The Nimble Man (A Novel of the Menagerie)

by Christopher Golden, Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Sweetblood had not taken part in the Twilight Wars. Upon discovering the presence of Conan Doyle among the ranks of the virtuous, he had returned to the world of Blight in a flash of magickal exhibitionism. There were those among the Fey who thought Sweetblood had a rivalry with Conan Doyle, and would not fight at his side. Morrigan, however, had felt certain that Sanguedolce had simply deemed the conflict to be beneath him. She had never forgotten him, or the power he wielded; it had haunted her always. Here was the key to everything that she desired. With that power, her darkest dreams could be made real. She had sworn to have it for her own, at any cost.

  Now here was the power, beneath her very hands. Morrigan brought her face closer to the surface of the chrysalis.

  "You can't keep me out forever, my sweet," she whispered, running her fingers sensually across the jagged surface of the amber encasement, pressing her supple, leather-clad body against it, as if attempting to arouse the sleeping figure within.

  She began to mutter beneath her breath, words that were ancient before man had dropped from the trees to walk erect.

  "Moggotu sandrathar," Morrigan hissed. "Memaritus gosov iknetar shokkar-dos fhinn."

  Arcane power snaked from her clawed fingertips, flowing across the surface of the chrysalis, attempting to find a weakness to exploit upon its unyielding exterior.

  "Tann-dissarvar, Bottus, Nava-si, Tiridus valkinsu!"

  Morrigan spread herself across the cocoon. There was a flaw. She knew it. She sensed it. The chrysalis was damaged; otherwise, she would not have been able to feel Sweetblood's power leaking out. Already she had been able to use some of the magickal radiant thrown off by the chrysalis to strengthen her own sorceries, to shatter the wards Conan Doyle had set up around his home. Ironic, that the power of the master should be used to destroy the sanctum of the student. Morrigan had a taste of Sanguedolce's magick. But it wasn't enough, for she knew the full extent of what awaited her once the enchanted shell was breached, and she wanted it all. She lay atop the cocoon, letting her own magick flow outward, sensing, probing, searching for the flaw so that she might permeate the chrysalis.

  She writhed atop Sweetblood's amber sarcophagus, ancient incantations issuing from her mouth as she rubbed her body against its unyielding skin. Her magick slipped across its surface, hungrily searching for a way inside, and for a moment, she thought she had succeeded.

  The chyrsalis shuddered, and Morrigan exerted even more of herself, eagerly grinding her sex against her prize in an attempt to coax the magick from the entrapped sorcerer within. If she searched for the flaw from without, and she could cause Sweetblood's own power to search for an exit from within . . . she sensed the power building within the amber and called to it sweetly in the voice of the ancients, urging it to burst forth from its confinement.

  The chrysalis shook yet again and she cried out with passion. Morrigan was riding the crest of everything she had ever hoped for. The renegade Fey sorceress could see it all before her mind's eye as it came over the rise, glorious to behold. Her enemies vanquished, the world of Blight and then Faerie bowing to her every whim, with so many others to follow.

  And all in the name of her true love. Her true passion. All that I do and all that I am, I dedicate to you, she thought. For though she had desires of her own, they existed solely for the glory of another. She would have all that she craved, but what she craved the most was the glint of loving approval in the eyes of The Nimble Man.

  It is all so close, and coming closer. Close enough to touch.

  Morrigan suddenly cried out, not in pleasure, but in excruciating pain. The chrysalis lashed out at her defensively, a pulse of arcane energy that repelled her, sent her sprawling across the room with such force that she struck the wall, cracking the mirrored glass, and fell limply to the floor.

  The Corca Duibhne were terrified, but for the moment their fear of the mage was overwhelmed by their loyalty to their Mistress. Or, perhaps, their fear of Morrigan was simply greater. They swarmed around her, concerned for her safety, but none daring to put a hand upon her.

  She lay upon the wood floor, her body smoldering. Morrigan had known that it was unlikely she would be able to breach the chrysalis so simply, even with its flaw, but still her blood burned with rage and humiliation. She wanted Sweetblood's power now.

  Fury consumed her, and she gave herself over to it willingly. Morrigan sprang to her feet, lashing out at the Night People that huddled about, concerned for her. Her claws tore into their dark flesh and stinking blood spattered off the ballroom's mirrored walls. Rage contorted her features, surged through her veins, and magick would not satisfy her. She used her hands to tear at them, to break their bones, to eviscerate them. It had been some time since she had let herself go, giving into the bloodlust that had been with her since birth. It was ecstasy.

  Dead Corca Duibhne lay at her feet, their blood collecting in shimmering dark puddles as Morrigan wrestled the rage back under control. The stink of new death around her, she took several long breaths before she felt capable of looking once more upon the object of her desire and her fury. The chrysalis stood unchanged, untouched, in the center of the room. But not for long. She would have the power she desired.

  "Mistress."

  The word was spoken by two voices in concert, and Morrigan turned toward the broad double doors of the ballroom. There stood Fenris and Dagris, the twin Fey warriors who served as her lieutenants. Each of the brothers held in his arms a struggling human child. The twins were freaks amongst their own kind, psychically bonded, one unable to exist without the other. They had some skill with magick, and great skill in battle, and their loyalty to her was the only emotion either of them felt that was not clouded with insanity.

  The twins entered the room with proud smiles upon their gaunt faces. They had done precisely what had been asked of them, as always. As she had many times before, Morrigan congratulated herself on the decision she had made to free them from their imprisonment in Finvarra's citadel. She could not have found dogs more loyal.

  The children wailed in terror, beating at their captors. Morrigan motioned for Fenris and Dagris to approach. The twins stepped forward, each of them holding out their terrified package. The babes were young, a boy and girl each no more than four years of age. Perfect, Morrigan thought, reaching out with a single claw to prick each of the children's mottled cheeks, drawing beads of blood. The babes screeched all the louder, and she brought the taste of them to her mouth.

  "Yes," she said, satisfied with what she had sampled in the blood. "They should do nicely."

  Morrigan smiled, her pleasure gradually returning. She had been impatient. Attempting to breach the chrysalis with only her own power had been vain and self-indulgent. Now, though, her hopes and dreams were only a blood ritual away.

  "Do you have any sour cream?" the twisted little man with the strangely pointed ears asked her, even as he helped himself, yanking open the refrigerator to peruse its contents.

  Julia Ferrick couldn't bring herself to answer. It was as if she were trapped in some bizarre fever dream, aimlessly walking around familiar dreamscape locations as the horrors continued to unfold. The odd, dwarfish man was but the latest addition to an equally strange cast of characters that had taken up residence in her home. Sitting at the marble-topped kitchen island, she gazed toward the window above the sink and saw the thick red fog swirl ominously about outside. The usual view of the trees in her backyard was completely obscured by the bizarre weather that had supposedly engulfed the city and its suburbs, at least that was what her visitors told her.

  "You got some old milk in here . . . Christ, it's got the Lindbergh baby on the carton!" Squire turned toward her, wide-eyed. Then he gave her a terrifying smile, something out of Grimm's Fairy Tales. "Just kiddin'. Heh. But seriously, the sour cream gives it that little bit of extra somethin'," the man . . . she thought he was a man . . . said as he pulled himself out of her refrigerator, arms filled with ingredients.

  Julia went over
to the oven and opened the cabinet above it. She pulled down a bag of Oreos and set it on the cooktop, then fished behind a jar of peanut butter to grab an unopened box of Winston Lights. Her fingers quivered as they retrieved the cigarettes. Then, quickly, she dug through a drawer for matches. It was her emergency pack. Her fallback, held for a time when it wouldn't matter anymore what Danny's reaction would be to her smoking again. She imagined it stenciled with the words In Case of Apocalypse, Tear Plastic.

  There were no matches so she turned on one of the gas stove's burners and bent, shaking, to light the cigarette. The first intake of carcinogens was harsh relief. Her fingers stopped quivering. She gnawed her lower lip, then took another puff before blowing out a plume of smoke. Her back was to Squire.

  "Feel better now? You needed a smoke, huh? I know the feeling. Not that I smoke but . . . Oh, hey, Oreos!"

  When Julia spun to look at him again, Squire had already picked up the bag of Oreos and was helping himself. The package crinkled as he drew out a pair of cookies and popped them in his mouth like they were dog biscuits. She expected him to throw back his head and gulp them down, but instead he stared at her and then spoke up once more, talking with his mouth full.

  "So. Sour cream?"

  "What?" Julia asked him. "The sour cream . . . for what?"

  Squire rolled his eyes, snatching another Oreo from the pack and then going back to the open fridge. He retrieved a couple of items from within and then closed the door with a bump from his hip. "For the omelets we're making for the hungry troops? Remember?"

  She smiled nervously. "Right. Sorry." Eyes darting away, she took another long drag on the cigarette, no longer caring if the house smelled like smoke. She leaned back to look through the doorway into the living room, where the others had gathered. "My head is spinning."

  "That's all right," Squire said, returning to the refrigerator. He yanked open the door again and helped himself to some eggs. "Gotta admit, this business has even got me seeing stars, and that's sayin' somethin'."

  He asked her for a large frying pan from the rack that hung over the kitchen's center island. She doubted that he could have reached it even with the added help of a stepping stool. Julia retrieved it for him.

  "Best thing to do is keep your head and keep thinkin' the good thoughts." He looked at her as he doused the pan with no-stick cooking spray. "That's what I do, and it hasn't failed me yet, except for that business with the Beast of Gevaudan. That shit was just bad news from the start."

  He rattled on a bit more and she nodded her head and smiled politely, but deep inside she could feel it building, the urge to scream and throw them all out of her house, her son included. If at the very moment she had been given the choice to crawl back inside her mother's womb, Julia Ferrick would have done so without so much as a second thought. She felt as though there was an electric current passing through her seat and into her body.

  She found herself gnawing on the nail of her left index finger, even as she tapped the ash from her cigarette into the stainless steel sink. Great. She'd given into temptation, and now she had two habits to kick instead of one. But, God, the cigarette was a comfort. Just holding helped to steady her.

  Squire was using a whisk to beat the eggs inside a bowl, humming busily to himself, seemingly content to ignore the fact that the world was falling apart all around them.

  "That's quality," Danny said as he came into the kitchen.

  Julia thought for a moment about trying to hide her cigarette, but it was too late. He looked disappointed for a moment and then just sighed. She gave him a small shrug. What could she say? In a situation like this, the kid should understand. She thought about putting it out, but he'd already seen her anyway, and she needed that cigarette.

  Averting her eyes from his gaze, she took another drag and let the smoke trail from her mouth. Then she did her best to smile. She put on a brave face for her son — and he would always be her son, no matter if she had given birth to him or not, no matter if he was even human. The tiny black horns that had burst through his skin and now protruded, just above his temples, made her shudder, but she did her best to hide her revulsion.

  "What's up, kid?" she asked him.

  "I wanted to know more about this Doyle guy. Dude took an interest in me, but how does he know all the stuff he knows? I asked Eve what his story was, but she said to ask Squire." Danny focused on the ugly little man and Julia was grateful he wasn't going to fight her about her smoking. "Says you've worked for him the longest."

  Squire abandoned his cooking for a moment to snatch a few Oreos from the package. He popped one into his mouth and went back to whisking eggs. "You want the short version or the long version?"

  Danny sat on the edge of the table and crossed his arms. "Let's start with the CliffsNotes. Mom says I have a short attention span."

  "Mr. Doyle. The boss. A.K.A. Arthur Conan Doyle. Learned a bunch of magick. Tries to keep the nasty shit from bothering normal people. End of story."

  "Come on. There's got to be more to it than that."

  Squire shrugged. "Lots more. But you wanted the short version."

  "Hold on," Julia said. "Just . . . just hold on." The cigarette dangled from her fingers, nearly forgotten. Her brows knitted as she stared at Squire. "Arthur Conan Doyle. His parents gave him the same name as the creator of Sherlock Holmes?"

  Danny shot them a confused look, his Converse Chucks squeaking on the linoleum. "What, you mean that cartoon? Sherlock Holmes in the Thirtysomething Century?"

  Squire snorted, but it wasn't derisive. Danny amused him. "Kid. Sherlock Holmes is one of the greatest fictional creations ever. People around the world know who he is. Like Mickey Mouse and Superman. He was created in the 1800s."

  Then the leather-skinned, ugly little creature turned on a burner and started to heat a pan in which to cook omelets. He didn't even look up as he responded to Julia's question. "And, no, the boss ain't named after Sir Arthur. He's the real deal. The one and only. You see the way he dresses? He's not old-fashioned. He's just real old school."

  "No shit?" Danny asked, a strange grin spreading across his badly scarred features. "That's just so fucking cool."

  "Watch your mouth," Julia snapped, glaring at her son. It was such a maternal thing to do that she had a moment of dislocation, as though none of this was happening. It was all impossible. This latest news was only the latest in a string of impossibilities. But the tip of her cigarette burned and the smoke warmed her throat. She was awake and alive. Julia knew the difference between a dream and a nightmare.

  Everything that was happening to them was real and true. Danny was . . . what he was. But just with those few words, with the rush of instinct she had to chide him for his foul language, snapped part of her mind back into place. He was her little boy, still. No matter what. She had raised him, put band-aids on his scrapes and cuts, comforted him when he had a nightmare. How could she possibly think of him in any other way?

  "Sorry, Mom," he mumbled, averting his eyes.

  She reached out and ruffled his thick, curly hair, and gasped when a handful of it came away in her fingers, floating to the floor. "Dear God," she muttered, staring at the bald spot that she had created.

  "It's okay," he reassured her. "It's been falling out pretty steadily for the last few days." He moved the hair on the floor around with the toe of his sneaker.

  She felt the tears well up in her eyes. It took every ounce of her self-control not to break down sobbing.

  Clay and Eve entered the kitchen, their focus on Squire.

  "How are those eggs coming?" Clay asked.

  Julia gazed sadly at her son and slid down into a chair at the kitchen table. Danny kicked at her chair lightly, playing with her, being a brat, but only to remind her of who they were, to let her know he was still there and still himself. She nodded, smiling weakly.

  "Eggs?" Squire barked at Clay, flipping a golden brown omelet with a spatula in the frying pan. "When have I ever merely prepared eggs, compad
re?"

  Clay laughed pleasantly, and Julia trembled again as she recalled how the handsome man had somehow changed himself into a mirror image of her, her exact doppelganger. How such things were possible she did not know. All she did know was that she was not going to be getting used to them at any time soon. She took another drag of her cigarette, now smoked almost down to the filter, and chose to focus on the kitchen conversation. She was becoming fairly adept at preventing herself from losing her mind. It seemed she had no other choice. What was that old saying? Adapt or die. Her version was a little different. Adapt or lose your marbles.

  "A repast fit for a king," Squire said, flipping another omelet on the burner beside the first.

  "If it's anything like that goulash you tried to pawn off on us last fall . . ." Eve chimed in, drawing a glass of water from the tap.

  "That was no fault of mine," Squire protested. "I was assured by the butcher that the meat was of the finest quality." He broke one of the omelets in half with the spatula, flipped it onto a plate and handed it to Clay. "How was I to know that dog meat was considered a delicacy in his particular dimension?"

  Clay sniffed the food on his plate suspiciously and wrinkled his nose as if smelling something foul. Danny burst out laughing beside his mother and she jumped. Laughter had become a foreign sound in this household of late, and she had almost forgotten it existed.

  "Are you partaking?" Squire asked, turning to offer Eve a fresh omelet on a plate.

  The woman threw up her hands to ward him off. "I'll pass." She leaned her head forward and sniffed around the offering. "Is that . . . is that garlic I smell?" She asked him.

  The ugly little man smiled mischievously. "Chopped up nice and fine, just how you like it."

  "Asshole," Eve spat, and Squire cackled.