Moonheart

by Charles de Lint

  The shadow was at Tom’s shoulder now, rising from the ground like a castaway cloak suddenly taking shape. As it gained stature, Tom’s concentration on the reading shattered. Abruptly aware of his danger, he threw himself forward, turning as he fell so that he faced the threat as he rolled to his feet. He cursed himself for a novice and raised his hands to begin a protective warding. Then the blood drained from his face as he recognized what he faced. His hands fell limply to his side.

  “You!” he cried, his throat tightening to choke the word.

  Then the shadow was upon him.

  From shapelessness, it had taken an all too familiar shape. A hand like a claw raked across Tom’s face, cutting to the bone. The force of the blow threw him backward. He tried to roll aside, tried to shape a spell, but his magics and strengths had deserted him, running away like water as recognition of his attacker hit home. His assailant closed the distance between them with a swift motion and lifted him with ease. Strong hands closed on his arms. His feet sought purchase, but kicked only air. His attacker shook him until his neck snapped, then cast him aside as though he was nothing more than a child’s broken toy.

  It turned then to regard the fall of the Weirdin for long moments, memorizing each position. When it was done, it retrieved Tom’s corpse and, hoisting it under an arm, set off into the forest where the shadows swallowed it once more.

  Behind in the glade, the silence of Tom’s spell dissolved. Movement came as a wind stirred the grasses. The sudden violence was forgotten. Only the stars that looked down on the Weirdin cloth, and the bones that lay in a white scatter upon it, remembered, until they too moved on to follow their ancient trails across the sky.

  “Far out,” Blue said. “That must be some pretty hot shit you’re on.”

  He was sitting on his bed in the Firecat’s Room, wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Sally was under the covers, head propped up against a pillow, sheet and blankets pulled up to her chin.

  “What do you mean?” Jamie asked.

  Blue grinned. “Drugs, my man. Dope. Tripping. What else?”

  “It’s the truth, Blue. He just vanished. And if that could happen, what’s to say the rest of it isn’t true?”

  The humor fled Blue’s face. Jamie showed none of his usual fluster, but Blue realized that that was because the crisis was so serious. The panic was there‌—at the back of Jamie’s eyes.

  “You’re serious,” Blue said. “I mean, you really believe this.”

  Jamie nodded. “I know what it sounds like, but . . . what else can I think?”

  “Shit. So what’re we going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sally stirred. She looked from one to the other, not believing what she’d just heard.

  “Blue,” she said. “You don’t believe any of this, do you?”

  “I know it sounds weird, but if Jamie says that’s what happened, then that’s what happened, no matter how off the wall it might sound.”

  “But‌—”

  “You don’t understand, Sally. You see some strange things living in the House. This is just a little weirder than usual, that’s all.” He looked back at Jamie. “Thing I don’t understand is why you’re so surprised, Jamie. I mean, aren’t you the one who does all the studying about stuff like this?”

  “I never really thought of it as real before. I wanted to, but I just couldn’t accept it without some sort of proof. And now . . .” He rubbed his face. “Thanks for believing me, Blue.”

  “Hey! What else can I do? You’re my main man, Jamie.”

  “I think you’re both being taken for a ride,” Sally said.

  “Then where’s Sara?” Blue demanded. “And how’d this guy Hengwr manage to just pop in and out of the House like he did? I checked every window and door before we went to bed. . . .” He paused, thinking a moment. “Maybe I should go check them again.”

  “Did you ever stop to think that maybe Sara just met herself some nice guy and went home with him?” Sally asked. “It does happen, you know.”

  Blue smiled, remembering their meeting in the National Art Gallery. Then he shook his head.

  “Sara would’ve called,” he said. “Maybe not to tell us that, but to tell us she wouldn’t be home for supper.”

  “I give up!” Sally said and rolled over, pulling the covers over her head. “Go off and look for elves and wizards,” she added, her voice muffled by the covers. “Just let me get some sleep.”

  Blue looked at Jamie and shrugged as if to say, She hasn’t been here long enough to really understand.

  “Maybe we should all try to get some sleep,” Jamie said, knowing full well that sleep was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment.

  “I think we should each have a hot milk toddy first,” Blue said. “You want one, Sally?”

  “I’m asleep.”

  “Okay. C’mon, Jamie. Let’s see what we can rustle up.”

  Jamie nodded thankfully. He didn’t want to be alone just now. He couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that lay over him. If that harper hurt her, he’d . . . he’d what? God! He felt like he was losing his mind.

  “Jamie?”

  He looked up to see Blue waiting for him by the door.

  “I just keep worrying about Sara, Blue. I know nothing seems to make sense, but if Tom wasn’t lying, she’s in terrible danger and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “We’ll think of something,” Blue said reassuringly. He still wasn’t sure how much he could accept as real. That Jamie had experienced something out of the ordinary, he did believe. That there were . . . wizards and elves involved was a little harder to swallow. Besides, whenever he’d thought about that kind of thing, he’d always pictured Jamie as the wizard. As the doer. Not the victim. And Sara . . . Blue shook his head. He didn’t want to think of anything happening to her.

  “C’mon, Jamie,” he said.

  Wearily, Jamie pushed himself out of the chair he’d been sitting in and followed Blue down to the Silkwater Kitchen.

  8:10, Thursday morning.

  Lawrence Hogue stood at the bus stop at the corner of Bank and Somerset Street, waiting for a #2. He was reading the morning edition of The Citizen‌—Thompson’s death was covered on the first page, under a headline that blazoned: RCMP OFFICER SLAIN. The accompanying copy was sketchy. There was no mention of the PRB. The gist of the story was that Thompson had been off-duty and stopped for dinner at Patty’s Place. When the armed gunman entered, he’d tried to foil the robbery attempt. The gunman shot him three times before Thompson even drew his own weapon.

  Hogue stared at the photograph of a stretcher being wheeled out of Patty’s Place. Nowhere in the article did he see the questions that should have been asked. Why was a gunman attempting to rob a piddly little restaurant like Patty’s Place in the first place? Where were the interviews with the witnesses? The restaurant had been almost full. Had no one seen the incident? The very effectiveness of the lie frightened Hogue. It reminded him too much of the control that Walters had over him.

  “Excuse me. Do you have a light?”

  Hogue looked up, startled. The man who’d addressed him was dressed in a beige overcoat, open to show a dark blue business suit. In his hand he held a cigar. He put it into his mouth and leaned forward. Before Hogue had a chance to reply to the man’s request, he heard a faint whift of displaced air and felt a pinprick stinging in his neck. He lifted his hand to brush at the spot and knocked the small flechétte from his skin. But he was too late. The cardiovascular poison coating the flechétte had already begun to work. A concentrated derivative of asp toxin was collapsing his vascular system and stopping his heart. His gaze swam and there was a sharp pain in his chest. The man with the cigar regarded him with obvious concern.

  “Hey,” he said. “Are you all right? I think there’s something wrong with this guy,” he added as others in the crowd approached.

  The man supported Hogue; his vice-like grip on Hogue’s arms were all that kept him upright. Ho
gue seemed to see hundreds of faces staring at him, whirling around in a kaleidoscope of features. He thought‌—Walters . . . you bastard . . .

  The man with the cigar lowered him gently to the pavement. “Somebody better call a cop or an ambulance,” he said over his shoulder. “I think he’s having a heart attack or something.” The cigar vanished under his overcoat, into the breast pocket of his suit coat.

  “Who’s got some change?” a man in a tweed coat called from the phone booth.

  The man who’d held the cigar stepped back into the crowd. Around him people were digging in their pockets for coins. By the time a uniformed policeman arrived, the man was walking briskly north on Bank Street. As he reached the corner of Cooper Street, a tan Chevy pulled up to the curb. The man got in and the car pulled away.

  “How’d it go?” Gannon asked, shifting gears.

  Serge Morin leaned back against the seat. “Piece of cake,” he replied with a smile.

  “Coffee?”

  Tucker opened a bleary eye and looked across Maggie’s bedroom. She was standing at the door, her hair pinned up and looking far too awake for the way he was feeling.

  “Well, it’s on the counter,” she said, turning away. “I’ve got to finish washing up. I’m due to meet an anxious client on Nicholas Street at nine-thirty.”

  “What time’s it now?”

  “Quarter past eight.”

  Tucker sighed and stared at the ceiling. Time to up and about. Throwing back the covers, he padded into the kitchen and poured himself a mug of black coffee and took it back to the bedroom while he dressed.

  “How are you feeling, Tucker?”

  “Better.” He was sitting on the edge of the bed admiring her. “Why don’t we both play hookey today?”

  Maggie smiled. “No can do. But I’m not booked for the weekend.”

  “You’re on.”

  He ran his fingers over the stubble on his chin.

  “Top shelf, on the right,” Maggie said. “I never did get around to throwing them out.”

  Tucker headed for the bathroom and found his razor and shaving cream where she said they’d be. He had his face lathered and was about to start shaving, when Maggie slipped in between him and the mirror to put on her eyeshadow. Looking over her shoulder, he grinned and started on one cheek.

  “What are you going to do today?” Maggie asked.

  “Hit the office first. See if anything’s up. Then I guess I’ll take a run ’round to the Tamson House. I’ve got a better perspective on the whole thing now . . . thanks to you.”

  “You’re welcome. What you should do is keep an open mind.”

  “An open mind? About werewolves? Or wizards?”

  “Not that open a mind. But you’ve a tendency to see things one way.”

  She paused and lying unspoken between them was: such as why she sometimes defended people she knew were guilty.

  “From all you’ve told me,” she added, “it doesn’t seem that you’re dealing with the common criminal element here.”

  “Yeah. Only what the hell am I dealing with?”

  Maggie shook her head and stepped out of his way. “I don’t know, Tucker. It scares me to think there could be people out there with those kinds of . . . abilities.” She regarded him earnestly. “What would they be like? Would they even be human? They probably wouldn’t even think like you or me. Good and bad might not have any meaning for them.”

  “Yeah. I know. It scares me too.” He rinsed the remaining lather off his face and ran his fingers through his hair. “You want a lift to Nicholas?”

  “Sure. But no sirens, okay?”

  Jamie awoke from a nightmare of clawing shadows and monstrous shifting faces. He sat up, his nightshirt clinging to his sweaty skin, and stared out the window of his bedroom. The clock by his bed read eight-thirty and the sky was a bright blue. He thought for a moment of lying down again, then decided he couldn’t face another nightmare. Swinging his feet out of bed, he arose and dressed. He met Blue and Sally in the Silkwater Kitchen where Tuck was raising his usual fuss to be fed.

  Sally offered him some coffee which he accepted gratefully.

  “We were thinking of having some apple pancakes,” Blue said. “Ohio-style‌—whatever that is. You want some?”

  Sally laughed. “I take it by ‘Ohio-style,’ you want me to make them?”

  “Did I, or did I not serve up the most delicious tacos you ever tasted last night?”

  “That you did. And most humbly too, I must admit.”

  “I rest my case, dear lady.”

  Sally regarded him with exaggerated amazement. “Humble and polite!”

  “House-trained, too.”

  Jamie smiled weakly, appreciating their attempt at levity. He was about to get up and head for the Postman’s Room and his studies, when he noticed the fading light outside, as though the sky had suddenly grown overcast.

  “Anyone hear a weather forecast for today?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Clear skies and . . .” Blue’s voice trailed off as he too looked out the window. “What the . . . ?”

  The light continued to fail until it was as dark outside as though the day had never come. Leaving the table, Blue fumbled until he found the light switch. The overhead light in the kitchen’s ceiling blossomed. Blue opened the door that led out into the garden and stared at the sky. The dark was absolute. No stars. No clouds visible. If it was a storm, it had come without wind and it was going to be a real mother. The air was charged with static.

  Blue stepped back into the kitchen and met Jamie’s gaze. The skin between his shoulder blades prickled and he knew Jamie was thinking of the same thing he was: last night’s strange guest and his story.

  “It’s not natural,” Sally said.

  Then she paused as she too remembered. She’d pooh-poohed it last night, but now a chill skittered up her spine and she shivered.

  “Let’s check the other side of the House,” Blue said.

  As they started for the O’Connor side of the House, a huge bang came from the side that faced Patterson on the North. The floor trembled underfoot and they looked at each other with mounting fear.

  “What the hell was that?” Blue muttered, then led off in that direction.

  The windows they passed all showed the same view: darkness. The sound that had brought them around to the north face of the House wasn’t repeated, but the anticipation of a second set them all on edge.

  “Maybe they’re blasting somewhere?” Sally offered in a small voice.

  “Yeah,” Blue said. “And I guess they threw a sheet over the House so that it wouldn’t get dusty.”

  For all that they were anticipating another bang, they still weren’t prepared for the second one. It boomed all around them like a crack of thunder. The doorway they passed rattled in its hinges and a vase toppled over on a sideboard by the wall. The vibration almost knocked them from their feet.

  “I don’t believe this,” Blue said, recovering first. “It’s like we’re‌—”

  “Under siege,” Jamie finished, remembering what Thomas Hengwr had told him about the harper Taliesin and his dark strength. If this was the harper attacking them and he was this powerful, how could they possibly hope to hold him off? Where was Tom when they could use him?

  “I’m going to have a look,” Blue said, starting for the door.

  “Wait!” As Blue turned to him, Jamie added: “Tom said‌—something about the House itself being a protection against Taliesin. What if by opening a door, you leave a breach in whatever it is that’s protecting us?”

  Blue was about to protest that there had to be a rational explanation for what was going on, when a third crash came, this time knocking them all to the floor. As they started to get to their feet, a succession of crashes rattled the House as though a giant hand was shaking it. Pictures leaped from the walls, their glass shattering as they hit the floor. Vases and knick-knacks bounced from tables and sideboards, adding to the din. The three human inhabitants h
uddled together on the floor, each trying to cope with the situation as best each could, not one of them willing to accept what was happening, but unable to refute it either.

  When the last of the thunder and shaking died away, Blue sat up to take stock. “Anybody hurt?” he asked.

  Jamie and Sally shook their heads dully. Jamie started to get up, but Blue waved him back.

  “Not yet,” he said. “No use in . . . in just getting knocked down again.”

  Jesus, he thought. What the fuck was going on? He wanted to put it down to an earthquake‌—scary enough on its own‌—but the skies didn’t go black when the earth moved. This kind of thing just didn’t happen. Except it was happening and, by the faces of his companions, he knew someone had to take charge and it looked like he’d gotten himself elected. It didn’t matter that the same fear was thudding in his heart‌—someone had to stay on top of it.

  “Who all’s in the House?” he asked.

  The question gave them something else to think about.

  “Fred,” Jamie said. “And Sam.”

  “No one else?” A weird image came into Blue’s head, of Jamie standing behind the desk of a hotel, counting the missing room keys on the hooks behind him.

  Jamie shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

  “Well, first off we’ve got to get hold of them before one of them tries to go outside. I think you’re right, Jamie. Somehow the House is our protection against whatever it is that’s trying to get in. Shit, if some fucking monster of Tom Hengwr’s can exist, why can’t the House have powers too?”

  Jamie nodded. Inside the House he felt safe‌—no matter how furious the blows came from what was attacking them. His bond, that sense of being a part of its walls, of the double-sided eyes of its windows that looked out on a black void now, and in on their terror, seemed to promise security. So long as they stayed inside. Once beyond its walls, the House seemed to warn, and it could no longer protect them.

  “Well, you two stay here,” Blue said, “and I’ll go have a look-see for the others. Okay?”

  Neither Sally nor Jamie wanted Blue to go off on his own, but they realized the sense of his plan.