His eyes slid shut at the memory of it. I thought I saw his shoulders quiver. Coffee slopped across his fingers, reminding him that he was still holding the mug. He set it down. His eyelids parted slightly when he did that, and the red in his pupils was glowing far more dully than before.
“It took me a good while to figure out what I was looking at. But finally, I understood. It was … less than nothing. A minus in the whole equation of existence. It had no shape, no form, no hue. No body and no soul. But it was there nonetheless. And then I recalled that I’d seen mention of it once before. Not in a book, but an inscription on a very ancient clay tablet that I’d once studied. I realized what I’d found. The Dweller in the Dark.”
Those last five words … they seemed to linger on the room’s air. Hang around us, as if they had substance. The study appeared to fade a little, and the ticking of the clock downstairs could no longer be heard, the world withdrawing from us slightly.
“Being?” I managed to ask.
Willets threw a look at me.
* * *
He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, dried his fingers, then the bottom of the mug.“What was here before the Universe?” he asked the room in general. Then he answered his own question. “Not a vacuum, no. A vacuum’s simply a gap in existence. There was utter nothingness. No time. No space. And no dimensions. An utter void. The Void.”
And we could all hear the capital letter.
“Except there happened to be a solitary creature dwelling in it. Nature’s laws didn’t apply back then. It was also made of nothingness, but it was conscious. And it simply floated in the Void, content with its peculiar existence. It could have stayed that way throughout eternity, since time did not exist.
“Then along we came, with an almighty blast. Abruptly, there was light and substance. And the Dweller in the Dark was forced to go away. It ran ahead of the spreading light, and finally found refuge in the dark chasms beyond the edges of reality. It’s been out there, waiting, to this very day. Staring in, resenting us with every fiber of its being. Hating all light and all life, and wanting to destroy it.”
A chill seemed to have settled over the room, despite the narrow crack of sunlight filtering in. There was a cold glaze to the armoires now.
Myself and the others exchanged troubled glances. We had never heard anything like this. And it was the judge who asked the doctor the first question.
“If I understand you correctly, then you’re saying that, however fearsome this thing is, it can’t get to us. Can’t survive on our plane of being. So what does this have to do --?”
“When it fled,” Willets broke across him, “it left a few tiny particles behind.”
“Three of them?” I took a guess.
The man nodded.
“Somehow, they adapted. Swelled in size, and took on shape. My guess is, they take on different guises with each world they visit. They cannot stand direct light. But they’ve been, for a very long time now, the Dweller’s agents here. They answer to its bidding, and they do its work.”
“Which is?” I heard Ritchie ask.
“Anywhere they go, they try to suck the light out. Anyone they touch, they rip out the humanity, the soul. They deliver that person into the Dweller’s influence. And I sense something else about them too,” he added carefully. “They’re here for a reason, though I can’t tell what.”
It was a real effort to get my head around this. If the angels were as Willets had described, that was why Judge Levin had found nothing when he’d tried to sense them. There was nothing physical to sense. And if the adepts couldn’t even keep track of them … that might mean that we were in a pretty serious fix.
“Why did they come after you?” I asked.
Willets harrumphed. “I suppose they knew that I’d found out about them, realized what they were. And so they made it their first job to try and silence me. That way, they could take the rest of you unawares.”
“And now the sun’s come up, where have they gone?”
“My best guess is, if you re-inspected those three meteors, you’d find they’ve closed up. They’ll be pretty impervious to anything that we can do. And when darkness falls, they’ll open again. Of that you can be certain.”
Vallencourt peered at him with his features as stiff as a waxwork. “And how do we handle that?”
“Bright electric lighting ought to beat them off initially. It’s probably a good idea to circulate that information. But apart from that? I talked about the light inside us. That might be our strongest hope. If we can stand together, light a shining beacon in our hearts, refuse to be swallowed by the darkness …”
Then he faltered, coming to see -- as everyone in the room could -- that he was speechifying to no purpose. All of this was just vague sentiment on his part and not nearly a good plan.
The sun continued rising, out beyond the window. Filling our whole town with light. But casting shadows too.
CHAPTER 12
Amelia Hobart finally woke when strips of sunlight from the room’s Venetian blinds drifted across her face. At first, that had the same effect as someone holding feathers underneath her nose. Her small, delicate features screwed up. She murmured, grunted, shifted. Then she seemed to take in where she was, and finally came back to consciousness.
Oh Lord, she’d fallen asleep in the chair and had been there all night. She tried to sit up quickly, but was prevented from doing so by a sharp pain in her back. She’d been stuck halfway between sitting and lying, her frame twisted. Her whole body ached.
Her next thought was, urgently, the kids! Then she remembered where they were and knew that they’d be safe. They’d have some questions when she saw them. “Where were you at breakfast, Mommy?” But by now, their grandmother would probably be doling out so much sugary cereal and so much maple syrup that the three girls would be hyperactive by the time she came to fetch them. Had Mom never heard of dental bills?
Amelia tried to move again, more carefully this time. The ache in her back still nagged at her, but she was resolute and worked her way around it. She got to her feet, and started to brush her rumpled clothes down. But they stuck to her in places. Yew. There was a shower cubicle around here somewhere, and she’d have to use it.
She moved across to the window, pushing two of the thin aluminum slats apart. A perfectly lovely fall day was unfolding outside. The sun was shining brightly, though she doubted that the temperature would be as warm as she’d prefer. A flock of tiny finches were busy in the nearby hedgerows. Leaves were dropping from a massive oak across the road from this part of the hospital. A soft breeze picked them up again, making them dance along the curb like red and gold confetti.
She wished Saul could see this, since she knew her husband lived for mornings such as these. They were so … ‘optimistic,’ that was the most fitting word. Wake up on a day like this, and you could easily believe that everything was fine with the whole universe. Everything in balance, and not a single problem in sight, even in a town like this.
She wished she had a camera.
No, I’ll tell him about it, Amelia decided. Describe every aspect of this lovely morning.
The doctors had encouraged her to talk to him, hadn’t they? Even while he was in this coma, in the hope that something that she said would make a spark flare in his mind. What better subject could she choose? Wouldn’t Saul want to be conscious on a day like this one?
She mentally composed how she was going to start, then turned to his bed.
Her husband had angled his face in her direction, and his eyes were now wide open.
* * *
Pastor Alan Clary was a very early riser, and had already been up for several hours. He had taken a light breakfast, walked his two Golden Retrievers, gotten back to the house in time for the delivery of the Landing Ledger, which he sat down with in his favorite armchair and devoured. He always liked to keep in touch with what was happening in his community, and skimmed every item, stopping where it was important.
<
br /> And by this hour he was in his church, St. Edmund’s on Canterbury. He liked to get here early and make sure everything was spick and span, the pews free of dust and the prayer books neatly stacked away.
There were several precious artifacts on display. A gold-plated crucifix on the altar, and a jewel-studded goblet beyond that. But he never hid them, unworried about their being stolen. The people in this town were generally good folk, and would not do that to the belongings of a church. It was more normally visitors you needed to be wary of. The ones who got in past the curse were never usually good. And the inhabitants of the district to the south were a cause for concern, of course. But they never ventured this far up.
The church was a block north of Greenwood Terrace, one of the main thoroughfares through town. Beyond that was the district known as Tyburn, whose denizens were a notoriously strange bunch. Most folk in Raine’s Landing -- apart from the adepts -- only used magic occasionally. But the inhabitants down there practiced it the entire time. It had become the center of their lives.
Because of that, they had become a very tight, enclosed community, sealing themselves off from the rest of the town. They had their own ways of doing things, or so he’d heard. Traditions, apparently, that went right back as far as Regan Farrow’s time. So far as Alan knew, there were no active Christian churches in that neighborhood.
Godless souls, he thought. Don’t they understand? There has to be some higher power than magic.
He remembered discussing it, when he’d been a young man, with his own friend and mentor, Dr. Evan Phillips.
“In the outside world, so I understand it, magic and Christianity don’t mix. In fact, they’re not allowed to. They are seen to be in direct opposition to each other. Have I got that right?”
Evan smiled gently and nodded. “You have. But it’s a misguided belief that we in the Landing turn our faces against. How on earth could using magic for good purposes offend the Lord? If He didn’t want us to practice it, then He wouldn’t have given it to us in the first place.”
Alan had already considered that, and came up with another question.
“Might we believe that simply because it’s convenient to do so? I mean, given our circumstances? The whole web of magic that this town had found itself entrapped in?”
Evan’s smile became more knowing. “We are only human, son. Most belief is determined, in the end, in good part by convenience. When it’s inconvenient and you still do it … that is the true test of faith.”
The pastor drew back from the recollection. He went up the steps to the altar, rearranged the pieces on it slightly. There was no real need, but it was his habit. He was fussy and he knew it. And he was just about to turn away, when he thought he heard a small sound from the crypt.
There were no vermin in this building, he was sure of that. And Mrs. Larch, the woman who volunteered as cleaner, was not due today. Maybe a stray cat had gotten down there … what else could it be?
He went to the door, which was always kept slightly ajar. And pulled it further open. It was dense oak with iron rivets across it, and seemed to weigh half a ton. His shoulders ached. He peered into the darkness below, then reached for a light switch.
Nothing happened.
“Hey?”
No answer came, but Alan thought he saw a brief flicker of very pale white light. Not exactly like a flashlight beam. More like an abrupt electric sizzle. There was no accompanying sound, but he knew that there was a big fuse box down there, the entry point for the whole church’s power supply. And the idea that it had developed a fault …
He began murmuring gently to himself, backtracking to a cabinet where, amongst other things, there were candles stored. They were mostly used for services, but he needed one for a more practical purpose today. He fumbled with a box of matches, lit one up, then put it in a holder. After which, he returned to the doorway.
His eyes strained as he peered into the gloom. Off toward the rear of the chamber, he made out that flickering again. It was in the strangest shape, almost like the white wing of some massive bird.
If sparks were being thrown that heavily then maybe he should call an electrician. But the church might burn down before one showed up. Alan thought he knew which the right switch was to cut off the supply of power. It would be better to do that first, and worry about the finer details later.
Stepping carefully, his footsteps clacking on the stonework and his shadow looming massively around him in the candlelight, the pastor started heading down.
CHAPTER 13
Less than an hour later, I was back in the woods again, surrounded by a bleached-out hush. The only difference was that it was daylight this time. I was back where the meteors had hit the earth. The fires had been put out completely, but the deep furrows in the loamy dirt were still steaming gently. And there was a strange mineral smell filling the entire area, an odor that seemed to have very little to do with our world.
Willets had only been halfway right. Two of the meteors had sealed themselves shut again, their occupants presumably cocooned inside. He’d told us there’d be no way to break into them, and I supposed he might be right. But I’d brought both himself and the judge along to test that.
They let loose lightning bolts, and searing blasts of power. But to absolutely no effect. And none of the spells they tried worked either. They couldn’t even levitate the things an inch, much less destroy them.
The third rock was still wide open, hollow as a walnut shell. None of us were pleased to see that, wondering where its inhabitant had gone.
I was forced to retrace my steps across the municipal border before I could get Vallencourt on his cell phone, since Regan’s Curse means that you can’t communicate outside the town. And I outlined the situation for him.
“These two have to be the ones I saw in the commercial district.”
“Where’s the third?” he asked.
Still in town, would be my guess. It had to be the creature that had been transforming families there. If it was still there in daylight, then it had to be in hiding, somewhere deep and dark. I explained all that to Ritchie, and then advised him to watch his step.
Then I noticed there were softly murmuring voices in the background, on the far end of the line. So I asked him where he was.
“Raine General,” he told me. “The lieutenant’s woken up.”
Which came as a complete surprise. I felt my heart bang up against my ribs, relief washing through me. My God, Saul had recovered. He was going to be okay. And I’d thought for certain he was dead when Cass -- or rather, the physical incarnation of her dark side -- had shot him.
My lungs didn’t seem to move for several drawn-out seconds. And then I managed to gasp, “How is he?”
“He’s weak. There’s been some wasting of the muscles.”
Which meant the man would need a lot of therapy.
“But he’s all right, apart from that?”
Ritchie sounded vague, uncertain. “Physically, he’s pretty much fine. But there seems to be a problem with his memory.”
And I’d not been expecting that.
“How bad?”
“The doctors are still trying to figure that one out. He doesn’t even recognize his wife yet.”
Which slowed my heartbeat right back down, dampening my excitement. I was delighted that Saul had found his way back to us. But in what shape?
“There’s no telling how much he’ll get back,” Ritchie was explaining. He sounded as if he was parroting what he had been told by the medics. “It’s different in every case, apparently. Which means we’ve nothing to go on.”
I absorbed that carefully, feeling my mouth grow a little numb. And then I accepted the reality of what was happening, and moved on past it.
“Well, give him my best wishes all the same. Amelia too.”
“I’ll do that.” He paused. “What exactly are you up to, Ross?”
I stared back at the forest I had just emerged from.
“Me? I’m
on my way to look up an old friend.”
* * *
I told the adepts what had happened. And then took my leave of them, since I needed to do this next part on my own.
As I headed through the trees toward the riverbank, what Willets had recently said kept rebounding back at me. If we were going to fight these things, we needed our best people to the fore. The bravest, toughest, hardiest souls. And for the last couple of months, we had been short one individual who definitely answered that description.
The river finally came in view, a band of pale softened brightness amongst this mass of faded brown and orange. I could faintly hear the sounds that it was making, a slow release of gentle high notes on the edges of my consciousness. Then Cassie’s campsite swung in view.
The fire was still out. She’d no need to relight it at this time of day, since it wasn’t very cold. She was on her back on a flat strip of turf a few yards from the water, doing crunches, her lean frame tensing every time she lifted up. She was doing them the right way, with her hands beside her ears rather than folded back behind her head. And she’s never been any muscle-bound babe, but Cassie likes to keep herself in good condition.
I gazed back at the home she’d made herself. It was starting to look more temporary than ever. The shelter’s roof was sagging in the middle. Water had collected there. Some of the leaves further out to the edges had been blown away. She hadn’t bothered to replace them. And the same worry came back to me that had been nagging me for quite a while.
Winter would be arriving soon. And did she plan to stay out here when the snows came? I hoped not.
A few of her possessions were scattered around inside the hut. Clothing mostly. And some implements she needed to survive. But I could make out the one object that meant the most to her. The photograph of Cass with her three kids, sprawled out and smiling in Crealley Street Park. She had lost them to magic gone wrong, exactly the same as with my family. I was pretty sure that it was one of the reasons we’d become so close.
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