A Rose-Red City

Six

“Not a word!” Jerry hissed, pointing the gun straight at them. “Not a whisper, or I shoot!”

Gillis beamed triumphantly, and his wife smiled. Ariadne had uttered a sort of sob and clutched at Jerry’s arm. “Open up!” the voice roared again.

Still watching his prisoners, Jerry rose and moved around to the door. He laid the wand over the bolt, a symbolic bar binding door and wall, and shouted,

“I know you for what you are. Begone!”

There was, of course, no reply, and he walked back to his seat on the arm of the chair, still watching them.

The minutes passed…

Curious— the Gillises had been pleased and relieved, but the Carlo youth had shown something else: fear or anger. Now they were starting to frown, and he was visibly relaxing.

“I think that should do it,” Jerry said at length, “until the next try.”

“Who was that out there?” Gillis barked, a scowl darkening his heavy features. Not the FBI, obviously.

“There was nobody out there.”

The black eyes narrowed, and then he looked at his companion, Carlo, at his wife, and then back at Jerry. “Bull!” he snapped. “I’ve seen better conjuring tricks at the Rotarians’ Christmas Party. I don’t know what scam you’re trying to pull, Howard, but it isn’t going to work on me, no matter how many accomplices you have out there.” With just three of them— he and Killer and Ariadne— it would have been easy. But now there were eight, and Killer was immobile— too many sheep and not enough sheep dogs. Killer twisted his head round to smirk at Jerry and then turned back to his guard duty; he could see the dangers, and the smirk said that the Oracle had wanted brains. The sensible thing would be tie them all up and gag them, but that would be violence and dangerous in itself.

“Demons,” Jerry said. “We had the flesh-and-blood monsters, and our guns scared them away because flesh can be destroyed. Now comes the pure evil, the disembodied legions of Hell.” Mrs. Gillis paled and started to whimper; her husband put a comforting hand on her knee and glared at his captor.

“Perhaps you’d like to put Alan on the bed?” Jerry said. “Poor little tyke, he’s had a rough day.” She looked at Gillis for orders, and he nodded without really taking his attention off Jerry. “That’s a good idea, Maisie,” he said.

Well, now he had a name for her. He opened the bedroom door and left it open after this Maisie had returned to her chair. Alan was as limp as wet leather and looked as though there would be no sound from him until morning. Lacey scrambled up to take his place on Maisie’s lap, huddled in her poncho and almost as pale as her real mother was.

“Guns would be useless against what’s outside,” Jerry said. “But there are rules. They can not come in unless they are invited.” Gillis was disbelieving and furious, the Carlo youth disbelieving and contemptuous— but Maisie wavered slightly.

“What happens if they do get in?” she asked. There was a trace of gold chain at her neck, which might mean a crucifix; perhaps she could believe in demons.

Jerry shivered involuntarily. “Eight unmarked bodies. The coroner would probably attribute the deaths to carbon monoxide poisoning.” That was the best possibility. A crazed bloody-orgy was another. Worst of all would be eight cases of demonic possession loosed on an unsuspecting world, time bombs of evil to be detonated later.

“Bull!” Gillis roared. “Don’t listen to him, Maisie. You’re frightening the child, Howard. What is the point of this?”

“The point is that I am deadly serious!” Jerry snapped. “Unless each of you will give me your word that you will do as I say, I am going to tie you up and gag you. Now, will you listen?”

“Go ahead, then,” growled the big man.

“There are demons outside,” Jerry said, “but this cottage is demon-proof, and they can enter only if they are invited— but they decide what’s an invitation.” Belief would be almost impossible to get in this century; perhaps that was why there were so few Merans from technological cultures. “They have very liberal definitions of what constitutes an invitation. It need not be specific. If one of you had said, ‘Oh, good!’ just now— that would have been an invitation. Any one of you can do it with one word. That’s why you must not say anything— by the time you work out what you’ve said, it’s too late. We know the names of a few of the major demons and to pronounce one of those names— even in a command to go away— would be an invitation.” Gillis snorted.

“You’re awfully heavy for Maisie, now, dear,” his wife muttered to Lacey, and he turned his attention to the child, lifting her over onto his own lap. That was more important than demons, obviously.

Jerry sighed wearily. “The only words it is safe to say are the ones I used: ‘I know you for what you are. Begone.’ If you hear a voice you know calling to you, try that first.” He glanced down at Ariadne, and she looked up at him with a blank, hopeless expression. There was no rope to tie them all up, although bed sheets might do. Would they hold still for it under Killer’s gun?

“Demons flock around me,” Killer said cheerfully.

Stupid little braggart— he couldn’t help. “They are also scared witless of you,” Jerry snarled. “At least, so Tig says. When you’re in the party, the demons are a hell— pardon the expression— are a lot more circumspect, so he says.” Killer smiled, flattered but very pallid, and it took a lot of pain to show on Killer’s face. The wand could help, as it had somewhat helped his ankle while they were in the wagon, but he would refuse to accept it at this point— Jerry was the Oracle’s choice. That was one of the unwritten rules of the field men.

“And why must we not look outside?” Gillis asked.

“Because you may see your grandmother with a plate of cookies for you,” Jerry said. “Or a baby drowning in a puddle. As the night goes on, we shall hear people we know out there, calling us. If you are so stupid as to peek out, you may see anything imaginable, anything that just might persuade you to open the door or utter a foolish word.” Maisie was looking to her husband.

“Don’t believe a word of it, honey,” he said. “Lacey, the foolish man is just trying to scare us. He had friends out there making funny noises. What do you want of us, Howard?”

“I want your word that you will not look out, approach the door— even an approach might do it— or reply to anything you hear. Your solemn word, or I tie you up.”

Gillis shrugged. “I promise. Humor him, Maisie. One of Ariadne’s drinking friends, I suspect.”

The woman said, “I promise.” Jerry looked at Carlo, who shrugged and mumbled, “Sure.”

“Very well,” Jerry said. “I hold you to it at gunpoint and I repeat that I am serious. Ariadne, you believe me?” She nodded in silence.

“She also believes in pink elephants,” Gillis said.

Jerry rose. He would love a cup of coffee, but there was probably only enough coffee left for one pot, and the water supply was getting low, too. That thought immediately gave him a torrid thirst, and he walked over to the water bucket, which had been placed in a far corner by the piano, where it would not be kicked. As he passed a window, something tapped on the glass to catch his attention. He ignored it, angry at the crawly sensation it gave him. The water was lower than he expected, and he decided not to mention coffee. As he passed the window again, a kitten miaowed.

Enough coffee for three, enough food for three… again he wondered if the recovery of the children had been an error. Perhaps Killer’s success had been so superhuman that even the Oracle had not anticipated it.

“How long is this farce going to last?” Gillis demanded, squirming. Those were not the most comfortable of chairs.

“Till morning,” Jerry said. “The darkest hour is just before the dawn. If we survive that, then Killer and I are leaving. We are going to take Ariadne and Lacey and Alan with us. You will be free to leave also.” Ariadne turned to stare at him incredulously. Obviously she had not thought that the rescue was still available.

Gillis straightened his heavy shoulders. “I have legal custody of those children.” Jerry shrugged. “That is of no interest to me. I am taking them beyond the reach of law.” And the Oracle might roast him for it.

“It’s very quiet out there,” Killer said uneasily. He had sat through sieges before. Jerry had not, although he had heard the stories often enough. “They’re usually chirping and gibbering by now.” He had not worked it out— with so many innocents present, trickery was a better tactic than terror, but to act too soon after the failure of the FBI ploy would make them suspicious. So the enemy would play a waiting game.

The rain had stopped at last; there was only a steady drip from the porch roof. Jerry asked what time it was. Gillis said it was two fifteen.

“Then my watch has stopped,” Maisie said crossly. “I have eleven thirty.”

Carlo had uttered only a couple of obscenities since he sat down, but now he said, “I have five after five.” The three captives looked at each other in surprise, and Jerry grinned: the faerie was fouling up their watches. It normally did not effect clockwork, so they must have something more sophisticated.

“How did you find me?” Ariadne demanded. “Direction finders,” Gillis said.

Jerry wondered what those were and decided not to ask.

“The Devil’s own dance you led us, too. You sure had trouble finding the spot, didn’t you?” She pulled a pouting face as though she didn’t want to reply, then said, “I got lost. I didn’t plan this, Graham. I was heading for Canada.”

“Canada?” Gillis scoffed, and Carlo laughed aloud. “You never did have much of a sense of direction, did you?” She dropped her eyes, a woman mauled in too many fights to accept another.

“Your juvenile plotting has been fun to watch,” Gillis went on, baiting her. “Of course Mike told me when you applied to withdraw that money… and Charlie, when you bought the car. So Carlo went around there before you took delivery and fitted the beepers on it. Alan’s teddy is bugged also, which is how we knew which room they were in.” It was pathetic to see so large a man picking on so small a woman. She showed no anger, but her tone festered with contempt as she replied.

“You were always so clever, Graham— I can’t think why you ever married anyone as stupid as me.”

“You weren’t stupid until the drink rotted your brains,” he said. “Smart enough to get yourself knocked up by a smart young lawyer with good prospects but not enough working capital to stand a paternity suit. And I admit that I didn’t know you had a couple of henchmen lined up. Where did you find these two?” She waited so long to answer that Jerry had decided she would not, then said, “Right here, when I arrived. I went in the ditch and came here to ask for help. Mr. Howard and Mr… and Killer… have been very helpful and friendly, and that makes a wonderful change from dealing with creeps like you, Graham.” Domestic bliss, as Killer had said.

“Bull!” Graham retorted.

Jerry squirmed and wished he would stop using that word.

The big man persisted. “Are you saying that two complete strangers would pull off what these two did for the sake of some waif wandering in from the storm? How much of my hard-earned alimony are you paying them?”

“Nothing.”

Graham scowled disbelievingly. “What’s your motive, Howard? If she isn’t paying you, who is?” They had hours to kill yet, and there was no harm in telling the truth— it had been around for centuries, disregarded as myth and legend by those whom it did not concern. Besides, he had to be sure these captives would obey him, and they might be more inclined to do so if they thought he was a raving lunatic.

“I was sent by an organization of which you have never heard,” Jerry said, noticing Carlo raise his eyebrows. “Killer and I are field men. From time to time we are instructed to contact certain persons and offer them sanctuary, and your former wife is such a person. How or why she was chosen is not my business.”

“Sanctuary?” the big man echoed. “Asylum? Where?” Jerry tried to make himself more comfortable on the arm of the shabby old armchair. Ariadne edged over to one side; he took that as an invitation and moved down to sit beside her, perched on the front of it.

“We call it Mera,” he said, “although it has had many names. It is a land of happiness and perpetual youth.” The two men exchanged glances, and Carlo rolled his eyes.

“I am about seventy,” Jerry said, “and Killer is well over four hundred. You are not going to believe me, but as I said before, you only have to believe that I believe; and Ariadne is interested…” Sitting under the stark glare of the bare light bulb, he told them of the sunshine city of Mera, where every day bore the scent of warm flowers and the sea; of its streets and squares and winding alleys, quietly bustling with many people brought from all times and all places to live and be happy in its timeless peace. Between the bare plank walls, the plywood ceiling and the drab linoleum floor, he sketched its beauty, the shining reds and pinks of marble and sandstone, granite and brick: buildings of many styles huddling below the house of the Oracle. His voice droned on in an ominous quiet— no wind or rain outside, now, only a gentle dripping onto the porch.

He told of the tiny harbor outside his window, sparkling blue under the summer sky, providing haven for little ships of all nations and ages: smoky old tramp steamers from nineteenth-century London, triremes and quinquiremes from Corinth or Mycenae, gilded galleys from Byzantium and chubby medieval cogs from the Hanseatic ports of the Baltic. He told how he would wander down there some days and talk with the sailors— Chinese unloading silks, who believed they had sailed their junks to Zanzibar, Arabs carrying coffee, as they thought, to the Andamans, Yankee whalers loading water at Lahaina, caravels from Spain trading in the Indies, brigantines, schooners, and argosies. He watched the skepticism become incredulity, the incredulity grown into trepidation. He was amused and content that it should.

He told of South Gate, leading to the farmlands, the vineyards, and the ranches; of vistas of wheat, of rice paddies planted by Asians, and tulip fields tended by Dutchmen; he described the creaking old waterwheels, the miniature hamlets, the orchards that could have blossom in the morning and bend under fruit by nightfall, or vice versa. He told how Merans living in the city could relive a rural past by helping bring in a harvest or trying their hands at plowing with oxen— and how Killer was partial to sweet-scented haylofts containing sweet-natured milkmaids.

“Damn right!” Killer said. “Nothing like ‘em.”

He told them of the wild lands beyond West Gate, where he had teased trout with Father Julius the previous morning and where Tig would find his boar to hunt, the open spaces and the forests, the hills and the streams, backed by misty ranges where only the setting sun could go. He talked of hiking and boating and riding… “Peggy!” said Lacey sleepily.

And now he was leaning back, squashed together with Ariadne in the chair, and he had his arm around her, and she did not seem to mind.

He told them also of North Gate which led back to reality, where the Oracle sent out its rescuers, where someone like Killer might go to test out a firearm for the armorers. He described the first time he had been sent a wand and how horrified he had been to venture Outside alone; how he had walked out into a grove of trees and then fog and found himself in nineteenth-century London, strolling among trees in Hyde Park. He told how he had obeyed his orders and headed for the slums of Limehouse— and been amazed and astonished to see his reflection in store windows dressed in top hat and tailed coat, although he was conscious only of wearing his usual Meran garb. He told them how he had found the abandoned child where he had been told he would find her and had delivered her safely to Dr. Bernardo’s orphanage… and then sadly returned to Hyde Park and thus to Mera, weighed down by guilt and sorrow that he should have no greater succor to offer among such suffering and that he should be so extraordinarily blessed.

“Why that one, Jerry?” Ariadne asked. “What was special about that child?”

“I have no idea at all,” he said. “I don’t even know her name. Just a girl, one among thousands.”

“That you in there, Jerry?” called Tig from the yard.

“Not a word!” he bellowed, leaping to his feet in terror, seeing the heads all turn and the mouths start to open. He slammed the wand across the door and roared out his conjuration once more. “Not a word!” he repeated. He fetched the fourth wooden chair with hands trembling and sweat on his face and sat down beside the door. That had been very, very close.

Even he had almost answered.

“Now,” he said, when he had his breath back. “We’ll take it one at a time. Mr. Gillis, who did you hear?”

The big man’s eyes narrowed. “It’s Joe, from the office.”

“No it wasn’t Joe. Mrs. Gillis?”

“It was… it sounded like Mother,” she said, looking puzzled, hesitant to contradict her husband, who gave her an astonished look.

“Carlo?”

The boy’s face had closed up tight. He said nothing, but his lips moved as he mouthed another obscenity at Jerry. The kid had hardly spoken six words all night, yet he looked far from stupid— perhaps he was older than his skinny form indicated.

“Lacey? Who did you hear?”

“Gramps,” she said. She was close to tears, frightened by the tension. “Ariadne?” She bit her lip and said, “None of those, anyway.”

“Killer?”

“Clio,” Killer said, and he was looking astonished.

“I thought I heard Tig,” Jerry said. Killer snickered.

Would this convince them? “There you are, ladies and gentlemen. We all heard a very familiar voice. I heard it ask if I was in here. Had I answered in the affirmative, then that would have been as an invitation.

Have I got it through your thick heads?”

Gillis was giving him a long stare. “You have puzzled me, Howard. I can guess how you could have done the other, but I don’t see how you could have pulled that trick— four or five different voices…”

“Thank you,” Jerry said. “You are being honest with me and with yourself. Now, please, will you all go along with my story for now? If I’m a raving maniac or if I’m from a fairy world— in either case, please go along?” This time he got a nod from Gillis and a shrug and a nod from Carlo. He was hoarse from talking and weary from the constant vigilance; they sat in silence for a while, cramped and uncomfortable all in the stuffy and shabby little room.

“Mr. Howard,” Maisie said solemnly. “Have you taken thought for your immortal soul?” Now there was another pail of snakes.

He decided to slide along the boundary between lying and speaking true: “Yesterday morning, Mrs. Gillis, I went fishing with Father Julius, who is a good friend of mine in Mera, and who has lived there more than a thousand years. He is an elderly man— he seems frail, although he can outwalk me easily on the hills— and he is a most saintly, gentle, and devout man of God. He was an abbot in twelfth-century Burgundy. You could not find a more holy or a more studied priest, full of lore and love. We have talked often and at great length about my soul and his and of all the souls in Mera.”

She smiled in relief and nodded.

He hadn’t given her Father Julius’ opinions, though, and Ariadne at least had noticed that omission.

“Just how do you leave here tomorrow, Howard?” Gillis demanded. “And how do we?”

“We have a horse and cart,” Jerry told him. “It is never far to Mera. You will like a ride in a horse and cart, won’t you, Lacey?” The wan little girl nodded. She had put her thumb in her mouth when her parents started savaging each other, and it was there still, small enough comfort for a divided child from a divided marriage.

“And we?” Gillis asked.

“I suggest you wait about twenty minutes after we have gone and then start walking. The countryside will have changed by then. It can’t be far to somewhere. The demons very rarely attack by day, and you are not their targets. Doubtless they have other chances to get you,” he added, smiling at Maisie.

“Jerry?” Killer said faintly. “It’s getting dim in here.”

Jerry looked up and, true enough, the bare bulb was an orange glow. The light had been dying away without his noticing.

He muttered his thanks and jumped up to organize the oil lamps. One had been glowing on low in the corner for hours. He turned it up, and now it was brighter than the electric light. He placed it on the table, lit the other, and put it on top of the piano. He looked in the icebox, and everything was thawing in there.

“Howard?” It was Gillis again. He was beginning to show stress, his bruises dark and his swarthy face livid in patches around the eyes— but he had been standing up to the strain better than any of the rest of them, a strong man. Even the inscrutable Carlo was fidgeting now. Jerry returned to his chair by the door.

“You are going to take my ex-wife,” the lawyer said, “and my reaction is— good riddance. But you are also taking my children, and that I object to very much. Why?” Jerry looked at Ariadne, saw terror in her eyes before turning back to her ex-husband. “Because, regardless of what any real-world court says, I will not separate a mother and her children.”

“But you do not know her history?”

“I care not. She is their mother.” Killer, he could now see, was unfocused and shivering. Either the pain was throwing him into shock, or he had internal injuries. Jerry was on his own.

Gillis bared his teeth. “Unfortunately. She is also an incurable alcoholic. I have shelled out thousands for cures for her, and they never last. I tried removing the liquor— she bought more and hid it. I took away her money— she sold her jewelry, including heirlooms from my mother. My ranch is a long way from town; I disabled her car— but nothing works.” The idea of alcoholism being curable like a disease was new to Jerry— but medicine must certainly have progressed since the forties.

Gillis continued his address to the jury. “Not only did the courts award me custody, Mr. Howard, but they have restricted her visiting privileges. She can only see Alan and Lacey when I am satisfied that she is sober. She terrifies them otherwise, falling around and slobbering over them— ”

“I am not interested,” Jerry said, not daring to look at Ariadne. “Why certain people are chosen for rescue and the great multitude is not I do not know. Only the Oracle knows and it does not say. I myself was perhaps the easiest rescue…”

“We are talking about my former wife!” Gillis snapped. “And about my children. I tell you— it is impossible to keep her dried out for more than a month or two. She will steal, lie, do anything. She disappears on binges for days, even weeks. She was recovered like trash from the gutter on several occasions, not knowing where she had been or what she might have done. You are returning these children to her care?” The stuffy little cabin was silent, except for a faint crackle from the wood stove. Jerry now glanced at Ariadne and then turned away quickly. He looked at the second wife and saw a frown of disapproval.

“Mrs. Gillis,” he said, “does not your religion talk of mercy?”

She bristled— and in a soft, round, gentle girl, it seemed ridiculous. “To those who confess and truly repent, mercy is granted,” she said primly.

“Then perhaps Mera is one form of mercy?” Jerry said softly. “Many who are rescued are saved from imminent death— I have seen bodies brought in, scarcely more than corpses, barely breathing. Within two or three days they are as healthy as I am. Cancer, typhoid, turberculosis… what else, Killer? Bubonic plague, sword cuts— nobody dies in Mera, nobody is sick. I don’t think alcoholism will be much of a problem there.” Gervasse would have drunk half the Amontillado, but no one could call Gervasse an alcoholic; his mind was needle sharp, his health flawless, and his personality irresistible. There was nothing wrong with Gervasse.

Again there was silence in the shimmering light of the oil lamps, except for muffled sobbing from Ariadne’s direction.

“She is not worthy!” Gillis shouted.

“Who are you to say?” Jerry roared back at him and angrily took hold of his temper. He should be a proper professional and not became emotionally involved with his client, Ariadne. “Have you any further charges to lay?” The big man folded his arms, his face red now, his bruised lips tight shut. “Is that not enough?”

“No!” Jerry said. “If that is all you have against her, then I say that she is more worthy than I was!” A very long silence ensued.

He hadn’t intended to say that.

At last he turned and looked at Ariadne. The hope was back. “I also have sinned,” he said. “I was not sent to be judge, or prosecutor, or defense counsel. I shall take you to Mera as I was instructed and deliver you to the Oracle, and there you will make your decision.” She nodded without speaking, pale cheeks shining.

He turned back to Gillis. “I may be making a mistake; I was not specifically told to bring the children. If I am wrong, then they will be returned safely. I am certain of that. Many do not choose to remain after they have spoken to the Oracle. It always promises that they can return, and we have never caught it out in a lie or an error.”

“Returned to me?” Gillis asked. “Or sent back with her?”

“I don’t know.” The light bulb was barely a pink glow now.

It was very still outside, silent. What would come next?

“Mr. Howard, sir?” The voice came from Carlo, and Jerry turned to him in some astonishment until he saw that the “sir” was not intended to convey respect.

“Mr. Carlo, sir?”

“You don’t get older in Mera?”

Jerry shook his head, moving the kid up about six notches on the scale. He could tell what was coming next, and Gillis had missed it.

“How about children, then? Do they get older? Or stay children?” He had a soft voice with a beat to it that Jerry could not place.

“I don’t know,” Jerry said. “Killer, you’re an old-timer— do you know?” He was asking because he was worried about Killer, not because he expected an answer— he had already had Killer’s answer earlier that evening.

“No,” Killer grunted.

“There are no children in Mera?” Carlo asked, eyes gleaming with triumph. “I have never seen any,” Jerry said.

He could not force himself to look towards Ariadne.

Lacey drifted off to sleep in her father’s arms. He must have been extremely uncomfortable, but he did not suggest laying her down. Carlo and Maisie fidgeted and squirmed. She turned very pink and said she needed the ladies’ room. Jerry sent her off to a pot in a bedroom and made Ariadne stand guard over her.

Killer insisted he was fine, but did not speak unless questioned.

Endless night— surely they must be at the north pole and this was still only December?

No sounds or signs outside. What was going on? Why didn’t the enemy try something more? What— who?— no, what— were they waiting for? Had the message been passed in Hell?

We have Achilles son of Crion in our realm, he is injured, and his only companion is incompetent. Come and get him… Lord Asterios.

No, he must not even think that name.

The cabin was stuffy and hot, but Jerry could no longer resist the thought of coffee. He took the pot over to the water bucket, and nothing scratched or miaowed at the window, but as he came back he thought he heard a chuckle outside, too quiet for the others to hear.

He threw another log in the wood stove and put the pot on top.

Then Carlo straightened. Then Maisie. Then he heard it also, faint sound in the distance. Now they were all staring at the window, all hearing it.

“What’s that?” Maisie demanded nervously.

“You tell me what you think!” he replied, his scalp crawling with the rising tension.

“Sirens!” Carlo snapped, his eyes narrowing. “No— it’s a mob!” Gillis said, stirring uneasily. Jerry said, “Just remember it’s a trick. I hear hounds.”

The distant noise carried him back to his childhood, his grandfather’s farm, and standing on a stile with the old man holding him, looking out at the misty morning hills of Dorset. And the hunt poured over a distant skyline, the men in their red coats, the horses, a faint horn call… and the white foam of the dogs in front, streaming down the hill and giving throat. He could hear that baying now. Damn them, digging around in his mind!

No, these were bigger than foxhounds— wolfhounds or mastiffs, killers. They were coming closer.

“Remember!” he shouted. “It’s a trick! Whatever happens, don’t speak!” Too shrill…

He grabbed up the wand— and thought for an instant that Maisie’s eyes started to follow it— and where had he put the automatic?

Who was being hunted? Who rode to these hounds of Hell?

Much closer, now, a huge pack was baying and belling up the driveway, surely almost into the clearing and the glow of the yard light. The temptation to look out was a knife being pushed into his back. Hounds— a romantic noise to a child, hideous terror to the quarry Footsteps slapped in mud, stumbled up the steps.

The door rattled as someone fell against it, and the noise of the hounds rose triumphant, as they closed on their prey.

“Jerry!” It was Juanita. Oh, God! “Popsicle, let me in!” No one but she had ever called him Popsicle— he wasn’t even sure what it meant.

“Popsicle! Let me in!”

Her voice rose to a scream, and his attention wavered, as he thought of the soft, cream-smooth body he had held in his arms and of the teeth of hounds Carlo leaped to his feet and dived to the window above the counter, pushed aside the drape, and looked out.

Jerry jumped for him.

Then there was a leg between his legs, and something struck the back of his neck. The floor leaped up and battered him breathless, while all the lights of heaven flashed inside his eyeballs. He was rolling under the table and had dropped the wand, and someone was screaming.

He had never made a faster recovery, scrambling to his knees, throwing the table away bodily, finding the wand. Killer was on his feet— one foot— and locked with Carlo in a parody of Greek wrestling, Carlo yelling incoherently. Jerry lurched upright and smashed a blow of that heavy, cold wand— gleaming horribly white now— at the youth’s head. Carlo and Killer went down together.

The bolt on the door moved. Maisie was screaming— everyone was screaming.

He slammed the wand against the door as it began to open.

“I KNOW YOU FOR WHAT YOU ARE. BEGONE!”

He had his shoulder against the door, and for a long moment it was as immovable as the Himalayas. The wand blazed, and his muscles and joints creaked with the strain. Then it gave way and slammed shut, and he slid the bolt.

Saved.

He leaned a damp forehead against the wood for a moment to catch his breath— and regain control of himself, for he had very, very nearly crapped his pants with terror. Saved. Then he swung round in fury to find Carlo and beat the shit out of him.

At his feet lay Killer, face down in a fountain of blood, with six inches of pointed steel protruding from his back.

And on the other side of the door something started to laugh.