Christopher Golden - The Nimble Man

There were times when the night was deathly silent, and in those quiet snatches of darkness she could still hear her mother's screams. She would awaken filled with righteous fury only to find that there was absolutely nothing that she could do.

Ceridwen cried out now, agony wrenching her back to the present. Pain assaulted her as more fissures formed in the mage's sarcophagus, allowing the flow of magick through her to intensify.

Morrigan laughed, amused by Ceridwen's suffering, but this was nothing new; her aunt had always reveled in the torment of others.

Once more, to escape her anguish, she allowed her mind to drift into the past. Ceridwen recalled with perfect clarity that day, fifteen seasons after the murder of her mother, when the sorcerers of Faerie had taken her into their care, training her in the ways of elemental magick. They had sensed within her a certain fire, unaware that it was an inferno of rage and an unquenchable thirst for revenge. What an excellent pupil she had been, absorbing the intricate teachings as the forest drank the rain.

She saw the battlefield in her mind as it had been so very long ago, littered with the bodies of both friend and foe. The Twilight Wars were in full swing and a battalion of Corca Duibhne was continuing to advance on their position. That was when they had first set her loose, allowing her to use her fury over her mother's murder to conjure up the forces to destroy the enemies of the Fey.

Her magick had been fearsome.

Ceridwen had reveled in their suffering, as the spirits of the wind tossed the enemy about the battlefield like children's toys, stealing the breath from their lungs before the earth swelled up to swallow them whole. Those who did not meet their fate from earth or air were washed away on angry torrents of torrential rain, or burnt to cinders by lapping tongues of hungry fire.

Morrigan had laughed that day as well. Gazing out at the carnage that Ceridwen had wrought, her aunt had found the level of devastation and death absolutely joyous. There was no doubt that she would find the fate of the world beneath the ministrations of the Nimble Man amusing as well.

Ceridwen could feel the surface of the chrysalis splintering beneath her, the magick burning up into her body. She began to convulse, the sorcery too much for her weakened body to contain, and at last she found solace in a memory that brought bliss that was the equal of its pain.

She would never have imagined herself capable of the love she felt for Arthur Conan Doyle, a mere human. Their lives had become entwined, their love for one another blossoming soon after the closing horrors of the war. For a while, with him, she had almost been capable of forgetting the trauma of her mother's murder — of the many lives she had taken in wartime. It had been as though she had been given another chance at life, an opportunity to wipe the past away and begin anew.

How foolish she had been to think that the fates would ever allow her to be truly happy. Happiness, she had learned, was the most fragile and ephemeral of things.

Sweetblood's magick roiled inside her. Ceridwen opened her mouth in a silent scream, sparks of magick leaping from her mouth to dance about with dust motes in the air of the ballroom. She did not think that she had ever experienced pain so intense, but her sorrow when Arthur had abandoned her had been near enough. If pressed, Ceridwen would have had difficulty deciding which torment had hurt her more deeply.

She had wanted him to stay in Faerie with her forever, but that was not to be the case. He had tried to explain why he had to return to the world of man, that he was needed there, to protect it from harm. Ceridwen had pleaded with her lover, telling him that she needed him far more than those of the Blight, but her pleas had fallen upon ears made deaf by his commitment to the world of his birth.

Ceridwen felt her anger surge. Only her fury at Arthur had given her the strength to move past her sorrow. Her sadness had turned to bitter rage, and it had made her all the stronger.

But evidently not strong enough.

The sound was like the cracking of glacial ice. Shards of the chrysalis fell away to shatter upon the ballroom floor.

Eve guided the limousine through the tight, winding streets of Beacon Hill with a reckless skill, and Conan Doyle breathed sigh of relief when they arrived at their destination without plowing into something in the damnable red fog.

"This is close enough, Eve," he told her, from his place in the rear of the limousine, where he sat opposite Daniel and Clay.

Eve immediately brought the limo to a shuddering stop, driving up onto the curb to keep from completely blocking the road. Conan Doyle silently applauded. Despite the supernatural horrors out on the streets this damnable, impossible night, he was sure there were police and fire emergency crews out and about. They might need to pass.

"As good a spot as any," Eve said as she put the car in park. "Don't forget to lock your doors, gentlemen. This neighborhood has gone to Hell."

They exited the vehicle. Louisburg Square was down the street a ways, on the left. Up ahead, an SUV was burning, the flames and black smoke billowing from the wreckage starkly visible through the shifting crimson fog.

"We'll approach on foot," Conan Doyle told them, leading the way.

They slowed their pace as they passed the burning vehicle, all of them casually glancing inside the blackened wreck to see if there had been anybody inside.

"Ceridwen did that," Danny said, motioning with his chin. "We needed a distraction to get Morrigan and her freaky henchmen off the floor we were on so we could get downstairs. She summoned some kind of fire spirit to blow it up."

Conan Doyle said nothing, sublimating his fear for her, concentrating on the task that lay before them. When they reached the edge of the square, just outside the fenced park in its center, they all paused.

"So, how are we doing this?" Eve asked, casually picking the lint from the arm of her jacket, as if what they were about to attempt was no more important than choosing a restaurant.

"The time for subtlety has come and gone," Conan Doyle said, searching the fog for a glimpse of his home. There had been a dramatic change in the sinister energies in the atmosphere just in the minutes that had passed since they had left the State House. If they had any hope of stopping Morrigan, it had to be now. "We hit them from every side, and all at once."

"Clay and Dr. Graves," he said, turning his attention to the shapeshifter and his spectral houseguest, "the two of you shall enter the house from below, through the basement, and ascend accordingly."

He felt a hand grip his arm and turned to face the demon boy.

"What about me?" Danny asked. "You're going to let me help — aren't you?"

Conan Doyle knew that the boy's mother would not approve, but there came a time when the concerns of doting parents had to be set aside and matters of the world taken into account. This was such a moment.

"Daniel and Eve shall enter from above," the mage instructed. "The rooftop door should provide you with access."

The boy smiled, glancing toward Eve. "It's you and me," he said, clenching and unclenching his hands. "We got the roof."

"You don't say," she teased.

"What about you, Conan Doyle?" Graves asked, his voice like the whisper of the wind through the dead leaves of autumn trees. "Will you be going inside?"

Conan Doyle was taken aback by the question. His home had been invaded and Ceridwen held captive inside. The fate of his world was in the balance.

"Of course I'm going inside, old friend," he answered incredulously, stepping from the street to the cobblestones of the square. "But I shall enter just as I always have. Through the front door."