Modern Magic
Page 283
Curious, he stepped into the living room. There in the silence, in the dim, flickering glow of burning wicks, Julia Ferrick lay sideways on the sofa, legs drawn up beneath her, sleeping fitfully. She muttered something and shifted, her anxious heart afflicting her dreams, but she slept on. Several feet away, Danny sat on the floor with his knees drawn up under his chin, watching over his mother. He still dressed the part of the rebellious child, but circumstances had brought them closer, it seemed, than they had been for some time. Danny’s eyes glowed orange in the candle light.
Conan Doyle and the demon child watched one another for several moments. Danny made no sign that he had seen the old mage, but Conan Doyle knew the boy was aware of his presence. At length he beckoned with an outstretched finger.
“Come,” he said. “We have a great deal to discuss.”
Danny frowned at him and glanced at his mother again.
“She will be all right,” Conan Doyle assured him.
Then he turned and went into the dining room, knowing that the boy would follow. The room was a surprise. Though the house was pleasant enough, it was decorated with the casual laissez-faire attitude of most modern American homes. The dining room, however, was all dark wood and silver behind glass, and the small chandelier was black iron. It had the atmosphere of another age, and Conan Doyle immediately felt more at home here.
The others were all gathered there. Squire had opened a liquor cabinet and discovered a bottle of Talisker scotch, which Conan Doyle presumed had been there since the house had a Mister Ferrick within it. The goblin presided, now, over a pair of shot glasses that were set upon the dining room table. One was his own, and the other belonged to Eve, who had tilted her high-backed chair away from the table and propped her boots upon its surface. Conan Doyle frowned, displeased by her lack of courtesy, but this was typical of her. Eve was long past taking lessons in propriety from anyone. He also chose not to mention his distaste at the idea of the pair of them doing shots of finely aged scotch.
Ceridwen was seated across from them. She held her elemental staff across her lap, cradling it as though it was her child, and she gazed into the ice sphere atop it, watching the dancing flame therein with the manner of a scrier. Conan Doyle knew this was not far from the truth. There were things she had seen in the ice there that had come to pass. For now, though, the ice was clear save that flame.
At the far end of the room, Clay stood with his arms crossed, speaking with Graves. The apparition of the dead man was as solid as Conan Doyle had ever seen it, and he thought perhaps it was the setting that inspired Graves to such focus. He was in the ordinary house of a more or less ordinary woman, and in such close quarters he felt awkward about appearing as what he was . . . a ghost.
Clay wore the face that had become his most common visage, and he was the first to glance up when Conan Doyle entered the room.
“Well, well,” Eve said, taking her boots from the table and reaching for her newly filled shot glass. She stood and raised it as though in a toast. “I’m going to guess we’ve got a plan.”
“We do indeed,” Conan Doyle replied.
Eve threw back the shot of Talisker and knocked the glass loudly onto the table. “About time,” she said. “I’m so bored I’ve got spiders in my brain. The goblin was starting to seem like a scintillating conversationalist.”
“Hey!” Squire protested. “I’ve got oodles of personality. I’m a catch!”
Eve laughed. “If I spend enough time with you, I’m sure to catch something.”
Conan Doyle appreciated the fact that Clay and Graves, at least, seemed appropriately grim. He glared at Eve, but Ceridwen spoke up first.
“That will be enough,” the Fey sorceress commanded.
Eve flinched, eyes narrowing at the presumption in Ceridwen’s tone, but that was all right. The women were equally formidable. Ceridwen was royalty, but Eve was royalty of a sort herself. A matriarch in her own right. Still, there were times when angering her was the only way to remind her of what her priorities ought to be.
“I apologize for the wait,” Conan Doyle said, “but it is time, now, to get to work.” He gestured around the table. “Please, all of you, be seated.” The old mage turned toward Danny Ferrick, who waited behind him in the arched entry of the dining room.
“Danny, come in. Join us. This is your house. You have a right to hear what we plan to do.”
The teenager nodded, the nubs of his horns gleaming sharp and black in the candlelight. He passed Conan Doyle and took a seat beside Ceridwen, though he fidgeted and glanced at her several times, distracted either by her beauty or her power, both of which were palpable. Conan Doyle took note of this, and of the way the boy stole glances at Eve as well. A teenaged boy amidst these two women . . . Danny was unlikely to hear a word he said.
Conan Doyle sat at one end of the table and Clay at the other. Squire and Eve pulled their chairs in closer. Graves did not sit at all. Ever. Regardless of how solid he might appear, he was, after all, merely a shade.
“Now, then,” Conan Doyle said, surveying his Menagerie, “let us be clear about this. Thus far, our efforts have been less than useless. We have learned little of value. The first order of business is to improve our position in that regard.”
He turned the plan over in his mind, wishing there was more to be done. Conan Doyle opened the case for his pipe, finding comfort in it. Once more he blew lightly on its bowl and it was rekindled. He took a long pull upon it, let out the smoke, and then merely held it in his hand.
“Ceridwen will infiltrate my home. Morrigan has the Corca Duibhne at her disposal, as well as a handful of Fey warriors. In order to discover what her intentions are, subtlety will be more effective than force. For now. Morrigan wants access to Sweetblood’s power, and we must know why. It cannot be to release him, for Lorenzo Sanguedolce could easily destroy the tainted sorceress. The only way she could have breached the magickal defenses around my home is if Sweetblood’s chrysalis is already leaking. But he has not been released, or the world would know it. If we rush to battle without answers, it might cost more than our lives. It might lead to catastrophe.”
Conan Doyle nodded at Ceridwen. He was aware of the magnitude of what he was asking, sending her alone into the lair of their enemy. But such was his faith in her. And if anyone was to combat Morrigan alone, her niece had the best chance of surviving such a conflict.
“For my part, I will remain here. I hope that Mrs. Ferrick will be kind enough to watch over me whilst I meditate and attempt to reach Lorenzo. Our minds touched once before, when I first discovered his strange sarcophagus, and now I must try to communicate with him again. We must know why he hid himself away. From our brief contact, it is clear that Sweetblood believes that there will be cataclysmic consequences if his chrysalis is opened. The signs and portents might not all be Morrigan’s doing. Some of them could be a result of the natural and supernatural worlds reacting to the prospect of Sweetblood’s release . . . or whatever Morrigan plans to do with him. There are too many questions. I hope Sweetblood can be made to provide some answers.”
A strong wind had begun to blow and the storm windows rattled in their frames. The red fog seemed to undulate as they swept past outside. Conan Doyle took his pipe firmly between his lips and drew a long puff into his lungs. Outside, the wind screamed. Danny Ferrick muttered under his breath and even Squire glanced uneasily out into the bleeding night.
“Yes. It is almost as if the malign powers of the universe sense us here, within these walls, plotting against them,” Conan Doyle said, sitting back in his chair and regarding them.
Ceridwen gazed at him, her eyes so clear and bright that he could not help but recall the days in which he had lost himself within them. Conan Doyle’s heart ached. He wished for all of this to be over so that he might have just a handful of moments to speak with her in peace, to let her know that his time with her was so cherished that its memory alone had given him the strength to endure terror and hardship. But, if
ever, that was for later, when this parade of horrors had come to an end.
“That may be truer than you know.”
Conan Doyle turned his gaze upon Eve. Her tone was often so cavalier that it was easy to forget her age, her significance to the worlds of men and monsters. Now her voice had altered, however. Her words were weighted with knowledge as ancient as human thought.
“Speak your mind, Eve,” he said.
Squire turned to look at her, the look on his face reflecting a kind of disappointment, perhaps because the woman who had been his drinking companion moments earlier had now been subsumed by her true self. Eve pushed her raven hair away from her face and stared at Conan Doyle.
“There are those of you who dislike any discussion of true evil, of Heaven and Hell as anything other than random dimensions, worlds folded upon worlds not unlike this land of men or Faerie, Lemuria, or Asgard. You don’t want to hear about God, about angels and demons.”
Dr. Graves floated behind her chair, his arms crossed. “With all we have experienced, the Judeo-Christian myth is a bit too exclusive to be believed. One thing negates most of the others.”
“No,” Eve said, glancing at him. “No, it doesn’t. I’m not talking about the doctrine of any one church. I’m talking about the reality. The truth. The beginning. Out there in the universe, there are powers beyond your imagining, and powers beyond their imagining, and one power beyond them all.”
Clay had been silent during this but now he sat up a bit straighter in his chair and gazed first at Graves and then at Conan Doyle. “Eve is correct, of course. You know my story, Doyle. You’re the one who helped me discover it. Yet you doubt it? There are things that are evil in form and thought, in blood and flesh, not merely by intent.”
Danny Ferrick bared his shark-like teeth in a dubious grin. “Hold up, you guys. Seriously. All of you.”
The Menagerie turned, as one, and stared at the boy. Conan Doyle was surprised that their scrutiny did not deter Danny from continuing. It boded well for the boy. Clearly he had begun to accept what he was, and that the world held the darkest of secrets.
“Go on, Danny,” Conan Doyle said.
The teenager drummed clawed fingertips upon the table, saw what he was doing and stopped. “Okay, look, no offense, but you guys need to shut the fuck up and get this posse in motion. Yeah, there’s evil. I mean, duh. Sorry, but, any asshole can look out the window. This Morrigan, is she powerful enough to be doing all of this, making it rain toads and blood, resurrecting an army of Resident Evil rejects, blotting out the sun, making little kids puke up maggots?”
Conan Doyle raised an eyebrow and turned to Ceridwen. As one, they both shook their heads firmly.
“No,” Ceridwen said. “My aunt has never had that kind of power.”
“So, other options, then?” Danny asked. “I’d come up with a few, but if you can’t play it on GameCube, I’m guessing none of my thoughts are gonna help out.”
None of them responded. At length, Conan Doyle cleared his throat. “Simply this,” he said. “Either the dark powers in the world are being exacerbated by Morrigan’s actions, and all of this is merely a byproduct . . . such phenomena are not uncommon, though the scale of this outbreak is tremendous and—”
“Or?” Graves interrupted. The ghost still had his arms crossed, a forbidding expression on his face. “You said there were two options.”
“Or Morrigan is not our true enemy, and is merely serving a greater darkness, something powerful enough to cause all of this to happen.”
Squire snorted derisively. “Oh, wonderful. What’s the bad news?”
Conan Doyle shot him a withering glance and the goblin fell silent, looking appropriately penitent.
“The boy’s right,” Clay said. “We’re wasting time. We know what you and Ceridwen are going to be doing, Doyle. What of the rest of us?”
The glow of candles flickered across Clay’s face and for a moment Conan Doyle could not focus on his features. It was as though he could see, in that moment, every face Clay had ever worn. He hesitated a moment before turning his attention to Dr. Graves.
“The time has come for us to speak of the dead,” Conan Doyle began. “I do not believe that Morrigan is directly responsible for this mass resurrection. It is likely yet another supernatural portent. However, given what Dr. Graves has told us about the walking dead he observed in Boston—that some of them seem to be traveling toward a single destination with a great deal of purpose—the only logical conclusion is that Morrigan is attempting to use them to her advantage, as her servants. Given their direction, I believe they are being directed toward the Museum of Fine Arts, and that they are being sent to retrieve something for Morrigan that she cannot retrieve for herself.
“That object would be the Eye of Eogain.”
They all stared at him. Squire threw up his hands. “All right. I give. How the hell do you know that?”
Conan Doyle smiled. “Why, it’s—”
“If you say ‘elementary,’ I quit,” the goblin cut in.
The old mage puffed on his pipe once more. “Very well,” he replied. “Let me tell you a story.” He watched them all over the bowl of his pipe. “Before the Romans laid claim to the British Isles, magick roamed there unchecked. Chief among its practitioners were the druids, sorcerer priests who performed the correct rituals and sacrifices, and made certain that the hungry dead, the mischievous spirits, and the peoples of Faerie kept away from their tribes.
“This was no simple task. There are powerful demons that saw this is a challenge, and some of the dead are vengeful if their mischief is disrupted. But worst of all for the druids were the arrogant Fey. There were those in Faerie who were not at all appeased by the druids’ offerings, and though the King forbade them from interfering with the human world, still they looked for opportunities to bedevil the druids. The worst of these, a trickster sorceress, cast her cruel eye upon Eogain, perhaps the most powerful druid in all the isles. He was an arch mage with skill unmatched in that age.
“Eogain had tapped the magick of the universe, but he feared that his will would not be sufficient to control it, to focus such power. So he turned to a different skill, and from silver he fashioned an orb, etched with runes that would channel magick. His left eye had been lost in battle with a child-stealing goblin—”
Squire cleared his throat. “No relation.”
Conan Doyle ignored him and went on. “Eogain replaced his left eye with that silver orb. From that moment on, every black-hearted beast and dark spirit feared the Eye of Eogain, for with only a look he could destroy them.
“His mere existence, however, was an affront to that Fey trickster, and she came upon him as he slept and murdered him, dumping his body in a peat bog, silver eye and all.”
He saw confusion upon the faces of the Menagerie and would have liked to lead them to his conclusions, to show them the logic through which he had arrived there. Conan Doyle felt it was more instructive to cause others to think than to do their thinking for them. But the time for such indulgences was over.
“This tale is more than legend, my friends. Seven months ago, outside the English village of Windling, workers cutting blocks of peat from a local bog discovered a human skull, mummified by the peculiar conditions of having been put to rest in the bog. There was some skin left upon the skull, and wisps of hair, and in the scored left orbital cavity, a silver sphere marked with runes.”
Even the wind had quieted outside the house. It was Clay who spoke.
“The Eye of Eogain,” he said.
“Indeed,” Conan Doyle replied, taking a long breath. “I have been following the progress of this story since I first learned of it. Those who are studying the skull have been unable to remove the Eye without damaging the skull, and are reluctant to do so. For now, they have chosen to leave it intact, and for the last several months, Windling Man, as they refer to the skull, has been touring America with an exhibit bearing the crude title ‘The Bog People.’”
> One by one, Conan Doyle watched as understanding lit their faces. They all seemed intrigued, but Ceridwen looked genuinely surprised, even a bit angry. Conan Doyle had dealt with such reactions from her before. Even when they had loved one another beyond reason, she had felt that he kept his thoughts too much to himself.
“And you think that Morrigan is also aware of the Eye,” Dr. Graves ventured, his spectral form shimmering in the candle light.
“I’m certain of it. All of her actions of late have been timed to coincide with the arrival of Eogain’s skull in Boston, at which time she would have access both to a power locus, the Eye, and a place where the walls between worlds has been worn thin. Namely, my home. All she needed then was Sweetblood, and, of course, she’s found him.”
Ceridwen lifted her chin, and when she spoke it was with the regal bearing she had learned as the niece of King Finvarra. “Why have you not mentioned this to us before?”
Conan Doyle frowned. “Until Dr. Graves gave me his report a scant hour ago, I was not aware that Morrigan had an interest in the Eye. I admit I ought to have at least suspected she might desire it, but we have had several other things to keep us occupied.”
“Okay,” Squire said, “but how did Ceridwen’s bitchy aunt know about the Eye in the first place? Far as I know, she hasn’t set foot in this world since the Twilight Wars. And even before that, she always talked about ‘the Blight,’ didn’t like hanging around here much.”
“Ah, but once upon a time she liked it very much,” Conan Doyle said. “This was two thousand years ago, Squire. And Morrigan knows very well the tale of Eogain and the power of his Eye, for she was the one who murdered him, who left him to rot in that bog in Windling.”
“Why didn’t she just take it?” Eve asked. “I mean, she’s an evil twat, but she isn’t stupid. An item like that is exactly the kind of thing you magicians collect, just in case. Why leave the Eye in his head, at the bottom of some bog?”