by Kit Hallows
An old nightmare flashed through my mind. A nightmare I hadn't actually thought about for quite some time. A distant dream of another owl. An owl that had become Elsbeth Wyght.
A peal of laughter rang out behind me.
I turned and the boy was gone. I ran to the rails and peered down into the gorge, but there was no sign of him. "Shit." I raced to the lodge and rang the bell at the front desk.
Finally, the desk clerk appeared. He gave me a barely disguised grimace. "Sir?" his response more sneer than question.
"Did you see a boy just now? About this tall. He was wearing a suit, an old fashioned hat. And glasses. Round black glasses."
The desk clerk shook his head. "There's been no such boy here. But why, may I ask, are you looking for this child?"
I shook my head. "Forget it." I was beginning to doubt that the boy was anyone's child. Or that he, or whatever it was, was even vaguely human. I went to the bar, ordered a double whiskey and drank it down fast. It barely took the edge off the chill seeping through my bones. I strode back to my cabin amid the thunderous roar of the falls. I glanced at the railing, glad to find it empty, but I quickened my step as I neared my cabin and my eyes strayed to the deep dark forest beyond.
20
I woke in the dull light, the bedsheets tangled around me like a cocoon, the comforter lying in a heap in the middle of the floor.
Clearly I'd been battling monsters while I'd slept, but I couldn't remember a single one of the dreams. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing.
I reached for my phone, checked the time and paused as I spotted the handgun on the bedside table. And then it came back to me.
I'd awoken at around three a.m. to the sound of a gentle, persistent knocking but it stopped the moment I'd sat up. I'd just figured it was only my dreams, which were rarely anything less than vivid but then the knocking returned, light and erratic, like a child's knuckle rapping on a wooden door.
My door.
Thoughts of the strange boy washed over me like a bucket of ice-cold water, and my heart raced as I'd pictured him sitting on the rail.
The boy. "Ha!" I laughed as I realized he'd been no such thing. My distant, dark, other self began to stir. You want to play games, you little shit? Let's play.
I'd tried to bury that voice ever since I could remember, but in that moment I was glad to have its company. It had forced me from my stupor and spurred me to grab my gun and pad to the door as the knocking grew louder, and more insistent.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Go to hell!" I'd wrenched the door open and glanced down, expecting to find myself reflected in a pair of round black glasses. But the boy wasn't there and the pathway was empty. I stood still for a moment and listened hard. The roar from the falls seemed impossibly loud, and the gulf of darkness between me and the lodge seemed like an endless murky abyss.
No signs of life anywhere, just me and the night. The last man, in a world where the lights were slowly going out, one by one.
I remembered feeling like I couldn't move, as if the darkness had me hypnotized.
Finally, after what had seemed like ages, I'd managed to turn back, close the door, and stumble into bed.
"I hate this place," I mumbled, as I got up, tossed the comforter from the floor toward the mattress, and headed for the shower. Breakfast was an apple and a cup of revolting motel room coffee.
I checked my messages, hoping to hear from Erland, but there was nothing. Not that I had anything to report other than a few half-baked suspicions and a slurry of dead ends, but I knew that was going to change. I was determined to find the black crystal farm, if for no other reason than to get the hell out of Copperwood Falls before I became a permanent fixture, or yet another ghost in this stagnant old lodge.
The morning air was cold and that suited me fine; I needed to be alert. I climbed into my car and started down the driveway toward the road into town. The forest seemed closer this morning, like it had crept it toward the road. I was about to turn on the radio to distract me from my feverish thoughts when I braked hard.
"What the hell?" I reversed and threw the door open. Adrenaline coursed through me as I spotted a small dark figure standing at the forest line.
Watching.
I slowed as I neared it and squinted in disbelief. If that had been the boy, he'd somehow transformed himself into a decaying tree stump capped with dark billowy moss and spotted with black, cancerous-looking fungi. I headed back to the car and did my best to shut out the feeling of invisible, watching eyes.
Main street was busy and the passers-by still looked like movie-set extras. Not that I cared, I was just glad to be away from the lodge. I pulled up outside the bakery. The old couple who had been there when I'd first arrived were back, sitting in the corner as if they'd never left. I ordered my coffee to-go, paid and got out of there as soon as I could.
The coffee was good. I sipped it as I crossed the street and sat on the bench that overlooked the old building that led to the hidden quarter. And then I waited.
Eventually my mark approached, his movements brisk and jerky, like a smack-head searching for a fix. He was about my age but small and bony with wide round eyes and long black hair that was thinning on top.
He hurried to the door, scratching his wrists as he pushed it open and bolted inside. I ducked in behind him before it could close. "Hey," I called.
He wheeled round, his bug eyes wider than ever. "What the fuck do you want?"
"Nice introduction." I smiled. "I'm new here so I could do with some guidance."
"Guidance?" He seemed bemused, as if he was the very last person who'd expect to be asked such a thing. His eyes lit up as I pulled out my wallet.
"Morgan." I offered a hand for him to shake, already planning to double-scrub it at the first available opportunity.
"Jerry." He held out a hand with nails the color of mold. His grip was limp and mercifully brief. I pulled out a fifty and watched the wheels turning as his whole stance shifted from feral dog to warm fluffy-bunny. "What kind of guidance are you looking for, Morgan?"
I was about to tell him when the door leading into the magical quarter opened and a tall, Gothy-looking woman appeared. She gave me a vaguely appreciative smile that turned to a scowl as she glanced at Jerry. "Vermin," she muttered as she hurried by. I waited until she'd gone before offering Jerry a consoling shrug. "Nice."
"I don't give a shit," he snarled, as if I needed to be told the blindingly obvious.
"Listen, you seem like the kind of guy that knows where to find things. Am I right?" I held the cash out, just beyond his reach.
"Maybe. What are you looking for?"
"Crystals."
"Plenty of crystals around," he said. "But don't buy 'em in the shops, I can get you a much better price."
"I'm not looking for the kind of crystals you get in regular shops."
He nodded. "Already had you down as being into dark shit. You hide it some, but it's there in your eyes." He gave a discolored toothy grin. "No offense."
"None taken. So, can you get me what I need?"
Jerry nodded slowly, and I could see him doing the calculations. "Probably. How much you looking for?"
"A hundred should get me started."
"That's a lot. What kind of crazy shit are you planning?"
I pulled the money away from his reaching fingers. "Can you get me the crystals or not?"
"For another fifty I'll take you directly to my guy."
Bingo. I gave him the money, and we turned back toward the door that led to Copperwood Falls.
I cranked the air conditioning on as we drove through town, to combat the stench of stale sweat and booze wafting from his clothes.
"Head south." Jerry pointed as I turned onto the highway, glad for the reassuring weight of my gun in its holster and the sword I'd hidden under a blanket on the back seat.
We drove on, past the lodge and around a wide sweeping bend. Finally, Jerry broke the cloying silence. "Take a right, just there
." He pointed to a narrow dirt road leading into the trees.
I threw a quick glance his way to see if he looked like he was getting ready to jump me. Something was up, and it didn't take a psychic to read the fear and excitement in his twitchy features.
The tree line drew away as we turned a bend into a clearing. In the center was a large abandoned building with an old flaking gold lettered sign:
'Copperwood Falls Country Club'
It had clearly been a prestigious place once. A long, long time ago. But it had gone to pot, its white peeling paint streaked with brown, its windows and doors boarded over. I counted half a dozen motorcycles with long chrome handlebars and low seats parked in a row on the weed riddled gravel.
Great.
"Here we are, then." There was a slight tremble in Jerry's voice as he climbed out of the car, his body language as wary and alert as a whippet's.
I grabbed a crystal from my pocket and soaked up its magic, just in case. Then I closed the car door slowly and checked out the building again, taking note of the thin, almost invisible black specks of light blinking before its facade.
There was evil here.
Evil and danger.
21
"Welcome to the cave," Jerry said as he led me toward the dilapidated front door.
An old woman sat on the porch, a rifle slung over her knees and a bottle of whiskey nestled beside her. She looked me over with eyes the color of steel as her hand moved toward the butt of her rifle. Somehow the glance she shot Jerry was worse than the one she'd given me. "The fuck you want, Jerry?"
"Got a gentleman looking for something on the dark side if you know what I mean." He gave her a wide, nervous smile.
Her eyes flashed over me again. "You packing?"
There was no point lying, so I nodded and slowly drew back my coat to show her the holster. She leveled the rifle at me. "Lay it down on the deck."
I unfastened the holster and carefully placed the gun down. She came up behind me, felt my arms and legs and rummaged through my pockets. "Don't move," she said, as she opened my wallet and leafed through it.
Thankfully, I'd left my Organization ID back in the city.
"These are vanilla," she said as she held up the chunk of crystal she'd fished from my pocket. She turned to Jerry. "You said he was looking for something dark."
"They're all I could get," I cut in. It was time to be assertive. "Listen, I've got money; if you've got what I'm looking for, you'll be well paid."
Her nose wrinkled as she stared at me. And then she gave a short, abrupt nod and moved out of my way. "Take him to Dryden. He'll deal with him."
Jerry pushed the boarded door open, and we walked into the ramshackle lobby. The place had clearly been worth something at one time, but its former glories had long faded to rust and dirt and the once stylish green and beige hallway was now littered with dead leaves and crushed beer cans.
"Keep it cool, and whatever you do, don't fuck with Dryden," Jerry whispered. He led me to the end of the hall and rapped his knuckles upon a heavy door with the words the cave scrawled across it spattered white pain. Jerry shoved it open onto what must have once been a ballroom. Black sheets hung over the windows and stumps of red candles flickered on tables and old crates.
A threadbare sofa rested against one wall. Three bikers were slumped on it; two were human but the other one was a shifter of some kind. They were watching an underground boxing match between a pair of trolls, one bearing a spiked knuckleduster, the other a switchblade. Within moments the camera lens was spattered with blood. The shifter turned my way and stared with yellow, feral eyes. My more aggressive instincts told me to mirror his hostility, not to back down but I was undercover, so I looked away and he turned his attention back to the fight.
Two dark fae women in tight emerald green dresses sat in the far corner of the room with a man that looked like a politician that had just been caught in flagrante, while a group of bikers gathered around a pool table in the middle of the room. They passed a small mirror with chopped white lines back and forth, as their faces turned a troubling shade of purple and the veins on their necks grew taut.
I wished I had my gun as I felt the faint, invisible energy crackling in the air.
Darkness. But it wasn't coming from these people, it was coming from somewhere else. And then I caught the unmistakable buzz of black crystals.
Jerry led me to the back of the room and we stood before a wall covered in shadows. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and his breathing became short and shallow. "Dryden?" he called, his voice breaking.
A cold draught swept over the room and somewhere in the murk a door opened. Two blue-white pinpricks appeared in the gloom.
"Hi," Jerry said, trying but failing to keep his voice light. "I've got a new customer I'd like to introduce you to."
The eyes blinked slowly, and a figure emerged from the darkness.
It was a ghoul, tall and sinewy. He wore the same vest and jeans as the other bikers, but somehow he looked almost refined in his slow, confident gait. His softly glowing eyes glinted as they swept over me, and a slight smile passed over his dry, chapped lips. The skin below his eyes was tattooed with black dots like rain falling down his sunken cheeks.
As he approached, a scent filled the air. It reminded me of ashtrays, dust and rot. "And you are?" the ghoul asked, his voice softer than I'd expected and well spoken, with a slight, Irish lilt.
"Morgan."
The ghoul offered a pale hand. Shaking it was pretty much the last thing I wanted to do, but I forced myself to get on with it. His grasp was as cold as a November frost but I refused to flinch, and I held fast, even as I felt a part of my warmth and vitality being drained. The contact was enough to leave me tired and dizzy.
"Thank you," the ghoul said, as a blush of life reddened his cheeks. "I'm Dryden. Like the poet."
There was no poetry in this creature. Just death, hunger and cruelty poorly masked behind a thin facade of civility. His eyes flitted to Jerry. "Now, kindly explain why you've brought Morgan to the cave, Jerry."
"He wants crystals," Jerry said. "He's got money."
Dryden's gaze returned to me. "I'm sure he does. But we don't have crystals here. And in case your eyes have deceived you, this isn't a corner store."
I took a slow, deep breath, and tried not to grimace when I caught the stench of rot issuing from the ghoul's mouth. "Not to be rude, Mr. Dryden, but I know there are black crystals here. The air's buzzing with them. They're exactly what I came for and as Jerry said, I can pay. Handsomely."
"I'm sure you can." Dryden seized my wrist, felt my pulse, and examined the skin on my lower arms. Then he looked into my eyes. "Most people who come to us show signs of at least one addiction, or another. You don't."
"I haven't been exposed to black crystals and drugs aren't my thing."
Dryden's smile faded, and his eyes gleamed as hard as ice. "Then why the fuck have you come here?"
"I...I lost someone I love." That part wasn't a lie, but the next was. "I want to bring her back. Just for a few moments. I was told I need black crystals to do that."
Dryden continued to gaze into my eyes, his stare piercing as he tried to verify my intentions. Maybe he saw my grief for Willow, or maybe he saw a glimpse of my other but something convinced him. He nodded and clapped his hands. The shifter stood, the snarl on its face softening as he glanced at his master.
"Fetch a box," Dryden said.
The shifter bustled from the room.
"So," Dryden said. "You're versed in necromancy are you?"
"Kind of," I said, another lie. The closest I'd come to necromancy was witnessing an interrogation Erland conducted on a dead narc once.
"Kind of," Dryden mimicked my reply, then he looked up as the shifter returned with a hinged wooden box, slightly larger than a cigar box, in his raw meaty hands. He held it out to Dryden but he refused to touch it and nodded for the shifter to pass it to me.
I opened the lid, steeli
ng myself against the darkness within. Three opaque shards of crystal, each about the size of the handle of a knife, rested on the soft red fabric liner. They were as black as coal, and the candlelight in the room seemed to be drawn into them as if they were formed from deepest night itself. A low, almost audible hum thrummed from within. It was the pulse of relentless pain and suffering distilled into a dark and terrible power.
"You say you're a necromancer." Dryden smiled disarmingly.
"I didn't say I was a necromancer. I said I wanted to raise someone. And I do," I met his stare.
"Good. Then show us how sincere you are in your ambitions, and what you know of the dark arts. I want to see if your story checks out."
"How?" A wave of nausea passed over me. The room seemed to grow darker and I could barely take a breath without smelling the ghoul's rotten stench.
"By raising the dead." Dryden's voice was friendly, almost reasonable. And utterly fake.
I glanced around. "There's nothing dead to raise."
Dryden reached behind his back and pulled a gun from his waistband. He smiled and pointed it at me for a moment before turning and discharging it into Jerry's chest.
Jerry fell, his wiry thin body barely making a sound as he struck the floorboard. He gazed up, his eyes clouding, a line of blood running from his mouth to his chin.
"Give it a minute," Dryden took a step closer and I could feel the whole room watching. "then show us what you can do, Morgan. Let's see you raise the dead."
22
I was outnumbered, out-gunned and utterly screwed.
"Well, you have the crystals, take one" Dryden said. "Hell, take all three. Whatever you need to bring poor old Jerry back."
My hand wavered over the box. This was going nowhere good, and it was headed there fast.
Dryden leaned over Jerry's body and pulled a few hairs from his head. He braided them together and twisted the strand around his finger until it formed a ring, then he fixed it with a knot. "To help you follow him," he said, placing the ring in my pocket. "Not that someone with your knowledge of necromancy would need my help. Now, take a fucking crystal and snatch him back from the jaws of death."
