Terry Brooks - Running With The Demon

The pain that filled his eyes when she spoke the words was palpable. He stared at her with such intensity that it felt to her as if he was unable to convey with words what he was feeling.

"It's just that Gran seemed so suspicious and resentful of you," Nest hurried on, trying to make the answer easier for him, to let him tell her what she already knew was so. "I heard her talking to Grandpa. She was saying things that made it pretty clear… I'm not angry or anything, you know. I just… I just…"

He brought his hand to her face, resting the palm against her cheek. "Nest," he said softly. "I wish to God I were your father. I would be proud to be your father." He shook his head sadly. "But I'm not."

She stared at him in disbelief, feeling her expectation crumple inside and turn to despair. She had been so sure. She had known he was her father, known it from the way that Gran reacted to him, from the way he spoke of her mother, from his history, from his voice and eyes, from everything he was. How could he not be? How could he not?

Her grandfather came up behind them, and Nest turned toward him. He saw the stricken look in her face, and his jaw tightened. His eyes locked at once on John Ross.

"Morning, John," he said, a decided edge to his voice. He placed a reassuring hand on Nest's shoulder.

"Good morning, sir," Ross answered,, taking his own hand away.

"Is something wrong here?"

"No, sir. I just came by to offer my condolences. I'm very sorry about Mrs. Freemark. I believe she was a remarkable woman."

"Thank you for the kind words and for your concern." The old man paused. "Mind telling me what happened to your face?"

Nest, who had been staring at nothing, still stunned from learning that Ross was not her father, glanced up at him quickly and for the first time noticed the cuts and bruises.

"I was attacked by some men from MidCon at the dance last night," Ross said, giving a barely perceptible shrug. "It was a case of mistaken identity. They thought I was a company spy."

"A company spy?" Nest's grandfather looked incredulous. "The company doesn't have any spies. Who would they be spying on? For what reason?"

Ross shrugged again. "It's over now. I'm fine. I just wish I had been here for you and Nest."

Nest's grandfather looked at her. "You've been crying, Nest. Are you all right now?"

Nest nodded, saying nothing, feeling dead inside. She, looked at her grandfather, then looked quickly away.

Robert Freemark straightened and turned back to John Ross. "John, I have to tell you something. Evelyn wasn't all that warm toward you, I know. She thought that maybe you were someone other than who you claimed. She was suspicious of your motives. I told her she was being silly, that I thought you were a good man."

He shook his head slowly. "But I have to admit that a lot of strange things have happened since you arrived. Nest hasn't been herself for several days. Maybe she doesn't think I've noticed, but I have. Last night's events have made me think. A lot of things don't add up. I guess I need to ask you to explain some of them."

Ross met his frank gaze with a weary, distant look. He seemed to weigh the matter a moment before answering. "I think you deserve that much, Mr. Freemark."

Nest's grandfather nodded. Nest stepped back so that she could see them both, sensing the start of something that was not going to end pleasantly.

"Well, there's this business of the man who's been poisoning trees in the park." Robert Freemark cleared his throat. "Nest's friends told me about him when they came by to ask for my help in finding her." Quickly, he told John Ross what had happened. "They said she sent them first in search of you, making it pretty clear, I think, that you know about this man, too."

He paused, waiting. John Ross glanced at Nest. "I know about him. I came to Hopewell because I was tracking him."

"Tracking him?"

"It's what I do."

"You track people? Are you with the police? Are you a law–enforcement officer?"

Ross shook his head. "I work on my own."

Nest's grandfather stared. "Are you telling me, John, that you are a private detective? Or a bounty hunter?"

"Something else."

There was a long pause as Nest's grandfather studied the other man, hands resting loosely on his hips. "Did you know my daughter Caitlin at all, John? Was any of that true?"

"I knew of her, but I didn't know her personally. I didn't go to school with her. We weren't classmates. I'm sorry, I made that up. I needed to meet you. More to the point, I needed to meet Nest."

Another pause, longer this time. "Why, John?"

"Because while I didn't know Nest's mother, I do know her father."

Now Nest was staring hard at him, too, a look of horror spreading over her face. She swallowed against the sudden ache in her throat and looked quickly at her grandfather. Old Bob's face was pale. "Maybe you better just spit it out," he said.

John Ross nodded, bringing the black staff around in front of him so that he could lean on it, as if the talk was wearing on him in unseen ways. He looked down at his shoes momentarily, then directly at Nest.

"I'm sorry, Nest, this is going to hurt a lot. I wish I didn't have to tell you, but I do. I hope you'll understand." He looked back at her grandfather. "There's a lot of talk about how your wife died, sir. Some people are saying she was a crazy old woman who died shooting at ghosts. I don't think that's true. I think she was shooting at the man I've been tracking, the man I came here to find. She was trying to defend herself. But he is a very resourceful and dangerous adversary, and she wasn't strong enough to stop him. He's caused a lot of trouble and pain, and he's not finished. He came to Hopewell for a very specific purpose. He doesn't realize it yet, but I know what that purpose is."

Nest took a deep breath as his green eyes shifted back to hers. "He's come for you. Your grandmother knew. That made her a threat to him, so he got rid of her."

His gaze was steady. "He's your father, Nest."

In his dream, the Knight of the Word stands with a ragged band of survivors atop a wooded rise south of the burning city. Men have devoted such enormous time and energy to destroying themselves that they are exhausted from their efforts, and now the demons and the once–men have picked up the slack. At first it was the tented camps and nomads who were prey, but of late the attacks have shifted to the walled cities. The weakest have begun to fall and the nature of the adversary to make itself known. The

Knight has battled the demons all through the destruction of the old world, confronting them at every opportunity, trying to slow the erosion of civilization. But the tide is inexorable and undi–minished, and a new dark age has descended.

The Knight looks around to be certain that the women and children are being led to safety while he acts as sentry. Most have already disappeared into the night, and the rest are fading with the swiftness of ghosts. Only a few remain behind to stand with him, a handful of those who have discovered too late that he is not the enemy. Below, the city bums with an angry crackle. Hordes of captives are being led away, those who did not flee when there was time, who did not heed his warning. The Knight closes his eyes against the sadness and despair that wells within him. It does not change. He cannot make them listen. He cannot make them believe.

Look! says a weathered man next to him, his voice a low hiss of fear and rage. It's her!

He sees the woman then, striding forward out of the darkness and into the light, surrounded by men who are careful not to come too near. She is tall and regal, and her features are cold. He has never seen her before, but there is something familiar about her nevertheless. He is immediately intrigued. She radiates power and is an immutable presence. She is clearly the leader of those about her, and they hasten to do her bidding. A captive is brought before her and forced to kneel. He will not look at her, his head lowered stubbornly between his shoulders. She reaches for his hair and jerks savagely on it. When their eyes meet, he undergoes a terrible transformation. He twists and shakes, an animal trapped within a snare, enraged and terrified. He says things, screams them actually, the words indistinct, but the sounds clear. Then she is finished with him and he arches as if skewered on the point of a spear and dies writhing in the dirt.