The Nimble Man

CHAPTER TWELVE

Ceridwen was taken aback by how much it still pained her.

Standing in the center of the Ferricks' living room while attempting to establish communications with the elemental forces of this withered world, the sorceress was forced to deal with emotions she had thought to be callused over long, long ago. They were feelings buried so deeply that she had underestimated their devastating strength, believing that after all this time, she had surely grown stronger than they, the overwhelming sadness and fiery anger that had come as a result of Arthur Conan Doyle leaving her life.

But she knew she had been wrong, feeling the effects of seeing him again as if the decades that separated them were but the passing of a season. Ceridwen had hoped she would be stronger than this, and at that moment, wished in hindsight that she'd had the wisdom to partake of some spell or magickal elixir that would have dulled the painful memories of what she and Arthur Conan Doyle once shared.

The hurt of their lost love was a distraction, and that was something she could ill afford at this time.

Ceridwen hissed aloud, suppressing the rabid emotion that now bled from the newly ravaged wound of feelings, and forced her attentions fully to the chore at hand. There would time later to deal with the trivial pains of her failed relationship, when the fate of worlds did not hang so precariously in the balance. Right now, she had to concentrate every facet of her consciousness upon communicating with the elemental spirits that composed the world of man — the world that the Fey had come to call the Blight.

With her staff, upon the parchment of open air, the Faerie sorceress wrote the intricate spells of elemental calling that had been passed down from generation to generation, as far back as the Fey could remember. The forces of nature had always been at their beck and call, a symbiotic relationship built upon a strong mutual respect.

The air grew steadily colder, her breath clouding from her mouth as she uttered the names of the primordial spirits that comprised the world. As she spoke the last of their names, she felt the frigid air around her become charged with an eldritch energy that had existed since the explosion that was the birth cry of creation. The floor beneath her feet thrummed as the chilled air began to swirl. The flames of the candles, strategically placed about the room for illumination, stretched, growing taller, leaning toward the coursing air. She could feel the presence of those whom she had called, weaker than the last time they had communed upon the world of man, but still a force to be reckoned with none the less. Sadly Ceridwen wondered if there would ever come a time when the elemental spirits would be too weak here to answer her call, but that was a concern for another time.

"You have summoned and we have answered, child of the Fey," said the elements, their wispy voices speaking in unison. "What task would you ask of us?"

Ceridwen bowed her head in reverence to the forces that bound the universe. "Great and wise elemental spirits, this world in which you reside is in grave danger, and I ask of you only one thing, to transport me quickly, and stealthily to my chosen location so that I may deal with this threat." She raised her head to see that a vortex composed of the elements swirled about her: earth, wind, fire, and water. "Will you aid me?" she asked of them.

The spirits did not answer and Ceridwen began to wonder if the distraction of her feelings for Arthur Conan Doyle had affected her far worse than she had first imagined.

"Spirits?" she questioned. "Have you heard my plea?"

They were still silent, whirling about her, and she was about to ask them again when at last they spoke.

"Perhaps it would be best if this world were to die," they said in unison, and Ceridwen found herself stunned by the response.

Long had the forces of nature on this world been under constant assault, the dominant species of the planet having no respect for the heavenly body on which they thrived. Mankind's arrogance and blatant disregard for its environment was maddening, and she could not help but entertain the thought that perhaps the spirits were right. Every time that she had set foot upon this accursed world, she found it in worse condition than the last. Humanity was killing this place that had once been second only to Faerie in its lush beauty.

The outcome was surely inevitable. Did it really matter if this place were to die now or later? she pondered. Ceridwen could not even begin to understand how Arthur could have left the world of the Fey for such a tainted place, but he loved this world of his birth, and had made himself its protector. It was not her place to encourage its demise.

"No," Ceridwen said forcefully to the elemental manifestation that surrounded her. "This is not the time or place for such discussions. There is much life still left in this world and I — as well as others who share the same thoughts, are not yet ready to allow it to pass."

The elements were quiet, dwelling upon her words.

"Perhaps we were too rash," the spirits hissed. "Your faith momentarily restores our hope. We shall watch further before this world's fate is decided upon."

"A wise decision," Ceridwen answered, again bowing her head in respect. "Will you then grant my request?"

The whirlwind began to swirl all the faster around her, the elements blurring together as one powerful force. "Take us into yourself, and in your thoughts, show your destination."

Her former lover's home took shape within her mind as she inhaled, allowing spirits of nature access to her body.

"Yesssssss," they whispered all around her. "We know this place."

And the winds spun all the faster, shrieking and moaning as the forces of nature readied to do the sorceress' bidding.

"A traveling wind," Ceridwen said, clutching her staff of power to her chest, the icy ball adorning it pulsing with a cold, blue light, the combination of the frozen water and the fire within. "That is what I ask of you. A traveling wind to take me to the home of Conan Doyle."

"It is but the least we can do for you, child of the Fey," the elements said as they took her within their embrace, lifting her up from the ground.

"The least we can do."

Danny Ferrick stared with awe into the living room.

The boy had had every intention of going up to bed, to lie down and attempt to understand what he had learned about himself, as well as the world in which he lived. In his mind he saw his life, and the world in which he lived represented as a gigantic rock, its dark, jagged surface covered in patches of lichen and moss, undisturbed and untouched for perhaps hundreds of years. But then that rock was flipped over, and something else entirely was exposed — something terrifying, and yet absolutely fascinating. That was the real world for him now — the world in which he belonged.

His foot had just touched the first step that would take him up to his room when he'd felt it. It was like a gentle tug, as if there were an invisible rope wrapped around his waist and somebody at the other end, pulling — drawing him toward the living room.

Danny turned. He knew that Ceridwen was in the living room performing some kind of magickal spell that would take her to Conan Doyle's house. Is that what's pulling me? he wondered as he moved quietly down the hallway, clinging to the shadows. Is Ceridwen's magick somehow calling to me?

He heard voices coming from the room, and by the sound of it, the woman was not alone. Danny pressed himself against the wall before the doorway and listened. Ceridwen's voice was beautiful, like the singing of a song every time she spoke, but the other voice — multiple voices really, speaking as one, it made the dry skin around his new horns itch like mad and the hair at the back of his neck stand on end.

Danny carefully peeked around the doorframe, not wanting to be seen. He was going to have his look, and with his curiosity satisfied, go right up to bed.

At least that was what he had intended.

All that he had seen recently, all he had experienced, it paled in comparison to what he was seeing at that moment.

"A traveling wind," the Faerie sorceress said aloud, her voice filled with authority. The air in the room, seeming to have become almost solid, spun around her incredibly fast, but she remained calm in the center of the maelstrom. "That is what I ask of you. A traveling wind to take me to the home of Conan Doyle."

The unnatural wind conjured within the living room of Danny's home screamed and moaned like twenty cats in heat, and it became more difficult to see the Faerie sorceress at its core.

"It is but the least we can do, child of the Fey," came the voice that set his nerves on edge, and Danny realized that it was coming from the body of the storm itself, that somehow the whirlwind was alive.

"Awesome," he whispered, transfixed by the sight. His body shook with the wind, his pants so baggy that they fluttered behind his legs.

"The least we can do."

And with those final words, the traveling wind spun all the faster. Furniture and knick-knacks, anything not nailed down, were tossed about the living room by the powerful winds. Then the woman was lifted up from the center of the room and carried within the belly of the unnatural storm toward the ceiling.

Danny could not take his eyes from the sight, watching in awe as the manifestation of the sorceress' magick began to grow smaller, collapsing in upon itself. Ceridwen was leaving, being taken away by what she had called a traveling wind, and he felt the unnatural pull again — the tug, that had brought him to this room grow all the stronger. He gripped the doorframe, his clawed fingernails digging into the hard wood as he fought to keep himself from entering the room. There was a part of him that wanted to go, to throw himself into the whirling vortex and accompany Ceridwen on her mission, but that was not his place. According to Conan Doyle, it was not his time.

The pull upon him was incredible as he watched the twister compress in size, Ceridwen nothing more than a dark stain at its core. It would be gone soon, transporting the woman to Conan Doyle's house where she would gather information to help them take down those responsible for what was currently happening to the world. And where would he be? Daniel asked of himself. He would here, doing absolutely nothing, even though he knew that he was more than capable of helping.

The boy heard Mr. Doyle's hurtful words again echo within his skull. "We shall see what your destiny holds, Danny Ferrick. But not tonight. Not tonight."

"Then when?" he asked aloud, knowing very well if Conan Doyle's people — his agents, were not successful, things would be getting mighty hairy for mankind, and he might never be given the opportunity to show them what he knew he was capable of. This was his chance to truly belong, to prove that he was one of them.

Danny let go of the doorframe and allowed himself to be drawn into the room. He felt the drastic change in temperature, and he could see his breath. He stared up at the dissipating whirlwind, now less than half its original size, and still he struggled with the idea of what he should do.

"Not tonight," the voice of Conan Doyle said again, warning him away from the thoughts of what Danny knew he should not be doing. And in his mind he saw himself leaving the room, climbing up the stairs to his bedroom where he would wait for the others to return from their chosen missions. This was what he should have done.

"Fuck that shit," the boy growled, tensing the muscles in his legs and leaping up into the air, at the magickal maelstrom. And he was pulled inside the final vestiges of the diminishing vortex; carried away from his home upon a traveling wind, eager to confront his destiny.

In the dream, the world of man was hers to command.

Wearing robes of elegant silk, she walked amongst the garden of bones; the remains of those who challenged her, as far as the eye could see. They were arranged in the most beautiful of patterns, sticking up from the poisoned earth, and hanging from barren trees, twirling amusingly in the fetid winds. The artisans of the Corca Duibhne had outdone themselves, she thought, admiring the artistry of the Night People's work, creating sculptures both pleasing to her eyes and filled with meaning. This place would serve as a reminder to any who would dare to challenge her supremacy. A place to show them that any hopes of insurrection would be met with punishment swift and terrible.

The mournful winds shifted ever so slightly, carrying the plaintive wails of the humans left alive to her ears. They were used as cattle now, a food source for her voracious army. A fate they most assuredly deserved.

And beneath the now eternally nocturnal sky, the sun forever blotted out by the undulating mist of scarlet red, Morrigan leaned back her head and basked in the misery that she had wrought. It is only a matter of time now, she thought, her body beginning to tingle with anticipation, only a matter of time before the world of Faerie fell prostrate before her, and she began to cry tears of thanks for what her master had given her.

"It is all I've ever dreamed of and more," Morrigan said, her voice trembling in emotion, as she gazed up into the sky. And something moved there above her, something great and terrible that glided through the mist filled air, the pounding of its mighty wings like the heartbeat of a world in peril.

Morrigan lay upon the king-sized bed of Arthur Conan Doyle, her naked body still covered with the sticky aftermath of the recently performed blood ritual, still gripped within the fantasy of dream. The spell that she had woven had been extremely taxing, and she often found that a brief nap was exactly what was needed for her to retain that much needed edge, and what better place to rest after the exhausting job of sacrificing two innocent children, she thought, then upon the bed of your vanquished enemy.

Her eyes came suddenly open, awakened from her blissful respite by disturbance in the ether. It was like the vibrations felt within the silken threads of a spider's web; an alarm of sorts, warning that something could very well be amiss. Morrigan raised herself up on her elbows, gazing about the darkness of the master bedroom.

The two boggarts, large dog-like beasts lying curled and content at the foot of the bed until that moment, raised their blocky, black fleshed heads and sniffed at the air. The animals growled, a horrible gurgling sound, the loose flesh around their mouths rippling back to reveal angry red gums filled with razor-sharp teeth.

"What is it?" she asked the demonic beasts, conjured as a precautionary measure to watch over her while she slept. The two unnatural animals tilted back their large, square heads, sucking whistling lungfuls of air into their eager nostrils. They sensed it the same as she, the faintest hint of a magickal disturbance in the air.

"Come," Morrigan beckoned the animals to her as she left the bed, and they slunk from atop the mattress to the floor, their short, triangular ears flat against their skulls in submissiveness as they stood on either side of her naked form, licking the dried blood of children from her hands.

She concentrated upon the ripple in the ether, attempting to discern its purpose, but much to her frustration, could not read it.

"Who would dare such a thing?" she asked aloud, padding naked across the bedroom to the door, taking some satisfaction with the knowledge that the two who could challenge her were not present upon this world, she had seen to that.

Morrigan flung the door wide, startling a band of Night People who had set up a kind of encampment outside the bedroom door. The creatures quickly averted their eyes, not wanting to incur the wrath of their mistress.

"Did you feel it?" she asked them. "A spell has breached our defenses."

The boggarts started to whine, eager to track the scent of the invasive magick.

"Go," she commanded them with a wave of her taloned hand, and the beasts bounded down the upstairs hall, powerful muscles rippling beneath jet-black flesh, scattering Corca Duibhne and their belongings in their fury to hunt that which did not belong.

Morrigan followed close behind, fearing the worst as the eager boggarts descended the stairs, their claws scrabbling across the hard wood floors for purchase as they made their way toward the ballroom, and her most treasured possession.

Disturbing images flashed through her mind; scenarios that rendered all that she had planned moot. She first imagined finding the chrysalis of Sweetblood shattered upon the ballroom floor, the powerful mage now free and filled with fury, and then the equally horrific imagining that the chrysalis was gone, stolen, not a piece to be found. She quickened her pace, catching up to the dog-like creatures sniffing and digging eagerly at the bottom of the closed ballroom doors.

Filled with anticipation, she gripped the knobs in her eager hands, turning them and pushing the doors open. The boggarts bounded into the room, howling and snapping at the air as if it were filled with prey.

A deadly spell of defense danced upon Morrigan's lips, crackling arcane energies ready to lash out at any enemy present, but the room was as she left it.

The twins, Fenris and Dagris, looked startled as they stood above the sarcophagus of solidified magick that held the body of Sweetblood the mage.

"Mistress?" Fenris asked, his voice filled with concern.

They were still doing as they had been instructed, maintaining the spell that would hopefully allow them greater access to the magickal forces imbued within Sanguedolce's cocoon.

The boggarts continued to pace about the room, howling and carrying on. Something had been there; of this she was certain. Morrigan strode naked toward the chrysalis, wanting to see with her own two eyes that her means to victory was still very much within her grasp.

She felt the twins' questioning eyes upon her bare flesh, but she paid them no mind as she reached down to wipe away the blood of the sacrifice that covered the mage's containment vessel, hoping to gaze upon the visage of the one whose power she had so come to desire. The blood had partially coagulated, and it sloughed off, plopping to the floor as she ran her hand across the cocoon's chiseled surface.

Morrigan actually breathed a sigh of relief as she caught sight of the form of the mage, still trapped within, but that relief quickly changed to concern as her eyes studied the frozen countenance of the arch mage all the closer. Something was different. If she was not mistaken, Sweetblood's expression had somehow changed.

And he appeared very angry.

The sleek, black limousine cut through the billowing red fog like a surgeon's knife through diseased flesh. In the driver's seat, the hobgoblin Squire sat quietly, piloting the vehicle through the impenetrable mist with an expertise that Clay found uncanny.

The shapeshifter gazed out his side window. Though morning, he could see practically nothing other than the undulating clouds of crimson. Even with the structure of his eyes changed, giving him the best possible vision, he could still not make heads or tails of where they were, or where they going.

"How do you do it?" Clay asked Squire from the backseat.

The goblin started, grabbing hold of the rearview mirror and manipulating it so that he could see into the back seat. "You talking to me?"

Eve shifted in the seat beside him, hugging herself as if cold, leaning her head against the glass of her window. "No, the other little twisted freak driving this car," she growled sarcastically. "Of course he's talking to you."

Clay shook his head. Squire and Eve certainly shared an interesting relationship. He was never quite sure if the two actually despised one another, or it was all some kind of act to deflect attention from the fact that they truly cared for each other.

"Hey, Eve, got a box of native earth in the trunk, why don't you lay in it?" barked Squire.

"Miserable shit," she grumbled, slumping lower and closing her eyes.

But then again…

"The driving," Clay said before Squire could launch his second, venom-filled volley. He moved forward in his seat to speak with the hobgoblin. "How do you manage to actually navigate through this stuff?"

Squire shrugged. "It's really instinctual," he said. "Kind of like traveling the darkness of the shadow paths." The goblin explained further. "I can feel where I need to go inside my head. It's weird, and hard to explain."

The vehicle suddenly banked to the left to avoid something in the middle of the road. Clay got a quick glimpse through the side window as the car sped past. If he wasn't mistaken, it looked to be nothing more than a rotting human torso and head, writhing maggot-like across the center of the road. Yet another of the pathetic things responding to the siren song that drew the dead to the Museum of Fine Arts. Their destination as well.

"You see that?" Squire asked him as he expertly steered the car back to the center of the road.

"Yeah," Clay answered. He could now see the shapes of other animated corpses shambling through the thick fog of crimson within the road and on either side. Squire managed to avoid them with ease.

We must be getting closer, Clay thought.

"Hey, you know what that guy in the road would be named if he were hung on a wall?" the hobgoblin asked.

Clay wasn't quite sure what the diminutive chauffeur was talking about. "What?" he asked. "I'm not sure I…"

"Art," Squire answered, stifling back a guffaw. "Get it? His name would be Art. He would be hanging on a wall? Art? It loses a lot if I gotta explain it."

Graves was sitting in the front seat and now the ghostly figure turned to look at the driver. "Maybe it would be wise if you just concentrated on your driving and ceased all attempts at humor," the ghost said coldly, the first words he had spoken since pulling away from the Ferricks' home in Newton.

Squire shook his gourd like head in disgust. "Jeez, try and lighten the mood a bit, and suddenly I'm treated like the friggin' bastard child of Carrot Top."

Clay leaned back in his seat, letting the uneasy silence again hold sway over the inside of the car. It was obvious that Graves did not appreciate Squire's attempts at levity, preferring the somber silence. Over years, Clay had seen the different ways in which soldiers prepared themselves for battle; no two warriors doing it in quite the same the way. He'd always preferred a little quiet reflection before the war, reviewing the multitude of shapes that he could possibly manifest in order to combat and defeat the threat he was about to face.

Clay gazed at the back of Graves's head, able to see right through it to the windshield in front of him. He didn't know the adventurer all that well, having worked with him only a handful of times, but he had been a man of science in the days when he was still amongst the living. Clay could only imagine how disconcerting it must have been for the man to be confronted with the existence of the supernatural. How do you prepare for something that you spent your entire living existence believing didn't exist? Clay understood why the spirit would have no patience for Squire's stupid jokes.

"I'm just pulling onto Huntington Ave," the hobgoblin said from the driver's seat. "It's only a matter of time now."

The road had become dense with the reanimated dead, and the chauffeur continued to do as well as could be expected to avoid hitting them, but the closer they got, the harder it was becoming. Clay flinched as the front of the vehicle struck the body of a woman, the impact spraying a shower of a thick, milky fluid across the expanse of windshield.

"Whoa, that's gonna leave a mark," Squire said beneath his breath, hitting the button to cover the windshield with cleaning fluid before turning on the wiper blades.

Squire dealt with his tensions of the coming conflict with humor. It was something that Clay was familiar with. In an age he now recalled only through the veil of time, he had known a great Sumerian warrior called Atalluk, who would gather his fellow soldiers the night before they were to wage war against their enemies and tell humorous stories about his childhood and his ribald adventures with members of the opposite sex. Clay smiled with the ancient memory. The men loved those tales; the stories helping them to relax, and to relieve the tensions they were most likely experiencing in regard to the approaching combat.

Atalluk had been a gifted warrior, but gifted with wit as well. Clay still carried a certain amount of guilt for killing the Sumerian upon the battlefield, but there had been no choice. It was what he had been paid by the opposing forces to do.

The limousine hit a slow moving cluster of ambling dead, their dried flesh and bones scattering like dusty tenpins. "Strike!" Squire roared, shaking a gnarled fist in the air under the disapproving gaze of Leonard Graves.

Clay glanced at Eve, who still appeared to be resting. Here was someone that he had fought beside on numerous occasions, who understood and embraced the meaning of calm before the storm. She was a creature of infinite patience, Eve was, and there wasn't another warrior that he would rather have fighting by his side. When it was time to fight, she would be ready. He had no doubts about that.

The dead had become even more numerous. Their horrible faces crowded around to peer into the limousine as it began to slow.

"We're almost there," Squire said, gunning the engine, plowing through the mass of decaying flesh and bones. "I want to get you close enough so you're not bogged down. They can be a real pain in the ass, these dead guys."

The goblin leaned on the horn, as if that would make a difference. "Outta the way, you stinkin' bags of bones! Can't you see we're trying to get through here?"

Clay felt his respiration gradually begin to increase, the beating of his heart quicken. It was as it always was for him, the response of his body to the battle that was sure to come.

"Are we ready?" he asked.

Graves turned in his seat to look at Clay, his death pale features nearly transparent. "As set as I'll ever be when dealing with things of this nature," the ghost said, apparently perturbed that he was again forced to face the facts that he had so vehemently denied in life. Graves drifted up and out of his seat toward the limo ceiling, his head passing through the roof.

"I got your backs," Squire said, his large, dewy eyes reflected in the surface of the rearview mirror, and he cracked the door on the passenger side, ready to exit.

Clay looked to Eve, the woman scrunched down in her seat, seemingly still in the embrace of sleep.

"This is it, Eve," he said, reaching to shake her awake.

The woman responded in an instant, gripping his wrist in her powerful grasp before his hand could fall upon her.

"I'm awake," she told him, and he could see by the look in her deep, dark eyes that she was more than ready for what they were about to face.

"Then let's do what we came here for," he said, letting go of her wrist and preparing to open his passenger door.

As he did this, he heard the surprising sound of laughter, a pleasant sound, and one that he did not remember hearing too many times before. Clay looked across the back seat to see that Eve was giggling as she too prepared to exit the car.

She must have felt his eyes upon him and turned her head to meet his gaze.

"What's so funny?" he asked, completely in the dark as to what could have tickled her funny bone at that particular moment.

"Yeah," Squire reiterated, a breathless tension in his voice. Even he did not see any signs of the humorous at the moment. "What's the joke?"

"Art," she said and again began to laugh. "The guy with no arms or legs hanging on the wall. His name would be Art."

Eve opened her door, stepping out into the billowing crimson mist that hid an army of the dead. "That's pretty fucking funny," she said, just before slamming the door closed behind her.

And as Clay also left the vehicle, his body pulsing with the potential for violence that was to follow, he was forced to admit that the woman was right; it was funny.

When you looked at it from a certain way, it was all funny.