The Nimble Man (A Novel of the Menagerie)

by Christopher Golden, Thomas E. Sniegoski

  "This is my home," he said, biting off each word with grinding teeth. "And I want you out!"

  The Corca Duibhne raced at him, their claws scoring the wood floor. Some of them capered like beasts, others swaggered in their leather, modeling themselves after the darker impulses of mankind. Yet they were all nothing more than cruel, stupid animals.

  Conan Doyle threw his head back, summoned the magick up inside himself and felt it surge into him as though he had been struck by lightning. A blue mist spilled from his eyes like tears of azure steam. The Corca Duibhne from the parlor were almost upon him. With a twist of his wrist, he laid his hand out toward him, palm upward, and a spell rolled off of his fingers. He barked a phrase in Macedonian, and the floor erupted beneath them. The slats of the wood floor became roots that reached up and twined around their ankles. Shoots split off from the roots and sunk into the Night People's flesh, and their bodies began to change. To harden. Bark formed upon their skin, and they screamed as tiny branches grew out from their flesh, sprouting leaves.

  They made ugly trees, those four, rooted there in the foyer.

  "Caedo tui frater," Conan Doyle sneered as he turner toward the trio rushing in from the kitchen. He drew a gob of phlegm up from his throat and spat it at them. It hit the ground not far from the nearest of them and a red line snaked from that yellow spittle across the floor, touching the creature's foot.

  It turned on the others with obscene savagery, claws raking another Corca Duibhne's face, slashing its eyes, which burst with a splash of acidic fluid that scored the floor. The red lines on the floor touched the other two as well, and soon they were ripping one another apart, fang and claw, shredding flesh and clothing in a widening spatter of their own blood.

  The trio on the stairs paused, hesitating now. They were capable of speech, but in battle and in fear, they rarely spoke. Now the rearmost among them took a step backward, and the others noticed and began to retreat as well.

  "To haptikos Medusa," Conan Doyle muttered.

  He widened his eyes and felt the blue mist that swirled there pour from within him. It furrowed the air and shot toward them, enveloped them, and when it dissipated, they were only statues. Frozen stone.

  Only the one hanging from the light fixture remained. He stared up at it with disdain. It clung there, eyes closed, praying he did not see it. Conan Doyle ignored it, starting for the stairs.

  On the second floor landing he saw the mad Fey twins, Fenris and Dagris, waiting for him.

  Conan Doyle started up toward them.

  The twins drew swords from scabbards that hung at their sides, mirror images of one another. Conan Doyle held his palms together in front of him as he walked up the stairs. When he opened them, a shaft of razor-sharp, shimmering blue magick grew from the palm of his right hand. This would be his sword. But he would not need it for long.

  Dagris moved first, stepping delicately down the stairs to meet him. Fenris came after, more cautiously. They had some skill with magick, these two, but Conan Doyle was pleased they had not chosen to attack him as sorcerers. It would have taken more time than he wished to waste with them.

  "There are those who would argue that madmen cannot be held responsible for their actions," Conan Doyle said as he continued up toward them. "Perhaps. Perhaps."

  With a lunatic gleam in his eyes and a sickening smile, Dagris swung his sword. "For Morrigan! For The Nimble Man!"

  Conan Doyle parried his attack. Dagris deftly maneuvered his weapon again and again, and each time Conan Doyle turned it away. The azure blade crackled, the air redolent with the scent of cinnamon and other spices, the smell of magick.

  Dagris thrust his sword. Conan Doyle knocked it away and slammed the Fey warrior into the banister, knocking him over the rail. He fell to the floor with a crack of bone, and did not move again. Seeing his brother killed, Fenris rushed in, but Conan Doyle was ready. He had choreographed this bit in his mind. Dagris was the madder and more dangerous of the twins. Fenris swept his blade down. Conan Doyle tried to dodge, but was only partly successful. The tip of the sword cut his arm and he felt the sting and the flow of hot blood.

  But his own azure blade was buried deep within Fenris's abdomen.

  Yet there was no Fey blood spilt. Fenris fell to his knees. His eyes were wide as he stared up at Conan Doyle, and his face lost its mask of lunacy. His features grew younger. His body smaller.

  "This is the Sword of Years," Conan Doyle told him. "It is not a weapon, but a spell. It is the magick of second chances. Without the cruelty of your brother, we shall see what becomes of you."

  The blade had drawn from Fenris nearly all of the years of his life, and so when Conan Doyle withdrew it from his flesh he was only an infant. The Fey child opened his mouth and wailed, a baby's cry. There was a thin line seared upon his belly where the sword had been, but he was otherwise unharmed.

  "We shall see," Doyle repeated.

  He carried the infant to the second floor landing and left it there, knowing the Corca Duibhne would catch the scent of the Fey upon it and leave it alone.

  And he moved on.

  The tea kettle began to whistle. Julia twitched, startled by the noise. For a moment she felt frozen to her seat, as though even the simple act of making tea was beyond her. She gazed across her kitchen table at Squire, who sat with a gallon of chocolate chip ice cream in front of him, eating right from the container with a soup spoon. When he wasn't talking, or following the instructions of his employer, he was eating. It ought to have been repulsive, but there was something oddly charming about it.

  From the first moment she had seen him she had avoided looking directly at him, or allowing her eyes to linger. He was ugly. His nose too long and too pointed. His face was long and angular as well, and his mouth was too wide, as though its corners had been slit, so that when he spoke or smiled it seemed his head was about to split in two. His teeth were jagged and yellow. An animal's teeth. His hair was brittle and unkempt.

  But his eyes were kind. It had taken her this long to notice that. The little man — she refused to think of him as a goblin or hobgoblin or whatever Danny had said he was — watched her with the gentlest, most expressive eyes. Squire cussed like a sailor and obviously enjoyed his verbal sparring with the others. And yet despite his appearance and despite his cutting wit, there was something tender about him.

  "Want me to get that?" he asked, licking the ice cream from his spoon and nodding toward the tea kettle. Its whistle had become a shriek.

  "No." She stood up. "No, I'm sorry. I was just . . . I feel a little numb. Just . . . preoccupied."

  "Can't say I blame you," Squire said.

  Julia went to the stove and took the kettle off. The whistle died to a low hiss, like air leaking from a balloon. The kitchen was lit only by the tiny flames that flickered atop a half dozen candles she had set about the room. There were other places in the house that would have been more comfortable, but she felt the safest in the kitchen. How odd was that? She did not want to think about the answer. She only knew that it felt like a refuge. Like sanctuary. Like a place she might be busily toiling when her little boy came home to her.

  Her lips pressed together in a tight line and she squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to cry. As she gripped the kettle and began to pour the steaming water into the two cups she had taken from the cabinet for herself and Squire, her hand trembled. She set the kettle down. In her mind she saw the next steps that were necessary. Get the tea bags from the cupboard. Milk from the fridge. Some cookies to go with the tea. Anyone else would have been happy with a gallon of ice cream, but she doubted Squire would say no to the cookies.

  She leaned against the stove to keep from collapsing.

  "Mrs. Ferrick," Squire said, his voice a harsh rasp in the flickering shadows. This little man . . . this little monster in her kitchen.

  Her shoulders shook.

  "Julia."

  Slowly, she turned to face him. His eyes were wide and she saw such caring and intelligence th
ere that she immediately regretted having thought of him as a monster, not to mention dozens of other uncharitable thoughts that had crossed her mind.

  "He's going to be all right," Squire said, planting his spoon back in the ice cream container. It jutted upward like a flagpole.

  Julia stared at him, slowly shook her head. "How . . . how can you be so sure?"

  His gaze was intense. "I'm not sure. But you believe me, don't you?"

  Her pulse slowed. She took a deep breath and let it out. A strange peace came over her. Amazed at herself, she began to nod.

  "Yes. Yes, I do."

  Squire grinned and leaned back in his chair, throwing up his hands. "See that! I've just got one of those faces, y'know! My work here is done."

  Julia could not help but laugh. It lasted only a moment, but Squire had lightened her heart, and she was grateful for that. Also, the truth was that she did believe him. He seemed so certain of it. The little man believed with his whole heart that things were going to turn out all right. She knew she had to do the same, that she had to have faith.

  Without it, she would never survive the night.

  The Black Annis caught Clay by the throat as he was defending himself from the Corca Duibhne. He had one of the Night People in his own hands, its chest crushed, its eyes bulging as it breathed its last. But then the hag appeared, far swifter than he would have expected. She was a thing of legend, one of the dark creatures that prowled the shadows of Faerie. It was no surprise that Morrigan had enlisted her aid, and now the corpses in the basement made more sense. The Black Annis fed on human children. Morrigan had promised her a lifetime's supply.

  The hag lifted Clay by the throat, sickening glee in her eyes. She stank like vulture's breath, a fetid carrion stench that billowed off of her with every move. Her claws could carve stone or bone, and she was only one of a family of sisters. Clay hoped there were no others in Morrigan's employ.

  One, though . . . one he could handle.

  With a single swipe of her free hand, she tore his stomach open. In the same moment, Clay changed. He shifted. Now the Black Annis saw not a seven foot earthen man, but a mirror image of herself. One of her sisters. Just as hideous, just as rank. The simple creature's eyes went wide and she threw Clay to the ground and knelt by his side, holding her hands over the wound in his gut.

  Even as he retained the shape of a Black Annis, he felt his abdomen knitting together, healing. He was not flesh and blood after all. Not really. He could only mimic it.

  He was Clay.

  With one Black Annis hand, he reached up and grabbed the hag by her filthy, matted hair. He flexed his right hand; claws that could carve stone or bone. With a single swipe, he tore her throat out, all the way back to the spinal column.

  Shifting once more to himself, to the face he knew as his own — not the human one who wore so often but the earthen body that had spawned the legend of the golem — he stood to fight the Corca Duibhne. The boggarts were after Graves, now, howling and snarling as they tried to reach the ghost. Only a few Corca Duibhne remained. Clay did not bother to alter his form again. One leaped at him and he drove it down to the concrete floor and crushed its skull with his fist.

  The other two paused. They were staring upward, at Dr. Graves.

  Clay followed their gaze. The boggarts were snarling, gnashing their teeth.

  Dr. Graves floated in the air above them, a look of utter disdain upon his face. He wore suspenders and a heavy shirt with the sleeves rolled up. But now something else had been added to his attire. The specter now wore a pair of pistol holsters, one under each arm. They had not been there before.

  Clay stared in amazement as Graves crossed his arms over his chest and drew the guns from those holsters. Phantom guns. Ectoplasmic manifestations of Graves's own soul, his own spirit energy. Ghosts had control over their appearance when their souls remained anchored to this world. Many times they could change their appearance, not the way Clay could, but in age or attire.

  Yet Clay had never seen anything like this.

  "Boggarts are a damned nuisance," Dr. Graves snapped. "You want a taste of me, dogs? I don't think so. You soul-eaters may be able to hurt me, even kill a man who's already dead. But it works both ways. If you want little shreds of my soul inside you, all right. But it's going to be my way, not yours."

  Graves pulled both triggers again and again, spectral bullets tearing into the boggarts. The impact made their bodies shudder and jerk and drove them back, and then fell over dead, gray blood oozing from their wounds. The bits of soulstuff that had comprised the bullets lost their shape and became streaks of ectoplasm that shot back across the room and coalesced around Dr. Graves, reattaching themselves to him.

  "It works both ways," Graves said again, holstering his guns.

  Clay gave him a quiet round of applause.

  The two remaining Corca Duibhne stared back and forth between the ghost and the shapeshifter, and then ran for the stairs.

  Clay and Dr. Graves raced after them.

  Before Danny could argue, Eve had abandoned him. She rushed off to attack the Corca Duibhne and he was left alone on Conan Doyle's roof, four stories above Beacon Hill. The crimson mist blanketed the building, blotted out the night, and it seemed as though the brownstone was all that remained of the city of Boston.

  Atop the chimney, the fire drake spread its blazing wings and rose up into the mist, into the blood-stained night. Danny had no idea what to do. The thing was like some bizarre combination of dragon and phoenix. He could not fly after it, could not defend himself from it. Eve was smart to get out of its way. She was a vampire. The thing would incinerate her in an instant.

  Now it dipped one wing and started down toward him.

  Danny wanted to run. He wanted to cry. He didn't have time to do either.

  The fire drake opened its mouth and a stream of liquid fire erupted from its gullet, engulfing Danny Ferrick. The flames licked at him, roaring in his ears. It burned. God, how it burned. He threw his head back and screamed, thinking of his mother, thinking what it would do to her to know that he was dead.

  The stink of burning skin and hair was in his nostrils.

  Danny blinked. His skin was hot and it stung as though he had a terrible sunburn. But the flames were subsiding and he was still alive. The red fog caressed him, cool and moist. When he glanced down at himself he noticed his feet, first. His clothes were gone, nothing but black ash now, eddying in the breeze. His toes had black claws instead of nails. Unable to breathe, Danny looked at his legs, at his chest, looked at his outstretched arms, and saw skin tough as leather but soft as silk, the color of burgundy wine.

  He reached up with both hands and felt his head. His hair had been falling out, his skin flaking. Now his scalp was smooth, save for the viciously sharp horns above his temples.

  The fire drake let out a grunt and he looked up to see it circling, ready to attack him again. The flames that comprised its body fluttered in the mist and the dark. Danny smiled up at it.

  "Bring it on."

  The monster attacked again. This time, when the fire engulfed him Danny did not even close his eyes. As the fire drake flew by he crouched and leapt upward a dozen feet to snatch it by the throat with both hands. The demon boy dragged the fire drake from the sky, fell to the roof on top of it, and roared with pleasure as its flames licked at his legs and arms and torso.

  He slid his hands into its gullet and broke its jaws, tearing its head in two. It felt incredible. It felt good.

  In fact, Danny was terrified to discover exactly how good it felt to kill.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ceridwen burns with fever. There is a cool breeze in the trees above, but it offers no comfort. The water diverted from the river into the stone bath is icy cold, flowing down from the mountain, and she can feel it sting her skin, yet her blue-tinted flesh is now flushed with a rich pink, so that her naked body seems painted with the colors of sunset.

  That is not right. No, not at all. Her sk
in should not look like that. She is ill. So very ill.

  Her eyelids flutter and she lolls back into the stone basin, the water flowing over her bare flesh. Her nakedness concerns her not at all. She is still young. It will be some time before she has blossomed enough for the men of the Fey to notice her. She is old enough that she has begun to notice the boys, but even so, there will be no intruders here. This is the citadel of her uncle, King Finvarra. Ceridwen's room is nearby. And her mother —

  Mother, she thinks.

  As if summoned, her mother leans into her view, her smile, her concerned eyes, blotting out the sky. The woman's features are severe, her hair cropped closely to her scalp, but there is a gentleness in her as she gazes down upon her daughter that most others will never see.

  "Ceridwen. The fever has touched you. But do not fear. I will remain with you, here at your side, until it has passed."

  A calm passes through her. The fever still burns. Her bones ache, her eyes are seared, her throat is swollen near to closing, her breath rattles in her chest. But her mother is with her. Ceridwen lets her eyes flutter closed as a soothing hand begins to brush her damp hair away from her face. Her mother's touch caresses her cheek and the agony of the fever recedes just slightly. For the first time, Ceridwen feels as though the icy water in the stone bath is cooling her, its chill sinking into her flesh, and the blazing fever abating.

  Her chest rises and falls in steady rhythm and she searches for a peaceful place within . . . only to discover that she is already there. She can hear the breeze in the trees, the rush of the river, and the song of birds, and yet they are all distant compared to the beat of her heart, the sound of her breathing. She is deep within herself.