Terry Brooks: Angel Fire East

Then a shadow soared out of the darkness ahead, gliding smooth and silent through the falling snow, materializing from out of the tangled limbs and trunks of the trees. She recognized Jonathan, great wings stretched wide, and as he drew closer, she saw Pick astride him. Grasping at the faint hope the sylvan's appearance offered, she detached herself from the shadows. Jonathan swept past her, circled back around, passed over her again, but closer this time, and suddenly Pick was standing on her shoulder.

"Criminy, what are you doing out in this weather?" he demanded disgustedly. But there was concern in his voice as well; he knew something wasn't right.

"Oh, Pick, everything's gone wrong!" she blurted out, cupping her gloved hands so he could jump down into them.

He did so, grumbling vehemently. "I thought as much when I felt a disturbance in the magic of the park, and there was Wraith, running through the deep woods as if possessed. Hah, which I guess he is, in a manner of speaking!"

She started. "You saw Wraith? Where is he? Why isn't he with you?"

"Would you settle down?" he snapped, putting up his twiggy hands defensively. "Since when am I in charge of keeping track of Wraith? What do I look like, anyway? He's your pet!"

"He broke away from me!" she exclaimed. "I sent him into the park to find you, and he broke away! Why would he do that? He's gone, and I don't know how to get him back!"

She sounded like a little girl, but she couldn't help herself. Pick didn't seem to notice. He brushed at a flurry of stray snowflakes that fell into his face. "Would you mind stepping out of the weather a bit?" he asked irritably. "Would that be asking too much?"

She retreated back into the shelter of the trees and brush where the big limbs and trunks deflected most of the falling snow. Shadows enfolded them, and a scattering of feeder eyes appeared.

"Start at the beginning," he ordered, "and let's see if I can make any sense out of what you've got to say!"

She told him everything that had happened from the time Larry Spence had appeared at the house—the breaching of the sylvan's security net, the children's disappearance, Findo Cask's phone call, and her effort to send Wraith into the park in search of him. She told him that she would try to free the children from where Findo Gask had concealed them in the old house on West Third, hoping to catch the demons off guard.

"But I need someone to check for traps he might have set to warn of anyone trying to get into the house. I need someone to go inside and find out where the children are hidden. I need you, Pick."

He was uncharacteristically silent in the aftermath of her plea. He sat in the cup of her hands, worrying stray threads of his mossy beard with his mouth and mumbling inaudibly. She let him be; there was nothing more she could say to persuade him.

"Too bad about that fellow opening your bedroom window," he said finally. "But if Gask wanted the children that bad, he probably would have come after them anyway. That was what he was trying to do last night. I don't expect the security net would have stopped him."

She nodded silently.

"Demons," he muttered.

She waited.

"I don't like going out of the park," he declared. He held up his hands quickly when she tried to speak. "Not that I don't do so now and then, when there's need for it." He huffed. "I don't much like going into strange houses, either. You sure you don't want to let go of this thing? You might be better off if you did. Four demons are a lot to overcome, even with a Knight of the Word helping out. I know you. You're stubborn. But you can't fight everyone's battles. You can't save the entire world."

"Pick," she said softly, bending close to him, so she could see his pinprick eyes. "I can't explain exactly why I have to do this, but I do. I feel it the way you feel a breach in the magic. I know it's the right thing. Harper's all alone, and there's something about Little John, something that has to do with me."

He snorted.

"This is important to me, Pick. I have to go after those children. With or without your help, I have to."

"Since when have you ever done anything where demons and magic were concerned without my help?" he demanded in exasperation. "Look, I'll do this. I'll sweep the grounds and walls and doors and windows for traps and snares and have a look inside to find those kids. But when I'm finished, if I tell you it can't be done, that's the end of it. Fair enough?"

"Deal," she said.

He spit over his shoulder. "Now, what's this nonsense about losing Wraith? You can't lose magic once it's given to you. It doesn't just go wandering off by itself. You have to use it up or pass it on or set it free or cast it away. Did you do any of those?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. I didn't do anything. I just sent him out to attract your attention, then there was this snapping inside, this feeling of something breaking loose, and I couldn't feel him anymore."

Pick shrugged. "Well, I don't know about that, but I do know he's standing right over there, looking at you."

She glanced quickly to where he was pointing. Sure enough, Wraith was standing in the shelter of the trees in the Peterson backyard, as still as stone, tiger face lowered, bright eyes staring at her. She stared back in surprise and disbelief. What was he doing?

"Pick?" she said softly.

"I know, I know," he muttered in response, fidgeting in her palm. "He's backed off of you for some reason. Are you sure you didn't do anything to him?"

"What would I do?" she snapped angrily.

"I don't know! Call him! See what he does!"

She did, speaking his name softly, then more firmly. But Wraith didn't move. Snow gathered on his dark, bristling fur, pinpricks of white. All around, the night was silent and cold.

"Maybe he doesn't want to come back inside you just yet," Pick mused. He shifted in her palm, a bundle of sticks. "Maybe he wants to stay out there awhile."

"Fine with me," she declared quickly, frustrated and confused. "I'm not too happy with him living inside my skin anyway. I never have been."

Pick looked at her. "Maybe he senses that."

"That I don't want him to come back inside me?"

"Maybe. You made it plain enough to me. You probably made it plain enough to him."

She shook her head. "Then why didn't he leave sooner? Why didn't he just—"

Then suddenly she realized why. Suddenly, she knew. Her revelation was instantaneous and stunning. He had stayed not because he wanted to, but because she wouldn't let him go. He was living inside her body because she demanded it. It might not have been that way in the beginning, when she was still just a girl. He might have been responding freely to her need, which was genuine and compelling. But at some point, the relationship had changed. Subconsciously, at least, she had decided she could not give him up. She hadn't been aware of what she had done, of the chain she had forged to keep him close. She had thought him gone, after all. It wasn't until he had revealed himself in Seattle ten years ago, that she had even realized he was still there.

She was staggered by the enormity of her discovery, thinking at first she must be wrong. She had wanted him gone for so long that it seemed ridiculous to believe she could have bent him to her will, even in the most subliminal way, that she could have imprisoned him inside her without realizing it. But his magic belonged to her; her father and grandmother had given it to her. It was the way Pick said: magic didn't just wander off of its own accord. Wraith was hers, and the strength of her need had persuaded her that she must keep him close, always and forever.

She stared at him now through the night shadows with fresh eyes, seeing the truth. "It was me," she told Pick softly.