Christopher Golden - The Nimble Man

The unnatural wind conjured within the living room of Danny's home screamed and moaned like twenty cats in heat, and it became more difficult to see the Faerie sorceress at its core.

"It is but the least we can do, child of the Fey," came the voice that set his nerves on edge, and Danny realized that it was coming from the body of the storm itself, that somehow the whirlwind was alive.

"Awesome," he whispered, transfixed by the sight. His body shook with the wind, his pants so baggy that they fluttered behind his legs.

"The least we can do."

And with those final words, the traveling wind spun all the faster. Furniture and knick-knacks, anything not nailed down, were tossed about the living room by the powerful winds. Then the woman was lifted up from the center of the room and carried within the belly of the unnatural storm toward the ceiling.

Danny could not take his eyes from the sight, watching in awe as the manifestation of the sorceress' magick began to grow smaller, collapsing in upon itself. Ceridwen was leaving, being taken away by what she had called a traveling wind, and he felt the unnatural pull again — the tug, that had brought him to this room grow all the stronger. He gripped the doorframe, his clawed fingernails digging into the hard wood as he fought to keep himself from entering the room. There was a part of him that wanted to go, to throw himself into the whirling vortex and accompany Ceridwen on her mission, but that was not his place. According to Conan Doyle, it was not his time.

The pull upon him was incredible as he watched the twister compress in size, Ceridwen nothing more than a dark stain at its core. It would be gone soon, transporting the woman to Conan Doyle's house where she would gather information to help them take down those responsible for what was currently happening to the world. And where would he be? Daniel asked of himself. He would here, doing absolutely nothing, even though he knew that he was more than capable of helping.

The boy heard Mr. Doyle's hurtful words again echo within his skull. "We shall see what your destiny holds, Danny Ferrick. But not tonight. Not tonight."

"Then when?" he asked aloud, knowing very well if Conan Doyle's people — his agents, were not successful, things would be getting mighty hairy for mankind, and he might never be given the opportunity to show them what he knew he was capable of. This was his chance to truly belong, to prove that he was one of them.

Danny let go of the doorframe and allowed himself to be drawn into the room. He felt the drastic change in temperature, and he could see his breath. He stared up at the dissipating whirlwind, now less than half its original size, and still he struggled with the idea of what he should do.

"Not tonight," the voice of Conan Doyle said again, warning him away from the thoughts of what Danny knew he should not be doing. And in his mind he saw himself leaving the room, climbing up the stairs to his bedroom where he would wait for the others to return from their chosen missions. This was what he should have done.

"Fuck that shit," the boy growled, tensing the muscles in his legs and leaping up into the air, at the magickal maelstrom. And he was pulled inside the final vestiges of the diminishing vortex; carried away from his home upon a traveling wind, eager to confront his destiny.

In the dream, the world of man was hers to command.

Wearing robes of elegant silk, she walked amongst the garden of bones; the remains of those who challenged her, as far as the eye could see. They were arranged in the most beautiful of patterns, sticking up from the poisoned earth, and hanging from barren trees, twirling amusingly in the fetid winds. The artisans of the Corca Duibhne had outdone themselves, she thought, admiring the artistry of the Night People's work, creating sculptures both pleasing to her eyes and filled with meaning. This place would serve as a reminder to any who would dare to challenge her supremacy. A place to show them that any hopes of insurrection would be met with punishment swift and terrible.

The mournful winds shifted ever so slightly, carrying the plaintive wails of the humans left alive to her ears. They were used as cattle now, a food source for her voracious army. A fate they most assuredly deserved.

And beneath the now eternally nocturnal sky, the sun forever blotted out by the undulating mist of scarlet red, Morrigan leaned back her head and basked in the misery that she had wrought. It is only a matter of time now, she thought, her body beginning to tingle with anticipation, only a matter of time before the world of Faerie fell prostrate before her, and she began to cry tears of thanks for what her master had given her.

"It is all I've ever dreamed of and more," Morrigan said, her voice trembling in emotion, as she gazed up into the sky. And something moved there above her, something great and terrible that glided through the mist filled air, the pounding of its mighty wings like the heartbeat of a world in peril.

Morrigan lay upon the king-sized bed of Arthur Conan Doyle, her naked body still covered with the sticky aftermath of the recently performed blood ritual, still gripped within the fantasy of dream. The spell that she had woven had been extremely taxing, and she often found that a brief nap was exactly what was needed for her to retain that much needed edge, and what better place to rest after the exhausting job of sacrificing two innocent children, she thought, then upon the bed of your vanquished enemy.

Her eyes came suddenly open, awakened from her blissful respite by disturbance in the ether. It was like the vibrations felt within the silken threads of a spider's web; an alarm of sorts, warning that something could very well be amiss. Morrigan raised herself up on her elbows, gazing about the darkness of the master bedroom.

The two boggarts, large dog-like beasts lying curled and content at the foot of the bed until that moment, raised their blocky, black fleshed heads and sniffed at the air. The animals growled, a horrible gurgling sound, the loose flesh around their mouths rippling back to reveal angry red gums filled with razor-sharp teeth.

"What is it?" she asked the demonic beasts, conjured as a precautionary measure to watch over her while she slept. The two unnatural animals tilted back their large, square heads, sucking whistling lungfuls of air into their eager nostrils. They sensed it the same as she, the faintest hint of a magickal disturbance in the air.

"Come," Morrigan beckoned the animals to her as she left the bed, and they slunk from atop the mattress to the floor, their short, triangular ears flat against their skulls in submissiveness as they stood on either side of her naked form, licking the dried blood of children from her hands.

She concentrated upon the ripple in the ether, attempting to discern its purpose, but much to her frustration, could not read it.

"Who would dare such a thing?" she asked aloud, padding naked across the bedroom to the door, taking some satisfaction with the knowledge that the two who could challenge her were not present upon this world, she had seen to that.

Morrigan flung the door wide, startling a band of Night People who had set up a kind of encampment outside the bedroom door. The creatures quickly averted their eyes, not wanting to incur the wrath of their mistress.

"Did you feel it?" she asked them. "A spell has breached our defenses."

The boggarts started to whine, eager to track the scent of the invasive magick.

"Go," she commanded them with a wave of her taloned hand, and the beasts bounded down the upstairs hall, powerful muscles rippling beneath jet-black flesh, scattering Corca Duibhne and their belongings in their fury to hunt that which did not belong.

Morrigan followed close behind, fearing the worst as the eager boggarts descended the stairs, their claws scrabbling across the hard wood floors for purchase as they made their way toward the ballroom, and her most treasured possession.