Christopher Golden - The Nimble Man

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.