"Think how much simpler it would have been if you'd listened that first day when I asked for your help." He sighed. "You were so stubborn, and it has cost you so much. Now here we are, right back where we started. Let's try it again, shall we, one last time? Give me what I want. Give me the gypsy morph so that I can be out of your life forever!"
The faintest of smiles crossed her lips. "Here's a piece of irony for you, Mr. Gask. You've had what you wanted all night, and you didn't realize it. It's been right under your nose. Little John was the gypsy morph. That boy was what you were looking for. In his last transformation before coming here, that's what he became. How about that, Mr. Gask?"
Findo Gask quit smiling. "You're lying, Miss Freemark."
She shook her head. "You know I'm not. You can tell. Demons recognize lies better than most; it's what they know best. No, Mr. Gask, you had the morph. That was one of the reasons John and I came here tonight—because we didn't have it to trade for the children and had no other way to get them back."
She shifted the little girl in her arms. The child's head was buried in her shoulder. "Anyway, he's lost to both of us now. Another piece of irony for you. You notice I don't have him with me? Well, guess what? He ran out of time. His magic broke apart down there in the basement. He disappeared. Poof! So it really is just you and me, after all."
Findo Gask studied her carefully, searching her face, her eyes, sifting through the echoes of her words in his mind. Was she lying to him? He didn't think so. But if the morph had self-destructed, wouldn't he have sensed it? No, he answered himself, magic was flying everywhere in that house, and he wouldn't have been able to separate the sources or types.
"Look in my eyes, Mr. Gask," she urged quietly. "What do you see?"
What he saw was that she was telling the truth. That the morph had been the boy all along, and now the boy was gone. That the magic had broken apart one final time. That it was beyond his reach. That was what he saw.
He felt a burning in his throat. "You have been a considerable source of irritation to me, Miss Freemark," he said softly. "Maybe it is time for you to accept the consequences of your foolish behavior."
"So now you want to kill me, too," she said. "Which was your plan all along anyway, wasn't it?"
"You knew as much. Isn't that another reason why you came here instead of waiting on my call?"
He took a step toward her.
"I wouldn't come any closer if I were you, Mr. Gask," she said sharply. "I can protect myself better than most."
She glanced to her right, and Gask followed her gaze automatically. The big ghost wolf the ur'droch had encountered at her home the night before stood watching him from the shadows, head lowered, muzzle drawn back, body tensed.
Gask studied it a moment, surprised that it was still alive, that it hadn't been forced to exchange its own life for that of the ur'droch. He had thought the ur'droch a match for anything. Well, you never knew.
"I don't think your friend is strong enough to stop me," be said to Nest Freemark, keeping his eyes fixed on the beast.
"I've lost a lot in the past few days, Mr. Gask," she replied. "This child in my arms is one of the few things I have left. I promised her mother I would look after her. If you intend to keep that from happening, you're going to have to do it the hard way."
Gask continued to measure the ghost wolf. He did not care for what he saw. This creature had been created by a very powerful demon magic that had been strengthened at least once since. It was not hampered by the rules that governed the servants of the Word. It would fight him as a demon would fight him. Most likely it had already destroyed the ur'droch. Findo Gask was stronger and smarter than his late companion, but he was not indestructible. He might prevail in a battle with this creature, but at what cost?
In the distance, the wail of fire engines rose out of the silence. Lights had come on in the surrounding homes. On the street, a cluster of people had begun to gather.
He let the tension drain from his body. It was time to let go of this business, time to move on. He could not afford to let personal feelings interfere with his work. There would be other days and more important battles to fight.
A shawl of snowflakes had collected on the shoulders and the lapels of his frock coat. He brushed them away dismissively. "What is the worth of the life of a single child here or there?" he asked rhetorically. "Nothing. The end will be the same. Sooner or later, the Void will claim them all."
"Maybe," she said.
He backed away slowly, still watching the ghost wolf, still wary. "You've failed, Miss Freemark. People died for you, and what do you have to show for it? Mr. Ross gave up his life, and what did he gain by doing so? What was the point of any of it? What did you accomplish?"
The yellow eyes in the tiger-striped face glowed like live coals as they tracked his retreat. Findo Gask backed all the way across the side yard and through the barren-limbed hedge before turning away.
He walked to the street without looking back, fighting to stay calm, to keep his frustration and rage from making him do something foolish. He could go back after her, he knew. He could find a way to get to her, sooner or later. But it was pointless. She had nothing left he wanted. His battle with her was finished. There were other causes to attend to. It made no difference to him that he had failed to secure the morph's magic. It mattered only that it could never be used in the service of the Word. By that measuring stick, he had won. It was enough to satisfy him.
When he reached the street, he saw a pair of fire engines wheeling around the corner and coming for the house. He turned the other way, walking quickly. At the corner, he paused. Standing beneath the streetlight, he opened the Book of Names and looked at the last entry.
The name John Ross was faintly legible against the aged parchment. Even as he watched, the name turned a shade darker.
You take away what you can from these battles, he thought. The life of a Knight of the Word was a reasonable trophy.
He closed the book and walked on. In seconds, his tall, dark figure had vanished into the night.
* * *
Nest Freemark remained where she was until she could no longer see Findo Gask. Harper nestled against her breast, fast asleep. Pick sat on her shoulder, twiggy fingers wrapped in her parka collar, a silent presence.
Wraith had faded away into the ether, free to go where he wished, but never, she believed, to go too far from her.
"He did a fine job of convincing himself, didn't he?" Pick said finally, gesturing after Findo Gask.
Nest nodded. "He believed what he saw in my eyes."
"You didn't lie."
"I didn't have to."
"I guess he was looking hard enough that if he was ever going to find out, he would have found out now."
"I guess."
The flames from the burning house were growing hotter as the fire spread to the roof. On the front lawn, the firemen were scrambling to contain the blaze, their efforts directed primarily at protecting the surrounding homes. It was clear there was nothing they could do to save the Victorian or anyone in it.
"You think he was telling the truth about John Ross?" Pick asked suddenly.
She watched the activity out front without speaking for a moment, then nodded. "Yes."
"I could try to get back inside for a quick look."
The entire front half of the house was engulfed in flames and the fire was spreading quickly. Any attempt at going back inside would be foolish. Her heart could not accept that John Ross was really dead, but she knew it was so. If he was still alive, he would have come for her by now.
"Let it go, Pick," she said softly.
Pick went silent, absorbing the impact of her words. In her arms, Harper stirred. The little girl was growing heavy, but Nest refused to put her down. She was reminded of the time she had carried Bennett home from the cliffs of Sinnissippi Park fifteen years earlier after saving her from the feeders. She hadn't put Bennett down either that night, not until she was safely home
in bed. She would do the same now with Harper. Maybe this time, it would make a difference.
"You better get going," Pick said finally.
She nodded. "You better get going, too."
He hesitated. "Don't you be second-guessing yourself later," he snapped at her suddenly. "You did everything you could! More than everything, in fact! Criminy, you should be proud of yourself!"
He jumped from her shoulder and disappeared into the tangle of the shrubbery. Moments later, she caught a glimpse of a barn owl winging its way toward the river through the snowfall and the night.
Safe journey, Pick, she wished him.
She turned and walked back toward the street, angling diagonally across the front yards of the old houses, keeping to the shadows of the trees and porches, holding Harper tightly against her. She glanced back once at the burning house, and when she did so, her eyes filled with tears. She began to cry silently, realizing what she was leaving behind, thinking of John Ross. She thought of all they had shared over the past fifteen years. She thought of what he had endured in his twenty-five years as a Knight of the Word. He had given everything in his service to the Lady. In the end, he had even given his life.
She brushed at her eyes with the back of her gloved hand. John Ross might have died for her and for the children, but he hadn't died for nothing. And neither of them had failed in what they had set out to do.
She fought to compose herself as she crossed down a side street and came in view of her car. She wished he could have lived to see the baby. John Ross Freemark she would name him. He would be born next fall, another of those children Findo Gask was so quick to dismiss as unimportant. But this one could surprise him. Created of wild magic and born to a woman for whom magic was a legacy, he could become anything. She felt him inside her, deep in her womb, transformed into what he had sought to become all along—her baby-to-be, her future child. She did not know his plan, nor perhaps did he know it himself. Even the Word might not know. They must bide their time, all of them; they must wait and see.
She climbed into the car and placed Harper on the seat beside her. The little girl curled into a ball, her head resting on Nest's lap. Nest started the car and let it warm up for a moment. She felt the inevitability of what had happened with the gypsy morph stir in her memories. She looked back and saw clearly all the workings of its transitions and of its journey to reach her. She could feel its final moments outside her body, pressing against her, then into her, then transforming for the last time. She could understand why Wraith had been such an obstacle to its needs. For the gypsy morph to become what it wanted, Wraith could not remain inside her. Her body must belong to her unborn child alone. It had needed to know she wanted this as much as it did. It had needed a sacrifice from her that she herself did not know until tonight she was capable of making.
Why had it chosen to become her child? There was no answer to that question, none that she could discover for a while, if ever. It must be enough that it had made such a choice, that its need matched her own, and that their joining felt good and right.
A child. Any child. It made all the difference in the world. Findo Gask was wrong about what that was worth. One day, he would learn his mistake.
She pulled the car out of the parking lot onto West Third and began driving back through Hopewell. She would take Harper home now and put her to bed. Tomorrow, when she woke, they would open their presents. Then they would go to Robert's to visit Amy and the kids and have dinner.
It would mark the beginning of a new life.
It would be a bright and joyous Christmas Day.
Sprawled on the living-room floor, flames climbing the walls all around him, John Ross fought the poison that seeped through his system, bringing all that remained of his strength and magic and heart to bear. He got to his feet and staggered down the hall after Findo Cask. It took him a long time. His only thought was to get to the demon before the demon got to Nest. He was too late. By the time he reached the back door, the confrontation between them had already occurred. Cask had disappeared, and Nest was moving away. She did not appear to have been harmed.
He had thought momentarily of going after her and decided he was too weak. It was best just to let her go. He watched her from the doorway, the flames consuming the house around him, working their way down the hall at his back. He watched until she was several houses down, then slipped out the door and into the night.
He would go to Josie instead, he decided. He would make his way to her home, and she would care for him. He would mend eventually, and then they would be together for the rest of their lives.
He did not know where he went after that. His instincts took over, and he did as they directed. He lurched and staggered through backyards, through clusters of trees and along fences and walls, in the shadow of buildings and across snowy stretches, all without seeing or being seen by another living soul. It was after midnight, and apart from those gathered at the scene he had departed, the world was asleep. He leaned on his staff and drew from it the strength he required to go on. He was crushed and broken inside, and his wound from Penny's knife burned and festered beneath his clothing. He was growing colder.
When he reached the banks of the Rock River, close by the dark span of the Avenue G bridge where it crossed to Lawrence Island, he was surprised to find himself so far from where he had intended to go. Josie's house, he knew, was in the other direction. He sagged down against the rough-barked trunk of an old oak and stared out at the night. The river was frozen everywhere but at its center, where the current was strong enough to keep the ice from closing over. He watched the dark water surge, its surface reflecting the lights of the bridge overhead. It would be all right, he knew. It was quiet here. He was at peace.
Soon a fresh brightness appeared on the crest of the flowing water, a light that broadened and spread. The Lady appeared, come out of the darkness in her flowing, gossamer robes, her fine, soft features pale and lovely. She crossed the ice on her tiny feet to where he sat and bent to him.
"Brave Knight, you have done well," she said softly. "You have done all that I asked. You have fulfilled your promise and your duty. You have completed your service to the Word. You are released. You are set free."
A great weariness filled him. He could not speak, but he smiled in acknowledgement. He was satisfied. It was what he had worked so long for. It was what he had wanted so much.
"Brave Knight," she whispered. "Come home with me. Come home where you belong."
She reached out her hand. With great effort, he lifted his own and placed it in hers. The light that surrounded her flowed downward through his body and enfolded him as well.
As he came to his feet, he was renewed and made whole again. The black staff fell away from his hand.
Seconds later, he was gone.
The staff lay where it had fallen. In the deep silence of the night, the snowfall began to cover it over. Little by little, it began to vanish beneath a white blanket.
Then a figure appeared from out of the shadows, a big man with copper skin and long black hair braided down his back, a man who wore army fatigues and combat boots. He walked to where the staff lay and stooped to retrieve it. He brushed the snow from its dark length and held it before him thoughtfully. A solitary warrior and a seeker of truth, he looked out across the ice to where the open water flowed, and then beyond, to where the Word's battle against a sleeping world's ignorance and denial still raged.
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