He snuggled down into his blow-dried bed and slid back into sleep feeling curiously comforted, as if there were a mantle of protection wrapped around him thicker and warmer than any duvet.
In the morning Annie scooped up the damp trousers and said philosophically: “At least it isn’t demonspit. I thought I would never get that out. And it didn’t do the washing machine any good, either. I had to have the man ’round a month later: he said it had gummed up the filter.”
She kept her tone light and turned her head away so Nathan wouldn’t see the anxiety in her eyes.
Later that day Nathan caught the bus to Chizzledown to visit the Thorns. Rowena was the last surviving member of the ancient family who had owned Thornyhill Manor since time out of mind, the only legitimate descendant of Josevius Grimthorn. Despite two marriages locals still called her Rowena Thorn, and since her second husband seemed to have no particular surname, or none of distinction, he had become Mr. Thorn willy-nilly, though he didn’t appear to object. His real name was Errek Moy Rhindon, an exile from Eos whom Nathan had yanked into this world largely by mistake, dumping him on the beach at Pevensey Bay as an illegal immigrant with no papers and nowhere to return to. It had taken Nathan some while to catch up with him again, by which time he had begun to learn the language and assimilate an alien and—to him—backward culture. Unfortunately, he had seen the original Star Wars trilogy at the house of a charity worker not long after his arrival, giving him a view of our universe that he had never lost. In the Grandir’s world, fiction was banned, since it was said to be founded on corruption and lies, and accordingly Eric had believed the films constituted an account of our history, detailing a high point of civilization from which we had subsequently declined. Even now that he was married to Rowena and had learned rather more about the world that had adopted him, he was still prone to greet people with May the Force be with you! and to bracket the fall of the Republic and the Emperor’s seizure of power with later events in Rome or revolutionary France.
Rowena ran an antiques shop, with a two-story apartment above where she and Eric lived. She was on the phone when Nathan arrived, what sounded like a business call about something whose provenance she clearly doubted, so Eric took him into the small kitchen at the back and made coffee. Since he came to this world, he had developed a passion for it. Nathan accepted a cup with plenty of milk and sugar and sat down on a rickety chair.
“So,” Eric said, “you have been on Eos again, in a dream?”
“Mm.”
“The Contamination has not yet reached Arkatron?”
“Not yet,” Nathan said. The Contamination was a form of magical pollution, probably the fallout from a war that had gotten out of hand, which had poisoned the entire cosmos, destroying all living things. Eos was the last surviving planet, and even there only a few regions were still free.
“Do you miss your home?” Nathan asked diffidently.
“Only a little. It seems so far away—so long ago. Another world! This is my home now.” Integration, Nathan thought. Like in my dreams. You find yourself in a different universe, you start to belong to it. It must be some form of survival trait.
He said: “But on Eos, you lived for ages. Thousands of years.” The Eosians used their magic to prolong life, resulting in a population so sterile, no children had been born there for centuries. “Here—you’ll grow older.” He didn’t say, You’ll die, but Eric knew what he meant.
“Everyone grow old, in the end,” Eric said largely. “Is nature. Here, maybe it happen faster, but life better. Also, I not wish to outlive Rowena. Is good we pass the Gate together. Who know what lies beyond? Perhaps we are reborn in new universe, have another life, another youth. In winter leaves wither, fall from tree, but in spring they grow again. Perhaps the same with people. Death part of a cycle, then there is room to regrow.”
Eric had a decidedly philosophical streak, Nathan reflected, but that was a possible side effect of intercosmic travel. He himself showed a tendency to philosophize from time to time, and he was a teenager.
He said, “I suppose so,” and took a chocolate cookie from a package Eric had thoughtfully placed by his elbow.
“You find the Crown yet?” Eric inquired.
“Sort of. I know where it is, but it’s going to be difficult to get. You know so much about the Grail relics—they’re a major legend in your world. What kind of protection does the Crown have? Is there a spirit trapped inside, like there was in the Sword?”
“I don’t know. Maybe … but I never hear of one. Power of iron protect the Crown. Iron very strong in my world, stronger than here. Makes magical field to keep all evil away. Where is Crown now?”
“In a place called Widewater. It’s a world—a planet—entirely covered by sea. The Crown’s in a cavern under a reef—this sea goddess has it, Nefanu, only she’s a werespirit and I think she can’t actually touch it.”
“Crown cannot be undersea,” Eric said positively. “Iron and water make rust. Rust not good for sacred relic.”
“It’s supposed to be a cavern of air,” Nathan said, “even though it’s underwater. I’m not quite sure how that works, but that’s what I’ve been told. Could the power of the Crown somehow expel the water?”
Eric shrugged one of his flamboyant shrugs. “Maybe. I not know.”
“Perhaps it was Nefanu,” Nathan said, thinking aloud. “Perhaps she’s the guardian of the Crown, like the gnomons for the Grail and the elemental in the Sword. Only the Grandir didn’t have to conjure her, he just made use of her. He knew she would want the Crown—she would recognize its power—it’s like a kind of trophy for her. I can’t see how she could use it, if she can’t touch it or wear it, but—”
“Crown is not Sword,” Eric said. “Sword is for use. Crown just is.”
Nathan thought about that for a minute.
“Until the Great Spell,” he said. “Then someone—the Grandir— will use it.”
“Crown is … circle that binds.” Eric was trying to explain something, but Nathan wasn’t sure he knew himself what it was. “We have old saying: hand on the Sword, blood in the Cup, Crown on the head. Three rules of king making from ancient days. Great Spell bring together many things. But king is also sacrifice. So … blood in the Cup, Crown on the head. But whose head? To save a world, whose head?”
“The Grandir’s,” Nathan said.
“Maybe. But none wear crown since Romandos’s day. Too heavy. Weight of iron, weight of power, weight of doom.” And he repeated: “Crown just is. To wear it, death. So they say.”
“If it’s part of the spell,” Nathan said, “then the Grandir will wear it. Whatever the cost.”
THAT EVENING Nathan, Hazel, and George went to the sixteenth-birthday party of an old friend from primary school. Annie stayed at home watching Saturday-night TV and wondering if she was becoming middle-aged, lapsing into completely irrelevant thoughts about what DCI Pobjoy might be doing now and how he spent his Saturdays. Investigating crime, probably. She was just picturing him leaning over a corpse in some exotic location, like Crowford or Crawley, when she heard a noise from the bookshop. She couldn’t be sure against the sound of the television but she thought it was a door closing. As if someone had come in very stealthily, taking care not to let the handle rattle. Access to the house was through the back door from the garden or through the entrance to the shop; she had left the latter unlocked for Nathan, only putting up a closed sign, in case anybody wanted to buy a secondhand book in the middle of a Saturday night. Eade was the kind of place where people still left doors unlocked, a sleepy little village where apart from the odd robbery and serial murder nothing untoward ever happened. Nathan had a key, but he had left it in his gym bag at school.
And now there was someone in the shop. Annie switched off the television and waited for a knock on the adjoining door, a familiar voice—any familiar voice—demanding her attention. Lily Bagot, or Ursula Rayburn, or … Silence. The hairs rose on the nape of her neck. Long ago, Bartlemy
had told her that werefolk and wizards could not enter a house uninvited, but a bookshop, she knew, was different. Anyone could enter a shop; that was what it was about. She walked to the door, laid a hand on the knob. Telling herself fear was idiotic, irrational, she pushed it open.
“Is anybody there?”
No answer. The interior was very dark, only a glimmer of light filtering through the front window from a nearby street lamp. Annie flicked the light switch and stepped through the door.
Everything seemed to be as usual, the books snuggled together on the shelves, spine leaning against spine, dreaming of the otherworlds between their covers. Annie always fancied there were more universes here than Nathan’s mind could ever encompass, a portal on every title page, countless voyages, adventures, sagas, endings both happy and sad. She found it strangely reassuring to think of them all coming together in the small secret environment of her little bookstore, a between-world place from which, simply by opening a book, travelers could set out across the multiverse. It made it easier to deal with the concept of Nathan’s dream journeys, knowing that, in a sense, otherworlds were part of her everyday life. She looked around her, saw that nothing was disturbed, started to relax. Noises could be deceptive sometimes, especially at night. It must have been something next door.
She turned back to her living room—her work desk was beside the door, just inside the shop—and there he was.
She didn’t know how she could have failed to see him, by what power or chance the alien presence had escaped her. He was sitting behind the desk, in her swivel chair, apparently at ease, a big, ugly man— so ugly he was almost handsome—in a peeling leather jacket and jeans so worn and faded, they barely had shape or color anymore. His hair was thick and ragged, framing his face like the mane of an animal; under the matted bangs his forehead seemed to be puckered by an old scar. His skin was either pockmarked or merely rough-textured, like granite, his cheekbones were crooked, his shoulders hunched, his deep-set eyes so narrowed she could not see any whites. She knew instantly he was werefolk—inside her, alarm systems shrieked in warning—yet there was something about him that was unmistakably human, though she couldn’t quite define what it was. She thought afterward that he carried his humanity like a flag of defiance in a losing war.
His eyes widened very slightly as she stared at him, and she saw that as she had suspected they were whiteless, dark as rubies from edge to edge, with pupils like black slits.
For a long moment neither of them said anything at all.
He looked very large, and very strong, and very dangerous. Wild phrases ran through Annie’s head—Avaunt thee, witch! or, in this case, warlock—Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, whatever a dwimmerlaik was— and there was bound to be something appropriate in Macbeth, if only she could remember it. But the man just sat there, unmoving, watching her with his demon’s eyes.
In the end, she said: “Do you—do you want to buy a book? Because I’m afraid we’re closed.”
He smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile—it didn’t, for instance, make dimples in his cheeks or friendly lines around his dark red eyes—and it exposed a motley collection of teeth that included one chipped molar and two very sharp canines. But it indicated humor, and humor is a human thing. Almost the same word, Annie thought, wondering why she’d never noticed that before. Humor… human …
“I didn’t come to buy,” he said. “I came to sell.”
His voice, like his eyes, was dark red, with gravelly undertones.
“To sell me a book?” Annie said, surprised, baffled, and intrigued all at once.
Now that they were talking, she wasn’t quite so scared.
“Not exactly,” he said. “Books come my way from time to time, but I doubt they would interest you.” He tapped with one finger on the volume lying on the desk. It was a big finger with a nail that jutted like a claw, but what Annie chiefly noticed was that the book—of course— was Rhoda Rides to Glory. It would be. She had put it there after Pobjoy had gone, intending to file it somewhere unobtrusive, and hadn’t gotten around to it. The edges of the demon’s smile still lingered.
Annie temporarily forgot her fear in the upsurge of annoyance and embarrassment. How he knew what was in the book—since he hadn’t had time to open it—she couldn’t guess, but obviously he did.
“I sell lots of books,” she said. “Not just ones … like that. I mean, there are none like that really—except the classics …” She wouldn’t go down that route again. “Look around you. Anyhow, if you don’t want to sell me a book, what are you selling?” With eyes like that, she thought, it could be anything. A ring of power, a vial of poison, a gor-gon’s head. “I don’t have much money. Even if I want whatever it is— which I probably won’t.”
“It’s information,” he said. “You want it.”
And then she knew. A darkness in the circle … footsteps on the road …
“Who are you?”
“You can call me Kal,” he said.
“Is it your name?”
“Sometimes.” Werefolk, she had learned, were like that. They had a name for every form they took. She wondered what he really looked like. And yet there was that trace element of humanity about him. Laughter—and a capacity for pain …
“Don’t do that!” he snarled. His kind often snarled.
“Do … what?”
“Reach out. Try to … understand me. No one does that. I don’t permit it. If you try any more of that insight bollocks, I’ll leave now.”
Demons rarely used human swear words. They had their own, in an assortment of strange languages. Puzzling over it, Annie was about to say he was welcome to leave when she checked herself. He had come to the circle unasked—and he had information.
About Nathan’s father …?
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be nosy, honestly. You came to the circle that night, didn’t you? When Bartlemy left the room. Do you know something about—do you know the answer to—?”
“I knew Grimthorn.” The red gaze shifted, focusing on some point far in the past. “Briefly. He crisped in his skin like a boar on a spit. Well for him. If he hadn’t, I might have torn his head off—slowly. Your friend the wizard was asking about him—him and other matters. But I prefer to talk to you.”
“You said you were selling,” Annie said guardedly, trying to ignore the part about tearing heads off. “I told you, I haven’t much money. Or—or anything that would interest you. Just books.”
“I’ve eaten books,” the demon said conversationally. “When I couldn’t get something better. Betimes, the leather still tastes of the flesh it once clung to. But these are mostly paper—wood pulp—vegetarian stuff. Not on my menu.”
“Everyone needs their greens,” Annie found herself saying.
“So they say in the rhyme.
A roast pig a day
keeps the fart tucked away
but cabbage and sprout
will soon let it out.”
“I don’t believe there’s any such rhyme,” Annie accused. “You made that up.”
Part of the smile crept back. It was a wolfish smile—the smile of a predator at its prey—but not, Annie hoped, completely evil.
“So will you pay my price?”
“You haven’t told me what it is.”
“It is high,” he said. “But you can afford it—if you choose.”
“What is it?”
“Invite me in.”
“You are in,” Annie pointed out.
“I am in the shop. Invite me into your home.”
Ah. Silence fell again, the silence of comprehension and returning fear. Annie struggled to consider the implications, her thought scurrying around in circles like a rat in a box. She didn’t want to do it—she really didn’t want to do it—her home was her haven—but… If he was going to kill me, she assured herself, he’d have done it already. And why give me information if he intends to tear my head off afterward? Of course, she was assuming he was a rational being, w
hich wasn’t always the case with humans, let alone werefolk. Instinct warned her to beware of him— but instinct wasn’t always right. Was it?
She said: “This information—how do I know it’s worth it?”
“You don’t. I don’t. Your wizard friend didn’t say why he was asking. There’s only one way to find out.”
Annie thought—hesitated—nibbled her lip. Laid a hand on the doorknob.
And then she remembered to ask the missing question.
“Why? Why d’you want to come in? There’s only me here. My son’ll be back later, only …” Her tone sharpened. “Is it him? Is it him you want?”
“I know nothing of your son.”
“Then—why?”
“Invite me in,” said the demon called Kal. “It’s like the information. You have to invite me in and then—maybe—you’ll find out.”
She looked directly into the ruby-dark eyes. It wasn’t encouraging.
“All right,” she said, opening the door. “Come in.”
He got up, slowly, padded after her into the house. He wore sneakers that sounded like paws on the wood floor. Annie led him into the small living room and indicated a chair.
“A fire,” he said, glancing at the logs smoldering happily in the grate. “I like that. So many houses nowadays don’t have fires. They keep the heat in metal boxes and the light in bubbles of glass. Stupid, when a fire gives you both. Yet they call it progress.” Werefolk are even more prone to nostalgia than mortals; living practically forever, they have a lot to be nostalgic about.
Annie said nothing, merely switching on a lamp—a bubble of glass—giving her a clearer view of his face.
“Who are you? I know your name’s Kal, but—are you one of the Old Spirits, like the Hag and the Child?”
“Yes,” he said, “and no. You may have heard of me. My mother was a mortal witch, my father a werespirit. Such lusts are common enough, but should not have issue—only my mother thought she could outwit the Ultimate Laws, and she used spellpower to make the fetus grow, and bound a stray sprite inside it. She was ill prepared for what she got.”
The Poisoned Crown Page 15
