The Nimble Man (A Novel of the Menagerie) (37 page)

They exited the vehicle. Louisburg Square was down the
street a ways, on the left. Up ahead, an SUV was burning, the flames and black
smoke billowing from the wreckage starkly visible through the shifting crimson
fog.

"We'll approach on foot," Conan Doyle told them,
leading the way.

They slowed their pace as they passed the burning vehicle,
all of them casually glancing inside the blackened wreck to see if there had
been anybody inside.

"Ceridwen did that," Danny said, motioning with
his chin. "We needed a distraction to get Morrigan and her freaky henchmen
off the floor we were on so we could get downstairs. She summoned some kind of
fire spirit to blow it up."

Conan Doyle said nothing, sublimating his fear for her,
concentrating on the task that lay before them. When they reached the edge of
the square, just outside the fenced park in its center, they all paused.

"So, how are we doing this?" Eve asked, casually
picking the lint from the arm of her jacket, as if what they were about to
attempt was no more important than choosing a restaurant.

"The time for subtlety has come and gone," Conan
Doyle said, searching the fog for a glimpse of his home. There had been a
dramatic change in the sinister energies in the atmosphere just in the minutes
that had passed since they had left the State House. If they had any hope of
stopping Morrigan, it had to be now. "We hit them from every side, and all
at once."

"Clay and Dr. Graves," he said, turning his
attention to the shapeshifter and his spectral houseguest, "the two of you
shall enter the house from below, through the basement, and ascend accordingly."

He felt a hand grip his arm and turned to face the demon
boy.

"What about me?" Danny asked. "You're going
to let me help — aren't you?"

Conan Doyle knew that the boy's mother would not approve,
but there came a time when the concerns of doting parents had to be set aside
and matters of the world taken into account. This was such a moment.

"Daniel and Eve shall enter from above," the mage
instructed. "The rooftop door should provide you with access."

The boy smiled, glancing toward Eve. "It's you and me,"
he said, clenching and unclenching his hands. "We got the roof."

"You don't say," she teased.

"What about you, Conan Doyle?" Graves asked, his
voice like the whisper of the wind through the dead leaves of autumn trees. "Will
you be going inside?"

Conan Doyle was taken aback by the question. His home had
been invaded and Ceridwen held captive inside. The fate of his world was in the
balance.

"Of course I'm going inside, old friend," he
answered incredulously, stepping from the street to the cobblestones of the
square. "But I shall enter just as I always have. Through the front door."

Clay watched as Eve whispered something to Danny that he
could not hear. Then she led the demon boy off into the thick fog. Just before
it would have obscured his view of her completely, she glanced back at him.

"Meet you on the inside," she said.

He nodded. The two of them had certainly had their share of
conflict, but it was always reassuring to have her around. She was the only
thing on the face of the Earth that was as old as he was. Or nearly so, at
least.

Now he glanced at Dr. Graves. The ghost hovered above the
street, and he was strangely reminded of the balloons of cartoon characters
that were pulled down the streets of New York on Thanksgiving Day. For all of
his eternity spent on this world, Clay loved the little things, the odd little
details that had become such a part of humanity. Parades, for instance. He
loved parades. He hoped the world survived so that he could see more of them.

Graves started toward Conan Doyle's townhouse, and Clay set
off after him, swift and sure, his boots all but silent on the cobblestones. The
ghost paused beside the old house.

"So, we start from the bottom and work our way up,"
Clay said.

The ghost nodded and began to sink into the street.

"Hey, what are you . . ."

"I'll meet you there," he said, just before his
head disappeared into the ground. Then the ghost was gone, leaving him alone in
the street.

"Son of a bitch," Clay muttered, closing his eyes
and thinking of a form he would need to take in order to get into the basement.
He hated to be the last one into a fight, and he wondered, as he began to
change, if the ghost somehow was aware of that.

Clay doubled in size, his body becoming powerful and squat. He
was now covered in a fine, shiny fur, his domed head nestled firmly between
brawny shoulders. Lifting his short, muscular arms, he looked down upon the
four railroad-spike claws that adorned each paw.

The creature he mimicked was not a mole and not a bear. It
was not anything human eyes had ever seen. For though the Creator had put upon
the Earth a great many wondrous things, there were beasts he had imagined with
his Clay, but then abandoned. Things no one in the world had ever seen. Unless
they had seen Clay in action.

Happy with the shape, he dropped to his bony knees and began
to dig, the claws making short work of the cobblestoned street and layers of
heavy stone beneath. It took him no time at all to burrow a tunnel down under
Louisburg Square, through a wall of brick, and into one of the sewers that ran
below the townhouses.

The air in the sewer was thick with gases other than oxygen
— most likely a mixture of nitrogen, natural gas and methane — and
he altered his lungs so that he could breathe down there. His vision in this
shape was poor, but his sense of smell was heightened to the extreme. Clay
could smell the distinctive scent of the Night People.

He loped down the partially flooded passage, splashing
through the filth until the aroma of the enemy was so strong that he knew he
must be just beneath them. Clay dug into the wall, beginning a new passage that
would take him into the basement of Conan Doyle's townhouse.

Moments later he exploded up through the concrete floor into
the room. His poor eyes located the drifting, translucent shape of Dr. Graves
floating in the air.

"Thanks for waiting," Clay rasped as he shifted
back to his human form.

Now that his vision had returned to normal, he saw that
Graves was focused on one particular corner of the room. At the same time, he
noticed the stink in the basement, a smell he had become all too familiar with
of late. He had been so focused on the Corca Duibhne, he had all but completely
overlooked it. But in the cellar, it was overpowering. Choking.

The smell of blood.

"Good God," Clay whispered as he looked upon the
bodies stacked up against the wall like cordwood, and others hanging by their
ankles from hooks on the ceiling. "What is going on here?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Graves asked him. "They're
storing food. Using the basement as a larder."

Danny's eyes had become accustomed to the fog.

Bizarro
, he thought, following close behind Eve as
she made her way down one of the small alleys between the homes on Beacon Hill.
It unnerved him, in a way, that he could make out the shapes of things through
the thick, roiling mist. His vision was changing along with the rest of him,
adapting to his environment. Which made him wonder what other surprises his
body had in store for him.

He could make out a small wooden fence at the end of the
alley ahead of them and was about to point it out, when Eve quickened her pace,
vaulting over the obstruction with ease and grace. Danny clambered over the
fence as quickly as he could, fearful that his companion would leave him
behind. He landed in the small yard on the other side in a crouch, his new eyes
scanning the fog.

"Keep up, slowpoke," he heard her say, her voice
carried on the breeze and swirling with the mist. He caught sight of her
fluttering coattails as she went over another fence across the yard. It was
sort of a shame that she'd put the coat on at all. The top she had on was
nicely clingy and he liked to watch her move. Even with the coat, he could appreciate
her . . . but without it . . .

Chill. Keep your mind on staying alive.
Danny bounded
across the small patch of grass, tensing the muscles in his legs as prepared to
scale the next obstacle. The power in his jump took him by surprise and his
arms pinwheeled as he tried to keep his balance while hurtling through the air.
He cleared the fence with feet to spare and landed on all fours, unable to
prevent the smile from blossoming across his face. Danny immediately thought of
Mr. Davis, the track and field coach at his high school, and how the man would
have shit his pants if he'd ever seen any of his track team make a jump like
that.

"Decent," Eve said, leaning against a brick
building.

"Where are we now?" he asked, rising to join her. They
appeared to be in another small yard.

"We're at the back of Conan Doyle's place. Figured we'd
get less attention if we got to the roof from the back."

Danny stepped back, looking skyward, up the rear wall of
building. Though no taller than four stories, the top of the townhouse
disappeared into the crimson mist.

"And we get up there how, exactly?"

Eve pressed herself flat against the building, sinking her
long fingernails into the mortar between the bricks. "Silly rabbit,"
she chided, beginning to climb. "As if there was any other way."

The way she crawled up the wall, Eve reminded him of some
kind of lizard, barely making a sound other than the faint scrape of claw upon
brick.

"Wait," he hissed, on the verge of panic. He didn't
want to be left alone. Danny desperately wanted to be included, to belong. For
the first time in oh so very long he felt as though he were part of something;
that he truly mattered. He did not want that feeling to end.

Eve stopped midway, and maneuvered her body around so she
could look down at him.

Not a lizard,
he thought.
A spider.
She
reminded him of a really big spider.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked.

He couldn't believe she was asking the question. "I can't
do that," he told her, growing angry.

Eve righted herself and began to climb again. "Bet you
didn't think you could make a six foot leap over a fence either," she said
as she disappeared into the mist.

She
was
right about that
, he decided,
approaching the wall and doing as he had watched her do. Danny placed his hands
against cool brick, digging his fingernails — no, they were claws; his
fingernails had fallen out months ago — between the bricks, as Eve had
done. He attempted to pull his weight upward.

And succeeded.

Much to his shock and surprise, Danny was climbing the wall.
Would you look at this,
he wanted to scream, increasing his pace to
catch up with Eve.

Fucking Spider-Man ain't got nothing on me.

Conan Doyle stood at the bottom of the stairs that led up to
his front door and cleared his throat. He knew they were there, crouching in
the shadows, waiting for the opportunity to strike. He removed the pocket watch
from his coat and saw that more than enough time had passed for his operatives
to get themselves into position.

Taking the first step, he placed one of his hands upon the
wrought iron railing.

"Who is this, my brothers?" came a hissing voice
from somewhere in the shadows.

Conan Doyle stood perfectly still, gathering his inner
strength.

"A fool, I'd wager," responded an equally sibilant
voice. "For who else but a fool would dare approach our mistress's lair."

The Corca Duibhne sentries emerged from their hiding places
on either side of the steps, weapons crusted with the blood of their victims.

"Poor little fool," said one of the advancing
Night People. "Does he even know whose dwelling this is?"

Conan Doyle stepped back from the stairs, letting his hands
dangle by his sides. There were eight, all of them wearing variations of black
leather. Their faces appeared oily, shining in what little light was available.
He was reminded of how much he despised this species, and how the Twilight Wars
never should have been declared over until each and every one of the foul
creatures had been exterminated like the vermin they were.

One of the Corca Duibhne came forward, waving a fierce
looking knife before him. "Do you know, foolish little man?" it
asked, a cruel, humorless smile upon its oily, black features. Conan Doyle
noticed that one of its eyes was missing. "Do you know whose house this
is?"

Conan Doyle casually adjusted his shirt cuffs, matching them
to the sleeves of his jacket. "Of course I do," he said, returning
his hands to his side. His fingers twitched eagerly.

The Night People began to laugh, converging, forming a
circle around him.

"Do you hear, brothers?" asked the creature with
the missing eye. "He knows full well whose house this is."

"Tell us then," hissed another, this one wielding
a kind of axe. Again they all laughed.

Conan Doyle raised one hand, sparks of blue fire dancing
from the tips of his fingers.

"Why, it's mine," he told them, and then those
cerulean flames arced out from his hand, engulfing them. The Corca Duibhne
cried out in a pathetic mixture of surprise and agony as the magick took hold
of them, the smell of their burning flesh filling the air.

Conan Doyle closed his eyes and breathed deeply, taking the
heavy aroma of charred flesh into his lungs.
Just like the good old days,
he thought, images of the war cascading through his thoughts, and the mage
slowly climbed the steps to his front door.

"And now I've come home."