Terry Brooks - Running With The Demon

Old Bob took his hands out of his pockets. "I don't think you understand the first thing about that girl. Now you get moving, John. Go find Nest's father, if that's what you want to do. But don't come back here."

John Ross stood where he was a moment longer, looking at the old man, trying in vain to think of something else to say. Then he turned without a word and limped away.

Nest fled into the park in mindless shock, her thoughts scattered, her reason destroyed. Had she known a way to do so, she would have run out of her skin, out of her body, out of her life. The face of the demon would not leave her, the image burned so deeply into her mind that she could not dispel it, his features bland and unremarkable, his blue eyes pale and empty.

Your father…

Your father…

She flew into a dark stand of pine and spruce, flinging herself into the concealing shadows, desperate to hide from everything, frantic to escape. The leathery branches whipped at her face and arms, bringing tears, but the pain was solid and definable and slowed her flight. She staggered to a halt, grounded anew, lacking a reason to run farther or a better place to go. She moved aimlessly within the tangle of the grove, tears welling in her eyes, fists clenching at her sides. This wasn't happening, she thought. It couldn't be happening. She walked through the conifers to a massive old oak, put her arms about the gnarled trunk, and hugged it to her. She felt the rough bark bite into her arms and legs, into her cheeks and forehead, and still she pressed harder.

Your father…

She could not say the words, could not complete the thought. She pressed and pressed, willing her body to melt into the tree. She would become one with it. She would disappear into it and never be seen again. She was crying hard now, tears running down her face, her body shaking. She squeezed her eyes tight. Had her father really killed Gran? Had he killed her mother as well? Would he now try to kill her?

Do something!

She forced herself to go still inside and the tears to stop. Her sobs died away in small gulps as the cold realization settled over her that the crying wasn't doing any good, wasn't helping anything. She pushed away from the tree and stared out into the park through gaps in the conifers, rebuilding her composure from tiny, scattered fragments. She caught glimpses between the needled branches of other lives being led, all of them distant and removed. It was the Fourth of July, America's day of independence. What freedom should she celebrate? She looked down at her arms, at how the oak's bark had left angry red marks that made her skin look mottled and scaly.

A shudder overtook her. Could she ever look at herself again in the same way? How much of her was human and how much something else? She remembered asking Gran only a few days earlier, weary of the years of secrecy, if her father might be a forest creature. She remembered wondering afterward what that would feel like.

Now she could wonder about this.

She shifted her gaze inward, staring at nothing, still unable to believe it was true. Maybe John Ross was mistaken. Why couldn't he be? But she knew there was no mistake. That was why Gran had been so anxious to avoid any discussion of her father all those years. She felt sick inside thinking of it, of the lies and half truths, of the rampant deception. Awash with misery and fear, she felt bereft of anything and anyone she could depend upon, mired in a life history that had compromised and abandoned her.

She moved back to the oak and sat down, leaning against the rugged trunk, suddenly worn out. She was still sitting there, staring at the trees around her, trying to decide what to do next, when Pick dropped out of the tree across the way and hurried over.

"Criminy, I thought I'd never catch up with you!" he gasped, collapsing to his knees in front of her. "If it wasn't for Daniel, I'd never get anywhere in this confounded park!"

She closed her eyes wearily. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I dong here? What do you think I'm doing here? Is this some sort of trick question?"

"Go away." Her voice was a flat, hollow whisper.

Pick went silent and stayed that way until she opened her eyes to see what he was doing. He was sitting up straight, his eyes locked on hers. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," he said quietly, "because I know how upset you are about your father."

She started to say something flip, then saw the look in his eyes and caught herself just in time. She felt her throat tighten. "You heard?"

Pick nodded.

"Everything?"

"Everything." Pick folded his wooden arms defensively. "Do me a favor. Don't tell me I should have told you about him before this. Don't make me remind you of something you already know."

She compressed her lips into a tight line to keep the tears in check. "Like what?"

"Like how it's not my place to tell you secrets about your family." Pick shook his head admonishingly. "I'm sorry you had to find out, but not sorry it didn't come from me. In any case, it's no reason for you to leap up and run off. It's not the end of the world."

"Not yours, anyway."

"Not yours, either!" The words snapped at her. "You've had a nasty shock, and you have a right to be upset, but you can't afford to go to pieces over it. I don't know how John Ross found out about it, and I don't know why he decided to tell you. But I do know that it isn't going to help matters if you crawl off into a hole and wait for it all to go away! You have to do something about it!"

Nest almost laughed. "Like what, Pick? What should I do? Go back to the house and get the shotgun? A lot of good that did Gran! He's a demon! Didn't you hear? A demon! My father's a demon! Jeez! It sounds like a bad joke!" She brushed away fresh tears. "Anyway, I'm not talking about this with you until you tell me the truth about him. You know the truth, don't you? You've always known. You didn't tell me while Gran was alive because you didn't feel you should. Okay. I understand that. But she's dead now, and somebody better tell me the truth right now or I'm probably going to end up dead, too!"

She was gulping against the sobs that welled up in her throat, angry and afraid and miserable.

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" Pick threw up his hands in disgust and began tugging on his beard. "Exactly what is it you think I should tell you, Nest? What part of the truth haven't you figured out, bright girl that you are? Your grandmother was a wild thing, a young girl who bent a lot of rules and broke a few more. That Indian showed you most of it, with his dancing and his visions. She ran with the feeders in Sinnissippi Park, daring anything, and that led to her involvement with the demon. The demon wanted her, whether for herself or her magic, I don't know. He was furious when she found out what he was and told him she didn't want anything more to do with him. He threatened her, told her the choice wasn't hers to make. But she was tough and hard and not afraid of him, and she wouldn't back down. She told him what she would do if he didn't leave her alone, and he knew she meant business."

The sylvan stamped his foot. "Are you with me so far? Good. Here's the rest of it. He waited for his chance to get even, the way demons do. He was mostly smoke and dark magic, so aging wasn't a problem for him. He could afford to be patient. He waited until your grandmother married and your mother came along. He waited for your mother to grow up. I think your grandmother believed she'd seen the last of him by then, but she was wrong. All that time, he was waiting to get back at her. He did it through your mother. He deceived her with his magic and his lies, and then he seduced her. Not out of love or even infatuation. Out of hate. Out of a desire to hurt your grandmother. Deliberately, maliciously, callously. You were the result. Your grandmother didn't know he was responsible at first, and even if she had, she wouldn't have told your mother. But the demon waited until you were a few months old and then told them both. Together."