The Nimble Man (A Novel of the Menagerie) (9 page)

"Hey, guys," he said to the urns. "Got
another bad one whipping up, you should be thankful that you're all dirt."

The goblin did not need light. His eyes were used to
navigating the pitch-black hallways of the shadowpaths. He slipped across the
crowded storage room to the refrigeration unit humming in the corner. He tugged
open the door, a cloud of frigid air escaping into the mustiness of the cellar.
Multiple packets of blood hung within the unit, recently stocked by the boss
for just such an emergency.
That's the boss, always thinking ahead,
Squire mused, taking what he needed. He wondered how far ahead Doyle had thought
about the current situation.

He also wondered when it was going to be his turn to grab a
snack. Sure, Eve was injured. Her health had to come first. But his stomach had
been growling since Hartford. A burger and a milk shake would be nice. Even
just a bag of fries. Hell, he'd settle for a donut.

Squire sighed.
First things first.

The goblin made sure that the door was shut tight and
quickly turned away. Squire recalled the problems of storing blood in the past.
Dry ice had been what they used way back when, but it didn't offer much of a
shelf life. He painfully remembered how much Eve would complain when she was
forced to drink a batch that had spoiled. He again praised the Dark Gods for
advances in technology as he plunged head-on into the nearest patch of shadow.

"What do you mean he was taken?" Graves asked,
hovering above the oriental carpet in the formal sitting room of Doyle's
townhouse.

The sorcerer had placed pages of the newspaper on the sofa
and was gently lowering the bloody and beaten form of Eve down atop them. "We
were attacked and Sweetblood was taken." The mage sighed, looking worn and
weary. He removed his coat, walking through the spectral form of Graves as if
he wasn't there.

Graves spun around, watching as Doyle hung his jacket on a
wooden coat rack outside the parlor. "You're one of the most powerful
magicians on the planet, at least that's what you tell us. Who could have
managed to do that to you?"

Doyle came back into the room rolling the sleeves of his
starched, white dress shirt. "The Night People. The Corca Duibhne."

The squat, misshapen goblin, Squire, suddenly appeared from
the shadows of the fireplace, stepping out into the room with multiple,
fluid-filled plastic bags clutched in his arms. "And we shoulda let 'em
all get wiped from existence way back after the first Twilight War, that's what
I say." Squire took care not to track soot from the fireplace onto the
priceless Oriental rug. He gnawed on the corner of one of the blood packs to
open it.

"They attacked in surprising numbers," Doyle said.
He gestured toward Eve, who lay unconscious upon the sofa, bleeding onto
yesterday's news. "Eve was occupied with an antagonist of her own. The
beasts overpowered us and made off with the arch mage's chrysalis. There was
nothing we could do." The magician shook his head, gazing off into space.

"There's silence in the ether," Graves told them,
crossing his arms. "That can't be good."

Doyle walked to a liquor cabinet in the corner of the
elegant room and removed a crystal decanter of scotch, and a tumbler. He filled
half the glass with the golden brown liquid, placed the stopper back into the
bottle and put the decanter away. "Not good at all," he agreed,
helping himself to a large gulp of the alcohol. It was yet another sensory
experience that Graves had come to miss since joining the ranks of the dead. He
envied the magician's ability to enjoy the twelve-year-old, Glenlivet single
malt, spirits of a different kind altogether.

A low moan interrupted his thoughts, and Graves saw that Eve
was awake. She sat up, wincing in pain, blood-soaked newspaper squelching
beneath her. Her hand came up to rub at the back of her head, and came away
stained with scarlet.

"Shit," she muttered beneath her breath. A clot of
thick, coagulated blood dropped from the corner of her mouth to land upon the
front of her sweater, torn and stained from her conflict earlier that morning. "What's
a girl got to do for a drink around here?"

Everything hurt. Eve turned her somewhat blurred gaze to
Squire, who appeared to be having some difficulty opening a blood pack. The
goblin gnawed on the pouch's corner, but the plastic was proving too tough for
the creature.

"Give it to me," she demanded, reaching for the
bag.

Insulted, Squire handed it to her. "I was only trying to
help," he grumbled. But he set the remaining packs in her lap where she
could reach them. "All this drinkin' has made
me
a tad parched,"
the goblin said, ambling from the room. "I'm going to get a beer."

Eve brought the pouch of blood to her mouth, careful to
avoid the side that the hobgoblin had chewed. She felt her canines elongate
with the promise of feeding, and she tore into the thick plastic container. The
blood flowed into her mouth and her entire body began to tingle. Greedily Eve
sucked upon the pouch, draining it in seconds, and tossed the empty container
to the floor to start another.

"Carefully, Eve," Doyle barked. "Do you know
the expense of removing blood stains from such a delicate carpet?"

She finished another of the blood packs, placing the wilted
plastic beside her on the stained newspaper. "I think we have a bigger
problem right now than soiling your rug. My coat? Remember that coat? I bought
it in Milan. My clothes are ruined. Do you hear me bitching about it?"

"Well, now that you mention it —" Squire
began.

She stilled him with a dark glance.

Eve could feel the blood working its magick upon her; the
cuts and gashes closing, foreign objects trapped beneath her flesh being pushed
out from within by the healing process, bruises and abrasions beginning to
fade. If it weren't for the fact that the world could very well be going to
shit, she'd have been downright giddy.

"These Corca Duibhne," asked Graves, a cool vapor
drifting from his mouth as he spoke. "You've encountered them before?"

Doyle finished his scotch, placing the empty glass on a
silver tray that rested upon a wheeled cart beside the liquor cabinet. He
glanced around at his allies.

"I've crossed paths with the loathsome breed from time
to time." The mage crossed the parlor to wearily lower himself into a high
backed leather chair by a curtained window. "Since the Twilight Wars, the
species had been functioning more as individuals, hiring themselves out to the
highest bidder. It's been quite some time since I've seen them this organized
and working with such purpose." He laid his head back in the chair and
closed his eyes. "It does not bode well."

Eve sipped slowly from another of the blood packs, feeling
almost one hundred percent. "Something's pulled them together again,"
she said, a thrum of warmth cascading through her. "Could be the threat
that the spirit realm's so agitated about."

Graves furrowed his ghostly brow as he regarded her. Eve
smiled.

"Where are we on that?" she asked him. "Any
closer to defining what exactly this threat is?"

The specter shook his head. "The restless souls have
retreated even further into the spirit realms than usual. I sense that they are
afraid of what is coming."

"And we don't have a clue as to what that is?" she
asked him, making sure that she hadn't missed anything while she had been
unconscious.

"I'm sorry to say, no," answered Graves, a winter's
chill from his mere presence spreading throughout the room.

All was silent except for the rhythmic ticking of the large
grandfather clock located in the hall just outside the room. Eve shifted her
weight upon the newspaper, the sudden lack of activity making her antsy. For
days the spirit worlds had been in a tizzy over some impending supernatural
threat, and the most powerful magician in the world had just been stolen;
things were not looking too good for the home team. Eve looked about the fancy
sitting room of the Beacon Hill home, at the wispy form of the ghost Leonard
Graves hovering in the air, at Doyle seemingly nodding off in his chair. She
had another drink from the packet of blood, for if she didn't she was surely
going to scream.

At last, when she couldn't stand it anymore, she rose and
glared at them. "So, what now? I'm going to get bored if we sit around
here much longer." She gave Doyle a meaningful glance. "And you know
what I'm like when I get bored."

Eyes still closed, Doyle slowly raised a hand to silence her
rant. "Patience, Eve," he said. "The wheels of fate are in
motion."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she
snarled. Far off in the house she heard the trill of the phone ringing, and
then the voice of Squire as he answered.

Doyle smiled. "The wheels turn slowly at times, but
they do turn." The mage made a spinning motion with his hand even as
Squire entered the room holding a piece of notepaper in one hand and a bottle
of Samuel Adams in the other.

"Hey, boss, you just got a call from a Julia Ferrick,"
he read from the paper. "Said she needs to talk to you right away about
her son." Squire looked up from the message. "The broad's on a tear. If
you ask me I don't think she's wound too tight."

Doyle's eyes snapped open, a crackle of magick dancing on
his lashes. "The Ferrick boy," he muttered, more to himself than
anyone else in the room. "How interesting."

A nasty chill spread through her body and Eve looked to see
that Graves had drifted closer.

"You were expecting that call," the ghost said. It
was not a question. "Will this woman and her boy play some part in the
scheme of things?"

Doyle gazed toward the shuttered windows. "We all play
a part in the greater scheme of things, Leonard. Each and every one."

The doorbell rang, echoing through the townhouse, and they
all looked at one another and then to Doyle.

"Somebody call for pizza?" Squire asked, taking a
swig from his bottle of beer. "God, I could use a pizza. Or two."

"I'm sorry, my friend. I don't think that's the pizza
man," Doyle replied.

"Let me guess," Eve said. "At the door now? Another
player."

Doyle stood, checking the crease in his pant's legs. "Precisely.
And the part you will play at this moment, Eve, is to answer the door. Our
latest player will be in need of some refreshment before the two of you go to
see Mrs. Ferrick and her son." He pulled down his rolled shirt sleeves,
buttoning the cuffs.

"Where do you think I'm going, exactly?" Eve
asked. "Nightfall's still a ways off."

There was nothing humorous about the wan smile that appeared
on Doyle's face just then. "Check the windows, my dear. The darkness comes
early today."

Frowning, Eve glanced at the tall windows at the front of
the room. They had heavy drapes that Doyle often pulled to shield the room from
sunlight for her protection. She had presumed those drapes were responsible for
the gloom in the room but now Eve saw that they were tied back properly and
that while the world outside those windows was not pitch black, it was a dusky
gray. She went to the window and glanced up at the sky. A cloud of blue-black
mist, like the smoke from a chemical fire, hung above the city of Boston,
churning and widening. There were streaks of red in that cloud as well, and
even as she glanced at them, they seemed to spread.

"That damned New England weather," Eve muttered
darkly. "Guess I'm going out after all."

Again the doorbell buzzed and then there came the distant
echo of a fist pounding upon the front door.

"I'll throw together some sandwiches," Squire
said, "maybe make some of those Ore Ida fries." He slipped into a
patch of shadow thrown by a massive oak bookcase. No matter how many times Eve
saw the goblin do that, it never ceased to amaze her.

"And my part, Arthur?" asked Graves. "You
have some assignment for me as well?"

Doyle wore an expression of regret. "I do. You must go
deeper into the land of the dead, Leonard. Whatever is frightening the
wandering spirits, we need to know what it is. It may be our best clue as to
what threat we face."

Eve wasn't sure, but she could've sworn she saw the ghost
swallow hard. It would be difficult for him. From what she understood of the
spirit realms, the deeper one traveled, the harder it was to return to the
realms of the living. Leonard Graves still had some serious business to finish
here and didn't want to put that in jeopardy.

Then Doyle left the room and Eve followed after him. They
went together into the foyer. Doyle started up the stairs and Eve paused a
moment to watch him.

"What about you?" she asked on her way to the
door. The bell rang again and she scowled. "Going to finish up that nap?"

The magician paused on the stairs. There were so many rooms
up there. One of them belonged to Eve, though she rarely stayed here. Doyle
glanced at her, and the sadness in his eyes was so dreadful she was forced to
look away.

"Sometimes fate requires us to do the most painful
things," he said, then continued upward, walking as though he bore some
terrible, invisible burden.

Then it dawned on her what he was doing — where he was
going — and for the briefest of moments, Eve actually felt sorry for the
old man.

Their visitor gave up on the bell and began pounding on the
door. Eve scowled as she marched toward it, picking at the bloodstains on her
sweater, wondering if there was anything worth wearing in the closet in her
room. "Keep your fucking shirt on."

Throwing back the bolt and twisting the lock, she pulled the
door open. Clay stood just outside in the gloom. Eve raised an eyebrow.

"Well, well. Look what the apocalypse dragged in."

At the end of the hall on the second floor was a locked door
that no one had passed through in many years. Doyle found it sadly amusing that
after all he had been through in his extended years, he could still remember
the exact moment when he had locked it, sealing away a part of his life that he
hadn't been sure he could live without.