Running With The Demon

CHAPTER 28

Nest fled into the park in mindless shock, her thoughts scattered, her reason destroyed. Had she known a way to do so, she would have run out of her skin, out of her body, out of her life. The face of the demon would not leave her, the image burned so deeply into her mind that she could not dispel it, his features bland and unremarkable, his blue eyes pale and empty.

Your father…

Your father…

She flew into a dark stand of pine and spruce, flinging herself into the concealing shadows, desperate to hide from everything, frantic to escape. The leathery branches whipped at her face and arms, bringing tears, but the pain was solid and definable and slowed her flight. She staggered to a halt, grounded anew, lacking a reason to run farther or a better place to go. She moved aimlessly within the tangle of the grove, tears welling in her eyes, fists clenching at her sides. This wasn't happening, she thought. It couldn't be happening. She walked through the conifers to a massive old oak, put her arms about the gnarled trunk, and hugged it to her. She felt the rough bark bite into her arms and legs, into her cheeks and forehead, and still she pressed harder.

Your father…

She could not say the words, could not complete the thought. She pressed and pressed, willing her body to melt into the tree. She would become one with it. She would disappear into it and never be seen again. She was crying hard now, tears running down her face, her body shaking. She squeezed her eyes tight. Had her father really killed Gran? Had he killed her mother as well? Would he now try to kill her?

Do something!

She forced herself to go still inside and the tears to stop. Her sobs died away in small gulps as the cold realization settled over her that the crying wasn't doing any good, wasn't helping anything. She pushed away from the tree and stared out into the park through gaps in the conifers, rebuilding her composure from tiny, scattered fragments. She caught glimpses between the needled branches of other lives being led, all of them distant and removed. It was the Fourth of July, America's day of independence. What freedom should she celebrate? She looked down at her arms, at how the oak's bark had left angry red marks that made her skin look mottled and scaly.

A shudder overtook her. Could she ever look at herself again in the same way? How much of her was human and how much something else? She remembered asking Gran only a few days earlier, weary of the years of secrecy, if her father might be a forest creature. She remembered wondering afterward what that would feel like.

Now she could wonder about this.

She shifted her gaze inward, staring at nothing, still unable to believe it was true. Maybe John Ross was mistaken. Why couldn't he be? But she knew there was no mistake. That was why Gran had been so anxious to avoid any discussion of her father all those years. She felt sick inside thinking of it, of the lies and half truths, of the rampant deception. Awash with misery and fear, she felt bereft of anything and anyone she could depend upon, mired in a life history that had compromised and abandoned her.

She moved back to the oak and sat down, leaning against the rugged trunk, suddenly worn out. She was still sitting there, staring at the trees around her, trying to decide what to do next, when Pick dropped out of the tree across the way and hurried over.

"Criminy, I thought I'd never catch up with you!" he gasped, collapsing to his knees in front of her. "If it wasn't for Daniel, I'd never get anywhere in this confounded park!"

She closed her eyes wearily. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I dong here? What do you think I'm doing here? Is this some sort of trick question?"

"Go away." Her voice was a flat, hollow whisper.

Pick went silent and stayed that way until she opened her eyes to see what he was doing. He was sitting up straight, his eyes locked on hers. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," he said quietly, "because I know how upset you are about your father."

She started to say something flip, then saw the look in his eyes and caught herself just in time. She felt her throat tighten. "You heard?"

Pick nodded.

"Everything?"

"Everything." Pick folded his wooden arms defensively. "Do me a favor. Don't tell me I should have told you about him before this. Don't make me remind you of something you already know."

She compressed her lips into a tight line to keep the tears in check. "Like what?"

"Like how it's not my place to tell you secrets about your family." Pick shook his head admonishingly. "I'm sorry you had to find out, but not sorry it didn't come from me. In any case, it's no reason for you to leap up and run off. It's not the end of the world."

"Not yours, anyway."

"Not yours, either!" The words snapped at her. "You've had a nasty shock, and you have a right to be upset, but you can't afford to go to pieces over it. I don't know how John Ross found out about it, and I don't know why he decided to tell you. But I do know that it isn't going to help matters if you crawl off into a hole and wait for it all to go away! You have to do something about it!"

Nest almost laughed. "Like what, Pick? What should I do? Go back to the house and get the shotgun? A lot of good that did Gran! He's a demon! Didn't you hear? A demon! My father's a demon! Jeez! It sounds like a bad joke!" She brushed away fresh tears. "Anyway, I'm not talking about this with you until you tell me the truth about him. You know the truth, don't you? You've always known. You didn't tell me while Gran was alive because you didn't feel you should. Okay. I understand that. But she's dead now, and somebody better tell me the truth right now or I'm probably going to end up dead, too!"

She was gulping against the sobs that welled up in her throat, angry and afraid and miserable.

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" Pick threw up his hands in disgust and began tugging on his beard. "Exactly what is it you think I should tell you, Nest? What part of the truth haven't you figured out, bright girl that you are? Your grandmother was a wild thing, a young girl who bent a lot of rules and broke a few more. That Indian showed you most of it, with his dancing and his visions. She ran with the feeders in Sinnissippi Park, daring anything, and that led to her involvement with the demon. The demon wanted her, whether for herself or her magic, I don't know. He was furious when she found out what he was and told him she didn't want anything more to do with him. He threatened her, told her the choice wasn't hers to make. But she was tough and hard and not afraid of him, and she wouldn't back down. She told him what she would do if he didn't leave her alone, and he knew she meant business."

The sylvan stamped his foot. "Are you with me so far? Good. Here's the rest of it. He waited for his chance to get even, the way demons do. He was mostly smoke and dark magic, so aging wasn't a problem for him. He could afford to be patient. He waited until your grandmother married and your mother came along. He waited for your mother to grow up. I think your grandmother believed she'd seen the last of him by then, but she was wrong. All that time, he was waiting to get back at her. He did it through your mother. He deceived her with his magic and his lies, and then he seduced her. Not out of love or even infatuation. Out of hate. Out of a desire to hurt your grandmother. Deliberately, maliciously, callously. You were the result. Your grandmother didn't know he was responsible at first, and even if she had, she wouldn't have told your mother. But the demon waited until you were a few months old and then told them both. Together."

Nest stared at him, horrified.

His face knotted. "Told them why, too. Took great delight in it. I was there. Your mother went off the cliffs shortly afterward. I think maybe she did it on purpose, but nobody saw it happen, so I can't be sure."

His frustration with her attitude seemed to dissipate. His voice softened. "The thing that concerns me is that the demon wanted to hurt your grandmother, to get even with her for what she'd done to him, and that was why he destroyed your mother, but I think he's after you for a different reason. I think he believes you belong to him, that you're his child, his flesh and blood, and that's why he's come back–to claim what's his."

Nest hugged her knees to her chest, listening to the soft rustle of spruce and pine boughs as a breeze passed through the shadowed grove. "Why does he think I would go with him? Or stay with him if he took me? I'm nothing like him."

But even as she said it, she wondered if it was so. She looked and talked and acted like a human being, but so did the demon, in his human guise, when it suited him. Underneath was that' core of magic that defined them both. She did not know its source in her. But if she had inherited it from her father, then perhaps there was more of him in her than she wished.

Pick pointed a finger at her. "Don't be doubting yourself, Nest. Having him for your father is an accident of birth, nothing more. Having his magic doesn't mean anything. Whatever human part of him went into the making of you is long since dead and gone, swallowed up by the thing he's become. Don't look for something that isn't there."

She tightened her lips stubbornly. "I'm not."

"Then what are you thinking, girl?"

"That I'm not going with him. That I hate him for what he's done."

Pick looked doubtful. "He must know that, don't you expect? And it mustn't matter to him. He must think he can make you come, whether you want to go with him or not. Think it through. You have to be very careful. You have to be smart."

He put his chin in his hands and rested his elbows on his knees. "This whole business is very confusing, if you ask me. I keep wondering what John Ross is doing in Hopewell, of all places. Why would a Knight of the Word choose to fight this particular battle? To save you? Why, when there's dozens of others being lost everywhere you turn? You're my best friend, Nest, and I'd do anything to help you. But John Ross doesn't have that connection. There's a war being waged out there between the Word and the Void, and what's going on here in Sinnissippi Park seems like an awfully small skirmish, the presence of your father notwithstanding. I think there must be something more to all this, something we don't know about."

"Do you think Gran knew?" she asked hesitantly.

"Maybe. Maybe that's why the demon killed her. But I don't think so. I think he killed your grandmother because he was afraid of her, afraid that she would get in his way and spoil his plans. And because he wanted to get even with her. No, I think John Ross is the one who knows. I think that's what he's doing here. Maybe it was your grandmother's death that prompted him to tell you about your father–because of what he knows that we don't."

Nest shook her head doubtfully. "Why wouldn't he just tell me what it is?"

"I don't know." Pick tugged hard on his beard. "I wish I did."

She gave him a wry, sad grin. "That's not very comforting."

They were silent for a moment, staring at each other through the growing shadows, the sounds of the park distant and muffled. A few stray raindrops fell on Nest's face, and she reached up to brush them away. A dark cloud was passing overhead, but the sky behind it showed patches of brightness. Perhaps there wouldn't be a thunderstorm after all.

"That note your grandmother left you reminds me of something," Pick said suddenly, straightening. "Remember that story you told me about your grandmother seeing Wraith for the very first time? You were hi the park, just the two of you, and she went right up to him. Remember that? He was standing just within the shadows, you said, not moving, and they stared at each other for a long time, like they were communicating somehow. Then she came back and told you he was there to protect you." He paused. "Doesn't it make you wonder just exactly where Wraith came from?"

Nest stared at him, her mind racing as she considered where he was going with this. "You think it was Gran?"

"Your grandmother had magic of her own, Nest, and she learned some things from your father before she found out who he was and quit having anything to do with him. Wraith appeared after your mother died, after your father revealed himself, after it was clear that you could be in danger. More to the point, maybe, he appeared about the same time your grandmother quit using her magic, the magic she no longer had to defend herself with when your father came for her last night."

"You think Gran made Wraith?"

"I think it's possible. Hasn't Wraith been there to protect you from the time you were old enough to walk?" Pick's brow furrowed deeply. "He's a creature of magic, not of flesh and blood. Who else could have put him there?"

Disbelief and confusion reflected on Nest's face. "But why wouldn't Gran tell me? Why would she pretend she wasn't sure?"

Pick shrugged. "I don't know the answer to that any more than I know why John Ross won't tell you what he's really doing here. But if, I'm right, and Wraith was made to protect you, then that would explain the note, wouldn't it?"

"And if you're wrong?"

Pick didn't answer; he just stared at her, his eyes fierce. He didn't think for a moment he was wrong, she realized. He was absolutely certain he was right. Good old Pick.

"Think about this, while you're at it," he continued, leaning forward. "Say John Ross is right. Say your father has come back for you. Look at how he's going about it. He didn't just snatch you up and cart you off. He's taking his time, playing games with you, wearing you down. He found you in the park and teased you about not being able to rely on anyone. He came to your church and confronted you. He used his magic on that poor woman to demonstrate what could happen to you. He had that Abbott boy kidnap you and take you down into the caves, then teased you some more, telling you how helpless you were. He killed your grandmother, and sidetracked John Ross and your grandfather and me as well. Where do you think I was all night? I was out trying to keep the maentwrog locked up in that tree, and it took everything I had to get the job done. But you see, don't you? Your father's gone to an awful lot of trouble to make you think that he can do anything he wants, hasn't he?"

She nodded, studying his wizened face intently. "And you think you know why?"

"I do. I think he's afraid of you."

He let the words hang in the silence, his sharp eyes fixed on her, waiting for her response. "That doesn't make any sense," she said finally.

"Doesn't it?" Pick cocked one bushy eyebrow. "I know you're scared about what's happened and you think you don't have any way of protecting yourself, but maybe you do. Your grandmother told you what to do. She told you to use your magic and trust Wraith. Maybe you ought to listen to her."

Nest thought it over without saying anything, sitting face–to–face with the sylvan, alone in the shadows of the grove. Beyond her momentary shelter, the world went about its business without concern for her absence. But it would not let her forget where she belonged. Its sounds beckoned to her, reminding her that she must go back. She thought of how much had changed in a single day. Gran was dead. Jared might die. Her father had come back into her rife with a vengeance. Her magic had become the sword and shield she must rely upon.

"I guess I have to do something, don't I?" she said quietly. "Something besides running away and hiding." She tightened her jaw. "I guess I don't have much choice."

Pick shrugged. "Well, whatever you decide to do, I'll be right there with you. Daniel and me. Maybe John Ross, too. Whatever his reasons, I think he intends to see this through."

She gave him a skeptical look. "I hope that's good news."

The little man nodded soberly. "Me, too."

Derry Howe was standing at the window of his tiny apartment in a T-shirt and jeans, looking out at the clouded sky and wondering if the weather would interfere with the night's fireworks, when Junior Elway pulled up in his Jeep Cherokee. Junior drove over the curb trying to parallel park and then straightened the wheels awkwardly as the Jeep bumped back down into the street. Derry took a long pull on his Bud and shook his head in disgust. The guy couldn't drive for spit.

The window fan squeaked and rattled in front of him, blowing a thin wash of lukewarm air on his stomach and chest. The apartment felt hot and close. Derry tried to ignore his discomfort, but his tolerance level was shot. A headache that four Excedrin hadn't eased one bit throbbed steadily behind his temples. His hand ached from where he had cut himself the day before splicing wires with a kitchen knife. Worst of all, there was a persistent buzzing in his ears that had been there on waking and refused to fade. He thought at first that he was losing his hearing, then changed his mind and wrote it off to drinking too much the night before and got out a fresh Bud to take the edge off. Three beers later, the buzzing was undimin–ished. Like a million bees inside his head. Like dozens of those weed eaters.

He closed his eyes momentarily and worked his jaws from side to side, trying to gain a little relief. Damn, but the noise was aggravating!

Seated comfortably in the rocker that had belonged to Derry's mother, the demon, an invisible presence, cranked up the volume another notch and smiled.

Derry finished off his Bud and walked to the front door. He kept watch through the peephole until Junior was on the steps, then swung open the door and popped out at him like a jack–in–the–box.

Junior jumped a foot. "Damn you, don't do that!" he snapped angrily, pushing his way inside.

Derry laughed, an edgy chuckle. "What, you nervous or something?"

Junior ignored him, looked quickly about to see that they were alone, decided they were, glanced at Derry's beer, and went into the kitchen to get one of his own. "I'm here, ain't I?"

Derry rolled his eyes. "Nothing gets by you, does it?" He lifted his voice a notch. "Bring me a cold one, too, long as you're helping yourself!"

He waited impatiently for Junior to reappear, took the beer out of his hands without asking, and motioned him over to the couch. They sat down together, hands cupped about the chilled cans, and stared at the remains of a pizza that sat congealing in an open cardboard box on the battered coffee table.

"You hungry?" Derry asked, not caring one way or the other, anxious to get on with it.

Junior shook his head and took a long drink of his beer, refusing to be hurried. "So. Everything set?"

"You tell me. Are you scheduled for tonight's shift?"

Junior nodded. "Like we planned. I went in yesterday, told them I was sick of the strike, that I wanted back on the line, asked to be put on the schedule soon as possible. You should have seen them. They were grinning fools. Said I could start right away. I did like you told me, said I'd like the four to midnight shift. I go on in …" He checked his watch. "Little over an hour. All dressed and ready. See?"

He pointed down to his steel–toed work boots. Derry gave him a grudging nod of approval. "We got 'em by the short hairs, and they don't even know it."

"Yeah, well, let's hope." Junior didn't look convinced.

Derry tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. "Hope ain't got nothing to do with it. We got us a plan, bub, and the plan is what's gonna get this particular job done." He gave Junior a look. "You wait here."

He got up and left the room. The demon watched Junior fidget on the couch, playing with his beer, taking a cold piece of sausage off the top of the pizza and popping it in his mouth, staring at the ancient window fan as if he'd never seen anything like it.

Derry came back carrying a metal lunch box with clips and a handle. He passed it to Junior, who took it gingerly and held it at arm's length.

"Relax," Deny sneered, reseating himself, taking another pull on his Bud. "Ain't nothing gonna happen until you set the switch: You can drop it, kick it around, do almost anything, it's safe until you set it. See the metal slide on the back, underneath the hinge? That's the switch. Move it off the green button and over the red and you got five minutes–plenty of time. Take it in with you, leave it in your locker when you start your shift, carry it out on your break like you're having a snack, then slip it under the main gear housing and walk away. When it goes off, it'll look like the roller motors overheated and blew. Got it?"

Junior nodded. "Got it."

"Just remember. Five minutes. It's preprogrammed."

Junior set the lunch box back on the coffee table next to the pizza. "Where's yours?"

Derry shrugged. "Back in the bedroom. Want to see it?"

They got up and went through the bedroom door, finishing off their beers, relaxed now, joking about what it was going to be like come tomorrow. The demon watched them leave, the room, then rose from the rocker, walked over to the coffee table, and opened the lid to the lunch box. Sandwiches, a chip bag, a cookie pack, and a thermos hid what was underneath. The demon lifted them away. Derry was exactly right; he had set the clock to trigger the explosives five minutes after the slide was pushed.

The demon shook his head in disapproval and reset it from five minutes to five seconds.

Derry and Junior came back out, sat on the couch, drank another beer, and went over the plan one more time, Derry making sure his buddy had it all down straight. Then Junior picked up the lunch box and left, heading for the steel mill. When he was gone, Derry massaged his temples, then went into the bathroom to get a couple more Excedrin, which he washed down with a fresh beer.

Better go easy on this stuff, he admonished himself, and set the can aside. Want to be sharp for tonight. Want to be cool.

He dumped the pizza in the trash and brought out the second device, this one fashioned a little differently than the other to accomplish its intended purpose, and finished wiring it. When

he was done, he placed it inside a plastic picnic cooler, fastened it in place, and closed the lid. He leaned back and studied it with pride. This baby will do the job and then some, he thought.

The demon came over and sat down next to him. Derry couldn't see him, didn't know he was there. "Better take your gun," the demon whispered, a voice inside Derry's head.

Derry looked at the rattling old window fan, matching its tired cadence to the buzzing in his head. "Better take my gun," he repeated absently.

"In case anyone tries to stop you."

"Ain't no one gonna stop me."

The demon laughed softly. "Robert Freemark might."

Derry Howe stared off into space. "Might try, anyway." His jaw was slack. "Be too bad for him if he did."

When he got up to go into his bedroom to collect his forty–five from the back of his closet, the demon opened the picnic cooler and reset that clock, too.

Nest walked back through the park to her home, Pick riding on her shoulder, both of them quiet. It was nearing four o'clock, and the park was filled with people. She skirted the families occupying picnic tables and blankets in the open areas and followed the line of trees that bordered Sinnissippi Road on the north. It wasn't that she was trying to hide now; it was just that she didn't feel like talking to anyone. Even Pick understood that much and was leaving her alone.

Feeders shadowed her, flashes of dark movement at the corners of her eyes, and she struggled unsuccessfully to ignore them.

She passed the park entrance and started down the service road behind her house. Overhead, clouds drifted in thick clusters, and the sun played hide–and–seek through the rifts. Bright, sunny streamers mixed with gray shadows, dappling the earth, and to the west, dark thunderheads massed. Rain was on the way for sure. She glanced skyward and away again without interest, thinking about what she had to do to protect herself. She had assumed right up until last night that the demon and John Ross and the madness they had brought to Hopewell had nothing to do with her personally, that she stood on the periphery of what was happening, more observer than participant. Now she understood that she was not just a participant, but the central player, and she had decided she would be better off not counting on anyone's help but her own. Maybe Pick and Daniel would be able to do something. Maybe John Ross would be there for her. Maybe Wraith would defend her when it mattered. But maybe, too, she would be on her own. There was good reason to think so. The demon had managed to isolate her every time he had appeared, and she had to assume he would manage it again.

Her father.

But she could not think of him that way, she knew. He was a demon, and he was her enemy.

She pondered Gran's note. Should she rely on it? Was Pick right in his assumption that Gran had made Wraith and given up her magic to do so? Was that why she was defenseless against the demon? Trust Wraith. She remembered Gran telling her over and over again that the feeders would never hurt her, that she was special, that she was protected. She had never questioned it, never doubted it. But the demon was not a feeder, and perhaps this time Gran was wrong. Why hadn't Gran told her more when she'd had the chance? Why hadn't she given Nest something she could rely upon?

I'm so afraid, she thought.

She pushed through the gap in the hedgerow and entered her backyard. The house loomed dark and gloomy before her, and she was reluctant to enter it. Pick had disappeared from her shoulder, gone back into the trees. She hesitated a moment, then walked up to the back door, half expecting the demon to jump out at her.

But it was her grandfather who appeared, stepping from the shadow of the porch entry. "Are you all right, Nest?" he asked quietly, standing there on the steps, his big hands hanging awkwardly at his sides. He looked gaunt and tired.

She nodded. "I'm okay."

"It was a terrible shock, hearing something like that about your father," he said, testing her with the words. He shook his head. "I'm still not sure I believe it."

She felt suddenly sad for him, this strong man who had lost so much. She gave him a faint smile and a look that said, Me either.

"I sent John away," he said. "I told him I didn't appreciate him coming to my house under false pretenses, whatever his reason for it, and I felt it would be better if he didn't come back. I'm sorry if that upsets you."

Nest stared, uncomprehending. She wanted to ask him if he had lost his mind, but she held her tongue. Her grandfather didn't know what she did about John Ross, so it wasn't fak for her to judge him. It was clear he had acted out of concern for her. Would she have acted any differently in his place?

"I'm going to lie down for a little while, Grandpa," she said, and went past him up the steps and into the house.

She went down the hall to her room and closed the door behind her. Shadows dappled the walls and ceiling, and the air was still and close. She felt suddenly trapped and alone.

Would John Ross abandon her? Would he give up on her in the face of her grandfather's antagonism? Even worse, was it possible there was nothing more he could do?

As she lay down on her bed, she found herself praying fervently, desperately that when the demon appeared next, she would not have to face him alone.