The Nimble Man

CHAPTER FOUR

Leonard Graves sat on the metal bench in the small, oval park in the center of the affluent Louisburg Square section of Boston's Beacon Hill. Its bow-front 1840's townhouses faced each other across a private oasis of green amongst the brick and still functioning gaslights.

He had been there since early morning, surrounded by the first signs of spring in New England. The recently mowed grass was a healthy, dark green from April's cool rains. Forsythia buds were just starting to bloom and crocuses forced yellow heads up from the dark soil at the enclosure's far end. Graves had always loved spring time. It brought a sense of renewal he had always considered poetic; the cycle of life beginning again after a season of death.

If only that was the case with all things.

Dr. Graves gazed through the wrought iron fence at his current residence. The corner townhouse, which belonged to Mr. Doyle, had been built in 1846, one of the last homes to be constructed in this privileged neighborhood, or at least that was what he had been told by the original architect. With its brick, brownstone lintels, and granite steps, it resembled the other houses on either side of the square, but there was also something that gave it an air of difference. At times the townhouse felt alive, as if imbued with a spirit all its own by the powerful magicks wrought within its walls. Graves often thought of it as a great, monolithic animal, its windows open eyes gazing out upon a world in which it believed itself supreme.

Doyle's was the first of a row of seven homes in front of him, and another six stood opposite them, all of the residents holding partial ownership to the beautiful park in which he sat. Graves doubted that Doyle had ever noticed the beauty just outside the front of his home.

The magician and Eve had gone away late the previous evening, and he pondered the success of their mission. It had been this concern that drove him outside to the peace of the park in bloom. There had been no calls, no attempts at communication; even the spirit realm had been strangely quiet, and it made him anxious. In the old days, this would have been a call to action, a chance to strap on his guns and throw himself full bore into the thick of things, but now… There was no use worrying about it, he would know their accomplishments, or lack thereof, soon enough.

He turned his face up toward the murky sunshine. The clouds were thick today with the slightest hint of gray, as if soiled, but the sun's beams did manage to break through in places. What he wouldn't give to be able to feel the sun upon his flesh again. He recalled how dark his already chocolate brown skin used to become when exposed to long doses of the sun's rays. What was it that Gabriella used to say to him? From mocha to mahogany.

He smiled with the memory of his fiancee; she had loved this time of year as well. Graves looked down at the translucence of his hands, his smile fading. There were always so many reminders of the things he missed, simple things that he had once taken for granted. The touch of a cool breeze that prickled the flesh, the smell of a garden in bloom, the love of a good woman. The list was infinite.

Irony there. He had eternity to miss infinity.

Graves rose from his seat and strolled through the garden. Why do I insist on torturing myself? But he knew full well the answer. He liked the pain and what it did for him.

It made him feel alive.

The sound of a key turning in a lock distracted him from his ruminations, and he gazed over to see an older woman, toy poodle cradled in her arms, letting herself into the park. She was from old money, her family having lived in Number Ten Louisburg Square since the 1830's. Not long ago he'd had a conversation with one of the bricklayers who had worked on the Number Ten's construction and didn't have very flattering things to say about the family then, or the generations that followed. Greedy bastards and bloodless crones, Graves believed the laborer had called them. He watched as the woman put the fluffy white dog — Taffy — down in the grass, and in a baby talk, urged the animal to relieve itself. Taffy looked in his direction, sensing his presence, and began to growl menacingly, or at least as menacingly as an eight-pound poodle could. The woman chastised the dog with more baby talk.

Graves looked away from the pet and smiled. What had Eve called the animal when she saw it from the window of Doyle's parlor the previous night? A ratdog?

Thoughts of Eve returned his mind to the task that had drawn her and Doyle out of the house. Graves wished he could have accompanied them, but they had little need of a ghost. After sixty-odd years, it still irked him that he had been taken out of action. The great Leonard Graves, explorer, scientist, adventurer extraordinaire, put out to pasture by an unknown assassin's bullet.

Stay and monitor the murmurings in the ether, Doyle had told him as he and Eve departed. Those same murmurings had alerted Graves to the potentially catastrophic situation in the first place, but since his comrades' departure, the voices had grown strangely silent, as if too frightened to speak.

A sudden chill went through him. Graves wasn't sure how it was possible, for he had no real sense of feeling, but he knew, even before looking up at the sky, that something had happened to the sun.

An unusual cloud of solid black, miles wide and thick, was moving across the sky, blotting out the burning orb. He studied the dark, undulating mass and determined that it wasn't an atmospheric condition, but something altogether horrible. A droning hum grew in intensity, caused by the beating of millions of insect wings. Flies blotted out the sun, more flies than he had ever seen. His concerns went to his compatriots, and their mission, when a screech cut through the air like a surgeon's knife through flesh, diverting his attentions yet again.

The woman at Number Ten Louisburg Square was screaming, her hands clawing at her face as she looked down upon the grass in the grip of terror, her feet stamping the freshly cut blades as if in the midst of some wild, ceremonial dance.

Graves drifted closer, and arrived just in time to see the last of the Taffy's fluffy, white fur disappear beneath a sea of glistening, black-haired bodies and pink, fleshy tails. Rats, many of them the size of housecats, had swarmed the dog, the sounds of tearing flesh and the crunching of bone perverse evidence of an unnatural hunger.

The sky sun blotted out by flies, a dog attacked and consumed by rats. Graves again thought of Doyle and Eve, suspecting that he already knew the level of their success.

It was enough to fill him with fear.

Enough to frighten even a ghost.

All shadows were connected.

A twisting maze work of cold black passages entering into realms of further shadow, or worlds of light.

Squire had parked the limousine, after their five-hour drive back from the Big Apple, inside the townhouse's private garage. Parking was at a premium on the narrow streets of Beacon Hill, and he thanked the Dark Gods that Doyle had the foresight to purchase the property behind his residence and eventually convert it from storage to garage space.

Eve wasn't doing too well. She seemed better than she had when Doyle first helped her into the back of the car after their little scuffle at Grand Central, but still looked pretty much like a stretch of bad road.

"I'll take her up into the house," Doyle told him as he helped the injured woman from the backseat of the limousine.

She had been unusually quiet for most of the drive, telling Squire to shut his trap only once. He figured she must have been hurt pretty badly. There was quite a bit of blood on the back seat's upholstery, and he had made a mental note to have it cleaned when things settled down. If things settle down, he cautioned himself.

"Go to the freezer in the cellar and bring her back a little something to help pick her up," Doyle told him.

Leaving the two to make their way up into the residence, Squire found the nearest patch of shadow and disappeared within it. Hobgoblins traveled the shadowpaths. It was their gift and their greatest defense. This day he used them to reach the basement beneath the Louisburg Square townhouse. Squire had his pick of places to emerge, the cellar ripe with huge areas of gloom. It didn't matter the size or shape, a hobgoblin could bend and fold himself into just about any position.

The drive had been exhausting, and he welcomed the ease with which he was able to enter the cellar. In Doyle's employ, things were rarely so easy. He emerged into the basement from a patch of darkness beside a shelving unit that held the burial urns of some of Mr. Doyle's closest friends and business acquaintances. You never know when you're going to need to talk to one of them again, the magician had told the goblin once, shortly after acquiring another urn for his collection.

"Hey, guys," he said to the urns. "Got another bad one whipping up, you should be thankful that you're all dirt."

The goblin did not need light. His eyes were used to navigating the pitch-black hallways of the shadowpaths. He slipped across the crowded storage room to the refrigeration unit humming in the corner. He tugged open the door, a cloud of frigid air escaping into the mustiness of the cellar. Multiple packets of blood hung within the unit, recently stocked by the boss for just such an emergency. That's the boss, always thinking ahead, Squire mused, taking what he needed. He wondered how far ahead Doyle had thought about the current situation.

He also wondered when it was going to be his turn to grab a snack. Sure, Eve was injured. Her health had to come first. But his stomach had been growling since Hartford. A burger and a milk shake would be nice. Even just a bag of fries. Hell, he'd settle for a donut.

Squire sighed. First things first.

The goblin made sure that the door was shut tight and quickly turned away. Squire recalled the problems of storing blood in the past. Dry ice had been what they used way back when, but it didn't offer much of a shelf life. He painfully remembered how much Eve would complain when she was forced to drink a batch that had spoiled. He again praised the Dark Gods for advances in technology as he plunged head-on into the nearest patch of shadow.

"What do you mean he was taken?" Graves asked, hovering above the oriental carpet in the formal sitting room of Doyle's townhouse.

The sorcerer had placed pages of the newspaper on the sofa and was gently lowering the bloody and beaten form of Eve down atop them. "We were attacked and Sweetblood was taken." The mage sighed, looking worn and weary. He removed his coat, walking through the spectral form of Graves as if he wasn't there.

Graves spun around, watching as Doyle hung his jacket on a wooden coat rack outside the parlor. "You're one of the most powerful magicians on the planet, at least that's what you tell us. Who could have managed to do that to you?"

Doyle came back into the room rolling the sleeves of his starched, white dress shirt. "The Night People. The Corca Duibhne."

The squat, misshapen goblin, Squire, suddenly appeared from the shadows of the fireplace, stepping out into the room with multiple, fluid-filled plastic bags clutched in his arms. "And we shoulda let 'em all get wiped from existence way back after the first Twilight War, that's what I say." Squire took care not to track soot from the fireplace onto the priceless Oriental rug. He gnawed on the corner of one of the blood packs to open it.

"They attacked in surprising numbers," Doyle said. He gestured toward Eve, who lay unconscious upon the sofa, bleeding onto yesterday's news. "Eve was occupied with an antagonist of her own. The beasts overpowered us and made off with the arch mage's chrysalis. There was nothing we could do." The magician shook his head, gazing off into space.

"There's silence in the ether," Graves told them, crossing his arms. "That can't be good."

Doyle walked to a liquor cabinet in the corner of the elegant room and removed a crystal decanter of scotch, and a tumbler. He filled half the glass with the golden brown liquid, placed the stopper back into the bottle and put the decanter away. "Not good at all," he agreed, helping himself to a large gulp of the alcohol. It was yet another sensory experience that Graves had come to miss since joining the ranks of the dead. He envied the magician's ability to enjoy the twelve-year-old, Glenlivet single malt, spirits of a different kind altogether.

A low moan interrupted his thoughts, and Graves saw that Eve was awake. She sat up, wincing in pain, blood-soaked newspaper squelching beneath her. Her hand came up to rub at the back of her head, and came away stained with scarlet.

"Shit," she muttered beneath her breath. A clot of thick, coagulated blood dropped from the corner of her mouth to land upon the front of her sweater, torn and stained from her conflict earlier that morning. "What's a girl got to do for a drink around here?"

Everything hurt. Eve turned her somewhat blurred gaze to Squire, who appeared to be having some difficulty opening a blood pack. The goblin gnawed on the pouch's corner, but the plastic was proving too tough for the creature.

"Give it to me," she demanded, reaching for the bag.

Insulted, Squire handed it to her. "I was only trying to help," he grumbled. But he set the remaining packs in her lap where she could reach them. "All this drinkin' has made me a tad parched," the goblin said, ambling from the room. "I'm going to get a beer."

Eve brought the pouch of blood to her mouth, careful to avoid the side that the hobgoblin had chewed. She felt her canines elongate with the promise of feeding, and she tore into the thick plastic container. The blood flowed into her mouth and her entire body began to tingle. Greedily Eve sucked upon the pouch, draining it in seconds, and tossed the empty container to the floor to start another.

"Carefully, Eve," Doyle barked. "Do you know the expense of removing blood stains from such a delicate carpet?"

She finished another of the blood packs, placing the wilted plastic beside her on the stained newspaper. "I think we have a bigger problem right now than soiling your rug. My coat? Remember that coat? I bought it in Milan. My clothes are ruined. Do you hear me bitching about it?"

"Well, now that you mention it — " Squire began.

She stilled him with a dark glance.

Eve could feel the blood working its magick upon her; the cuts and gashes closing, foreign objects trapped beneath her flesh being pushed out from within by the healing process, bruises and abrasions beginning to fade. If it weren't for the fact that the world could very well be going to shit, she'd have been downright giddy.

"These Corca Duibhne," asked Graves, a cool vapor drifting from his mouth as he spoke. "You've encountered them before?"

Doyle finished his scotch, placing the empty glass on a silver tray that rested upon a wheeled cart beside the liquor cabinet. He glanced around at his allies.

"I've crossed paths with the loathsome breed from time to time." The mage crossed the parlor to wearily lower himself into a high backed leather chair by a curtained window. "Since the Twilight Wars, the species had been functioning more as individuals, hiring themselves out to the highest bidder. It's been quite some time since I've seen them this organized and working with such purpose." He laid his head back in the chair and closed his eyes. "It does not bode well."

Eve sipped slowly from another of the blood packs, feeling almost one hundred percent. "Something's pulled them together again," she said, a thrum of warmth cascading through her. "Could be the threat that the spirit realm's so agitated about."

Graves furrowed his ghostly brow as he regarded her. Eve smiled.

"Where are we on that?" she asked him. "Any closer to defining what exactly this threat is?"

The specter shook his head. "The restless souls have retreated even further into the spirit realms than usual. I sense that they are afraid of what is coming."

"And we don't have a clue as to what that is?" she asked him, making sure that she hadn't missed anything while she had been unconscious.

"I'm sorry to say, no," answered Graves, a winter's chill from his mere presence spreading throughout the room.

All was silent except for the rhythmic ticking of the large grandfather clock located in the hall just outside the room. Eve shifted her weight upon the newspaper, the sudden lack of activity making her antsy. For days the spirit worlds had been in a tizzy over some impending supernatural threat, and the most powerful magician in the world had just been stolen; things were not looking too good for the home team. Eve looked about the fancy sitting room of the Beacon Hill home, at the wispy form of the ghost Leonard Graves hovering in the air, at Doyle seemingly nodding off in his chair. She had another drink from the packet of blood, for if she didn't she was surely going to scream.

At last, when she couldn't stand it anymore, she rose and glared at them. "So, what now? I'm going to get bored if we sit around here much longer." She gave Doyle a meaningful glance. "And you know what I'm like when I get bored."

Eyes still closed, Doyle slowly raised a hand to silence her rant. "Patience, Eve," he said. "The wheels of fate are in motion."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she snarled. Far off in the house she heard the trill of the phone ringing, and then the voice of Squire as he answered.

Doyle smiled. "The wheels turn slowly at times, but they do turn." The mage made a spinning motion with his hand even as Squire entered the room holding a piece of notepaper in one hand and a bottle of Samuel Adams in the other.

"Hey, boss, you just got a call from a Julia Ferrick," he read from the paper. "Said she needs to talk to you right away about her son." Squire looked up from the message. "The broad's on a tear. If you ask me I don't think she's wound too tight."

Doyle's eyes snapped open, a crackle of magick dancing on his lashes. "The Ferrick boy," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else in the room. "How interesting."

A nasty chill spread through her body and Eve looked to see that Graves had drifted closer.

"You were expecting that call," the ghost said. It was not a question. "Will this woman and her boy play some part in the scheme of things?"

Doyle gazed toward the shuttered windows. "We all play a part in the greater scheme of things, Leonard. Each and every one."

The doorbell rang, echoing through the townhouse, and they all looked at one another and then to Doyle.

"Somebody call for pizza?" Squire asked, taking a swig from his bottle of beer. "God, I could use a pizza. Or two."

"I'm sorry, my friend. I don't think that's the pizza man," Doyle replied.

"Let me guess," Eve said. "At the door now? Another player."

Doyle stood, checking the crease in his pant's legs. "Precisely. And the part you will play at this moment, Eve, is to answer the door. Our latest player will be in need of some refreshment before the two of you go to see Mrs. Ferrick and her son." He pulled down his rolled shirt sleeves, buttoning the cuffs.

"Where do you think I'm going, exactly?" Eve asked. "Nightfall's still a ways off."

There was nothing humorous about the wan smile that appeared on Doyle's face just then. "Check the windows, my dear. The darkness comes early today."

Frowning, Eve glanced at the tall windows at the front of the room. They had heavy drapes that Doyle often pulled to shield the room from sunlight for her protection. She had presumed those drapes were responsible for the gloom in the room but now Eve saw that they were tied back properly and that while the world outside those windows was not pitch black, it was a dusky gray. She went to the window and glanced up at the sky. A cloud of blue-black mist, like the smoke from a chemical fire, hung above the city of Boston, churning and widening. There were streaks of red in that cloud as well, and even as she glanced at them, they seemed to spread.

"That damned New England weather," Eve muttered darkly. "Guess I'm going out after all."

Again the doorbell buzzed and then there came the distant echo of a fist pounding upon the front door.

"I'll throw together some sandwiches," Squire said, "maybe make some of those Ore Ida fries." He slipped into a patch of shadow thrown by a massive oak bookcase. No matter how many times Eve saw the goblin do that, it never ceased to amaze her.

"And my part, Arthur?" asked Graves. "You have some assignment for me as well?"

Doyle wore an expression of regret. "I do. You must go deeper into the land of the dead, Leonard. Whatever is frightening the wandering spirits, we need to know what it is. It may be our best clue as to what threat we face."

Eve wasn't sure, but she could've sworn she saw the ghost swallow hard. It would be difficult for him. From what she understood of the spirit realms, the deeper one traveled, the harder it was to return to the realms of the living. Leonard Graves still had some serious business to finish here and didn't want to put that in jeopardy.

Then Doyle left the room and Eve followed after him. They went together into the foyer. Doyle started up the stairs and Eve paused a moment to watch him.

"What about you?" she asked on her way to the door. The bell rang again and she scowled. "Going to finish up that nap?"

The magician paused on the stairs. There were so many rooms up there. One of them belonged to Eve, though she rarely stayed here. Doyle glanced at her, and the sadness in his eyes was so dreadful she was forced to look away.

"Sometimes fate requires us to do the most painful things," he said, then continued upward, walking as though he bore some terrible, invisible burden.

Then it dawned on her what he was doing — where he was going — and for the briefest of moments, Eve actually felt sorry for the old man.

Their visitor gave up on the bell and began pounding on the door. Eve scowled as she marched toward it, picking at the bloodstains on her sweater, wondering if there was anything worth wearing in the closet in her room. "Keep your fucking shirt on."

Throwing back the bolt and twisting the lock, she pulled the door open. Clay stood just outside in the gloom. Eve raised an eyebrow.

"Well, well. Look what the apocalypse dragged in."

At the end of the hall on the second floor was a locked door that no one had passed through in many years. Doyle found it sadly amusing that after all he had been through in his extended years, he could still remember the exact moment when he had locked it, sealing away a part of his life that he hadn't been sure he could live without.

It was the hardest thing he had ever done, almost as difficult as what he was about to attempt now.

Doyle unbuttoned the top button of his white shirt, reaching for the chain that he always wore around his neck. At the end of the chain hung an old fashioned skeleton key, familiar to all houses of this age. There was a tremble to his hand as he brought the key to the lock. A spark of supernatural release was followed by just the slightest whiff of a scent foreign to this house, the smell of some primeval forest after a drenching rain. He savored the heady smell, taken aback by the powerful emotions it evoked. He turned the key, gripped the glass, diamond-cut knob and turned it.

The door opened with a creak, the light from the hallway eagerly spilling onto an ascending, wooden staircase, illuminating another door at the top of stairs. The door was of solid iron, made for him in 1932 by a smith by the name of Hendrickson who hailed from Eerie, Pennsylvania. Doyle had helped the metal worker make contact with his long dead mother in lieu of payment for his metal work.

He never imagined that he would look upon that door again. It had been put there as a precaution, to keep things where they belonged. Now, Doyle began to climb, gripping the wooden banister as he ascended. It seemed to take an eternity. On the final step he stopped. There were no keyholes, no sliding bolts or crystal knobs to turn, just cold and unyielding iron. He placed the flat of his hand upon the metal, sensing contact with the magicks he had placed within it so long ago. His palm began to tingle as dormant spell came sluggishly awake.

"Open," he whispered.

The door shimmered, a tremor passing through it. A tiny hole appeared and began to grow, the metal now malleable, as if returning to its molten state. The opening expanded, the substance of the door peeling back upon itself as it created an entryway large enough for him to pass through.

A warm, humid breeze flowed out from the expanding portal, and Doyle could hear the gentle patter of a falling rain upon the vast forest beyond the confines of the hallway and door.

It was just as wild and frighteningly beautiful as he remembered it, the lush vegetation every conceivable shade of green that could possibly be imagined. The place was older than recorded time, stirring musings about origins of the mythical Garden of Eden, but he had not returned here for intellectual stimulation. Only reasons most dire would have forced him into this place again.

The sorcerer stepped through the doorway. He let the place wash over him, turning his face up to the thick canopy of trees that blotted out the sky. The rain dropped from the leaves upon his upturned face. He opened his mouth, tasting the purity of the world he had entered.

The moss writhed beneath his feet, and he glanced down to see that blades of grass bent to touch the soft leather of his shoes. What a wondrous place, he thought, so very sorry that he had ever left it.

The patch of ground before him began to roil, turning over upon itself, and in the blink of an eye, two pale-skinned creatures erupted from the earth and crouched before him. Adorned in armor made from the bark of trees and flat polished stone, the warriors thrust their spears toward him.

Doyle let his hands fall at his sides, tendrils of mystical energy leaking from his fingertips, showing the pair that he was far from defenseless.

"I have come on a matter of grave importance," he spoke in the lilting tongue of the Fey. "The fate of my world is at stake, and yours as well. Yes, both our worlds… and all of the others besides."