The Nimble Man

CHAPTER TEN

A tiny ember of fury burned in Morrigan's black heart. She had not expected to find an errant phantom in Conan Doyle's home, but even had she known she would not have wasted a moment thinking on it. What was a ghost, after all, to her power? They were fragments, figments, the echo of a spirit. But whoever this ghost was, he had knowledge that he should not have, and Conan Doyle might well have other allies. The damned specter had escaped her, thwarted her, and Morrigan was not pleased.

She was not concerned about it raising opposition to her. Nothing could stand in her way now. But just the idea that a damnable figment had escaped her was infuriating.

No, she told herself. Enough. With great effort, she forced thoughts of the ghost from her mind. Triumph was at hand. Elation. Divinity. She was not about to allow a minor annoyance to spoil that. She had other, far more thrilling matters to attend to.

Several of the Corca Duibhne vermin under her thrall scattered from her path as she strode down the corridor of Conan Doyle's home to a room whose broad double doors stood open to receive her. Morrigan swept into the high-ceilinged chamber and surveyed the room. It had once been used as a ballroom but now appeared to be a storage place for pieces of mechanical equipment that she imagined Conan Doyle and his lackeys used to keep their fragile forms physically fit. The exercise equipment had been pushed out of the way, up against the mirrored walls, to make room for the amber-encased body of Sweetblood the Mage.

The chrysalis rested in the center of the room, and though that strange magickal sarcophagus stifled the mage's power, Morrigan could still feel it emanating from within. She had stationed several Corca Duibhne around the chrysalis as guards, but they kept their distance from Sanguedolce. Inert or no, he was so powerful a mage that their entire race feared him.

Morrigan laughed softly, amused by their furtive glances toward the chrysalis. Their nearly primitive brains were incapable of realizing the potential that lay before them, the power that could be drawn from the ancient fool. But, of course, this was best. Such power was never to be wielded by the likes of these twisted little barbarians.

Fearful eyes upon her, she approached Sweetblood's cocoon and stared through the amber encasement at the still features of the mage. The energy that radiated from Sanguedolce was intoxicating, and she fell to her knees beside him, a collective gasp going out from the Corca Duibhne around the room. His magick, the wards around this chrysalis, were trying to repel her, but she held her ground, letting it wash over her, becoming almost drunk with its potency.

Morrigan laid her hands upon the imperfect surface of the chrysalis and was jolted by a surge of magick that struck her, coursing through with the burning power of a lightning strike. She shuddered and moaned aloud, but did not remove her hands. Her teeth gnashed, pain spiked through her flesh, pushing up into her head. She bit her lip and blood dripped down her chin. Through the amber surface of the cocoon she stared down into Sanguedolce's frozen visage.

She remembered the first time that she had ever laid eyes upon the magician, ages past, in Faerie. During the Twilight War the forces of the righteous had fought valiantly to stem the flow of darkness into the world of the Fey, and the worlds beyond it. She and her brother, Finvarra, had stood together at their father's side. The daughter of the king, she had been his trusted advisor and his personal bodyguard. In the midst of battle, Sweetblood had appeared, hovering above the battlefield, observing the conflict with a cold, unwavering eye, as if attempting to determine whether he should bother to become involved.

This memory awakened others in Morrigan. Clearly, now, she remembered her physical response to the sight of Sweetblood on that day, the warmth that had tingled in her belly, the pulse of arousal that had begun to throb inside her. Now, as then, she felt a ferocious heat thawing the deep chill that normally enveloped any such urges within her. She had felt his potential for power then, as she did now, and it inflamed her lust.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mistress."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… said as he pulled himself out of her refrigerator, arms filled with ingredients.

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

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

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

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

"So. Sour cream?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's up, kid?" she asked him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything that was happening to them was real and true. Danny was

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How are those eggs coming?" Clay asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Asshole," Eve spat, and Squire cackled.

Julia didn't understand the joke, unless it was simply that Eve didn't care for garlic. After she'd stubbed out her cigarette in a coffee mug, Squire brought plates for her and Danny and she thanked him, but could not bring herself to eat. Her son on the other hand, ate his own portion and then helped himself to hers as well.

"How long do we give Conan Doyle to find us?" Clay asked as he brought his empty plate to the sink for Squire to wash. The little man now stood atop a chair and was cleaning up, the sink full of hot soapy water.

Eve leaned in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, drinking her water. Danny could not take his eyes from the attractive woman, Julia noticed, and in a way, she could not blame her son. Eve was one of the most strikingly beautiful women she had ever seen, with the body and the fashion sense of a supermodel. In an ordinary woman, it might've made Julia envious. Yet there was something about Eve that made the hair on the back of Julia's neck stand on end. She wondered what her story was, what bizarre secret she kept in order to be associated with the likes of Squire, Clay, and Mr. Doyle.

"We give him as long as it takes," Eve said, a dangerous edge in her voice. It was clear in her tone that she neither expected, nor would accept, an argument. "I'm sure he's figured out what's going on by now. We wait for him. Then we'll make a plan."

Clay stood on the other side of the island across from her and folded his muscular arms. "And if he doesn't come back? If this Morrigan woman who's taken over the house gets the better of him?"

"I forgot what a bundle of joy you could be." Eve scowled at him.

"Conan Doyle will come back, don't you worry," Squire said as he scrubbed a plate clean with a sponge and placed in the strainer to dry. "It'll take more than that nasty Faerie bitch to put him down for the count." He turned atop the chair at the sink to look at Julia. "Pardon my French."

She was about to tell him that it was all right when there was a thump on the front door. Julia jumped, placing a hand against her chest. She could feel her heart racing.

Eve was the first to react, moving into living room and toward the door.

"Could it be Mr. Doyle?" Julia asked, hoping it was. She had met the man, and whether or not she had to think about their claims about his true age and identity, his presence would be welcome. At least he seemed human enough. But she wasn't sure if she could stand another bizarre stranger the likes of her current guests.

"It's possible," Squire said, jumping down off the chair, drying his hands with a dishtowel.

Clay remained very quiet and still, positioning himself so that he could watch Eve as she went to the door. None of them moved out of the kitchen, however. Not yet. It took Julia only a moment to realize that Clay and Squire had remained where they were as protection for her and Danny. Yet for some reason, this made her even more frightened.

There came another thump, only this one was much more violent, as if someone or. Heaven forbid, some thing was trying to get inside.

"If it's the Jehovahs, tell 'em to screw!" Squire yelled, and Eve slowly turned to fix him in a menacing stare.

"She doesn't like you very much, does she?" Danny said to the little man.

"It's all a show," Squire told him. "She'd be lost without me."

They all watched as Eve took hold of the knob, slowly turned it, and pulled open the door. Something growled at her from within the shifting red mist outside.

Then it erupted from the bloodstained night, bursting through the doorway.

The vampire lurched into the Ferrick house, arms pinwheeling, trying to regain its balance. It seemed more like the leech had been thrown into the house than any focused attack. Not that Eve cared. The thing was filth. She grabbed hold of the slavering, mad-eyed bloodbag and threw it to the floor, then dropped upon it, placing one knee in the small of its back. She grabbed a handful of filthy hair, yanking its head back toward her.

"Hey Julia, ever seen this asshole before?" she asked as the leech screamed and thrashed beneath her.

The Ferrick woman emerged from the kitchen practically hiding behind Clay. Squire and the demon boy came out after them. Julia shook her head, staring wide-eyed at the vampire. She kept shaking, like at any minute she was going to lose it completely.

"Watch her," Eve said, eyes narrowed, gesturing to Clay. He nodded.

Eve focused on the leech again. Its stink filled her nostrils.

"Goddamned vermin," she muttered as she twisted its head around so she could look it in the eye. "So nobody invited you inside. Must be hurting you pretty bad to be in here," she whispered in its ear, leaning in close. "Breaking the rules and all." Eve felt the bone structure within her hand begin to shift and change, fingers lengthening, nails elongating. She didn't need a wooden stake to slay the vampires of the world. Everything she required was at her fingertips.

Her fingers became long talons, their tips like razors. With a flick of her wrist her claws could end a vampire's existence with dreadful swiftness. Just one of the perks of being mother to them all.

Eve sliced a single talon across the leech's parchment-white throat, slitting the skin and teasing out a slowly descending curtain of blood that slid down its neck. She was careful not to get it on her clothes. This whole crisis had already ruined one outfit, and though she didn't care much about her pants, the top was nice. Expensive. And she'd never be able to get bloodstains out of it.

"Mother's going to put you out of your misery," she whispered.

The vampire shrieked and bucked with such force that Eve was thrown from its back. She rolled to her feet, snarling and cussing, but it was already up and fleeing toward the still open door. Eve started after it. Its speed was unnatural, but she was faster. Impossibly fast.

She stopped three feet from the door.

The filthy leech was trapped on the threshold of the house. It was lifted off the ground by invisible hands and dangled there, hissing and lashing out. But Eve could see the terror in its eyes. She arched an eyebrow in curiosity, for it was not her that the leech was afraid of.

Beyond the door there was only the crimson fog, yet the vampire hung there, several inches off of the floor, feet kicking as though it actually needed to breathe. Slowly, a figure began to coalesce on the front stoop of the Ferrick house. The eyes were first, dark and mysterious, like tarnished copper pennies. Then handsome, angular features, and muscular arms. A hand, clutching the vampire's throat.

"Eve," said the new arrival, "let's not have this pathetic animal running loose, all right? But make it fast. I owe it that much, at least, for being my hound, for leading me to you."

The voice was warm and low, and yet a blast of frigid air churned up from the place where the ghost of Dr. Leonard Graves appeared.

Eve smiled. "Of course, Leonard. A pleasure to see you, as always."

She tore the vampire from his grasp and raked her claws across its throat, nearly severing its head from its neck. There was a moment where the thing's flesh crackled like damp wood in a fire, and then it exploded in a blast of cinder and ash, its dying embers drifting down to the carpeted entryway like gray snow.

"That rocked!" Danny Ferrick said, only to have his mother shush him, her tension obvious even in that simple utterance. A package of cigarettes had appeared in her hands and she was tapping one out.

"So how is it out there?" Eve asked, as Dr. Graves drifted into the house. "As bad as we think?"

The ghost glanced around the living room, frowned as he noted Julia and Danny, and then paused just inside the doorway, apparently not wishing to cause the woman even more of a fright. "I wish I could put your fears at ease," he said, turning to gaze out into the night of swirling red fog. "But I've never been much of a liar."

"Oh, Jesus. I'm in Hell," Julia Ferrick muttered to herself. The pack of Winston Lights seemed to explode, showering cigarettes onto the floor. She started to shake, as though she was going to fall apart entirely.

"No, hey. Julia, listen. Listen to me. It's all right," Clay said.

Eve turned to find him shooting her a dark look and at first she did not understand. Then she became aware of her talons. She nodded slowly, willing her hands to resume their normal shape, their elegant human form. She strode across the room to Julia and held up both hands. The woman stared at her, shaking her head, mouthing some denial or other.

"Mom, didn't you hear him? It's okay," Danny said, trying to reassure her.

Eve felt sorry for the kid. But none of them could afford to have the mother fall apart. They didn't have the luxury of looking out for her at the moment. "Julia. Hey, Julia!" Eve snapped.

The woman's eyes went wide, her nostrils flaring, and she glared at Eve.

"We're a motley crew, aren't we?" Eve said, almost succeeding in keeping the amusement out of her voice. Almost, but not quite. "Yeah. A motley crew. You've picked up enough already that none of this is a surprise to you. Conan Doyle's a sorcerer. A mage, we say. Clay's a shapeshifter, but that's only the easy explanation for that. The same way 'vampire' is a convenient way to describe me. You won't believe me, but trust me when I tell you the rest of my story would fuck you up much worse than that one word. Dr. Graves, here," she said, hooking a thumb to point out the new arrival, the tasty-looking man with dark bronze skin that seemed translucent at times. "He's a ghost. But he's a friend. May be hard for you to take, but we're the good guys. We're on your side. Deal with reality, or don't. Up to you."

Julia did not look up at first, and Danny was at her side. "Mom?"

Then the woman actually laughed. It was a dry, sort of unhinged little chuckle, but it was something. "A ghost," she said. "He'd have to be. I remember my father telling me stories about Dr. Graves when I was a little girl." Her gaze shifted toward Graves. "You were his hero."

The specter nodded once. "I'm honored."

"Honored," Julia said. She closed her eyes and shook her head. Then she dropped to her knees and began to collect her cigarettes. Danny got down and helped her, concern and regret in his eyes. When he handed her several of them, Julia sat back on her legs and looked up at Graves again, her hands full of cigarettes. Her eyes seemed somehow clearer than before.

"You're honored," she said, gazing at Dr. Graves. Then she looked around at the rest of them and dropped all the cigarettes but one, which she tapped nervously against her thigh. "What a circus. I should have rented a tent. You're all monsters, then, right? All of you, monsters of one kind or another. My son… my son is a demon. Or something like that. But whatever you are… I know you don't mean me any harm. I know you're trying to stop this…" she gestured toward the window, where the crimson fog had begun to glow, just slightly.

"Just tell me what I can do to help." Julia climbed to her feet, taking a long breath. She put a hand on Danny's shoulder and then glanced at the others again, holding up her lone salvaged cigarette. "And please, for God's sake, somebody get me a light."

Eve had to hand it to the woman. She'd seen stronger people reduced to dribbling idiots over lesser things than this.

Pleased that they weren't going to have to deal with Julia Ferrick losing her mind, Eve turned to the ghost. "All right, Leonard. Tell us something we don't know."

Dr. Graves had a quiet dignity that seemed to make them all stand a bit straighter. "The townhouse has been overrun with — "

"Know it," Eve interrupted.

The ghost scowled. "A sorceress of unimaginable power — "

"Know that, too. Her name is Morrigan and she's blood kin to our own Ceridwen."

The air around the ghost became increasingly colder as his annoyance grew. "Perhaps you should be filling me in as to what's going on."

"Is that all you have?" Eve asked him.

"Are you aware that the souls of the dead are being pulled back to their remains, that they're being driven from their graves, and all of them seem to be drawn toward the same location in the city?"

"Finally," she said. "Something I didn't already know."

"Nor did I," said a voice from the depths of the night, from the folds of the bloody mist.

"Jesus Christ, what now?" Julia whispered.

Two figures emerged from the fog, stepping in through the door. Arthur Conan Doyle glanced around the room approvingly. Lady Ceridwen, elemental sorceress of the Fey, gave them each an icy stare. Eve admired her cloak, but the pants were completely without style. Ethereally beautiful she might have been, but her fashion sense was for shit. Earth tones, blues and greens, no patterns, nothing especially bright. No sophistication at all. But what pissed Eve off was that Ceridwen was still stunning, no matter what.

"Excellent, you're all accounted for," Conan Doyle said.

"Nice to see you're still amongst the living," Eve replied. She shot an amused glance at Graves. "No offense."

"None taken."

Conan Doyle stepped further into the living room, the stoic Ceridwen at his side. "It appears that the situation is most dire," he said gravely, making eye contact with them each in turn.

"Now let us set the wheels in motion to effect a remedy, as swiftly as we're able."

The lights were out, now. The fog had stolen them.

The Ferrick woman had been kind enough to allow him the use of her home office for his ruminations. Conan Doyle sat in the darkness upon her black leather chair and attempted to relax, letting his mind wander. It was times such as this, when the tensions were high, that Arthur Conan Doyle felt the effects of his nearly century and a half of life. His back ached, and his bones creaked with only the slightest of movements, and he wondered quite seriously if he still had the inner strength to deal with problems of this magnitude.

His agents — his menagerie as he liked to call them — had seemed to breathe a sigh of relief upon his arrival, so he kept his doubts and fears to himself. He would do as he had always done. In the midst of chaos, he would find the skeins of order, and attempt to weave them together once more.

This was the first time since early that morning that he'd had a chance to sit and collect his thoughts. In his mind he catalogued the date he and his agents had gathered. Nothing was too small or inconsequential. He analyzed the events of the previous days, considered the entire history of Sweetblood the Mage, and how Conan Doyle himself had come to dedicate himself to a search for his former mentor. The incident in New York, when he had failed to procure the amber-encased body of the mage, was a moment he examined thoroughly. Conan Doyle replayed every conversation, reviewed every action, but no matter how he tried, a discernable pattern had yet to emerge.

Frustrated, he rose from the chair and began to pace. Is this the time? he wondered. The time when all of my resources will prove not enough, when my own ingenuity would result only in failure? Will this be Reichenbach Falls, for me? How many years can one man fight the darkness before the universe demands an accounting, before the pendulum must swung in the other direction?

Conan Doyle pushed the thoughts from his mind; he was tired, not having slept since the brief catnap he'd managed on the recent drive to New York in pursuit of Sweetblood. He needed to sleep, but time was of the essence. Rest could wait; he needed to think. He might not yet have a plan of action that would halt the horrors going on in the streets. But that was because there were still too many questions in his mind. He was going to need to find some answers. His menagerie was depending on him. The world was depending on him.

"Think, blast you," he muttered beneath his breath as he stared through the slats of the office window. Outside he could see nothing, the world totally obscured by that red mist. His thoughts had become like the whirling maelstrom left by Morrigan in place of the entrance from Faerie to the world of his birth, fragments of information swirling furiously about inside his mind.

There came a knock upon the door.

"Yes?" Conan Doyle called, turning his attention from the red-tinted night.

The door came slowly open, a beam of light from outside cutting through the darkness to partially illuminate the room. "Didn't know if you'd still be awake," Squire said sheepishly as he entered.

"And now you do," Conan Doyle said, turning his attentions back to the window and the unnatural conditions beyond it. "What can I do for you, Squire?" he asked, annoyed that he had been disturbed, but at the same time grateful for the distraction.

"Before leaving the townhouse, after I loaded up the weapons and shit, I made a stop in your study."

Conan Doyle paused, raised one eyebrow, and turned toward the hobgoblin again. Squire stood at the center of the office holding something in his hands, a familiar red velvet case.

"It was the last thing I thought of before I flew the coop. Thought you might need it," he said, holding it out to Conan Doyle. "Y'know, to help you think and all."

Squire placed velvet case on the desk in front of the leather chair.

"Thank you, Squire," Conan Doyle said warmly, touched by the gesture, and by the loyalty of his faithful valet. "That was most considerate of you."

"Don't mention it, boss," the hobgoblin said, making his way to the door. "Least I could do, considering you're the one that's gonna be responsible for saving our asses." Squire grinned as he went out into the corridor. "Goodnight, Mr. Doyle," he said, closing the door gently behind him, plunging the room again into red-hued shadow.

"Goodnight, Squire," Conan Doyle said under his breath, leaving his place at the window to approach the case left for him on the desktop. Conan Doyle reached down and took the velvet case in hand, slowly opening it to reveal its contents. He removed the Briar pipe, its rounded, ivory bowl giving off the faintest aromatic hint from the last time he had smoked, and a pouch of his favorite tobacco blend. Many a problem had been hashed out over a smoldering pipe.

Conan Doyle lowered himself back down into the leather chair and began to fill the pipe, stuffing the tobacco into the bowl with his index finger. Finished, he brought the stem of the pipe to his mouth as he uttered a simple spell of conflagration to ignite the Briar's contents.

The mage puffed upon the pipe, filling the room with the rich scent of the burning tobacco. He leaned back in the chair, a halo of smoke drifting about his head, already beginning to feel the soothing effects of his pipe, and attempted again to make sense of the swirling maelstrom that his thoughts had become.

You're the one that's gonna be responsible for saving our asses, Squire had said. Crude, but not entirely inaccurate.

Conan Doyle only prayed that after all this time, he was still up to the challenge.