There was light growing around him, and he looked down from a great height, to where a young girl clasped a fiddle and doggedly drew a bow across its strings, torturing sound out of it. It was his own fiddle, crying out to him. Forgetting the others, he clambered down its plaintive wail, feeling himself grow more substantial with every step. His instrument seemed to sense his coming, for suddenly the notes came sweet and true, and he was there, stepping down into a room of grey stone, where Lore lei drew a single pure note from the fiddle and an old woman sat watching and nodding.
"Daniel!" she cried out at the sight him, and nearly dropped the bow, but, "Play, play," said the old woman. "Play as if your lives depend upon it. All depends on the music. Play!" The old woman drew a tortoiseshell comb through her long hair as she spoke. She shook the strands free of it, glared at them, and again ran the comb through her hair.
He stepped up behind Lore lei, positioned his arms around her. The crown of her head came just to the hollow of his throat. "Almost," he thought, "I could tuck her under my chin and play her as she plays my fiddle." Her hair smelled sweet. He set one hand on the neck of the fiddle, his fingers falling unerringly upon the strings. The other covered her hand on the bow. Her fingers relaxed. He led her into the music gently, and as he guided her, he shared with her the very days of his life and the beats of his heart. He knew he should be thinking of the Fair Lady and his brothers; his weapons would be needed. But for now he wove the music around them, cloaking them from all but this moment, sheltering them from harm.
17 NOV 05:36
The blackout hit sudden as a knife blade, and just as threatening. "Ed!" Stepovich yelled in useless warning as he threw himself down. He expected to hear the gun go off over his head, and as he fell he was watching for the muzzle flash that would let him target Timmy. It seemed to take forever for his outstretched palms to meet the floor. The instant they did, a sick dread washed through him.
Stone. Cold dank stone, almost slimy there in the crack. No thick cushioning of carpet, no hardwood floor. Stone. But the air he breathed was warm, almost stifling. Wherever he was, it wasn't where he'd been an instant ago. "Ed!" he shouted again, and thought he heard a muffled answer. Around him in the darkness, there was scrabbling and scuffling of feet against stone, the rustle of clothing, grunts as people struggled to their feet. He wasn't alone.
A flashlight beam lit up in the darkness. Durand's. The kid was thinking fast, but not fast enough. Instead of holding the flashlight out at arm's length, he was holding it right in front of him, chest-high, as he scanned the room, like a beacon to lead a bullet to his chest. He was cradling his injured arm against his belly. Another light appeared, off to the side, uneven and flickering. That would be Ed's pipe-lighter, the butane turned up high. Its ghost light was not enough to illuminate, only enough to hint at shapes in the room.
Stepovich was still on his knees, struggling up,when the flashlight hit Timmy like a spotlight. Timmy spun toward it, in evident panic, his pistol moving with him. Lights, action, camera, and Stepovich watched as Timmy's trigger finger moved.
Stepovich was still on one knee, the other foot flat on the floor, ready to rise and, in the flicker of Ed's lighter, or in the reflected beams of the flashlight, or in Stepovich's imagination, he could see Durand, and it was the look on Durand's face that did him. The kid looked down the muzzle of the pistol and grimaced. A showing of teeth, somewhere between daring death to come and get him, and a sheepish grin at how dumb he'd been. A kid's face. The injured arm was still seeping blood.
Stepovich drove down hard, pushing himself up and off, shooting toward Timmy like a sprinter off the blocks. His body was moving fast, but his mind was light years ahead of him. He could see it all as it would happen, predict it all. He already knew it was too late; the idea was to get control of the man before he fired. And this wasn't that. No.
His right hand fell heavy on Timmy's shoulder, his left gripped Timmy's wrist and gun hand and forced it up. It was supposed to go all the way up, so the gun would go off over Stepovich's shoulder; he was already braced for the blast of sound by his ear.
But the muzzle was still pointing at him when it went off. Flash and stench of powder. Blow like a rabbit punch, one that didn't stop but went right through meat and bone and whatever else was in there. Just that suddenly, there was no strength in his arms or legs. He dropped. He waited for the pain,waited, it's coming, gonna getcha, Stepovich, you dumb old cop, trying to pull a fast kid's trick like that. Ed's gonna yell at you, listen, he's starting already,screaming, and is this really how you planned to end your days, in some nightmare dungeon?
He'd thought the lights were supposed to fade when you passed out, but it was getting brighter,sourceless light coming up like stage lights, getting brighter and brighter. A cold sort of light, though, a toadstool light that made everyone look dead,
Slipped his trolley, he had, yeah, old Stepovich was sliding down the night side now. Stuff was coming out of the corners of his mind, nightmare things, and they swarmed up Durand and dragged him down. One was like a bald puppet, while the other was a hodgepodge out of some zoologist's nightmare. Durand lost his flashlight and it rolled clunkily across the uneven floor, washing them all in a cone of light. The creatures clutched Durand and held him down, and it was obscene, as if the mere touch of those hands were a rape. The bald things sniggered and poked its long pale fingers at Durand's wound. Must hurt like hell, Stepovich thought, and wondered why Durand wasn't yelling. Maybe he's like me; too much pain and not enough air to yell.
And where the hell was Ed? Trying to get up,looked like he'd done his knee again. He'd always called it his old football injury, but Stepovich knew he'd done it trying to ride a skateboard they'd confiscated from a kid on the freeway, with all the oncoming traffic, and the goddamn drivers wouldn't turn their high beams down, pull the sonofabitch over, hit the siren, get out of the car. Out of the car, Stepovich. Time to get moving, go talk to the Gypsy. Where was he, anyway?
He caught one glimpse of a gypsy, back in the shadows, and it wasn't the Gypsy anyway. Never a Gypsy around when you need one. Ed still had his lighter going, and he was waving it around like it would work better than garlic and crosses.
And then the time for worrying about stuff like that was gone. All the time in the world was gone. Down to a single now, the now where Timmy was standing over him, straddling him like the outlaw in a B Western, holding the pistol in both hands as he pointed it at Stepovich's face. Not in the face, he wanted to tell him, my kids don't deserve that, not a closed coffin service where you always imagine it as much worse than it could ever be. But he couldn't speak at all,could only lie there and look up at death like a car-hit dog on the freeway.
SOMETIME
Damn all gypsies anyway, he thought, as he arrived in a place he hadn't brought them to, but would have to return them from if there were any of them left to return. He felt for the calk in his pocket, got it out,threw it into the air, and when it came down he caught the butt of the whip it was fastened to. That to you, Luci, he thought. All I have to do is step outside this door, onto the road, and I'll be like a T altos myself.
He heard the sound of a gunshot, and sighed. No doubt the damned gypsies and their silly friends were getting themselves killed. Well, that was not his concern, had never been his concern. He drove the coach when he had one to drive, and now that he didn't-
Well, there was one thing he could do. It wouldn't save any of these fools from the consequences of their own actions, but if it had worked there, it would certainly work here; if any of them lived, at least they might not fall into the Nothingness.
Still weak and in pain, he slipped past impossible shapes doing improbable things to each other. He sidled along a wall until he came to the fireplace, and there, just as he'd thought, was the scarf that had brought them here. He pulled it out, not surprised that the fare hadn't damaged it. He made his way back to the door from which he'd entered. It stood wide open as if it expected guests. He lea
ned against what felt like cold stone. His breath came in gasps, and when a cramp hit, he thought it was all up for him,but then it passed.
He straightened, turned, and looked out the door,away from the flickering of lights and the antics of demons, to where there was nothing at all, at all, at all. And, as he did, there were two shapes there. Human shapes, of all things. Young girls, looking wild and frightened. They approached the door, and when they saw him, the fair one drew back, while the dark one raised her fingernails like talons.
"She's calling us," said the dark one. "You'd better not-"
"Oh, hush," said the Coachman. "There's nothing for you in there but death, and you know it."
The fair one turned to her friend and said, "Sue,I'm scared. Laurie-"
"That wimp's no concern of ours. This is it, the big fight. We need to help Her. We-"
"Listen to your fear, my children," said the Coachman, his voice rolling like a cimbolom. "Your fear is wise; trust it. It falls upon you like a wave, and in the wave are specks of pain and droplets of oblivion. The call is the call of those who've been lost at sea, whose souls float, with no anchor. Your fair mistress betrays you, even as She promised. Do you recall Her words?Think on them now, before you act."
They stared at him, there at the brink of forever,and while they did he stepped forward and slammed the door shut behind him. They cried out, but before they could touch the door, crack! crack! and he had put his mark on it with the calk on the end of his whip.
"It is sealed now. You cannot enter," he said. "Go home, or become Nothing." They stared at him with confusion and fear still etched on their too-young features, but, then the dark one said, "Come on,Chrissy. We can get past him. She needs us."
The fair one gave a low moan, then her eyes widened and she said, "Yes! I can hear Her!"
They charged him, scrabbling for the door, but this was outside, this was between, this was neither here nor there. It was on the road, and on the road the Coachman has the power. It gave him no pleasure to use it.
SOMETIME
Csucskari knew where he was, for he had brought them all there. But where were the others? Beams of light flashed around him, showing glimpses of faces from his nightmares, but no sign of his friends. The servants of Luci he knew; they snuffled about in the darkness. He drew his knife, lest any come near him,and waited.
Then there came a clap of sound from one side,oddly muffled. He turned to meet it. Folk moved and muttered around him. He ventured closer, drawn by a vague glow, seeing only an old man collapsed on the floor, cupping fire in his hands. The light flickered unevenly, but he caught a glimpse of Owl, struggling to stay on his feet, and the gunman, who was pointing his gun at the floor. No, he was pointing it at the policeman, the Wolf, lying helpless before him, his left shoulder and chest already dark with blood. The hammer was going back. The gunman was smiling whitely.
There was no conscious decision. The knife was already in his hand, and Little Timmy was in front of him, just like before, and he was there, once more,with a living man before him and a glittering knife in his hand. It was like a play, each performing a well-rehearsed part, even the lights coming up brighter.Timmy must have heard his step, for he looked up just as Csucskari reached forward and put the knife in him. Timmy's eyes met his, and Csucskari felt the contact of their gaze even as he felt the shock as his knife buried itself to the hilt past Timmy's collarbone.They both cried out at once, their screams filling the room. Csucskari's hand never left the hilt. He felt Timmy become a weight on his blade. As he fell, the knife pulled free of the body. He'd done it again.Blood followed the blade. He stared at the body that thrashed mindlessly on the floor below him. This was not what he'd come here to do. He dropped the knife,covered his face, and sobbed.
Bagoly knelt beside him. He could feel the trembling of his brothers weakness. So drained, both of them. "Hollo?" he whispered, but there was no reply, and the music that should have led them to the light was elsewhere. In the end, then, She'd won,separated them and distracted them, used her poor bent tools as foils to draw them out. Fool of a Gypsy,ever thinking he could win. He reached toward Owl,knowing they'd never touch.
SOMETIME
"I'm not hurt that bad. I'm not hurt that bad." Durand could hear himself saying it. He didn't knowhow long he'd been repeating it, trying to convince himself it was so. He stared up at the high ceiling that was rimmed with silver. Looked like stone roots, and huge boulders, like a stylized cave roof. He tried to keep staring at it, but the nightmare on his chest dug its fingers into his upper arm, squeezing yet more blood from the wound. It was a hallucination, Durand was sure, and he wasn't going to dignify it by watching it or trying to push it away. But if he was seeing things, then maybe he was hurt worse than he thought. He rolled his head to one side, saw Stepovich on the floor and the gunman standing over him. There wasn't enough light for the blood to be red,but the blossoming stain on Mike's shirt was still spreading. "Officer down," Durand said inanely."Officer needs assistance." He wasn't handling this very well, he knew it. He should be doing better than this, but he wasn't sure exactly what he was supposed to be doing.
Follow the rules, even if it got him killed? Only he couldn't think what rules to follow. And these damn nightmares on his chest were so heavy, so disgustingly real. Clammy, hard-fingered hands, and really grotesque odor: Urine and sweat, and that wasn't even the bad part.
Light grew in the room, a nacreous rotten light. Ed had kindled something, part of his shirt, and was flapping it around like a flimsy weapon. The old man was grey.
Then there was the Gypsy, doing something to the gunman, but it was all happening in silence. Durand saw the knife, even saw it go in, but then one of the things began clawing at Durand's face, and chittering. He pulled away from it. None of this was real.
So he wasn't surprised when she burst from a dark corner like a dancer leaping onto a stage. Old Madam Moria, her canes gone, flourishing her iron kettle,spun in a swirl of splashing tea. She yelled something in a language Durand didn't recognize. Probably "Begone Demons!" or something like that. Whatever the threat, she backed it with iron and water and flapping skirts, and the things on his chest cowered, and the one drew its arms in close to its bony ribs.
They flinched. That made them real.
"Real," said Durand, and the revulsion that swept him gave him strength to roll from beneath them. He rolled over cold iron of his own, his gun, dropped when they'd fallen into this place. His good hand groped for it, closed on the grips, and brought it up as he came to his knees. Two hands, he reminded himself, and hissed at the pain it cost him to steady the pistol.
Ed was advancing on the things that Madam Moria had spooked off him. As he did so, there came a shrill laugh, young and old, delightful as a girl's, evil as the devil's, and suddenly the things weren't retreating anymore. Madam Moria was gasping for breath and staggering, her curses and strength running down together like the clockwork in an old toy, until she sighed and fell over between the Gypsy and the fireplace. Ed flapped his smoldering shirt at them, but none of them seemed impressed. The two creatures that had clutched and grappled at him now clustered around Stepovich's body. There was also a woman with them, a thin old thing with stringy hair and deep lines in her face. She hissed at Ed, and slapped his smoking shirt aside with the flat of her hand. She stepped toward Ed, and in her grey hands with its filthy broken nails was what seemed to be a thin knife. She raised it.
Durand stopped them. Stopped them with his mind. Didn't think about being a hero. Just made them into silhouettes, paper things, just like on the range. Lift the gun. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Bang,bang, bang. And they all fell down. Not hard, not easy. Not a particularly glorious or brave thing to do.One finger work, just like subtracting numbers on his checkbook calculator. And they all fell down.
SOMETIME
Raymond felt himself falling; his wings unable to grasp the air. His strength, returning so slowly, was now draining away in Luci's presence. She loomed over him; h
e looked up.
Like looking up at Heaven and Hell. Face too perfect to describe. Eyes too hellish to bear meeting, but he had no choice. Voice smoother than honey. "Bagoly," she said pleasantly, plucking at him with his own name,
Her eyes gleamed down on him. "No," he said,gasping. "You cannot have the Dove." Where was his brother, Daniel, the Raven? He could help. He had the strength. "Leave us. Leave this world. You cannot have my brothers."
Empty words. He knew it. She knew it. Worst of all, Csucskari knew it; Raymond could feel that. Raymond's strength was gone; he couldn't even threaten her. Her cold fingers fastened to his shoulder, flung him contemptuously aside. He hurtled through the air, struck a wall and slid down it. In the flickering light, he saw the big man who held the fire rush toward Luci, but She knocked him effortlessly aside.Somewhere, sometime, he heard explosions. Now he smelt the powder, saw where Her servants sprawled and bled. But it wasn't enough. "Hollo!" he cried,and the name was black and bitter as the odor of burnt feathers. Why didn't he answer? Raymond knew that he would never find out.
He watched Luci set Her hands to Csucskari's throat. She had long, slender hands; white fingers. They would be cool as a maiden's touch. He saw them close, saw the flesh of his brother's throat bulge up between them. White against red. "Hollo!" he cried,and his hand found the strength to lift, to fall against his heart and the tambourine that rested against it. He took it into his hand, and it dropped onto his lap,jarring in a tiny death rattle.
SOMETIME
Madam Moria lay on the floor, unable to rise without her canes, watching as Luci bent over the Dove,strangling the life out of him. The hem of Her gown,white as snow, brushed against Madam Moria. Luci was as graceful as She was evil, and Her eyes, fastened on her prey, had no thought for the old woman,or for the Wolf who lay dying on her other side. A beautiful gown, all of white, the only dark thing, the thin black belt at her waist. And from the belt, a lock of grey hair.Madam Moria smiled. This was not the first time she had picked a pocket, but it might well be the easiest. When she had it in her hand, she rolled over twice, and threw it into the coals of the smoldering fare.
The Gypsy Page 57
