Christopher Golden - The Nimble Man

"But now… well, you've made a mess of it, haven't you? You and your friends and your enemies alike. Not only have you woken me, but you have done so with such flagrant use of my power that it can be nothing but a beacon, a homing flare that will draw the attention of the Demogorgon and bring it here. It has pinpointed us now."

And with this, Lorenzo Sanguedolce at last hesitated. His eyelids fluttered and a look of pain and sorrow became etched upon his face. He shook his head. "I can feel it even now. It may take years, decades, perhaps a century or more. I do not know. But the Demogorgon is on its way.

"I will try to fight it. Just as I know you will. But I fear that the end is inevitable. The clock is ticking toward the fate of the world."

Sweetblood turned Conan Doyle's head in his hands, gazed intently at him. "And I'm afraid that I'll be needing this more than you will," he said, and then he plunged slender fingers into Conan Doyle's face and plucked the Eye of Eogain from his skull.

Conan Doyle screamed, and darkness swallowed him.

He blinked. But only one eye moved. The other was so swollen and crusted with gore that it only ached. There was nothing there. Not his own eye, nor the Eye of Eogain.

He lay on his back on the floor. In the moonlight he could see Ceridwen above him, her exquisite face drawn with concern. The ghost of Dr. Graves hovered beyond her, standing sentinel over him.

"Arthur?" she ventured.

At the sound of her voice, other figures moved into the circle around him. Conan Doyle could see the silhouette of Eve, though the dark was merciful in not revealing her wounds. Clay was beside her, stoic and strong. The shadowy form of Danny Ferrick shuffled nearer, the outline of his horns almost elegant in the moonlight.

"My love?" Ceridwen whispered.

"I'm alive, dear Lady," he rasped. "I'm alive."

They all were. It was nothing short of a miracle. But Sweetblood's words had kindled a terrible dread in Conan Doyle's heart. He knew that his allies, his agents… his friends… all had lives of their own. Even the restless spirit of Dr. Graves had business to accomplish before he would go peacefully into the soulstream, past the gate that separated this world from the hereafter. They would want to return to those lives, to those plans, now that the threat had been averted.

And, for a while, perhaps, he would let them.

But eventually… probably quite soon… he would reveal to them the words that Lorenzo Sanguedolce had whispered to him. And then they would realize that they must stay together. Even if the Demogorgon was years away, they would have to prepare, to gather others like them, to combat the darkness so that when the time came, they would be ready.

The clock is ticking toward the fate of the world, Sweetblood had said. Yet Conan Doyle did not believe that fate had already been written. Destiny, he knew, could be decided by those who were willing to grasp it in their hands and build their own fate from it.

The great darkness was coming. But he and his Menagerie would be there to greet it.

Until then…

"Arthur," Ceridwen said, bending low over him, blotting out his view of the others, of his friends gathered round him. He caught her scent, of spice and vanilla, saw the blue-white hue of her skin glisten in the moonlight. She kissed him gently, their lips barely grazing one another.

"Rest now."

Yes, he thought. He would rest.

But not for long.