Christopher Golden - The Nimble Man

"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."

Clay piloted a silver Cadillac through the streets of Boston, holding the steering wheel as though it was fragile and might shatter in his hands. There were very few other cars out on the street, but still he drove slowly, his speed dictated not by traffic but by his fascination with the terrible phenomena that were unfolding in the city. The Cadillac feeling like some protective bubble out of which he and Eve could observe the horrors around them.

The sky was tinted the dark crimson of drying blood and swarms of mosquitoes traveled like terrible storm clouds. Clay had been forced to detour away from the entrance to the Massachusetts Turnpike because manhole covers had blown out of the pavement surrounding it and raw sewage flooded the street. Eve had suggested Route Nine to drive out to Newton and he'd headed that way onto to pause at a place where the road was overrun by rats. But he'd paused only a moment before rolling the Caddy right over them, hearing them pop beneath its tires.

It wasn't going to get any better. The rats weren't going to clear off of their own free will. Whatever this storm was, it wasn't going to pass without someone doing something about it.

"Pretty unsettling, isn't it?" he said, breaking a long silence in the car.

"I've seen worse," Eve replied.

Clay shot her a hard look. "You're not the only one, Eve. But I'm not talking about this." He waved a hand to indicate the bizarre goings on in the city around him. They passed a Humvee that was pulled over to the side of the road. The driver had his face pressed against his window, staring up at the sky. "I'm talking about what it means."

She arched an eyebrow and Clay felt his throat go dry. By God she was beautiful. He was the last person to be taken in by surface appearance; he knew better than anyone that it rarely reflected what was within. Yet there was something so exotic, so ancient about her that she took his breath away. She had taken the time to change out of the blood-soaked clothes in which she had met him at the door and now wore black trousers and a chiffon, embroidered top that was looked both expensive and — with its spaghetti straps baring her arms, throat and shoulders — more revealing than what Eve normally wore. There was a silk jacket in the back seat that had clearly come from the closet of one designer or another. Clothing was Eve's other weakness, second only to blood.