Christopher Golden - The Nimble Man

She began to mutter beneath her breath, words that were ancient before man had dropped from the trees to walk erect.

"Moggotu sandrathar," Morrigan hissed. "Memaritus gosov iknetar shokkar-dos fhinn."

Arcane power snaked from her clawed fingertips, flowing across the surface of the chrysalis, attempting to find a weakness to exploit upon its unyielding exterior.

"Tann-dissarvar, Bottus, Nava-si, Tiridus valkinsu!"

Morrigan spread herself across the cocoon. There was a flaw. She knew it. She sensed it. The chrysalis was damaged; otherwise, she would not have been able to feel Sweetblood's power leaking out. Already she had been able to use some of the magickal radiant thrown off by the chrysalis to strengthen her own sorceries, to shatter the wards Conan Doyle had set up around his home. Ironic, that the power of the master should be used to destroy the sanctum of the student. Morrigan had a taste of Sanguedolce's magick. But it wasn't enough, for she knew the full extent of what awaited her once the enchanted shell was breached, and she wanted it all. She lay atop the cocoon, letting her own magick flow outward, sensing, probing, searching for the flaw so that she might permeate the chrysalis.

She writhed atop Sweetblood's amber sarcophagus, ancient incantations issuing from her mouth as she rubbed her body against its unyielding skin. Her magick slipped across its surface, hungrily searching for a way inside, and for a moment, she thought she had succeeded.

The chyrsalis shuddered, and Morrigan exerted even more of herself, eagerly grinding her sex against her prize in an attempt to coax the magick from the entrapped sorcerer within. If she searched for the flaw from without, and she could cause Sweetblood's own power to search for an exit from within… she sensed the power building within the amber and called to it sweetly in the voice of the ancients, urging it to burst forth from its confinement.

The chrysalis shook yet again and she cried out with passion. Morrigan was riding the crest of everything she had ever hoped for. The renegade Fey sorceress could see it all before her mind's eye as it came over the rise, glorious to behold. Her enemies vanquished, the world of Blight and then Faerie bowing to her every whim, with so many others to follow.

And all in the name of her true love. Her true passion. All that I do and all that I am, I dedicate to you, she thought. For though she had desires of her own, they existed solely for the glory of another. She would have all that she craved, but what she craved the most was the glint of loving approval in the eyes of The Nimble Man.

It is all so close, and coming closer. Close enough to touch.

Morrigan suddenly cried out, not in pleasure, but in excruciating pain. The chrysalis lashed out at her defensively, a pulse of arcane energy that repelled her, sent her sprawling across the room with such force that she struck the wall, cracking the mirrored glass, and fell limply to the floor.

The Corca Duibhne were terrified, but for the moment their fear of the mage was overwhelmed by their loyalty to their Mistress. Or, perhaps, their fear of Morrigan was simply greater. They swarmed around her, concerned for her safety, but none daring to put a hand upon her.

She lay upon the wood floor, her body smoldering. Morrigan had known that it was unlikely she would be able to breach the chrysalis so simply, even with its flaw, but still her blood burned with rage and humiliation. She wanted Sweetblood's power now.

Fury consumed her, and she gave herself over to it willingly. Morrigan sprang to her feet, lashing out at the Night People that huddled about, concerned for her. Her claws tore into their dark flesh and stinking blood spattered off the ballroom's mirrored walls. Rage contorted her features, surged through her veins, and magick would not satisfy her. She used her hands to tear at them, to break their bones, to eviscerate them. It had been some time since she had let herself go, giving into the bloodlust that had been with her since birth. It was ecstasy.

Dead Corca Duibhne lay at her feet, their blood collecting in shimmering dark puddles as Morrigan wrestled the rage back under control. The stink of new death around her, she took several long breaths before she felt capable of looking once more upon the object of her desire and her fury. The chrysalis stood unchanged, untouched, in the center of the room. But not for long. She would have the power she desired.

"Mistress."

The word was spoken by two voices in concert, and Morrigan turned toward the broad double doors of the ballroom. There stood Fenris and Dagris, the twin Fey warriors who served as her lieutenants. Each of the brothers held in his arms a struggling human child. The twins were freaks amongst their own kind, psychically bonded, one unable to exist without the other. They had some skill with magick, and great skill in battle, and their loyalty to her was the only emotion either of them felt that was not clouded with insanity.

The twins entered the room with proud smiles upon their gaunt faces. They had done precisely what had been asked of them, as always. As she had many times before, Morrigan congratulated herself on the decision she had made to free them from their imprisonment in Finvarra's citadel. She could not have found dogs more loyal.

The children wailed in terror, beating at their captors. Morrigan motioned for Fenris and Dagris to approach. The twins stepped forward, each of them holding out their terrified package. The babes were young, a boy and girl each no more than four years of age. Perfect, Morrigan thought, reaching out with a single claw to prick each of the children's mottled cheeks, drawing beads of blood. The babes screeched all the louder, and she brought the taste of them to her mouth.

"Yes," she said, satisfied with what she had sampled in the blood. "They should do nicely."

Morrigan smiled, her pleasure gradually returning. She had been impatient. Attempting to breach the chrysalis with only her own power had been vain and self-indulgent. Now, though, her hopes and dreams were only a blood ritual away.

"Do you have any sour cream?" the twisted little man with the strangely pointed ears asked her, even as he helped himself, yanking open the refrigerator to peruse its contents.

Julia Ferrick couldn't bring herself to answer. It was as if she were trapped in some bizarre fever dream, aimlessly walking around familiar dreamscape locations as the horrors continued to unfold. The odd, dwarfish man was but the latest addition to an equally strange cast of characters that had taken up residence in her home. Sitting at the marble-topped kitchen island, she gazed toward the window above the sink and saw the thick red fog swirl ominously about outside. The usual view of the trees in her backyard was completely obscured by the bizarre weather that had supposedly engulfed the city and its suburbs, at least that was what her visitors told her.

"You got some old milk in here… Christ, it's got the Lindbergh baby on the carton!" Squire turned toward her, wide-eyed. Then he gave her a terrifying smile, something out of Grimm's Fairy Tales. "Just kiddin'. Heh. But seriously, the sour cream gives it that little bit of extra somethin'," the man… she thought he was a man

… said as he pulled himself out of her refrigerator, arms filled with ingredients.

Julia went over to the oven and opened the cabinet above it. She pulled down a bag of Oreos and set it on the cooktop, then fished behind a jar of peanut butter to grab an unopened box of Winston Lights. Her fingers quivered as they retrieved the cigarettes. Then, quickly, she dug through a drawer for matches. It was her emergency pack. Her fallback, held for a time when it wouldn't matter anymore what Danny's reaction would be to her smoking again. She imagined it stenciled with the words In Case of Apocalypse, Tear Plastic.