Christopher Golden - The Nimble Man

And he moved on.

The tea kettle began to whistle. Julia twitched, startled by the noise. For a moment she felt frozen to her seat, as though even the simple act of making tea was beyond her. She gazed across her kitchen table at Squire, who sat with a gallon of chocolate chip ice cream in front of him, eating right from the container with a soup spoon. When he wasn't talking, or following the instructions of his employer, he was eating. It ought to have been repulsive, but there was something oddly charming about it.

From the first moment she had seen him she had avoided looking directly at him, or allowing her eyes to linger. He was ugly. His nose too long and too pointed. His face was long and angular as well, and his mouth was too wide, as though its corners had been slit, so that when he spoke or smiled it seemed his head was about to split in two. His teeth were jagged and yellow. An animal's teeth. His hair was brittle and unkempt.

But his eyes were kind. It had taken her this long to notice that. The little man — she refused to think of him as a goblin or hobgoblin or whatever Danny had said he was — watched her with the gentlest, most expressive eyes. Squire cussed like a sailor and obviously enjoyed his verbal sparring with the others. And yet despite his appearance and despite his cutting wit, there was something tender about him.

"Want me to get that?" he asked, licking the ice cream from his spoon and nodding toward the tea kettle. Its whistle had become a shriek.

"No." She stood up. "No, I'm sorry. I was just… I feel a little numb. Just… preoccupied."

"Can't say I blame you," Squire said.

Julia went to the stove and took the kettle off. The whistle died to a low hiss, like air leaking from a balloon. The kitchen was lit only by the tiny flames that flickered atop a half dozen candles she had set about the room. There were other places in the house that would have been more comfortable, but she felt the safest in the kitchen. How odd was that? She did not want to think about the answer. She only knew that it felt like a refuge. Like sanctuary. Like a place she might be busily toiling when her little boy came home to her.

Her lips pressed together in a tight line and she squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to cry. As she gripped the kettle and began to pour the steaming water into the two cups she had taken from the cabinet for herself and Squire, her hand trembled. She set the kettle down. In her mind she saw the next steps that were necessary. Get the tea bags from the cupboard. Milk from the fridge. Some cookies to go with the tea. Anyone else would have been happy with a gallon of ice cream, but she doubted Squire would say no to the cookies.

She leaned against the stove to keep from collapsing.

"Mrs. Ferrick," Squire said, his voice a harsh rasp in the flickering shadows. This little man… this little monster in her kitchen.

Her shoulders shook.

"Julia."

Slowly, she turned to face him. His eyes were wide and she saw such caring and intelligence there that she immediately regretted having thought of him as a monster, not to mention dozens of other uncharitable thoughts that had crossed her mind.

"He's going to be all right," Squire said, planting his spoon back in the ice cream container. It jutted upward like a flagpole.

Julia stared at him, slowly shook her head. "How… how can you be so sure?"

His gaze was intense. "I'm not sure. But you believe me, don't you?"

Her pulse slowed. She took a deep breath and let it out. A strange peace came over her. Amazed at herself, she began to nod.

"Yes. Yes, I do."

Squire grinned and leaned back in his chair, throwing up his hands. "See that! I've just got one of those faces, y'know! My work here is done."

Julia could not help but laugh. It lasted only a moment, but Squire had lightened her heart, and she was grateful for that. Also, the truth was that she did believe him. He seemed so certain of it. The little man believed with his whole heart that things were going to turn out all right. She knew she had to do the same, that she had to have faith.

Without it, she would never survive the night.

The Black Annis caught Clay by the throat as he was defending himself from the Corca Duibhne. He had one of the Night People in his own hands, its chest crushed, its eyes bulging as it breathed its last. But then the hag appeared, far swifter than he would have expected. She was a thing of legend, one of the dark creatures that prowled the shadows of Faerie. It was no surprise that Morrigan had enlisted her aid, and now the corpses in the basement made more sense. The Black Annis fed on human children. Morrigan had promised her a lifetime's supply.

The hag lifted Clay by the throat, sickening glee in her eyes. She stank like vulture's breath, a fetid carrion stench that billowed off of her with every move. Her claws could carve stone or bone, and she was only one of a family of sisters. Clay hoped there were no others in Morrigan's employ.

One, though… one he could handle.

With a single swipe of her free hand, she tore his stomach open. In the same moment, Clay changed. He shifted. Now the Black Annis saw not a seven foot earthen man, but a mirror image of herself. One of her sisters. Just as hideous, just as rank. The simple creature's eyes went wide and she threw Clay to the ground and knelt by his side, holding her hands over the wound in his gut.

Even as he retained the shape of a Black Annis, he felt his abdomen knitting together, healing. He was not flesh and blood after all. Not really. He could only mimic it.

He was Clay.

With one Black Annis hand, he reached up and grabbed the hag by her filthy, matted hair. He flexed his right hand; claws that could carve stone or bone. With a single swipe, he tore her throat out, all the way back to the spinal column.

Shifting once more to himself, to the face he knew as his own — not the human one who wore so often but the earthen body that had spawned the legend of the golem — he stood to fight the Corca Duibhne. The boggarts were after Graves, now, howling and snarling as they tried to reach the ghost. Only a few Corca Duibhne remained. Clay did not bother to alter his form again. One leaped at him and he drove it down to the concrete floor and crushed its skull with his fist.

The other two paused. They were staring upward, at Dr. Graves.

Clay followed their gaze. The boggarts were snarling, gnashing their teeth.

Dr. Graves floated in the air above them, a look of utter disdain upon his face. He wore suspenders and a heavy shirt with the sleeves rolled up. But now something else had been added to his attire. The specter now wore a pair of pistol holsters, one under each arm. They had not been there before.

Clay stared in amazement as Graves crossed his arms over his chest and drew the guns from those holsters. Phantom guns. Ectoplasmic manifestations of Graves's own soul, his own spirit energy. Ghosts had control over their appearance when their souls remained anchored to this world. Many times they could change their appearance, not the way Clay could, but in age or attire.

Yet Clay had never seen anything like this.

"Boggarts are a damned nuisance," Dr. Graves snapped. "You want a taste of me, dogs? I don't think so. You soul-eaters may be able to hurt me, even kill a man who's already dead. But it works both ways. If you want little shreds of my soul inside you, all right. But it's going to be my way, not yours."

Graves pulled both triggers again and again, spectral bullets tearing into the boggarts. The impact made their bodies shudder and jerk and drove them back, and then fell over dead, gray blood oozing from their wounds. The bits of soulstuff that had comprised the bullets lost their shape and became streaks of ectoplasm that shot back across the room and coalesced around Dr. Graves, reattaching themselves to him.