He was whimpering . . . pleading. Then in the next moment, the pleading turned to an animalistic growling so full of hate that Thomas very nearly leaped down to the street again.
Thomas could not make out exactly what the man was saying, but there was something about it that sounded like half of a conversation. And he would dearly, dearly like to have heard the other half.
Then something else put up the hair on his back. The faint scent of magic. But not just any magic. This was not the magic of an Elemental Master. No, oh indeed not. This was the raw, half-tamed power of an Elemental itself.
And it had the scent of blood to it.
This man wasn’t in the throes of a nightmare, he was caught up in a Sending.
Thomas didn’t recognize the scent, so it could have been any of the three Elements not his own. Nevertheless, anyone capable of reasoning would reason it was damned unlikely to be anything other than Earth.
Then the man spoke his first intelligible words: “I am coming.” He moved then, threw off the bedclothes, reached for his clothing. His eyes were still closed; he was obeying his master’s command in his sleep.
For a moment, and a long one, Thomas fought the urge to flee. He wasn’t an Elemental Master anymore, he wasn’t any kind of a magician, he wasn’t even human! He was a cat! What could he do?
But he knew very well what he could do; it was something none of the humans he was in league with could do. He could take his courage in all paws, follow this man, and do it without being seen.
Just so long as he could avoid being detected by other means.
He jumped down to the street to wait, one shadow among many.
Ninette awoke suddenly, her mind preternaturally clear, every sense alert.
Thomas was in trouble.
How she knew this, she could not say; perhaps that encounter with that horrible man had done something to her mind, made it more sensitive or something of the sort. She had noticed it last night when she had awakened in time to warm up for her performance. She had felt things more clearly than ever before, from the stagehands, the other performers, and then, most strongly, from her audience. At first she had been a bit upset and angry, but then she realized that it was not so bad. Feeling how much the audience was enjoying what she did made her think that perhaps this could be useful.
And now she knew without a doubt that Thomas was in trouble. She felt his fear, and she knew that she could use that to find him; it pulled her like the North Pole pulled a compass needle.
She pulled on clothing, the bloomers outfit she wore to go shooting. With her hair under a cap, she would look like a boy, and that should keep her safe enough. She stuffed her pistol into one pocket, bullets into another, money into a third. She went to wake Ailse only to discover that Ailse wasn’t in her own bed.
That made her pause; then she racked her brain trying to think of where her maid could be, and came up with nothing.
“She’s walkin’ out with that lad from the hotel band.”
Ninette turned to see the creature that Nigel called a Brownie looking sideways at her. She didn’t see much of the little fellow, he was shy by nature, and she wasn’t a magician after all. But it made her obscurely ashamed that this fellow knew more about what Ailse was doing and who she was seeing than she did.
“I think they went to th’ pub,” he continued, flushing, “Though I couldn’t tell ye which one.”
Well there was nothing to be done about it. Ailse was gone, Thomas was in trouble and from the growing urgency she felt, there was no time to try and rouse Nigel, Arthur, Jonathon, and Alan. The best she could do was this.
“Thomas is in danger,” she told the Brownie urgently. “Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. When Ailse gets back, tell her that, and tell her to get the rest. Thomas was following the man who attacked me; I do not know what kind of trouble he is in, and it could be something I can solve by walking in and claiming him for mine. I know only that he is frightened and I must go to him.”
The Brownie nodded. “Aye, I can do that, miss.” Then he looked pained. “Wish’t I could come with you. . . .”
But Brownies, so Nigel had told her, were very tied to a place, once they settled into it. Literally tied in many ways; unless Ailse or Ninette were to do something that would offend it, the Brownie was unable to physically leave the building.
“Just tell her. I’m sure she’ll be back soon.” She wouldn’t have gone far, not after that madman had attacked Ninette.
But she must be thinking that Thomas was still here, and that it would be safe enough to leave Ninette with him standing guard. She didn’t know that Thomas was gone.
Ailse could be gone for as much as an hour or even more, and there was not enough time to search through all the pubs within walking distance. This was, after all, an area of boarding houses that catered to entertainers, and even when the barmen had to call “time,” they stayed open, serving food and tea while people sipped from their own flasks or made the beer they had bought before time was called last for an hour.
A jolt of fear passed through her. Thomas was definitely in trouble. There was no time to lose.
She snatched up her keys and ran.
“You are a curious creature,” said the Troll.
Thomas knew it was a Troll, because he could tell, by scent, that it was not human the moment he had surreptitiously entered the house. Here in proximity to it, inside barriers and shielding, things were very clear. The damp-soil scent of Earth power was everywhere, overlaid with the corruption that was the hallmark of the Dark Element. And the unmistakable signs of something very large and very powerful, besides the lesser boggles and simulacra, meant that the powerful one must be a Troll. The first thing that had occurred to him, and with a jolt, was that he had, all unaware, been the one to find their elusive Earth Master, for only an Earth Master would have an Earth Elemental in thrall. There could not be two such in the city.
The second thing that occurred to him was to run.
Unfortunately, he discovered that he could not.
The whole house was bespelled. Things could get in easily, but once inside, the only way to get out was to be let out. He had slipped blithely inside, following his quarry, only to discover that he was trapped.
All right, put a good face on it. Since he could not go back, he decided to go forward. He followed the man, who whimpered a little as he stumbled along the passageway and up the stairs, heading for the next floor. The entire scene was surreal; outwardly, this was the entry, hall, and staircase of a very well-appointed, moderately luxurious, and utterly respectable home. It had all the right touches, from the scenic photographs and paintings on the walls, to the Turkey carpet on the floor, from the elaborately carved balustrade to the latest in electrical lighting. But the aura of dark corruption that hung over everything, and the tortured face of the man climbing the stairs as if he was ascending the Matterhorn, made it feel more like something out of a nightmare.
Thomas followed, knowing that there was no way he could have escaped detection, even if the master of this place hadn’t done anything about him yet. So he acted as if he had intended to be in this position all along. When all else fails, try a bluff. Mind, that particular philosophy had not worked all that well for him in the past.
Then again, that could mean the odds were good for it finally working. Right?
The man paused at an open doorway. Then Thomas got a second shock, when the voice that called out to them was female.
“Come in,” said the voice, and paused. “Both of you.”
The man shambled in. Thomas followed.
And got the third shock, although part of his mind was saying, smugly, This should have occurred to you, you know. He knew the woman lounging like an odalisque on her sumptuous chaise.
It was the real Nina Tchereslavsky.
Or rather, a Troll wearing her shape.
The Troll made a contemptuous gesture at him, and he found himself frozen in place. Which was not quite as b
ad as it could have been, however, because the Troll’s primary attention was on the man.
“You have failed me,” the Troll said, looking down her pert nose at the man. “You stupid ass. What sort of an idiot attacks someone in broad daylight? With witnesses? Within reach of help?”
The man’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. The Troll’s words, curiously enough, were in good English, with a slightly upper-class accent. Thomas wondered how that came about, if she was supposed to be Russian.
Then again, she was a Troll, and magic was a part of them. He supposed . . .
But wait. There was something else wrong here. Where, exactly, was this creature’s Master?
“Never mind that, I will tell you,” the woman continued with contempt. “A brainless, over-educated, under-schooled fool, who has been certain all of his life that he is entitled to the finer things, yet has never worked to achieve them.”
This did not sound like any Troll that Thomas had ever heard of. Most of them could scarcely manage more than a grunt.
“So, given that you are a brainless, over-educated, under-schooled fool who has just ruined any chance he had of getting near that imposter, what do you think I should do with you?” she continued.
The man stared at her dumbly, and tried to mouth words, but nothing came out.
“Fortunately for all of us, your dear mother does not know you are here. In fact, she does not even know you have left the house. No one knows you are here—” she looked down at Thomas “—except this cat. And I doubt he will be able to go running to the police, or anyone else. So, really, there is nothing to prevent me from doing exactly as I please with you.” She smiled. It was a smile that made Thomas’s tail brush out again.
That was when she changed into her normal form. Yes, she was, indeed, a Troll . . .
Her head brushed the ceiling; she looked now like a crude doll made of gray clay, and she smelled like a combination of sour earth and rotting flesh. She reached forward and embraced the man. It would have been funny, if his face had not been contorted into a silent scream of anguish.
Then came the horrible part. When he had been human and a magician, Thomas had read about Trolls doing this, but he had never thought he was going to see the absorption process up close. Certainly not this close.
With the victim paralyzed and able to move only his eyes, the Troll pressed him into her chest. Into it. Little by little, he sank into the clay, and in a way it was a relief that his face went in first, because at least Thomas didn’t have to look at his expression anymore.
And this could have been still worse, really; in some accounts, a Troll would dismember and partly eat a victim, rather than merely absorbing him. It was said that they grew to like the taste.
But where was the Troll’s master?
Thomas curled his tail tightly around his feet, and pretended to watch with interest, all the while trying to detect a human, any human, anywhere in this house. Well other than the victim.
Nothing.
No, he thought, aghast. But the conclusion was inescapable.
There was no Elemental Master here. There was only—this thing. A horror, a blasphemy, something that should never have been. An Elemental that had been given form and substance on the Material Plane and gotten loose. A creature that did not belong here, turned loose and left to work its will on humans. Any humans.
He thought he knew now where it had gotten its relatively high intelligence and cunning. It must have begun absorbing humans right away, and with that had come more wit, more ability to think. With that, too, had come enough memory to tell her of the dangers of living among humans. So now there was a Troll that could think, plan, and carry out those plans. A Troll that could keep its identity hidden. A Troll with patience.
That last might have been the worst.
Thomas thought quickly, because in a few more moments, the Troll was going to finish absorbing her prey, and then she was going to turn her attention to him.
He cleared his throat as the last of her victim vanished, with a little dry cough of the sort that sometimes preceded a hairball. Very good, he said gravely. He couldn’t manage approval, but at least he could sound serious. No point in wasting him, but no point in allowing him to continue wasting air either.
The Troll reverted to the form of the dancer. Had there even been a real Nina Tchereslavsky? Probably, but judging by the Troll’s looks, she hadn’t been very old when she fell afoul of the creature.
For a moment, she looked puzzled. Then her lips curved in a cruel smile. “Wasting air. I like that. You seem very calm for someone who has just discovered that what he walked into, he cannot again walk out of.”
But what if I don’t want to walk out? Thomas asked, calmly. What if I intended to meet and speak with you?
The Troll’s mouth gaped. “Speak with me? Why?”
Thomas sniffed. I should think that would be obvious. You are clearly more clever than the theater people. You are obviously stronger. You know who they are, but they still do not know where you are, much less what.
“So you—”
I came intending to negotiate with you, yes. It is prudent.
“But you would be deserting your mistress, her friends—”
I am a cat, Thomas replied, hoping against hope that the creature would not look past his words. Cats are by nature selfish.
Because if the troll had any inkling that he was something more than he seemed. . . .
“A good point,” the troll replied, thoughtfully. “So, you think to join the winning side?”
I know the winning side when I see it, Thomas replied.
Fortunately, walking around Blackpool so much had given Ninette a good sense of the city, so she didn’t walk blindly into trouble-spots. Those were not just places where hooligans and thieves lurked, hoping for some drunken toff that could stagger by, be coshed on the head and robbed. And what would happen to a lone girl would be worse still.
She took cabs where she could, ran where she couldn’t, until her sense of danger/fear/danger brought her to a rather posh neighborhood indeed. No flats here, these were all fine townhouses, all built of identical stone, all with identical front façades. From the street, in fact, it could look like one long building, exactly like the front of a government building, for instance. Only when one looked closely could one see the narrow passages dividing building from building.
Her sense of trouble took her to the third from the corner. After a quick look up and down the street, she slipped around to the back, and tried her hand at the door.
It opened at her touch.
Saying a silent prayer that Ailse had returned home at last, that the Brownie had told her that Ninette had gone after Thomas, that Ailse had in turn gone for the men, Ninette slipped inside.
She waited while her eyes adjusted to the light. This should be a kitchen area—and at this time of night, there should be no one in it.
After a moment, she saw that she was right on both counts. That was a relief.
She fumbled the revolver out of her pocket. She had not dared to take it out in public or in the street; she was fairly certain she would have gotten into immense amounts of trouble if anyone had seen it.
She crept across the floor, revolver in hand, and peered through the doorway, while allowing the emotions to come to her. Thomas was definitely here—upstairs somewhere, and afraid for his life. But there were other things too, things that had the same sense to them that the little homunculus had had—not quite living, in fact, with less actual life in them than a house-sparrow, and nothing in the way of emotions—and one thing that actually did have thoughts, feelings, emotions. Very strong ones too, and all . . .nasty. Just brushing against them made her want to throw up.
Thomas was in the same room with the thing.
I must say, Thomas said, looking up at the thing that was calling itself Nina Tchereslavsky, I have heard about you Earth Elementals, but I never heard of one as powerful or as clever as you.
He considered that he was very lucky that cats had no expressions to read. And that the Troll could not actually read thoughts either. “Nor will you,” the Troll said, puffing up a little. “I am unique!”
I can see that. Is it true that you can change shape? I mean, change it to something other than your native form and this one? I had heard that some of the most powerful of Elementals can do that, but I have never seen it. He paused. Truly, I was thinking it must be some kind of myth.
“I can take any form I care to, as long as I have absorbed the original,” the Troll boasted, straightening, the pride evident in its voice. “Watch.”
In truth, Thomas would rather not have watched, but he didn’t have much choice. Watching the Troll shift forms was a very uncomfortable experience. Its body rippled in a stomach-churning manner, and the way the skin and hair seemed to crawl—it was entirely unnerving, and Thomas would have sworn until now that he had unshakeable nerves.
The Troll went through the forms of a dozen different people, all of whom must have been its victims, before Thomas shook his head in mock-admiration. He wasn’t admiring her, of course. What he was doing, after he got a grip on his own discomfort and mastered it, was studying her. When she changed shapes, she changed the clothing as well. So the clothing was a part of her. If you ripped it, would she bleed? Feel pain? He could see how she could counterfeit the living flesh, but how had she managed to learn to duplicate the clothing? Did she always wear this sort of “clothing,” or did she make use of an ordinary person’s wardrobe as well?
Then he realized that she must, because she was a real dancer. She would have changed costumes, changed into practice clothing.
How had she counterfeited being a real human all this time? Elementals generally did not understand humans. If she hadn’t been so evil, he would have been lost in real, not counterfeit, admiration.
That is amazing, he said. Can you take on the form of anything other than a human?
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