The Nimble Man

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ceridwen burns with fever. There is a cool breeze in the trees above, but it offers no comfort. The water diverted from the river into the stone bath is icy cold, flowing down from the mountain, and she can feel it sting her skin, yet her blue-tinted flesh is now flushed with a rich pink, so that her naked body seems painted with the colors of sunset.

That is not right. No, not at all. Her skin should not look like that. She is ill. So very ill.

Her eyelids flutter and she lolls back into the stone basin, the water flowing over her bare flesh. Her nakedness concerns her not at all. She is still young. It will be some time before she has blossomed enough for the men of the Fey to notice her. She is old enough that she has begun to notice the boys, but even so, there will be no intruders here. This is the citadel of her uncle, King Finvarra. Ceridwen's room is nearby. And her mother -

Mother, she thinks.

As if summoned, her mother leans into her view, her smile, her concerned eyes, blotting out the sky. The woman's features are severe, her hair cropped closely to her scalp, but there is a gentleness in her as she gazes down upon her daughter that most others will never see.

"Ceridwen. The fever has touched you. But do not fear. I will remain with you, here at your side, until it has passed."

A calm passes through her. The fever still burns. Her bones ache, her eyes are seared, her throat is swollen near to closing, her breath rattles in her chest. But her mother is with her. Ceridwen lets her eyes flutter closed as a soothing hand begins to brush her damp hair away from her face. Her mother's touch caresses her cheek and the agony of the fever recedes just slightly. For the first time, Ceridwen feels as though the icy water in the stone bath is cooling her, its chill sinking into her flesh, and the blazing fever abating.

Her chest rises and falls in steady rhythm and she searches for a peaceful place within… only to discover that she is already there. She can hear the breeze in the trees, the rush of the river, and the song of birds, and yet they are all distant compared to the beat of her heart, the sound of her breathing. She is deep within herself.

The stone bath is rough against her back. The water envelops her, flowing over her, and its sting disappears.

"Impressive."

Alarmed, Ceridwen opens her eyes and stares incredulously at the man standing over her. He has dark skin and hair as black as raven's feathers. His chin is covered by a short beard, and he peers down at her with eyes the blue of the deepest, most tumultuous river.

Confusion takes hold of her. Where is her mother? Who is this stranger, this intruder into the King's citadel? She glances down at herself, at her body, and sees that she had is in full blossom, her body ripened to an age where men might do more than appreciate her. In her shame she tries to cover herself, and the pain sears through her again. Her skin is blistering with the fever, her breathing ragged.

Ceridwen frowns. There is no fever. Somehow she knows this.

"I was not speaking of your charms, Lady, significant as they are," the dark man says, gesturing toward her bare breasts. "I refer to your endurance. I always admired you, Ceridwen. Now I see my interest was well placed."

"Who are you?" she manages to rasp.

The water in the stone bath is no longer cold. It seems, in fact, near to boiling.

"Don't you know?" His smile is thin, a surface thing, so fleeting, hurried away by the grimness of his nature.

And she does know. "Sanguedolce. Sweetblood."

He executes a courtly bow. "Indeed." The twinkle in his eye lasts only a moment. "The damage is done, now. The evil, the darkness… it will come no matter what you do. I should let you all die for your part in this foolishness. But there may come a time when I need you. So a word of advice, sorceress.

"You are a channel, a conduit. She's using you to tap my power. Your pain is that you are fighting it. Stop fighting. Take some for yourself."

Sanguedolce crouches at her side. He bends to kiss her. His lips are soft, but hers are dry and cracked and they burn.

Not with fever, but magick.

"Wake up," he whispers.

Ceridwen woke hissing air in through her teeth, filling her lungs hungrily, and a part of her knew that she had momentarily ceased to breathe. Her eyes opened wide and though the light inside Conan Doyle's defunct ballroom was brilliant, she did not turn from it. Her teeth gritted, the pain in her back and neck and down her legs excruciating. Blisters burst as she moved. Shards of the chrysalis beneath her cut her skin.

It was striped with cracks, fissures through which the mage's magick spilled. Morrigan's ritual had locked the two together, married Ceridwen's flesh to Sanguedolce's crystal sarcophagus. The agony had blinded her, shut down her mind. But now there was the pinpoint spark of knowledge in Ceridwen's head. She could feel more than pain. In the magick that seared her, that burst from her flesh and raced through her veins, she could feel power.

She could taste it.

Like bile, it rose in her throat again. Previously she had let her jaws gape and vomited up that power, that magick.

This time she clamped her mouth shut with a clack of teeth. Her lips curled back and she sneered. The magick surged up within her.

But Ceridwen did not let it go. She caught it. Take some for yourself, Sanguedolce had said in her fever dream. And so she did.

The face of her mother was clear in her mind. The sound of the river that rushed down from the mountain citadel of her uncle, King Finvarra, in the heart of Faerie, was in her ears. She brought both memories into her heart. Words in the ancient tongue of the Kings of Faerie formed silently upon her lips and her pain receded. Her flesh healed. The magick of Sweetblood the Mage spilled into her, just as it had before. But Ceridwen was no longer the conduit.

She was the vessel.

With a sneer, she broke her bonds and sprang up from the chrysalis. It popped with the sound of ice breaking on the lake in springtime, and the fissures deepened and widened. She could see Sanguedolce's face deep within the amber encasement. His eyes were still, and yet she was sure he was watching her.

Tensed to defend herself, she found that Morrigan had not even noticed her. The cunning bitch was on her knees in front of a shimmering portal, a slit in reality. Even as Ceridwen took it all in, realizing what it was, she saw a tall, lithe silhouette reach the dimensional doorway from the other side. Cloaked in clouds of gray, it put one foot through, into this world.

The Nimble Man, Ceridwen thought, her heart racing with panic, her mind whispering the doom of all creation. But she would not have it. With Sweetblood's power coursing through her, she held out a hand and in an instant, a sphere of ice coalesced in her palm. A finger pointed at the floor, she summoned the spirits of the wood, and in the space between heartbeats a new staff grew up and into her free hand. Its tip spread into fingers to receive the ice sphere, she set it into place and blue-white mist began to swirl around the orb. Then a tiny spark ignited within, becoming an ember, becoming a flame. It started to glow.

Morrigan had taken or destroyed her elemental staff. Ceridwen had created another.

As the elemental magick pulsed from the staff, Morrigan seemed to sense it. She twitched, obviously reluctant to turn away from the spectacle of The Nimble Man's arrival. Then she did turn, and Ceridwen was pleased to see the look of fury and wretched hatred on her aunt's face.

"Your brother, my uncle, always underestimated you, Morrigan," Ceridwen said, her words clipped, her magick steaming from her every pore, spilling off of her just as Sweetblood's had from the chrysalis. "But you, aunt, always underestimated me."

Morrigan laughed. "Perhaps. Perhaps, Ceridwen. But no matter. The time has passed for your presence to be of consequence." She smiled and for the first time Ceridwen understood the full extent of her madness. "The Nimble Man is here."

Ceridwen had been about to attack, to destroy Morrigan and attempt to disrupt the flow of magick from the chrysalis to the doorway. But Morrigan was correct. It was too late.

The Nimble Man had come.

Ceridwen had never seen a being more beautiful, nor anything more terrible. His skin was golden and smooth as glass, but shot through with scarlet traces as though his body was tainted. Infected. His form was flawless, and yet unsettling. His hands were too long, and tipped with curling claws. Jutting from his back were the tattered remnants of black-feathered wings, only strips of muscle and cartilage now. They had been torn from him, and as he stepped into the ballroom, into the world, three black feathers fell from the vestiges of his wings and drifted to the floor.

His hair was as black as those feathers, and fell around his shoulders, and his face was breathtaking. Simply stunning. Angelic, of course.

Until he noticed Ceridwen. Then his lips parted and he smiled, revealing hooked black fangs and a mass of coiling serpentine stingers where his tongue should have been.

The Nimble Man did not speak to her. Instead, he simply hissed.

Morrigan stood and clung to him and he gazed at her with inhuman, slitted eyes and caressed her.

All the strength Ceridwen had felt restored to her now seemed to slip away.

"Well, it appears I'm just in time for the festivities to begin."

Ceridwen's heart leaped at the familiar voice and she glanced over her shoulder to see Conan Doyle stride into the ballroom, long coat unwrinkled, every hair in place, as gallant as ever. Tendrils of magickal energy streamed from his eyes and his fingers and he paused, ten feet inside the door, prepared to fight.

A moment later, one of the windows on the far wall shattered and Eve leaped into the room, landing in a crouch. Behind her, outlined within the window frame, was a wiry, powerful-looking demon hybrid that must have been Danny Ferrick. The air beside Ceridwen shimmered and the ghost of Dr. Graves formed itself from nothing. One of the mirrored walls exploded inward, and in the dust rising from the rubble, she saw the massive form of Clay.

The Menagerie had arrived.

"Yes, come!" Morrigan cried, turning to face them as she rose to her feet. "You have all saved me the trouble of finding you."

Her face was filled with rapture. Behind her the Nimble Man stretched as if waking from a heavy sleep. His ravaged wings caressed the open edges of the dimensional doorway behind him. He surveyed the room, the individuals arrayed there, and he smiled. But when his gaze touched upon Sweetblood's chrysalis — shot through with cracks from which magick issued in radiant waves — he flinched.

"Now, my friends, keep him still!" Conan Doyle shouted, pointing at the Nimble Man.

They reacted immediately. Eve leaped at the Nimble Man, more feral than Ceridwen had ever seen her, fangs and claws extended. She landed upon him, clung to his back, and raked her talons across his throat, barely scratching his flesh. Clay was upon him in almost the same instant, but in between one step and the next, he made a transformation that was breathtaking. His arid, fissured flesh shifted, smoothed itself, and began to glow. Wings sprouted from his back, but his were perfect, with feathers of pure white. His skin was alabaster, and his face glowed with such warm light that it was difficult to look at, and yet almost impossible to look away from.

An angel, Ceridwen thought. Arthur had told her about such things. This is what an angel looks like.

The ghost of Dr. Graves flitted across the room, taking up a defensive position at the door. Most of the Corca Duibhne were likely destroyed or had fled in terror, but this had obviously been Conan Doyle's preventive measure, in case any of them should muster the courage to return.

Morrigan uttered a mad little laugh. "Are you all that stupid? Or has Conan Doyle mesmerized you? Are you really that anxious to die? Why don't you run?"

"Run from you?" Ceridwen asked. "I think not."

With both hands she held her elemental staff before her. With a single, guttural sound she called a frigid wind that churned across the space separating her from her aunt. Ice formed in Morrigan's hair and over her eyes and for just a moment she stiffened. Ceridwen still felt some of the power of Sweetblood inside her. It did not give her power she had never had, but it amplified her own magick tenfold. With a grunt she banged the base of the staff on the floor and sketched the air with her forefinger.

Lightning crackled from the ballroom ceiling and struck Morrigan. The Fey witch trembled as it raced through her and then she fell to her knees again, but this time it was in pain rather than supplication. She raised her hand to retaliate, but quickly spun to her left and barely succeeded in throwing up a ward before Conan Doyle's spell struck her. It dissipated harmlessly, but she was off balance.

"I'll leave the family squabble to you, shall I?" he called across the ballroom.

Ceridwen nodded grimly and advanced upon her aunt, blue-white mist spilling from the sphere atop her staff.

Conan Doyle left Ceridwen to deal with her aunt. Even as he passed them, Morrigan was struck by a spell that seared the air between the two Fey sorceresses, and she stumbled backward. So much of her power had been used to summon The Nimble Man, Conan Doyle hoped that it would give Ceridwen the edge.

The Nimble Man as also not at his full strength. The process of being born into this world, of escaping the pull of his limbo prison, had drained him. Conan Doyle had no idea how long it would take for the damned one to recover, but while he was weakened, there was a chance the Menagerie could stop him. If he was given a moment's respite, time enough to muster his strength anew, the world would pay the price.

Clay and Eve grappled with the Nimble Man. Despite his sluggishness, he seemed almost amused at their attack. A low, chuffing laughter came from deep within his chest as he struggled against them, but his lips peeled back and that mass of serpentine things in his mouth danced and writhed there, and Conan Doyle thought that his patience had worn thin.

Some of his strength returning, The Nimble Man began to grow. With a sound like a field full of crickets, the damned one stretched, sprouting in seconds to a height of nine feet, then twelve, with no sign of stopping.

No, Conan Doyle thought. I need more time. Just a few moments. It was up to his comrades to buy him that time.

"What the fuck is this?" Eve snarled, trying to hold on to her prey. As if she thought she might shrink him again, she opened her mouth, jaws distending, and tore at The Nimble Man's throat. She slashed her talons down and tore at one of The Nimble Man's vestigial wings, and for the first time, he cried out in pain.

Clay was at him as well, but The Nimble Man knocked the shapeshifter away and then, as if she were no more than a bothersome mosquito, reached up and snatched Eve from her perch upon his back and shoulders. He held her out in front of him by her arms, gazing at her as though she were some child's play thing. Eve struggled but to no avail.

"Keep growing, asshole. You're just a bigger target. You don't know who the hell you're dealing with he — "

The Nimble Man snapped both of her arms, the echo of cracking bone ricocheting around the room. Eve's words were cut off by her own scream. Then the damned creature held her by her head as she hung limply in his grasp, and reached up to run one long claw across her throat. Blood spilled from the gash like a scarlet curtain down her chest. The Nimble Man threw her across the room.

Eve collided with the splintered chrysalis, its magick cascading now throughout the room and across the floor. The collision cracked it open further, so that in several places it had fallen apart completely. Sweetblood's legs jutted out from the base of the thing. Eve lay in a tumble of broken limbs like some forgotten marionette.

"No!" Danny Ferrick screamed, as he raced at the gigantic Nimble Man.

Clay had recovered. Retaining his gleaming angelic form he darted at The Nimble Man, arriving before Danny. Clay placed one long-fingered, angelic hand over The Nimble Man's face, and divine light seared his golden flesh. Conan Doyle could have helped them, but only if he had been willing to sacrifice the world. Instead — with the sounds of the combat between Morrigan and Ceridwen behind him — he rushed toward the shattered chrysalis and turned to face The Nimble Man, and the dimensional doorway that had been slit through the fabric of the universe. He could feel Sweetblood's power coalescing around him. It caressed him as though it were a breeze that blew only for him.

The Nimble Man clutched Clay by the throat and tore one of his angel wings off, flesh and bone and cartilage ripping. Clay roared in agony and even as he did he began to change again, now a white tiger with black stripes slashing its fur. The Nimble Man crushed his jaws in one massive hand, and then slammed Clay into the floor with enough force to crack the woodwork. The shapeshifter returned to his arid, earthen form and did not move again.

In the strobing light from the magick erupting from the cracks on the chrysalis, Conan Doyle watched Danny Ferrick attack. When he saw the demon boy, the Nimble Man paused, a troubled expression on his face.

" You are horrors," he said, in a voice wet with the moisture of the things writhing in his mouth. Though he was growing, and beginning to recover from his transition to this world, he staggered slightly, unsteady on his feet. " Why would you fight my coming?"

"Why?" Danny shouted, snarling the word. "'Cause this is our world! It's got its problems, but it's home. And you don't belong here!"

Danny leaped up at The Nimble Man, driving his small demon horns into the damned creature's abdomen. Once more The Nimble Man cried out. He glared down at the boy, opened his black-fanged jaws, and the mass of squirming serpent-things that filled his mouth spiked out, stretching to impossible length, and punctured Danny's chest, punching out through the demon-boy's back.

"Danny!" Conan Doyle roared, and for the first time he nearly lost his composure, nearly surrendered the calm that his next move required. The boy's mother had entrusted her son to him, and Conan Doyle was afraid for him. If Danny was dead, he did not think he could face Julia Ferrick.

He bared his teeth, grinding them together. The magickal energy that trailed from his fingertips and spilled from his eyes seemed to dance with the power leaking from Sweetblood's chrysalis. Conan Doyle felt the two embrace. The fissures in the amber encasement widened. With a loud crack, more pieces of the chrysalis began to fall away. Within that shell, Conan Doyle could see Sweetblood's hand, twitching, fingers stretching.

"The boy was right," Conan Doyle said, starting toward The Nimble Man. "You don't belong here. You don't belong anywhere save that gray limbo. And if you wanted to leave it behind, you should never have left the door open."

Then, unable to resist a dramatic flourish, Conan Doyle passed one hand across his face, disrupting the glamour that had hidden his true countenance.

A spell struck Ceridwen on her left side, her face taking the brunt of the magick. Instantly her flesh began to soften, to melt. She felt her cheek droop, strings of skin dangling from her jawbone like tree sap. Morrigan had the advantage, and now her eyes blazed with malice. All of her fanaticism pulsed just beneath her features, but for the moment it had been usurped by her disdain for her family, for her people, for her land. The Fey witch rose off the ground, floating several inches from the wood floor, and she threw her arms wide. Streaks of oily black energy darted back and forth in front of her, dancing from finger to finger, from hand to hand, as though she were knitting some web of darkness.

"Stupid little girl," Morrigan sneered.

The sensation of her flesh sliding from her skull was the most dreadful thing Ceridwen had ever experienced. She wanted to scream, but could not control the muscles in her jaw. Panic set in, her gaze locked on Morrigan, and she watched as her aunt raised her hands and prepared to hurl that web of black magick at her, to entangle her, to destroy her.

Morrigan attacked. With the crack of a bullwhip, the black net whistled toward Ceridwen. She had expended the power she had borrowed from Sweetblood and knew that if Morrigan meant to kill her now, she would not be able to defend herself.

With a grunt, Ceridwen clacked the base of her elemental staff against the floor. A mystical breeze gusted around her, a traveling wind that lifted her in half an eyeblink from the path of Morrigan's attack, and set her down again just behind her mad aunt.

Fear gave way to rage. Ceridwen pressed the ice sphere at the top of her elemental staff against her face and felt the warmth of its energies spread through her. This was her magick, a simple object to channel her own innate power and to help her focus her rapport with the elements. Morrigan was Fey. She was family. Ceridwen easily countered the spell her aunt had cast, restoring her flesh, healing her face.

"You think you can run away from me?" Morrigan asked. Still floating, she spun in the air, glaring down at her niece. "From me?"

And for the first time, Ceridwen really saw the familial resemblance between herself and her aunt. The nose, the eyes, the lips

… it made her feel sick.

"I have never run from you," Ceridwen replied.

With a flutter of her eyelids and a tugging deep inside her, an ache in her loins, she reached into the wood floor and drew it to life again. Vines burst from the floor and twined around Morrigan's legs, reaching up to encircle her arms, trapping them against her body. Thorns pushed out from the vines, slicing her flesh. It would not hold her for long.

Ceridwen heard Conan Doyle scream Danny's name. She turned her gaze for just a moment from her conflict with Morrigan. In horror, she watched the demon boy impaled and then cast aside. She saw Arthur, grimly determined, bathe himself in the magicks spilling from Sweetblood's chrysalis. As Morrigan struggled to be free of her bonds, Ceridwen saw Conan Doyle passed a hand across his face.

His features shimmered, a glamour dissipating, and Ceridwen felt a stab of despair in her heart as she saw what he had done. Gore streaked the left side of Conan Doyle's face, dried and crusted there. Where his left eye had been there was now a small silver orb that crackled with magick.

The Eye of Eogain.

Conan Doyle had torn out his left eye and replaced it with a magickal construct, with the weapon he would need. Had he brought it into the house in his pocket, or in Eogain's yellowed skull, Morrigan might have gotten hold of it. But now it was his, rooted into his mind, into his brain.

He threw his arms out, let the power of Sweetblood wash over him, and the light around that magickal eye began to pulse, to churn.

"Noooo!" Morrigan screamed.

Ceridwen turned in time to see the Fey witch tear herself loose from those mystical vines, their thorns cutting her flesh to the bone. Morrigan seemed not to notice the pain of those wounds, nor even to remember that she had been fighting Ceridwen moments before.

Conan Doyle had said something about the door still being open. Ceridwen understood. He meant to send The Nimble Man back to his limbo world, and the possibility drove Morrigan to utter madness. She shrieked like the ancient sidhe and thrust herself across the room, staggering into the air, buoyed by a rush of magick so powerful it seemed to give her flight.

Ceridwen would not allow it. Conan Doyle had left her to deal with family business, and so she would.

As she raised her elemental staff, the sphere at its apex lengthened and thinned, wooden fingers closed on its new shape, and now it was a blade, sharp as diamond. Ceridwen screamed as she lunged at her aunt and drove the spear into her side, burying it deep. She thought about how many of her people had died because of Morrigan, about the grief that hung so heavily upon her uncle, her king. She thought about her mother's death in the Twilight Wars and all of the heartache that Morrigan had ever brought to Faerie.

Her aunt screamed and fell to the floor, writhing, struck to her core with the purity of elemental magick. Her black heart was poisoned by it. Ceridwen pulled the spear out of her and thrust it into her again, stabbing her chest and belly again and again. There was no honor in it, but there was so much pain.

Dr. Graves appeared beside her. In her peripheral vision, Ceridwen saw him, took in the look of concern and dismay upon his spectral features, and raised the spear to impale Morrigan again. Graves reached out and his ghostly fingers encircled her wrist.

He was a phantom, nothing more. He could not have forced her to stop. Yet somehow the next blow did not fall. Ceridwen looked down at her aunt, Fey blood bleeding out across the ravaged floor, tiny animal mewling noises coming from Morrigan's mouth, and she felt nothing. Yet she wished that Dr. Graves was more than a wandering soul, that in that moment he could have had flesh so that she could have touched his arm, leaned on him, just to feel something warm.

"Conan Doyle," Graves began.

Ceridwen spun to go to Arthur's aid, but even as she did the remnants of Sweetblood's chrysalis exploded in a blast of magickal light that blinded her and knocked her back. It passed through her and she had to catch her breath, her every sense excited beyond reason by the touch of this power. She blinked, tried to see through the brilliance, but could not make out even the silhouette of The Nimble Man and the man she had once loved.

The pain in Conan Doyle's head was sheer agony, like nothing he had ever felt before. It was as though someone were hammering a railroad spike through his skull, a shattering bit of trepanning. He screamed even as the chrysalis burst, and he clapped his hands to the side of his head. In the orbit where his left eye had been, he felt the Eye of Eogain move and pulse of its own accord. It seemed to swell, pressing against the bones of his skull, expanding. He knew his head would crack wide open at any moment.

"Good God, no!" Conan Doyle cried, and he fell to his knees.

Another wave of power from the disintegrated chrysalis passed through him. The pulse of it nearly killed him. The Eye of Eogain gathered up all of Sweetblood's magick, and siphoned all of Conan Doyle's own magick as well.

" You are nothing!" The Nimble Man roared above the blaze of light and sound. " You are only a man."

Conan Doyle forced himself to look up at the damned one. The Nimble Man had grown so large that his head and shoulders had crashed through the ceiling above, debris raining down around him. His mane of raven black hair was swept back by some unearthly wind and several black feathers swirled and eddied on the floor. His ruined wings were still dying.

What will he be like when he has regained his full power?

Behind him, Conan Doyle could see the slit in reality, the door into that limbo world where he had been an eternal prisoner until now. Morrigan had cast the spells, performed the ritual, spilled the blood and the power to open it, but she had not had a chance to close it. And now Ceridwen was dealing with her.

Gray mist still clung to The Nimble Man, residue of that limbo, detritus from nowhere. And Conan Doyle saw that the wind that ruffled the damned one's ravaged wings and jet black hair did not originate in this room, or even from this world. It was a vacuum, the void of limbo, tugging at The Nimble Man, trying to draw him back to where he belonged, back to the place where the Creator and all the devils in Hell had abandoned him.

"Only a man?" Conan Doyle screamed into the maelstrom that now began to whip around the room, Sweetblood's power and the pull of that doorway merging, twisting together. "There is no such thing as only a man! And you, pitiful thing, will never be free until the Lord himself wills it!"

All of the magick churning in the ballroom began to stream into Conan Doyle's body and he absorbed it, twitching, wracked with pain. He thrust it outward in a burst of magick that required no spell, only thought. His own magick enhanced with Sweetblood's power, Conan Doyle reached toward The Nimble Man, not with his own hands, but with fingers of glistening energy the hue of a forest's heart. Those tendrils of power lashed out, snatching at The Nimble Man.

But that was merely a distraction. For Conan Doyle's magick touched more than the damned one. Shimmering emerald energy whipped at the gray web of strands coming from that limbo realm. The Nimble Man had, all along, been in the process of extricating himself from its hold, as though dragging himself up from quicksand. Its grasp was still upon him, but it was weakening.

"Can you feel it, abomination? Can you feel your prison calling you back?" Conan Doyle snarled between gritted teeth.

He used his magick to strengthen limbo's grasp on The Nimble Man. The emerald energy that he wielded wrapped itself more tightly around the damned one and Conan Doyle tried to force The Nimble Man back into the dimensional doorway.

The Nimble Man began to laugh. He glared at Conan Doyle with savage eyes and bared his hooked, ebony fangs.

" Arrogant speck. You will exhaust your power soon enough. Mine only grows. When the one outweighs the other, we will have a reckoning, you and I."

Even with Conan Doyle's assistance, the gray clutch of limbo was not enough to draw The Nimble Man back through the portal. It seemed he would need a bit of a push.

"I think not," Conan Doyle whispered.

Surrendering to the pain that threatened to crack his skull, he sank to his knees. Swathed in the power of the greatest mage in the history of the world, with that mystic strength surging through him, he threw back his head and muttered a string of words in Gaelic. The Eye of Eogain burned in his face, as though his skull was on fire, and he released all the churning magicks within him in a torrent of warring colors, a stream of boiling energy that struck The Nimble Man in the center of his chest.

The damned one screamed in rage and pain and staggered backward. He glanced down at the magick that pounded into him over and over. Gray wisps of limbo encircled him, constricted him, binding his arms and wings. Conan Doyle screamed as the magick scraped the inside of his skull, scouring his eye socket. It pulsed as it jetted from the Eye of Eogain, pummeling The Nimble Man, knocking him back further. Closer to the doorway, to that slit in the fabric of reality.

The Nimble Man was smaller now. Shrinking.

It seemed to happen almost in an instant, then. Gray matter erupted from the doorway, sliding over The Nimble Man like a shroud, or a birth-caul. One of his arms broke free and those long, terrible claws grasped at the air, found purchase in the wood floor, and then scored long gashes in the wood as limbo swallowed whole this creature who had been cursed and damned by Heaven and by Hell.

There was a sound like paper tearing, and then The Nimble Man was gone, lost inside that limbo realm, gray clouds gathering at the doorway, obscuring any view within.

Some of his pain had subsided, but not all. The magick erupting from the Eye of Eogain ceased, but Conan Doyle could not rise from his knees. He barely managed to lift his hands and whisper. " Goddef yr brath iachu," he said in Welsh, exhausted. And then, as he crumbled to the floor, he added a Gaelic curse. " Go n-ithe an cat thu is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat."

The doorway closed.