Christopher Golden - The Nimble Man

But one he knew better than all the rest.

She knelt at his side, her head bent oddly to the left as she smiled at him.

"Mommy?" he asked, certain that his prayers had been answered and she had come to save him from the monsters that wanted to make him feel so small. He reached up and pulled her into his arms. "I missed you so much, Mommy," he said. He felt the cold flesh of her face press tightly against his cheek, and she moved her head to plant an affectionate kiss upon his lips.

He tried to pull away but her lips pressed firmly against his, and her teeth, so incredibly sharp, had found his tongue. She tore it from his mouth. Tom could no longer speak.

He couldn't even scream.

Dr. Graves fought his way back into the world of the living, his spectral energies forcing through the membranous covering that separated the physical plain from the realm of the dead. Like being born again, he thought as he materialized in the room designated for him on the second floor of Conan Doyle's Beacon Hill townhouse. The insistent tug of the afterlife was severed by his manifestation in the material world.

The room was filled with mementos of the many adventures he had undertaken during his life. Souvenirs were displayed about the room, multiple framed newspaper headlines a reminder of what he had been to the world. His ghostly eyes scanned the objects and headlines, remembering the details of his achievements. It had been a good life — a full life — and a familiar, bitter question rose in his mind. Would it be so bad to let go? To finally succumb to the pull of the stream? Each time he visited the afterworld, it was harder to return, to fight against the current of the gate, and the reality of what lay beyond it. The ultimate mystery awaited him there, one that had baffled the human species since they had first walked erect, and one that he hungered to solve.

But there was another more personal mystery that required his attentions first, before he could even think about giving himself to the stream. Graves' eyes fell upon a particular headline, and he felt the same insatiable rage, the same desire for justice that filled him each time he read it. "Dr. Graves Dead! Famed Adventurer Shot! Identity of Killer Still Unknown!"

It was a comfort, surrounding himself with memories, and a tether to his past, but it also served to fuel the rage and frustration he still felt at his inability to solve the mystery of own murder. He would find the one who killed him, the one who stole away his life. But until that time came, Dr. Leonard Graves would do what he had always done: fight to keep the world safe from harm.

The ghost returned his attentions to the case at hand. He had to speak to Conan Doyle. In his mind's eye, he again saw Yvette Darnell as she was pulled away by the soulstream. What was it she said about the fears of the dead, just before the gate drew her in?

"Something calls to them, trying to drag them back… to their bodies."

Graves was startled from his musings by a clamorous din. He presumed it was only Squire beginning yet another of his frequent home improvement projects, but this was hardly the best time for such endeavors. Walking was an affectation for a specter, of course, but still Graves preferred it when inside the house. He found it unsettling to simply propel his ectoplasmic form along by the force of his will, and he was certain others did as well. So though he did not bother with the door, passing instead right through the wall, he did so by striding from his room into the corridor as though he were an ordinary flesh-and-blood man.

At the last moment, the oddness of the clamor he had heard troubled him further. What if that noise was not Squire's doing? As he emerged into the hall, he willed himself to be unseen.

And then he froze. What he saw there in the corridor filled the ghost with dread.

The enemy had invaded their headquarters.

Coppery-skinned creatures moved about the hall, excitedly speaking to one another in a harsh, guttural tongue as they kicked open doors in a search for the townhouse's occupants. Corca Duibhne, he thought. Based upon Eve and Conan Doyle's description, these could only be the Night People. Graves watched as four of the leather-clad Night People emerged from the bedroom Conan Doyle always kept ready for Eve. The creatures had an article of her clothing, a silk blouse he'd seen her wear on more than one occasion, and were tearing into pieces, each taking a swatch, bringing it to their upturned, piggish noses and inhaling her scent.

How is this possible? Graves wondered. The protective wards Conan Doyle had placed around the house should have been more than sufficient to prevent the infestation of these lowly creatures. But here they were, moving freely about the premises.

The Corca Duibhne finished with Eve's scent, and began cautiously moving toward the door to Dr. Graves' own bedroom. They could neither see nor scent him, and so would pass right by him. He debated whether or not he should confront them, and decided that it would be wiser, for the moment, merely to observe. He had no idea, after all, how many of them there were, and whether or not his comrades were in the house, or if any of his friends had been injured.

The obvious leader of the quartet motioned for his brethren to step back, preparing to kick open the door to his room.

Bastards, Graves seethed. They don't even have the common courtesy to see if it's locked.

Since meeting his death, Dr. Leonard Graves had grown more cautious, but it didn't mean that the reckless instincts of the adventurer were completely gone. He couldn't help himself. Still invisible to the creatures, he drifted up behind the Corca Duibhne and slid his spectral hand into the back of their leader, ghostly fingers plunging into the thing's flesh.

The creature froze, a violent shudder passing through its thin body. Then the Corca Duibhne whipped around with a ferocious snarl, lashing out at its startled teammates, and they began to fight amongst themselves.

Graves smiled, but his amusement was disrupted by the oddest sensation, like a tremor passing through the very fabric of the world.

Magick.

The heavy wooden door at the end of the hall, which hid the entrance to Faerie, exploded violently open, crashing into the wall behind it. Graves floated back, his spirit pummeled by powerful, magickal emanations flowing from the open door. The Corca Duibhne cowered.

A woman of obvious Fey descent stepped from the doorway, supernatural discharge crackling about her statuesque form. She was dressed in black leather and moved with a casual predatory grace that informed Graves that here was the real enemy. Two men, also bearing the physical characteristics of Faerie, flanked her, listening intently to her every word.

"That is the last of the passages to Faerie. With that path sealed, there will be no interference from the Fey," she announced, a smile slashing across her severe countenance. "I do so get a thrill when a plan comes together."

Though he had no flesh to feel with, a chill went through Graves. He had no idea if this witch knew it, but Conan Doyle was in Faerie even now. If she'd closed all the doors between the worlds, Conan Doyle would be trapped there. This is not good, not good at all. He was debating what to do next when he noticed that the woman was staring in his direction. The Night People, still cowering in front of his bedroom door, dropped to their knees under her withering gaze.

"What is that behind you?" she asked, eyes sparking with menace as she pointed a clawed finger in his direction.

The Corca Duibhne leaped to their feet and spun around, unsuccessfully searching the air for his presence.

Is it possible? Graves wondered. Can she see me?

With a sound like grease on a hot pan, thick strings of magickal energy erupted from the woman's fingertips and Graves knew that the answer was yes. The putrid yellow tendrils tore through the Corca Duibhne in their path, leaving them squealing and writhing upon the floor.