"They attacked in surprising numbers," Doyle said. He gestured toward Eve, who lay unconscious upon the sofa, bleeding onto yesterday's news. "Eve was occupied with an antagonist of her own. The beasts overpowered us and made off with the arch mage's chrysalis. There was nothing we could do." The magician shook his head, gazing off into space.
"There's silence in the ether," Graves told them, crossing his arms. "That can't be good."
Doyle walked to a liquor cabinet in the corner of the elegant room and removed a crystal decanter of scotch, and a tumbler. He filled half the glass with the golden brown liquid, placed the stopper back into the bottle and put the decanter away. "Not good at all," he agreed, helping himself to a large gulp of the alcohol. It was yet another sensory experience that Graves had come to miss since joining the ranks of the dead. He envied the magician's ability to enjoy the twelve-year-old, Glenlivet single malt, spirits of a different kind altogether.
A low moan interrupted his thoughts, and Graves saw that Eve was awake. She sat up, wincing in pain, blood-soaked newspaper squelching beneath her. Her hand came up to rub at the back of her head, and came away stained with scarlet.
"Shit," she muttered beneath her breath. A clot of thick, coagulated blood dropped from the corner of her mouth to land upon the front of her sweater, torn and stained from her conflict earlier that morning. "What's a girl got to do for a drink around here?"
Everything hurt. Eve turned her somewhat blurred gaze to Squire, who appeared to be having some difficulty opening a blood pack. The goblin gnawed on the pouch's corner, but the plastic was proving too tough for the creature.
"Give it to me," she demanded, reaching for the bag.
Insulted, Squire handed it to her. "I was only trying to help," he grumbled. But he set the remaining packs in her lap where she could reach them. "All this drinkin' has made me a tad parched," the goblin said, ambling from the room. "I'm going to get a beer."
Eve brought the pouch of blood to her mouth, careful to avoid the side that the hobgoblin had chewed. She felt her canines elongate with the promise of feeding, and she tore into the thick plastic container. The blood flowed into her mouth and her entire body began to tingle. Greedily Eve sucked upon the pouch, draining it in seconds, and tossed the empty container to the floor to start another.
"Carefully, Eve," Doyle barked. "Do you know the expense of removing blood stains from such a delicate carpet?"
She finished another of the blood packs, placing the wilted plastic beside her on the stained newspaper. "I think we have a bigger problem right now than soiling your rug. My coat? Remember that coat? I bought it in Milan. My clothes are ruined. Do you hear me bitching about it?"
"Well, now that you mention it —" Squire began.
She stilled him with a dark glance.
Eve could feel the blood working its magick upon her; the cuts and gashes closing, foreign objects trapped beneath her flesh being pushed out from within by the healing process, bruises and abrasions beginning to fade. If it weren't for the fact that the world could very well be going to shit, she'd have been downright giddy.
"These Corca Duibhne," asked Graves, a cool vapor drifting from his mouth as he spoke. "You've encountered them before?"
Doyle finished his scotch, placing the empty glass on a silver tray that rested upon a wheeled cart beside the liquor cabinet. He glanced around at his allies.
"I've crossed paths with the loathsome breed from time to time." The mage crossed the parlor to wearily lower himself into a high backed leather chair by a curtained window. "Since the Twilight Wars, the species had been functioning more as individuals, hiring themselves out to the highest bidder. It's been quite some time since I've seen them this organized and working with such purpose." He laid his head back in the chair and closed his eyes. "It does not bode well."
Eve sipped slowly from another of the blood packs, feeling almost one hundred percent. "Something's pulled them together again," she said, a thrum of warmth cascading through her. "Could be the threat that the spirit realm's so agitated about."
Graves furrowed his ghostly brow as he regarded her. Eve smiled.
"Where are we on that?" she asked him. "Any closer to defining what exactly this threat is?"
The specter shook his head. "The restless souls have retreated even further into the spirit realms than usual. I sense that they are afraid of what is coming."
"And we don't have a clue as to what that is?" she asked him, making sure that she hadn't missed anything while she had been unconscious.
"I'm sorry to say, no," answered Graves, a winter's chill from his mere presence spreading throughout the room.
All was silent except for the rhythmic ticking of the large grandfather clock located in the hall just outside the room. Eve shifted her weight upon the newspaper, the sudden lack of activity making her antsy. For days the spirit worlds had been in a tizzy over some impending supernatural threat, and the most powerful magician in the world had just been stolen; things were not looking too good for the home team. Eve looked about the fancy sitting room of the Beacon Hill home, at the wispy form of the ghost Leonard Graves hovering in the air, at Doyle seemingly nodding off in his chair. She had another drink from the packet of blood, for if she didn't she was surely going to scream.
At last, when she couldn't stand it anymore, she rose and glared at them. "So, what now? I'm going to get bored if we sit around here much longer." She gave Doyle a meaningful glance. "And you know what I'm like when I get bored."
Eyes still closed, Doyle slowly raised a hand to silence her rant. "Patience, Eve," he said. "The wheels of fate are in motion."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she snarled. Far off in the house she heard the trill of the phone ringing, and then the voice of Squire as he answered.
Doyle smiled. "The wheels turn slowly at times, but they do turn." The mage made a spinning motion with his hand even as Squire entered the room holding a piece of notepaper in one hand and a bottle of Samuel Adams in the other.
"Hey, boss, you just got a call from a Julia Ferrick," he read from the paper. "Said she needs to talk to you right away about her son." Squire looked up from the message. "The broad's on a tear. If you ask me I don't think she's wound too tight."
Doyle's eyes snapped open, a crackle of magick dancing on his lashes. "The Ferrick boy," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else in the room. "How interesting."
A nasty chill spread through her body and Eve looked to see that Graves had drifted closer.
"You were expecting that call," the ghost said. It was not a question. "Will this woman and her boy play some part in the scheme of things?"
Doyle gazed toward the shuttered windows. "We all play a part in the greater scheme of things, Leonard. Each and every one."
The doorbell rang, echoing through the townhouse, and they all looked at one another and then to Doyle.
"Somebody call for pizza?" Squire asked, taking a swig from his bottle of beer. "God, I could use a pizza. Or two."
"I'm sorry, my friend. I don't think that's the pizza man," Doyle replied.
"Let me guess," Eve said. "At the door now? Another player."
Doyle stood, checking the crease in his pant's legs. "Precisely. And the part you will play at this moment, Eve, is to answer the door. Our latest player will be in need of some refreshment before the two of you go to see Mrs. Ferrick and her son." He pulled down his rolled shirt sleeves, buttoning the cuffs.
"Where do you think I'm going, exactly?" Eve asked. "Nightfall's still a ways off."
There was nothing humorous about the wan smile that appeared on Doyle's face just then. "Check the windows, my dear. The darkness comes early today."
Frowning, Eve glanced at the tall windows at the front of the room. They had heavy drapes that Doyle often pulled to shield the room from sunlight for her protection. She had presumed those drapes were responsible for the gloom in the room but now Eve saw that they were tied back properly and that while t
he world outside those windows was not pitch black, it was a dusky gray. She went to the window and glanced up at the sky. A cloud of blue-black mist, like the smoke from a chemical fire, hung above the city of Boston, churning and widening. There were streaks of red in that cloud as well, and even as she glanced at them, they seemed to spread.
"That damned New England weather," Eve muttered darkly. "Guess I'm going out after all."
Again the doorbell buzzed and then there came the distant echo of a fist pounding upon the front door.
"I'll throw together some sandwiches," Squire said, "maybe make some of those Ore Ida fries." He slipped into a patch of shadow thrown by a massive oak bookcase. No matter how many times Eve saw the goblin do that, it never ceased to amaze her.
"And my part, Arthur?" asked Graves. "You have some assignment for me as well?"
Doyle wore an expression of regret. "I do. You must go deeper into the land of the dead, Leonard. Whatever is frightening the wandering spirits, we need to know what it is. It may be our best clue as to what threat we face."
Eve wasn't sure, but she could've sworn she saw the ghost swallow hard. It would be difficult for him. From what she understood of the spirit realms, the deeper one traveled, the harder it was to return to the realms of the living. Leonard Graves still had some serious business to finish here and didn't want to put that in jeopardy.
Then Doyle left the room and Eve followed after him. They went together into the foyer. Doyle started up the stairs and Eve paused a moment to watch him.
"What about you?" she asked on her way to the door. The bell rang again and she scowled. "Going to finish up that nap?"
The magician paused on the stairs. There were so many rooms up there. One of them belonged to Eve, though she rarely stayed here. Doyle glanced at her, and the sadness in his eyes was so dreadful she was forced to look away.
"Sometimes fate requires us to do the most painful things," he said, then continued upward, walking as though he bore some terrible, invisible burden.
Then it dawned on her what he was doing — where he was going — and for the briefest of moments, Eve actually felt sorry for the old man.
Their visitor gave up on the bell and began pounding on the door. Eve scowled as she marched toward it, picking at the bloodstains on her sweater, wondering if there was anything worth wearing in the closet in her room. "Keep your fucking shirt on."
Throwing back the bolt and twisting the lock, she pulled the door open. Clay stood just outside in the gloom. Eve raised an eyebrow.
"Well, well. Look what the apocalypse dragged in."
At the end of the hall on the second floor was a locked door that no one had passed through in many years. Doyle found it sadly amusing that after all he had been through in his extended years, he could still remember the exact moment when he had locked it, sealing away a part of his life that he hadn't been sure he could live without.
It was the hardest thing he had ever done, almost as difficult as what he was about to attempt now.
Doyle unbuttoned the top button of his white shirt, reaching for the chain that he always wore around his neck. At the end of the chain hung an old fashioned skeleton key, familiar to all houses of this age. There was a tremble to his hand as he brought the key to the lock. A spark of supernatural release was followed by just the slightest whiff of a scent foreign to this house, the smell of some primeval forest after a drenching rain. He savored the heady smell, taken aback by the powerful emotions it evoked. He turned the key, gripped the glass, diamond-cut knob and turned it.
The door opened with a creak, the light from the hallway eagerly spilling onto an ascending, wooden staircase, illuminating another door at the top of stairs. The door was of solid iron, made for him in 1932 by a smith by the name of Hendrickson who hailed from Eerie, Pennsylvania. Doyle had helped the metal worker make contact with his long dead mother in lieu of payment for his metal work.
He never imagined that he would look upon that door again. It had been put there as a precaution, to keep things where they belonged. Now, Doyle began to climb, gripping the wooden banister as he ascended. It seemed to take an eternity. On the final step he stopped. There were no keyholes, no sliding bolts or crystal knobs to turn, just cold and unyielding iron. He placed the flat of his hand upon the metal, sensing contact with the magicks he had placed within it so long ago. His palm began to tingle as dormant spell came sluggishly awake.
"Open," he whispered.
The door shimmered, a tremor passing through it. A tiny hole appeared and began to grow, the metal now malleable, as if returning to its molten state. The opening expanded, the substance of the door peeling back upon itself as it created an entryway large enough for him to pass through.
A warm, humid breeze flowed out from the expanding portal, and Doyle could hear the gentle patter of a falling rain upon the vast forest beyond the confines of the hallway and door.
It was just as wild and frighteningly beautiful as he remembered it, the lush vegetation every conceivable shade of green that could possibly be imagined. The place was older than recorded time, stirring musings about origins of the mythical Garden of Eden, but he had not returned here for intellectual stimulation. Only reasons most dire would have forced him into this place again.
The sorcerer stepped through the doorway. He let the place wash over him, turning his face up to the thick canopy of trees that blotted out the sky. The rain dropped from the leaves upon his upturned face. He opened his mouth, tasting the purity of the world he had entered.
The moss writhed beneath his feet, and he glanced down to see that blades of grass bent to touch the soft leather of his shoes. What a wondrous place, he thought, so very sorry that he had ever left it.
The patch of ground before him began to roil, turning over upon itself, and in the blink of an eye, two pale-skinned creatures erupted from the earth and crouched before him. Adorned in armor made from the bark of trees and flat polished stone, the warriors thrust their spears toward him.
Doyle let his hands fall at his sides, tendrils of mystical energy leaking from his fingertips, showing the pair that he was far from defenseless.
"I have come on a matter of grave importance," he spoke in the lilting tongue of the Fey. "The fate of my world is at stake, and yours as well. Yes, both our worlds . . . and all of the others besides."
CHAPTER FIVE
Clay piloted a silver Cadillac through the streets of Boston, holding the steering wheel as though it was fragile and might shatter in his hands. There were very few other cars out on the street, but still he drove slowly, his speed dictated not by traffic but by his fascination with the terrible phenomena that were unfolding in the city. The Cadillac feeling like some protective bubble out of which he and Eve could observe the horrors around them.
The sky was tinted the dark crimson of drying blood and swarms of mosquitoes traveled like terrible storm clouds. Clay had been forced to detour away from the entrance to the Massachusetts Turnpike because manhole covers had blown out of the pavement surrounding it and raw sewage flooded the street. Eve had suggested Route Nine to drive out to Newton and he'd headed that way onto to pause at a place where the road was overrun by rats. But he'd paused only a moment before rolling the Caddy right over them, hearing them pop beneath its tires.
It wasn't going to get any better. The rats weren't going to clear off of their own free will. Whatever this storm was, it wasn't going to pass without someone doing something about it.
"Pretty unsettling, isn't it?" he said, breaking a long silence in the car.
"I've seen worse," Eve replied.
Clay shot her a hard look. "You're not the only one, Eve. But I'm not talking about this." He waved a hand to indicate the bizarre goings on in the city around him. They passed a Humvee that was pulled over to the side of the road. The driver had his face pressed against his window, staring up at the sky. "I'm talking about what it means."
She arched an eyebrow and Clay felt his throat go dry. By
God she was beautiful. He was the last person to be taken in by surface appearance; he knew better than anyone that it rarely reflected what was within. Yet there was something so exotic, so ancient about her that she took his breath away. She had taken the time to change out of the blood-soaked clothes in which she had met him at the door and now wore black trousers and a chiffon, embroidered top that was looked both expensive and — with its spaghetti straps baring her arms, throat and shoulders — more revealing than what Eve normally wore. There was a silk jacket in the back seat that had clearly come from the closet of one designer or another. Clothing was Eve's other weakness, second only to blood.
"What does it mean, then?" Eve prodded him.
"That's what's so unsettling," he explained. "This sort of thing is happening all over the northeast, but it's concentrated here. I've lived as long as you have —"
"And how many can say that?" she whispered.
He ignored her and went on. " — and normally there's some kind of prophecy, isn't there? You'll get the clairvoyants with their visions and maybe some ancient writings, omens and portents —"
Eve turned sideways in her seat. "What do you call all this shit, then? Last I heard showers of blood and rains of toads were considered pretty ominous. And as for portents, there aren't many that can beat red clouds blotting out the sun."
Clay took a long breath and shook his head, but he kept his eyes on the road. "No argument, but normally there's some warning, enough so that people like Doyle, the kind of people who watch for these things, know they're coming much earlier."
A streak of black darted across the road in front of them and he had to jerk the wheel to the left to swerve around it. As the Cadillac shifted lanes he caught a glimpse of that black streak, but it was not a streak any longer. It was a dog, maybe a German Shepherd but he could not be at all certain. Whatever sort of dog it was, it was not the beast's fur that was black. It was the crows.
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