Now he remembered: they were in her house, waiting for darkness. After capturing the boy at the Garner library, and after the Fomorii had left, he and Charlotte had come here.
“But why can’t we go with you—where are you going?” Thomas had asked. It had been only minutes after taking the boy, and Thomas, Charlotte, and the Fomorii were just down the street, hidden inside the thick, black smoke that was all around them. Where were the DSS people—had they really been there? But he had seen them fall when Malachi had thrown the ball of hardened air. Thomas shook his head: that wasn’t important. What he was doing now, what he had just done—that was important. Thomas could hear, faintly, the fire and police sirens and the shouting. It was as if a barrier, a curtain, had been pulled, between them and the rest of the world.
“It’s not yet time. You have only the one child—the most powerful one, the key, yes, but we must try for the other three to complete the tetrad and thus have all the power. With all four we can be sure we can prevent the gates from opening on Samhain. They will all try to rescue him—we’ll take the other three then. Until then, guard him,” one Fomorii said in its thick voice.
“Where do we keep him?” Charlotte asked.
“Where you called us, where you drew the circle and lit the blue fire. Where you killed your husband and we feasted on his heart and brains,” the second Fomorii said and touched Malachi lightly with one clawed hand. As if a switch had been flipped, a red light enveloped the unconscious child. Thomas could feel the redness against his own skin as he held Malachi on his shoulder; the light was surprisingly cold and rough. “That will hold him in stasis.”
Then the Fomorii had vanished. The two creatures had grown more and more transparent until they dissolved into the smoke. Thomas rubbed his eyes and waved his free hand in front of him, feeling foolish; he should be used to magic by now. He was a witch, wasn’t he? And walking away, Malachi on his shoulder, Charlotte beside him, getting into his car, and driving away—too simple. But it had worked. But then, Thomas thought, why not? Couldn’t the Fomorii have just as easily cast a glamour over his car as well? Wouldn’t he be able to do so himself, once he had the boy’s power? It wasn’t as if everything around the library wasn’t in chaos: smoke, lingering fire, burnt people screaming, the wounded crying and moaning, firemen, policemen.
Thomas had never taken a woman as roughly as he had taken Charlotte when they got to her house. Nor had a woman ever treated him so roughly, Thomas thought, as he lightly touched the scratches and bites all over his arms, legs, and chest. But it had been as if they had been compelled. The very air had felt charged with sexual electricity, an overpowering current that was in, around, and through them, catching them both in an explosion of flesh.
How long ago had that been? Thomas couldn’t remember, but their fucking had seemed to go on for hours. He got to his feet slowly, making sure Charlotte stayed asleep. He wasn’t tired at all. Naked, Thomas paced the living room, the kitchen, in and out of the bedroom, touching the sleeping Charlotte, the bathroom, and finally, he stood over the sleeping child on his couch: Malachi the Golden-eyed One, the fulcrum, the lever, the key, the one who could seal the door. The shimmering red moved as if it were a second skin, shifting and stirring as the boy stirred in his sleep, rippling across his face like blood. Malachi was his, his, his, his. And when he had the other three—and Thomas had no doubt he would and soon, they would come like flies to honey—he, Thomas, would have the ultimate power. He would be able to open and close the gates between here and there, between this earth and the earth of the red-eyed ones, the Fomorii, and they would come and bend the knee to him, the King of Darkness.
From the journal of Ben Tyson, Tuesday night, October 15
I don’t know where to begin. Once upon a time?
That’s not true; I do know where to begin. I begin with what I know I must do next; what Hazel and Russell and Jeff and Jack told me we were all going to do next. We are going to rescue Malachi from Thomas and the forces of evil.
Once I would have cringed to write such a cliché: the forces of evil. But it’s true. The forces of evil—Thomas Ruggles and Charlotte Collins and whomever else is in league with them and the Fomorii monsters—have Malachi and they are going to use him as some sort of energy source to both pry open the gates so the Fomorii can come here and seal the gates, so that the changelings cannot go home. They have to go home, Faerie needs them. And Malachi has to go home, or he will die. For the want of a nail, the kingdom was lost. Is that it? No. He’s my son and I am going to save him. If I don’t get Malachi through a gate at Samhain he will die. If I don’t rescue him from Thomas, he will die.
Why is God letting this happen? God—God? Oh, God? Are You listening?
The monsters have my son. MY SON. The monsters have my son. They are hurting my son.
Russell and Jeff are here. I’m hiding them. Russell ran away from home after his dad tried to beat him up—kill him, Russell says—until Russell roughed him up with magic. Jeff ran away from his foster parents’ home because he is afraid of even seeing his father again, who sexually abused him. I brought Jack home because his house is empty and he has nowhere else to go. Hazel ran back—no, flew back—home. She will be back.
I have Malachi’s twelve-pointed star in my hand. It is glowing and pulsating and pulling. It knows where Malachi is—a tracker? A directional finder or a magical compass?
Jack wants to try and talk to Thomas one last time, to try and find the place inside where there is no evil, where the Thomas he remembers as a boy lives, the Thomas Valeria touched so many years ago. Jack insists such a place is there.
I don’t think so.
So, this star will lead us to the child—but none of us are very wise.
I have accumulated signs of protection, amulets, charms, crystals —any and everything I could find that wards against black magic. I am thinking I should ask Father Jamey to come, with a barrel of holy water.
I will ask him tomorrow. After Jack tries to reach Thomas.
VI
Dark and Light Wednesday, October 16 - Monday, October 28
Jack and Thomas
JACK GLANCED FOR THE THIRD TIME OUT THE WINdow of the Hillsborough Street Waffle House. He wanted to be pacing back and forth, moving, doing something to burn up this energy and anxiety. Take his arm with one fell swoop and clean off the table: sugar, Equal, Sweet’N Low, syrup, menus, salt and pepper. Or smash the syrup bottle against the window—which would break—bottle or window or both? A big splat of maple brown on the window? No, not maple, boysenberry. Burgundy drops. What the hell was a boysenberry anyway—something Waffle House had made up? Drumming his fingers on the Formica just wasn’t enough to ease his tension. Gulping down coffee heavily laced with Equal and little packets of non-fat non-dairy creamer, which littered the table in front of him, was only a minor distraction. Why in the hell was he bothering to use Equal and non-fat creamer anyway? If the entire world was falling apart, what did a few clogged arteries and some extra calories matter? Besides, he’d lost a few pounds since Hilda’s death. Eating had just seemed sort of pointless. Ben forced him to eat, and he did, to avoid the lecture, not because he really wanted or cared to.
No, Jack thought and glanced out the window for the fourth time, as a car passed, not falling apart. Re-arranging, changing, transforming. He shook his head and took another sip of lukewarm coffee. He was tired of thinking about what was happening: the transformation of reality into something different. He wanted the change to be done, finished, over, and for life to go on, regardless of the shape it finally had. At least the Waffle House was still open, until sundown, anyway. Everything closed then—except for hospitals. The governor had tried to keep gas stations open at night, but the owners had simply refused. Folks could just buy their gas before dark—and besides, who was driving after dark, anyway. Jack looked out the window for the fifth time at the Amoco station across the street. The line of cars snaked down Hillsborough Street. It was sort of comforting
to see people standing by the pumps, holding the gas hose and watching the price and gallons add up. Yes, they were in a hurry, but at least they were out.
According to President Bush, all this would be over in two weeks. As if anybody believed Bush anymore. His sunspots theory for explaining the monsters crawling out of the Great Dismal Swamp had been given just as much credence as his ozone theory as to why all the weirdness was happening in North Carolina. Bush’s current theory was that North Carolina was suffering a mass psychosis. North Carolina was under quarantine and federal troops searched cars crossing state lines on the interstates. Cars, trucks, buses—any vehicle with North Carolina tags—were forced to turn around. That had made Governor Martin really happy.
Jack wondered idly if the other rumors were true. The lieutenant governor, supported by the North Carolina National Guard, was planning a coup. A Republican had gotten the state into this mess—only the second one since Reconstruction—about time a Democrat got into office to set things straight. A coup.
Yeah, right. Jack knew why everything in Raleigh was going to close down at sunset, why Raleigh and every other city in the state would become a ghost town after dark: the ghosts were real. Malachi was the reason. Ben’s son was the focal point. And Thomas and his witch-friends and the red-eyed monsters had the boy. They were going to use Malachi like some sort of catalyst or energizer to control the gate opening for their own ends. Jack shuddered, and for a moment, wished he had brought Ben and the other three children with him so he wouldn’t have to face Thomas alone. None of them even knew Jack had set up this meeting or what he was going to offer Thomas in exchange for the boy’s life.
Ben wouldn’t have agreed to come; he wouldn’t have agreed to even try Jack’s plan. As for the other children, Jack was sort of scared of them. Not Hazel so much, the little girl seemed almost normal, her long, light-brown hair in a thick braid bouncing behind her and her quick, sharp mind. She reminded Jack of Hilda and even a little of his first wife, Thomas’s mother, Kathleen. He had been attracted to both women because of their keen intellects. Poor Kathleen. If she were alive—could she have stopped Thomas? Or would she have joined him? If half of what Thomas said happened when he was with her was true—but it was too late to undo that.
Jeff and Russell—the two boys—on the other hand, made Jack uncomfortable. They both seemed haunted, with their glowing green eyes, pointed ears, and now Russell’s hair was becoming fire-colored: red, orange, and yellow. Yes, Hazel’s eyes were silvery and luminous and she did have pointed ears, too. It wasn’t how the boys looked so much. Rather it was how they used their magic so casually, flying and floating and moving things here and there. Jack knew Hazel flew to Ben’s house, but she always knocked on the door. Maybe, Jack thought, it is more than just casual magic—rather the sense he had of the power each boy had, a power they weren’t quite aware of yet, and would have no idea how to use, but was still there, waiting, like a huge cat, ready to pounce. Besides, the two boys were dangerous for Ben in far more normal ways. DSS and the police were looking for them, calling, asking questions—even, Jack was sure, following Ben around Garner—
“Warm up your coffee?”
Jack looked away from the window and nodded at the waitress. Worrying about DSS and the police was a waste of energy—at least it was right now. Thomas was his focus right now, and what Jack was going to say to him—
Thomas Ruggles, his only child, pushed the Waffle House door open and came inside. He stood still in front of the counter, scanning the restaurant for Jack. Jack was glad for the minute and that he had selected the booth farthest from the door. For just a brief while, he could really look at his son, the son Jack hadn’t seen since Hilda’s death. This boy—his son—the man—was thinner and paler. His eyes were turning red. Thomas’s already dark brown hair was even darker, almost black—a dull, flat black. Were Thomas’s ears pointed as well? My God. Is my son turning into a Fomorii? For who knew how many times, Jack wondered again what had gone wrong, what had he done wrong as a father. The divorce? But that had been over twelve years ago. Kathleen? Or had Thomas simply been predisposed toward evil from birth and it had only been a matter of where and when and how. But Jack couldn’t remember any de-winged flies or turpentined cats. Why hadn’t Valeria sensed all those years ago—weren’t fairies supposed to be able to do that? Or had she and said nothing—this was how things were supposed to be. The thirteen-year-old Thomas had adored Valeria—did the man want her back in some weird way through her son? That was too simple—but wasn’t Thomas being seduced by darkness just as simple? Jack wanted to blame Kathleen for what she had done to Thomas. But, even so, ultimately, Thomas had to have chosen this. He chose evil.
Thomas had seen him.
Jack made himself not look away as his son walked toward him, his almost-red eyes measuring him, adding, subtracting, dissecting. No, Valeria had no more power to see into a soul than any human —and that, Jack decided, was where the wrongness had to be, somewhere in the darkest nether regions of his son’s soul. Had Thomas been born bad? Bad in the womb? Or made bad? God don’t make junk, Jack remembered someone telling him. Then, why had God let this happen?
God didn’t; Thomas chose this.
“Hello, Father, what do you want?” Thomas said as he sat down.
“You know what I want: Malachi back and before you can do some sort of irreparable harm to him.” Father? Thomas had never called him that—he had always been Dad.
Thomas laughed and Jack felt as if he were being whipped by the sound.
“He’s the promised one, Father. If we can control him, the changelings won’t be able to get back to Faerie and their victory will mean nothing; they will wither and die. And when we finally triumph there, we will triumph here as well. Why should I give him to you?”
“Coffee?”
Thomas paused for a long moment before he answered the waitress. He stared at her with the same measuring and dissecting look. Jack wanted to hit him. My son is gone, lost. I have no son; this thing here looks and sounds like him, but it’s not my son. It’s a monster. God lets monsters exist, doesn’t he? It’s what we do with them that matters.
“Yes, coffee.” Then Thomas turned back to Jack. “Well? Why should I give him back to you?”
“Malachi is dying, Thomas; you know that. If Ben can’t get him and the others back to Faerie by Halloween, he’ll die.”
“So? After Halloween, I won’t need him anymore. What could you give me for Malachi, anyway? What do you have that I want or need?”
Jack stared down into his coffee and then slowly looked up. “You’re wrong. I do have something you want and could use. Your power is fed by sacrifice—human sacrifice—isn’t it?”
“The sacrifice of human cattle. No true person is put to the knife,” Thomas said and sat back as the waitress sat down his cup.
“Cuppa coffee cream and sugar’s on the table. Gitcha anythin’ else?”
“No. Case in point, Father—see what I mean?”
The waitress shrugged and left. Everybody was crazy these days.
“I see a young woman trying to make a living—not a heifer,” Jack said, his voice low and to his surprise, angry and almost savage.
Thomas laughed and held up his hands as if to block his father’s words. “Easy, easy. There are other power sources,” he said, glancing at the waitress as she wiped off the counter. “But sacrifice is the most powerful for covens—what did you have in mind? What can you offer me more powerful than Malachi?”
“A willing sacrifice—much more powerful than somebody drugged or magicked or whatever you do. The sacrifice of Abraham in reverse—that would be loaded with power, yes?” Jack tried to look at Thomas while he talked, but he couldn’t face the red eyes.
“A willing sacrifice. Not drugged or enchanted. Alert and aware the entire time, even to the last moment? And Isaac and Abraham—yes, you’ve done your research. That would bring me great power. Enough to do what the dark ones want and need at Samh
ain. Enough to trade for Malachi? I don’t know about that, Father. Let me think this over, ask the others. I’ll call you tomorrow—”
“At Ben’s house. I haven’t lived at home since Hilda died.”
“Tomorrow, then,” Thomas said, with a slight wave of his hand to dismiss Hilda’s death as the inconsequential act it was. Jack hated his son then, as if he had never hated anyone in his life. He had not known he could even hate this much. “Tell Ben to be careful: there are all kinds of monsters loose. Lousy coffee. Bye.”
Jack watched him leave, trying to stop his hatred, his anger, knowing that what lay between them wasn’t as wide a gap as he wanted to believe. There but for the grace of God go I? But he is my son. No, he was my son. I have no son. He is my son and he has done—he is doing great evil. What did I do wrong? God, why is this happening. to me? What have I done to deserve all this?
Ben and Jack
“You did what? Are you crazy? Do you want to commit suicide? Thomas is a necromancer—a black witch—he kills people for power and you want to trade yourself for Malachi? Do you really think I am going to let you do this?”
“Don’t yell at me, Ben,” Jack said, looking away from him, away from breakfast and coffee and juice, not wanting to see the pity he was sure was there. Yes, he did want to sacrifice himself: for Hilda, for Malachi, for all the others dead or whose lives had been turned upside down because of his son and the evil his son had done. His son, whom he had raised—what had happened? Was it his fault? Could he have done anything to prevent all this? He kept coming back to the same questions, over and over again. Jack had taken down the family albums and the shoe boxes stuffed with photographs that needed to be sorted and put in albums and gone through them, over and over, examining them as if he were a jeweler, looking for flaws in a tiny diamond. Was the evil there in a photo of Tom at thirteen, wet and dripping by the pool? Or it was there in all the photos, an unseen shadow lurking, waiting, biding its time? He could find nothing: no clue, no one moment, no action of his. Had it happened in the years his wife had had custody? Just exactly what had happened in those three years? He would never know.
Harvest of Changelings Page 29
