Christopher Golden - The Nimble Man

Conan Doyle and the demon child watched one another for several moments. Danny made no sign that he had seen the old mage, but Conan Doyle knew the boy was aware of his presence. At length he beckoned with an outstretched finger.

"Come," he said. "We have a great deal to discuss."

Danny frowned at him and glanced at his mother again.

"She will be all right," Conan Doyle assured him.

Then he turned and went into the dining room, knowing that the boy would follow. The room was a surprise. Though the house was pleasant enough, it was decorated with the casual laissez-faire attitude of most modern American homes. The dining room, however, was all dark wood and silver behind glass, and the small chandelier was black iron. It had the atmosphere of another age, and Conan Doyle immediately felt more at home here.

The others were all gathered there. Squire had opened a liquor cabinet and discovered a bottle of Talisker scotch, which Conan Doyle presumed had been there since the house had a Mister Ferrick within it. The goblin presided, now, over a pair of shot glasses that were set upon the dining room table. One was his own, and the other belonged to Eve, who had tilted her high-backed chair away from the table and propped her boots upon its surface. Conan Doyle frowned, displeased by her lack of courtesy, but this was typical of her. Eve was long past taking lessons in propriety from anyone. He also chose not to mention his distaste at the idea of the pair of them doing shots of finely aged scotch.

Ceridwen was seated across from them. She held her elemental staff across her lap, cradling it as though it was her child, and she gazed into the ice sphere atop it, watching the dancing flame therein with the manner of a scrier. Conan Doyle knew this was not far from the truth. There were things she had seen in the ice there that had come to pass. For now, though, the ice was clear save that flame.

At the far end of the room, Clay stood with his arms crossed, speaking with Graves. The apparition of the dead man was as solid as Conan Doyle had ever seen it, and he thought perhaps it was the setting that inspired Graves to such focus. He was in the ordinary house of a more or less ordinary woman, and in such close quarters he felt awkward about appearing as what he was… a ghost.

Clay wore the face that had become his most common visage, and he was the first to glance up when Conan Doyle entered the room.

"Well, well," Eve said, taking her boots from the table and reaching for her newly filled shot glass. She stood and raised it as though in a toast. "I'm going to guess we've got a plan."

"We do indeed," Conan Doyle replied.

Eve threw back the shot of Talisker and knocked the glass loudly onto the table. "About time," she said. "I'm so bored I've got spiders in my brain. The goblin was starting to seem like a scintillating conversationalist."

"Hey!" Squire protested. "I've got oodles of personality. I'm a catch!"

Eve laughed. "If I spend enough time with you, I'm sure to catch something."

Conan Doyle appreciated the fact that Clay and Graves, at least, seemed appropriately grim. He glared at Eve, but Ceridwen spoke up first.

"That will be enough," the Fey sorceress commanded.

Eve flinched, eyes narrowing at the presumption in Ceridwen's tone, but that was all right. The women were equally formidable. Ceridwen was royalty, but Eve was royalty of a sort herself. A matriarch in her own right. Still, there were times when angering her was the only way to remind her of what her priorities ought to be.

"I apologize for the wait," Conan Doyle said, "but it is time, now, to get to work." He gestured around the table. "Please, all of you, be seated." The old mage turned toward Danny Ferrick, who waited behind him in the arched entry of the dining room.

"Danny, come in. Join us. This is your house. You have a right to hear what we plan to do."

The teenager nodded, the nubs of his horns gleaming sharp and black in the candlelight. He passed Conan Doyle and took a seat beside Ceridwen, though he fidgeted and glanced at her several times, distracted either by her beauty or her power, both of which were palpable. Conan Doyle took note of this, and of the way the boy stole glances at Eve as well. A teenaged boy amidst these two women… Danny was unlikely to hear a word he said.

Conan Doyle sat at one end of the table and Clay at the other. Squire and Eve pulled their chairs in closer. Graves did not sit at all. Ever. Regardless of how solid he might appear, he was, after all, merely a shade.

"Now, then," Conan Doyle said, surveying his Menagerie, "let us be clear about this. Thus far, our efforts have been less than useless. We have learned little of value. The first order of business is to improve our position in that regard."

He turned the plan over in his mind, wishing there was more to be done. Conan Doyle opened the case for his pipe, finding comfort in it. Once more he blew lightly on its bowl and it was rekindled. He took a long pull upon it, let out the smoke, and then merely held it in his hand.

"Ceridwen will infiltrate my home. Morrigan has the Corca Duibhne at her disposal, as well as a handful of Fey warriors. In order to discover what her intentions are, subtlety will be more effective than force. For now. Morrigan wants access to Sweetblood's power, and we must know why. It cannot be to release him, for Lorenzo Sanguedolce could easily destroy the tainted sorceress. The only way she could have breached the magickal defenses around my home is if Sweetblood's chrysalis is already leaking. But he has not been released, or the world would know it. If we rush to battle without answers, it might cost more than our lives. It might lead to catastrophe."

Conan Doyle nodded at Ceridwen. He was aware of the magnitude of what he was asking, sending her alone into the lair of their enemy. But such was his faith in her. And if anyone was to combat Morrigan alone, her niece had the best chance of surviving such a conflict.

"For my part, I will remain here. I hope that Mrs. Ferrick will be kind enough to watch over me whilst I meditate and attempt to reach Lorenzo. Our minds touched once before, when I first discovered his strange sarcophagus, and now I must try to communicate with him again. We must know why he hid himself away. From our brief contact, it is clear that Sweetblood believes that there will be cataclysmic consequences if his chrysalis is opened. The signs and portents might not all be Morrigan's doing. Some of them could be a result of the natural and supernatural worlds reacting to the prospect of Sweetblood's release… or whatever Morrigan plans to do with him. There are too many questions. I hope Sweetblood can be made to provide some answers."

A strong wind had begun to blow and the storm windows rattled in their frames. The red fog seemed to undulate as they swept past outside. Conan Doyle took his pipe firmly between his lips and drew a long puff into his lungs. Outside, the wind screamed. Danny Ferrick muttered under his breath and even Squire glanced uneasily out into the bleeding night.

"Yes. It is almost as if the malign powers of the universe sense us here, within these walls, plotting against them," Conan Doyle said, sitting back in his chair and regarding them.

Ceridwen gazed at him, her eyes so clear and bright that he could not help but recall the days in which he had lost himself within them. Conan Doyle's heart ached. He wished for all of this to be over so that he might have just a handful of moments to speak with her in peace, to let her know that his time with her was so cherished that its memory alone had given him the strength to endure terror and hardship. But, if ever, that was for later, when this parade of horrors had come to an end.

"That may be truer than you know."