Christopher Golden - The Nimble Man

One by one, Conan Doyle watched as understanding lit their faces. They all seemed intrigued, but Ceridwen looked genuinely surprised, even a bit angry. Conan Doyle had dealt with such reactions from her before. Even when they had loved one another beyond reason, she had felt that he kept his thoughts too much to himself.

"And you think that Morrigan is also aware of the Eye," Dr. Graves ventured, his spectral form shimmering in the candle light.

"I'm certain of it. All of her actions of late have been timed to coincide with the arrival of Eogain's skull in Boston, at which time she would have access both to a power locus, the Eye, and a place where the walls between worlds has been worn thin. Namely, my home. All she needed then was Sweetblood, and, of course, she's found him."

Ceridwen lifted her chin, and when she spoke it was with the regal bearing she had learned as the niece of King Finvarra. "Why have you not mentioned this to us before?"

Conan Doyle frowned. "Until Dr. Graves gave me his report a scant hour ago, I was not aware that Morrigan had an interest in the Eye. I admit I ought to have at least suspected she might desire it, but we have had several other things to keep us occupied."

"Okay," Squire said, "but how did Ceridwen's bitchy aunt know about the Eye in the first place? Far as I know, she hasn't set foot in this world since the Twilight Wars. And even before that, she always talked about 'the Blight,' didn't like hanging around here much."

"Ah, but once upon a time she liked it very much," Conan Doyle said. "This was two thousand years ago, Squire. And Morrigan knows very well the tale of Eogain and the power of his Eye, for she was the one who murdered him, who left him to rot in that bog in Windling."

"Why didn't she just take it?" Eve asked. "I mean, she's an evil twat, but she isn't stupid. An item like that is exactly the kind of thing you magicians collect, just in case. Why leave the Eye in his head, at the bottom of some bog?"

"The Fey hate silver," Clay noted, "but still…"

"I told you Eogain was powerful. The runes he etched into the silver eye were not only to absorb and channel magick. There were others as well. Defensive marks. He enchanted the eye so that if it is touched by hands not human, it will simply destroy itself, disintegrate."?Danny slapped the table enthusiastically. "I get it! She's controlling some of those zombies, sending them to the museum to get the Eye for her because she can't touch it."

"Precisely," Conan Doyle agreed.

Clay stood up quickly, troubled. "Which means we've got to get to the museum right away. We have to get the Eye before the undead can retrieve it."

"Or, at least, before they can return it to Morrigan," Conan Doyle said.

Eve scowled as she rose. "What are we waiting for?"

Conan Doyle frowned. "You were waiting for our few clues to be evaluated, and for a plan to be set in motion. And now they have, and now it is. By all means, don't let me keep you, Eve."

He shot a glance at the goblin, who had his glass of fine scotch slightly tilted, pressed against his lips, but paused now as Conan Doyle spoke his name.

"Squire. Take Eve, Clay, and Dr. Graves to the Museum of Fine Arts. Provide them with weapons. After you have obtained the Eye, we shall all regroup here. By then, I am quite certain we will know exactly what it is that we face."

They all began to rise, heavy with the weight of purpose. For too long they had simply been reacting to the horrors that were unfolding in the city. At last they were going on the offensive. Conan Doyle sensed that each of them shared his satisfaction that the time had come. All save one.

"Wait," Danny Ferrick said, idly stroking one of his small horns. "Wait a second."

Everyone paused and regarded him curiously.

"What about me?" he asked.

Conan Doyle stiffened, nostrils flaring, and his eyes narrowed as he studied the boy who was not a boy at all. He had felt the boy deserved to know what was happening, and that it might help him to accept the truth about himself to know what other sorts of creatures existed in the world. But his intentions ended there.

"You're to remain here with your mother and myself," Conan Doyle said.

"Bullshit," Danny snapped. "What's that about? I can fight. Look, obviously I'm not just some kid. I'm strong, and nearly fucking impossible to hurt. I want to help."

"Admirable," Conan Doyle said. "But there is something I want you to understand. Ever since I learned of your existence, I have kept watch over your development, checking in from time to time. I did this, Danny, not because I hoped to recruit you to fight on my side of this war, but to make absolutely certain you did not fight for the other side."

The boy's mouth hung open in astonishment, little rows of fangs glinting in the candlelight. He looked as if he had just been slapped.

"That's so… that's totally unfair. You don't even know me. Where the hell do you get off saying shit like that?"

"I think I've been more than fair," Conan Doyle replied, giving him a hard look. "There are those who would have killed you in infancy, just to be safe. We shall see what your destiny holds, Danny Ferrick. But not tonight. Not tonight."

He turned and left the room, and the Menagerie followed.

In the hall they were met by Julia Ferrick, who had overheard at the very least the last few moments of their conversation. She had woken from her sleep and wrapped herself in a blanket. Her face was etched with sadness and she held one hand to her mouth as if to block a scream. When Danny emerged from the living room, his mother went to him. Though he tried at first to push her away, a moment later he relented, and she held him in her arms and whispered a mother's love into his ears and kissed his hair, careful to avoid scratching herself upon the points of his horns.

The crimson mist churned, a sea of red clouds that drifted across streets and lawns and swayed trees, a dread wind rustling branches and killing leaves, which fell and were carried away in the fog. The night sky above was obscured by the blood mist, swirls of scarlet against the black heavens. Somewhere in the night, not far off at all, dogs snarled and let out unnatural cries as they tore at one another.

All along the street where the Ferricks lived, doors and windows were closed. Some homes had electricity still, though it flickered unreliably. Others glowed with the light of candles. But most of them were dark, and things shifted in the shadows behind the windows. It might have been people that moved within those homes, or it might have been something else.

Conan Doyle smoothed his jacket, then raised one hand to brush down his mustache. His fingers crackled with static, and with magick, for though his hands performed these idle tasks, his eyes were alert and he scanned the red fog around the Ferrick house for any sign of attack. The way that supernatural events were rippling across the area, there were certain to be other enemies than Morrigan out there in the dark.

He spared a glance to his right. Ceridwen clutched her elemental staff and stood at attention, the breeze ruffling her gossamer robe. A soft blue glow emanated from the ice sphere at the top of the staff, and a cold mist seemed to furl up from it, untouched by the bloody fog that swept around them.

The two of them stood guard while Clay and Eve checked the interior of the limousine, and Squire looked beneath it. There was no sign of anything sinister, and so the goblin hitched up his pants and slid into the driver's seat. Graves's ectoplasmic essence rippled as he passed through the door and took the passenger's seat.

Clay held the door for Eve, who slipped on a long leather coat she had retrieved from the trunk of the limo and then climbed into the back seat. Hesitating a moment, Clay looked across the roof of the limo and locked eyes with Conan Doyle. The two men nodded at one another, and then Clay got into the car beside Eve.