Modern Magic
Page 293
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.”
Chapter Seventeen
It would have been wiser, perhaps, for Dr. Graves to lead. He might have gone right through the basement door and into the main house, done a bit of reconnaissance, and returned to give Clay the lay of the land. But Clay was not the sort of man—not the sort of creature—to wait while others put themselves at risk. Graves admired that about him. It might not be the wisest course of action for the two of them to rush headlong up those stairs, but Graves did not feel it appropriate to judge Clay by the standards of human wisdom. He was unique in all the world. Touched by the creator. Immortal. It was obvious that to Clay, strategy was necessary only when the lives of others were in peril. When it was his own life at stake, it was full steam ahead, and the consequences be damned.
And Dr. Graves, well, he was already dead, so what the hell did he care?
“Do we have any plan at all?” Graves whispered.
Clay had adopted his fundamental form, the one Graves assumed was his true self. He was a formidable figure, at least seven feet tall, with dried cracks in his flesh as though he were made of arid, hard-packed desert. The Clay of God. Someday, Graves would like to have heard the story of this remarkable being’s life.
But that was for another day.
“A plan? Of course we have a plan,” Clay said, hurrying up the stairs, which creaked beneath his bulk. “We kill or incapacitate everything that tries to stop us from freeing Ceridwen, and we make sure Morrigan doesn’t set either Sweetblood or the Nimble Man free.”
Graves did not bother to pretend to walk. He drifted up the stairs behind Clay. He had willed his appearance to change, somewhat. Now he was the younger Leonard Graves, in the early days of his adventuring. Heavy boots covered his feet and suspenders crisscrossed his back. His sleeves were rolled up, his huge fists prepared for a fight.
“It lacks a certain finesse,” Graves told his ally.
Clay laughed as he reached the top of the basement stairs. He glanced back at Graves, eyes twinkling in the gloom. “Leave the finesse to Conan Doyle. It’s going to come down to magick. You know it, and I know it. I resent being the muscle as much as you do. In our time, we’ve both led armies, you and I. But this isn’t about who can outsmart Morrigan. It’s about who can destroy her.”
The words struck close to home. Graves had been a man of science as well as a man of action during his life. It was with a certain reluctance that he took the role of foot soldier. Yet with myriad worlds hanging in the balance and time of the essence, he knew that all that remained was to fight. And so fight he would. With all that remained of his soul.
“Let’s get to it,” he told Clay.
The shapeshifter turned toward the door. He reached for the knob, but his hand paused an inch away from it. Clay sniffed the air.
“What is it?” Graves asked.
The door rattled and the stairs trembled with the pounding of footfalls beyond that door.
“Boggarts,” Clay said.
Graves hissed under his breath. “Son of a bitch.”
Then the door exploded inward. Two enormous, hideously ugly boggarts crashed through the splintering wood and leaped upon Clay, jaws gnashing and claws tearing flesh even as the trio tumbled down the stairs in a tangle of limbs.
Graves darted into the air, soaring near the ceiling of the basement. Boggarts. He shivered. The Night People could not hurt him, nor could the walking dead. Morrigan had been able to do so with magick. But Boggarts were different. Boggarts ate ectoplasm. They could tear him apart, gulp down bits of his spectral body as if he were still flesh and blood. They could tear his soul apart, and eat it, and then there would be no eternal rest for Leonard Graves.
The things attacked Clay, but already one of them had scented him. It must have been how their presence was noticed in the first place. One of the creatures raised its heavy head and turned burning yellow eyes upward. Graves could have fled, but he would never have left Clay there alone. For the boggarts were not the only threat to come through that shattered door.
The first Corca Duibhne poked its head through the doorway, and it grinned, exposing razor fangs. It scrambled down the stairs after the boggarts, and then another appeared, and another, until there were six, no eight of them.
And at the last, behind them came another figure, so tall it had to stoop to get through the shattered doorway. It was a woman. Or a nightmare contortion of what a woman might have been. Nine feet tall, the hag had only opalescent orbs where her eyes ought to have been. Her hair was filthy, stringy, and hung over the shoulders of the rags she wore, belted with a chain of infant human skulls. Her teeth were long and yellow, her lips crusted with dried blood.
“What the hell is it?” Dr. Graves asked aloud.
On the concrete floor, Clay hurled a boggart across the basement to crash into the burner. The other was still focused on Graves himself. But both ghost and shapeshifter stared at the new arrival.
“Black Annis,” Clay said. “It’s a Black Annis.”
Eve had spent eternity paying for her sins, both those she had committed, and those to which she had given birth. Vampires. Her children. The bastard offspring of an Archduke of Hell and the castoff queen of Eden. The Lord might have made her, but the demon had remade her. Many times she had thought of giving herself over to the sun, letting its light purify her, end her damnation. But she would not.
She would not stop fighting the darkness until she had expunged her sins. And she would not know when that time had come until the Lord Himself whispered the words in her ear.
Come home.
Until then, she would fight, and she would fear nothing. The Lord would not allow her to die until she had done her penance.
Her knees scraped the house as she scaled the back wall. Another pair of pants ruined. Her talons dug into brick, and she raised herself up quickly, her body as light to her as if her bones were hollow. Such was the strength damnation had given her. Eve could have quickened her ascent b
y using window frames, but she avoided them, not wishing to be seen until a time of her own choosing.
A glance downward told her the boy was keeping up. She smiled, and as she did, her fangs slid downward, extending themselves. The crimson mist swirled around her, the breeze rustling her hair. Eve ran her tongue over the tips of her fangs as she watched Danny Ferrick climb.
If he lived to see another morning, the kid might actually turn out to be worth having around.
Eyes narrowed, she began to climb again. Talons split mortar. Her knees and the toes of her shoes gained purchase against the brick. She was nearly there now, just a few more feet. Despite her speed, Danny was catching up. She sensed him, just below her.
Eve reached up to grasp the edge of the flat roof of Conan Doyle’s brownstone. With a single thrust, she pulled herself up with such force that she sprang into the air and landed on the roof in a crouch.
The red mist rolled across the roof, pushed along by the breeze. It eddied and swirled around chimneys and vents and the tall box-like structure that contained the door that led into the building. Eve took several steps toward it, and then froze.
From the mist, from the shadows, from the night they came. Of course they did. Morrigan would not have been so foolish as to leave the roof unguarded. The Corca Duibhne moved slowly, slinking across the roof, taking their time to circle around her, like hyenas stalking prey. She counted at least nine, but there might have been more, deeper in the bloody fog, or in the shadows.
“You don’t want to do this,” Eve warned them.
“Oh, yessss we do,” one of them hissed. “You’re the traitor. The hateful mother of darkness. There isn’t one among us who wouldn’t give his life for a change at tearing out your throat.”
“It’s been done.” Eve grinned, baring her fangs. “I got better.”
Danny scrambled up over the edge of the roof behind her.
The Corca Duibhne hesitated.
“You ready, kid?” Eve asked.
She did not have to see the smile on his face. She could hear it in the tone of his voice.
“Oh, yeah,” Danny Ferrick told her. “I was born for this.”
The strangest thing happened, then. The Corca Duibhne began to laugh. It was an eerie susurrus of giddy whispers that carried to her on the mist. Slowly, they began to pull back. Eve narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out what they were up to.
And something moved atop the nearest tall chimney. Something large that crawled, lizard-like, up the brick and perched on top. Its wings spread, just a shadow in the scarlet night.
Then it burst into flames.
Spread its wings, its entire body consumed by the blaze.
A plume of fire jetted from its snout.
“What is it?” Danny asked, a tremor of fear in his voice.
Still, Eve did not look at him. Her gaze was on the creature, this thing that could incinerate her, could end her life. “A fire drake,” she told him. “And it’s all yours, kid.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” Danny snapped.
“Sorry. I’ve got the dweebs. The big burning motherfucker belongs to you.”
Morrigan threw her arms upward, the power coursing through her, and she shook in ecstasy. It was like the caress of a thousand lovers. Her nipples hardened and her sex burned with the heat of her passion, wet as though to welcome a lover. And nothing was ever more true, for the only lover she would ever accept would arrive at any moment.
“Yes!” she wailed, tears of joy streaking her face. “Come to me!”
The ballroom was blindingly bright. The magick spilling out through the cracks in Sweetblood’s chrysalis flashed orange and yellow and red, an inferno of color that played off of the mirrored walls and off of the chandeliers above. And upon that chrysalis, seared by the power as though by scalding steam, Ceridwen arched her back and screamed as she had not done since the day of her mother’s slaughter, that day when Morrigan had held the girl in her arms and pretended to care.
The younger sorceress screamed again, eyes wide with the madness of her agony. Welts had risen on her blue-white flesh, and then blisters, which had burst. Pus ran from her legs and back where the magick seared her. Her mouth opened again but nothing came from it now but magick, power that spilled from her in a torrent of sparks and embers and a silver mist wholly unlike the red fog that had enveloped the city.
Morrigan danced across the room, twirling, stepping over the human sacrifices that her Corca Duibhne had brought. Their bodies were flayed, their chest cavities opened, their viscera strewn about the floor and shaped into the patterns and sigils that focused the magick she now siphoned from Sweetblood. Ceridwen was the key, though. The filter. Without her Morrigan might have died calling up the Nimble Man. Now Ceridwen would die instead.
The Fey witch reached her niece.
“Ah, sweet girl,” she said. “You with your elemental magick. Your heart was with nature. You never understood that the true power is in the unnatural.”
Morrigan ran her hands over Ceridwen’s body, even as her niece bucked upward again, shrieking, crying tears that fell as water but struck the ground as crystals of ice. Her violet eyes misted. Her suffering was exquisite.
Then, abruptly, Ceridwen’s eyes focused, and shifted to Morrigan. “You’ll die.”
“Yes, darling. But, first, I’ll live.”
Morrigan bent over her and brought her lips to Ceridwen’s. They tasted of mint. Her tongue slid into Ceridwen’s mouth and when the young sorceress bucked again, the magick spilling from the mage erupted into Morrigan’s mouth. The Fey witch felt her knees weaken with the pleasure of it and she staggered back. Just a taste of Sweetblood’s power was intoxicating, arousing. But soon, she would have that and so much more.
She wiped a bit of spittle from her mouth. “Oooh, that’s nice.”
“Mistress!”
The Corca Duibhne hated the bright light. It hurt them. They were terrified enough of Sweetblood, but with his magick coalescing in the room and the glaring illumination, they had fled to the corridor. Morrigan did not care. They were useless to her now except as a shield. All she needed them to do was see that she was undisturbed.
Yet now here was one, a pitiful thing it was, too. A runt. A lackey’s lackey. It had called to her, and now it was pointing into the room, pointing at something behind her. Morrigan’s instinct was to break it, to shatter the Corca Duibhne. But then she saw the wonder in its cruel eyes and she turned, holding her breath.
Ceridwen screamed her throat ragged, choking on her own blood. She whimpered, and cried for her dead mother.
Behind her, on the other side of the chrysalis, a slit had opened in the fabric of the world. The magick that Morrigan had leeched from the mage had begun to seep into that hole as if carried by some unseen current. It was a wound in the heart of the universe, and its edges were peeling back like curtains torn aside, or the folds of a new mother’s offering.
Within that slit all was gray and cold and still. It was a limbo place, a nothing, a flat and lifeless void.
Yet in the gray, Morrigan could see a shimmering figure, a silhouette gilded with red. And it was growing more distinct, moving nearer to the passageway between worlds.
Morrigan could barely breathe. She could not speak. For here at last were all of her dreams. Here, at last, was her salvation, her happiness, and now she would drive all the souls of creation to their knees even as all of those who had thwarted her were forced to bear witness.
All of the worlds in existence would now be as they were meant to be. To Morrigan, her deeds were not cruel, but a mercy. She was not destroying benevolence and beauty, but shattering the illusion that they existed at all. She was setting things right.
The Nimble Man had once been denied. Now her destiny was entwined with his, and all would be as it should be. The Nimble Man would be free.
All strength left her and she collapsed to her knees, her heart near to bursting with bliss.
And inside that portal
, The Nimble Man moved closer to this world.
Conan Doyle straightened his jacket and brushed ashes from his sleeve, then stepped over the charred corpses of a trio of Corca Duibhne. He closed the heavy oak door behind him and then glanced around the foyer of the brownstone.
He was home.
The Night People came from the parlor, several of them trying to squeeze through the door at once, clambering over one another to get at him like dogs on a fox hunt. Others appeared in the corridor that led to the kitchen, their clothes and faces smeared with blood, one of them holding a chunk of meat in his hand, two bones jutting from its end. Conan Doyle recognized them as the ulna and radius, splintered. It was the lower arm of a human being.
Others appeared on the grand staircase. Two, then a third. A fourth hung from the light fixture above.
There were eleven of twelve of them, all told.
Conan Doyle lifted his chin, nostrils flaring, and stood waiting for them to come. He narrowed his gaze and thought again of war. Not merely the Twilight Wars, but others as well, the conflicts that devastated Europe, that took his brother and his son, that crushed the hearts of so many mothers and fathers and young brides. So much of his early life had been spent in the exercise of his imagination and of his intellect. He respected the mind and the heart, the use of reason. But even then, he had known that there came a time when the basest nature of his enemies would prevail, and the time for reason was over.
“This is my home,” he said, biting off each word with grinding teeth. “And I want you out!”
The Corca Duibhne raced at him, their claws scoring the wood floor. Some of them capered like beasts, others swaggered in their leather, modeling themselves after the darker impulses of mankind. Yet they were all nothing more than cruel, stupid animals.
Conan Doyle threw his head back, summoned the magick up inside himself and felt it surge into him as though he had been struck by lightning. A blue mist spilled from his eyes like tears of azure steam. The Corca Duibhne from the parlor were almost upon him. With a twist of his wrist, he laid his hand out toward him, palm upward, and a spell rolled off of his fingers. He barked a phrase in Macedonian, and the floor erupted beneath them. The slats of the wood floor became roots that reached up and twined around their ankles. Shoots split off from the roots and sunk into the Night People’s flesh, and their bodies began to change. To harden. Bark formed upon their skin, and they screamed as tiny branches grew out from their flesh, sprouting leaves.