Christopher Golden - The Nimble Man

Two figures stood with her in the antiquarian section of Lost and Found Books. Once again Katie Matthews felt as though she could not breathe. One of them was a dignified looking man with a graying mustache and a wrinkled suit. Katie thought she recognized the man from century-old photographs.

The other was a stunningly beautiful woman of imposing height, clad in a cloak the color of the sea. She clutched in her hand an oaken staff, topped by a sphere of ice with a flicker of flame inside. An elemental staff. Her eyes were a bright violet.

Katie's hands fluttered as though she had forgotten what to do with them, and a lightness came over her heart that nearly made her faint. Almost giddy, she went down on one knee and lowered her head. Once upon a time, years before, she had read the wrong book and opened the wrong door, and it had been Ceridwen who had closed it for her. She had pledged her loyalty to the Fey on that day, like a handful of others she had met in the ages since. But she had never seen Ceridwen in the flesh again.

Until today.

"My Lady Ceridwen," she said, her voice cracking, shaking with emotion.

Ceridwen touched her head.

"You've done well, Katherine. You are our loyal friend."

Katie took a deep breath and looked up at Ceridwen, at the razor cut of her hair and the power in those eyes. This woman was everything she had ever wished to be, and yet rather than making Katie feel small, somehow Ceridwen lifted her up, gave her pride in herself.

"Something terrible is happening outside," Katie said, forcing her voice not to tremble.

"We know," Ceridwen replied, already striding toward the front of the shop, her companion hard on her heels. "Do not worry yourself, Katherine. You have done just as we asked, for so very long, kept that book safe and our secret in your own heart. I can do no less than keep you safe in return."

At the door, Ceridwen turned and stared at her, and Katie felt blessed.

"We will weave protections around the house. Do not step outside this door until the sun returns to the sky."

Then Ceridwen and her companion went out the door, closing it tightly behind them, leaving Katie with only the delightful scents of Faerie floating in the air to mark their passing. After a moment she sighed happily and picked up the book from the floor. Its leather was not scuffed at all from the fall. She held it in her hands and then allowed herself a bittersweet smile before sliding it back onto the shelf.

She would have given anything to reverse Ceridwen's trip, to travel through the pages of that book through to the other side, to Faerie. One day, she prayed that Ceridwen would grant her that wish. And she knew that if that day ever came, she would never want to come back.

A tiny ember of fury burned in Morrigan's black heart. She had not expected to find an errant phantom in Conan Doyle's home, but even had she known she would not have wasted a moment thinking on it. What was a ghost, after all, to her power? They were fragments, figments, the echo of a spirit. But whoever this ghost was, he had knowledge that he should not have, and Conan Doyle might well have other allies. The damned specter had escaped her, thwarted her, and Morrigan was not pleased.

She was not concerned about it raising opposition to her. Nothing could stand in her way now. But just the idea that a damnable figment had escaped her was infuriating.

No, she told herself. Enough. With great effort, she forced thoughts of the ghost from her mind. Triumph was at hand. Elation. Divinity. She was not about to allow a minor annoyance to spoil that. She had other, far more thrilling matters to attend to.

Several of the Corca Duibhne vermin under her thrall scattered from her path as she strode down the corridor of Conan Doyle's home to a room whose broad double doors stood open to receive her. Morrigan swept into the high-ceilinged chamber and surveyed the room. It had once been used as a ballroom but now appeared to be a storage place for pieces of mechanical equipment that she imagined Conan Doyle and his lackeys used to keep their fragile forms physically fit. The exercise equipment had been pushed out of the way, up against the mirrored walls, to make room for the amber-encased body of Sweetblood the Mage.

The chrysalis rested in the center of the room, and though that strange magickal sarcophagus stifled the mage's power, Morrigan could still feel it emanating from within. She had stationed several Corca Duibhne around the chrysalis as guards, but they kept their distance from Sanguedolce. Inert or no, he was so powerful a mage that their entire race feared him.

Morrigan laughed softly, amused by their furtive glances toward the chrysalis. Their nearly primitive brains were incapable of realizing the potential that lay before them, the power that could be drawn from the ancient fool. But, of course, this was best. Such power was never to be wielded by the likes of these twisted little barbarians.

Fearful eyes upon her, she approached Sweetblood's cocoon and stared through the amber encasement at the still features of the mage. The energy that radiated from Sanguedolce was intoxicating, and she fell to her knees beside him, a collective gasp going out from the Corca Duibhne around the room. His magick, the wards around this chrysalis, were trying to repel her, but she held her ground, letting it wash over her, becoming almost drunk with its potency.

Morrigan laid her hands upon the imperfect surface of the chrysalis and was jolted by a surge of magick that struck her, coursing through with the burning power of a lightning strike. She shuddered and moaned aloud, but did not remove her hands. Her teeth gnashed, pain spiked through her flesh, pushing up into her head. She bit her lip and blood dripped down her chin. Through the amber surface of the cocoon she stared down into Sanguedolce's frozen visage.

She remembered the first time that she had ever laid eyes upon the magician, ages past, in Faerie. During the Twilight War the forces of the righteous had fought valiantly to stem the flow of darkness into the world of the Fey, and the worlds beyond it. She and her brother, Finvarra, had stood together at their father's side. The daughter of the king, she had been his trusted advisor and his personal bodyguard. In the midst of battle, Sweetblood had appeared, hovering above the battlefield, observing the conflict with a cold, unwavering eye, as if attempting to determine whether he should bother to become involved.

This memory awakened others in Morrigan. Clearly, now, she remembered her physical response to the sight of Sweetblood on that day, the warmth that had tingled in her belly, the pulse of arousal that had begun to throb inside her. Now, as then, she felt a ferocious heat thawing the deep chill that normally enveloped any such urges within her. She had felt his potential for power then, as she did now, and it inflamed her lust.

Sweetblood had not taken part in the Twilight Wars. Upon discovering the presence of Conan Doyle among the ranks of the virtuous, he had returned to the world of Blight in a flash of magickal exhibitionism. There were those among the Fey who thought Sweetblood had a rivalry with Conan Doyle, and would not fight at his side. Morrigan, however, had felt certain that Sanguedolce had simply deemed the conflict to be beneath him. She had never forgotten him, or the power he wielded; it had haunted her always. Here was the key to everything that she desired. With that power, her darkest dreams could be made real. She had sworn to have it for her own, at any cost.

Now here was the power, beneath her very hands. Morrigan brought her face closer to the surface of the chrysalis.

"You can't keep me out forever, my sweet," she whispered, running her fingers sensually across the jagged surface of the amber encasement, pressing her supple, leather-clad body against it, as if attempting to arouse the sleeping figure within.