the relief of her distress.

Danny Ferrick knelt in the center of the living room, a
puddle of vomit on the carpet before him. Conan Doyle glanced around the room,
but to his dismay, Danny was alone. Ceridwen had not returned with him.

"Danny," his mother cried, kneeling at his side,
throwing her arms around him. "I was so worried! Are you all right?"

The boy struggled from her embrace, pushing his mother away
as he climbed to his feet. He lunged at Conan Doyle, gripping the man by the
lapels of his jacket, starring wildly into his eyes.

"Danny?" Julia said, her voice hollow, crushed by
his rejection.

"Ceridwen," the boy croaked, his breath stinking
of spoiled milk. "She sent me away to tell you." The boy's legs were
trembling, barely able to hold his weight.

"Then tell me," Conan Doyle urged, icy dread
running along his spine. "What have you learned?"

"The Nimble Man," Danny said, wavering on his
feet, a shudder passing through him. "She wanted me to tell you that
Morrigan is trying to free the Nimble Man. I wanted to stay — to help her
— but she made me come back to warn you."

Conan Doyle nodded wordlessly. The boy was about to fall
down, so he steered Danny to the sofa and helped him to sit.

"Is it bad, Mr. Doyle?" Julia asked as she settled
on the arm of the sofa, fussing over her son. She glanced up at him
expectantly, waiting for an answer. "Is it bad?"

He wondered what he should tell them, just how much of the
truth this woman in particular could stand. But Arthur Conan Doyle was not a
man who minced words.

"Worse than you could imagine."

The smell of decaying flesh made her angry.

Eve wasn't sure why exactly, other than the fact that once
the smell got on her clothes, it was hell to get out.

A rotting, undead executive type in a navy blue suit hissed
at her, baring jagged Jack O'Lantern teeth that jutted from blackened gums. She
and Graves had cornered four of the walking dead in the museum's gift shop, but
this asshole was the feistiest.

"You can hiss all you like, Gomer," Eve snarled. "None
of you are going anywhere until you tell me something useful."

A chill washed over her as Dr. Graves moved closer. He stood
with his arms crossed and she imagined how formidable he must have been when he
had been a man of flesh and bone.

"You don't think they'll just volunteer the
information, do you?" Graves asked, hovering weightlessly in front of the
gift shop doors.