Angel Fire East (2 page)

SUNDAY,
DECEMBER 21

CHAPTER 1

N
est Freemark had just finished dressing for church when she heard the knock at the front door. She paused in the middle of applying her mascara at the bathroom mirror and glanced over her shoulder, thinking she might have been mistaken, that she wasn’t expecting anyone and it was early on a Sunday morning for visitors to come around without calling first.

She went back to applying her makeup. A few minutes later the knock came again.

She grimaced, then glanced quickly at her watch for confirmation. Sure enough. Eight forty-five. She put down her mascara, straightened her dress, and checked her appearance in the mirror. She was tall, a shade under five-ten, lean, and fit, with a distance runner’s long legs, narrow hips, and small waist. She had seemed gangly and bony all through her early teens, except when she ran, but she had finally grown into her body. At twenty-nine, she moved with an easy, fluid model’s grace that belied the strength and endurance she had acquired and maintained through years of rigorous training.

She studied herself in the mirror with the same frank, open stare she gave everyone. Her green eyes were wide-set beneath arched brows in her round, smooth Charlie Brown face. Her cinnamon hair was cut short and curled tightly about her head, framing her small, even features. People told her all the time she was pretty, but she never quite believed them. Her friends had known her all her life and were inclined to be generous in their assessments. Strangers were just being polite.

Still, she told herself with more than a trace of irony, fluffing her hair into place, you never know when Prince Charming will come calling. Best to be ready so you don’t lose out.

She left the mirror and the bathroom and walked through her bedroom to the hall beyond. She had been up since five-thirty, running on the mostly empty roads that stretched from Sinnissippi Park east to Moonlight Bay. Winter had set in several weeks before with the first serious snowfall, but the snow had melted during a warm spot a week ago, and there had been no further accumulation. Patches of sooty white still lay in the darker, shadowy parts of the woods and in the culverts and ditches where the snowplows had pushed them, but the blacktop of the country roads was dry and clear. She did five miles, then showered, fixed herself breakfast, ate, and dressed. She was due in church to help in the nursery at nine-thirty, and whoever it was who had come calling would have to be quick.

She passed the aged black-and-white tintypes and photographs of the women of her family, their faces severe and spare in the plain wooden picture frames, backdropped by the dark webbing of trunks and limbs of the park trees. Gwendolyn Wills, Carolyn Glynn, and Opal Anders. Her grandmother’s picture was there, too. Nest had added it after Gran’s death. She had chosen an early picture, one in which Evelyn Freemark appeared youthful and raw and wild, hair all tousled, eyes filled with excitement and promise. That was the way Nest liked to remember Gran. It spoke to the strengths and weaknesses that had defined Gran’s life.

Nest scanned the group as she went down the hallway, admiring the resolve in their eyes. The Freemark women, she liked to call them. All had entered into the service of the Word, partnering themselves with Pick to help the sylvan keep in balance the strong, core magic that existed in the park. All had been born with magic of their own, though not all had managed it well. She thought briefly of the dark secrets her grandmother had kept, of the deceptions she herself had employed in the workings of her own magic, and of the price she had paid for doing so.

Her mother’s picture was missing from the group. Caitlin Anne Freemark had been too fragile for the magic’s demands. She had died young, just after Nest was born, a victim of her demon lover’s treachery. Nest kept her pictures on a table in the living room where it was always sunlit and cheerful.

The knock came a third time just as she reached the door and opened it. The tiny silver bells that encircled the bough wreath that hung beneath the peephole tinkled softly with the movement. She had not done much with Christmas decorations—no tree, no lights, no tinsel, only fresh greens, a scattering of brightly colored bows, and a few wall hangings that had belonged to Gran. This year Christmas would be celebrated mostly in her heart.

The chill, dry winter air was sharp and bracing as she unlatched the storm door, pushed it away, and stepped out onto the porch.

The old man who stood waiting was dressed all in black. He was wearing what in other times would have been called a frock coat, which was double-breasted with wide lapels and hung to his knees. A flat-brimmed black hat sat firmly in place over wisps of white hair that stuck out from underneath as if trying to escape. His face was seamed and browned by the wind and sun, and his eyes were a watery gray as they blinked at her. When he smiled, as he was doing, his whole face seemed to join in, creasing cheerfully from forehead to chin. He was taller than Nest by several inches, and he stooped as if to make up for the disparity.

She was reminded suddenly of an old-time preacher, the kind that appeared in southern gothics and ghost stories, railing against godlessness and mankind’s paucity of moral resolve.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice gravelly and deep. He dipped his head slightly, reaching up to touch the brim of his odd hat.

“Good morning,” she replied.

“Miss Freemark, my name is Findo Gask,” he announced. “I am a minister of the faith and a bearer of the holy word.”

As if to emphasize the point, he held up a black, leather-bound tome from which dangled a silken bookmark.

She nodded, waiting. Somehow he knew her name, although she had no memory of meeting him before.

“It is a fine, grand morning to be out and about, so I won’t keep you,” he said, smiling reassuringly. “I see you are on your way to church. I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of a young lady and her time of worship. Take what comfort you can in the moment, I say. Ours is a restless, dissatisfied world, full of uncertainties and calamities and impending disasters, and we would do well to be mindful of the fact that small steps and little cautions are always prudent.”

It wasn’t so much the words themselves, but the way in which he spoke them that aroused a vague uneasiness in Nest. He made it sound more like an admonition than the reassurance it was intended to be.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Gask?” she asked, anxious for him to get to the point.

His head cocked slightly to one side. “I’m looking for a man,” he said. “His name is John Ross.”

Nest started visibly, unable to hide her reaction. John Ross. She hadn’t seen or communicated with him for more than ten years. She hadn’t even heard his name spoken by anyone but Pick.

“John Ross,” she repeated flatly. Her uneasiness heightened.

The old man smiled. “Has he contacted you recently, Miss Freemark? Has he phoned or written you of late?”

She shook her head no. “Why would he do that, Mr. Gask?”

The smile broadened, as if to underline the silliness of such a question. The watery gray eyes peered over her shoulder speculatively. “Is he here already, Miss Freemark?”

A hint of irritation crept into her voice. “Who are you, Mr. Gask? Why are you interested in John Ross?”

“I already told you who I am, Miss Freemark. I am a minister of the faith. As for my interest in Mr. Ross, he has something that belongs to me.”

She stared at him. Something wasn’t right about this. The air about her warmed noticeably, changed color and taste and texture. She felt a roiling inside, where Wraith lay dormant and dangerously ready, the protector chained to her soul.

“Perhaps we could talk inside?” Findo Gask suggested.

He moved as if to enter her home, a subtle shift of weight from one foot to the other, and she found herself tempted simply to step aside and let him pass. But she held her ground, the uneasiness becoming a tingling in the pit of her stomach. She forced herself to look carefully at him, to meet his eyes directly.

The tingling changed abruptly to a wave of nausea.

She took a deep, steadying breath and exhaled. She was in the presence of a demon.

“I know what you are,” she said quietly.

The smile stayed in place, but any trace of warmth disappeared. “And I know what you are, Miss Freemark,” Findo Gask replied smoothly. “Now, is Mr. Ross inside or isn’t he?”

Nest felt the chill of the winter air for the first time and shivered in spite of herself. A demon coming to her home with such bold intent was unnerving. “If he was, I wouldn’t tell you. Why don’t you get off my porch, Mr. Gask?”

Findo Gask shifted once more, a kind of settling in that indicated he had no intention of moving until he was ready. She felt Wraith stir awake inside, sensing her danger.

“Let me just say a few things to you, Miss Freemark, and then I’ll go,” Findo Gask said, a bored sigh escaping his lips. “We are not so different, you and I. When I said I know what you are, I meant it. You are your father’s daughter, and we know what he was, don’t we? Perhaps you don’t care much for the reality of your parentage, but truth will out, Miss Freemark. You are what you are, so there isn’t much point in pretending otherwise, though you work very hard at doing so, don’t you?”

Nest flushed with anger, but Findo Gask waved her off. “I also said I was a minister of the faith. You assumed I meant your faith naturally, but you were mistaken. I am a servant of the Void, and it is the Void’s faith I embrace. You would pretend it is an evil, wicked faith. But that is a highly subjective conclusion. Your faith and mine, like you and I, are not so different. Both are codifications of the higher power we seek to comprehend and, to the extent we are able, manipulate. Both can be curative or destructive. Both have their supporters and their detractors, and each seeks dominance over the other. The struggle between them has been going on for eons; it won’t end today or tomorrow or the day after or anytime soon.”

He stepped forward, kindly face set in a condescending smile that did nothing to hide the threat behind it. “But one day it will end, and the Word will be destroyed. It will happen, Miss Freemark, because the magic of the Void has always been the stronger of the two. Always. The frailties and weaknesses of mankind are insurmountable. The misguided belief that the human condition is worth salvaging is patently ridiculous. Look at the way the world functions, Miss Freemark. Human frailties and weaknesses abound. Moral corruption here, venal desires there. Greed, envy, sloth, and all the rest at every turn. The followers of the Word rail against them endlessly and futilely. The Void embraces them, and turns a weakness into a strength. Pacifism and meek acceptance? Charity and goodwill? Kindness and virtue? Rubbish!”

“Mr. Gask—”

“No, no, hear me out, young lady. A little of that famous courtesy, please.” He cut short her protestation with a sharp hiss. “I don’t tell you this to frighten you. I don’t tell it to you to persuade you of my cause. I could care less what you feel or think about me. I tell it to you to demonstrate the depth of my conviction and my commitment. I am not easily deterred. I want you to understand that my interest in Mr. Ross is of paramount importance. Think of me as a tidal wave and yourself as a sand castle on a beach. Nothing can save you from me if you stand in my way. It would be best for you to let me move you aside. There is no reason for you not to let me do so. None at all. You have nothing vested in this matter. You have nothing to gain by intervening and everything to lose.”

He paused then, lifting the leather-bound book and pressing it almost reverently against his chest. “These are the names of those who have opposed me, Miss Freemark. The names of the dead. I like to keep track of them, to think back on who they were. I have been alive a very long time, and I shall still be alive long after you are gone.”

He lowered the book and put a finger to his lips. “This is what I want you to do. You will have no trouble understanding my request, because I will put it to you in familiar terms. In the terms of your own faith. I want you to deny John Ross. I want you to cast him out of your heart and mind and soul as you would a cancer. I want you to shun him as a leper. Do this for yourself, Miss Freemark, not for me. I will have him anyway, in the end. I do not need to claim you as well.”

Nest was buffeted by so many emotions she could no longer distinguish them. She had kept quiet during the whole of his noxious, execrable presentation, fighting to keep herself and an increasingly agitated Wraith under control. She didn’t think Findo Gask knew of Wraith, and she did not want him to discover Wraith was there unless that became unavoidable. She needed to know more of what was going on first, because she wasn’t for a moment thinking of acceding to a single demand he had made.

“John Ross isn’t here,” she managed, gripping the storm-door frame so tightly with one hand her knuckles turned white.

“I accept that, Miss Freemark,” Findo Gask said with a slight dip of his flat-brimmed hat. “But he will be.”

“What makes you so sure?”

She could see in his eyes that he believed he had won her over, that she was trying to find a way to cooperate with him. “Call it a hunch. I have been following his progress for a time, and I think I know him pretty well. He will come. When he does, or even if he tries to make contact another way, don’t do anything to help him.”

“What does he have that you want?” she pressed, curious now.

The demon shrugged. “A magic, Miss Freemark. A magic he would attempt to use against me, I’m afraid.”

She nodded slowly. “But that you will attempt to use against him, instead?”

Findo Gask stepped back, reaching up to touch the brim of his hat. “I have taken up enough of your time. Your Sunday worship awaits. I’ll look forward to your call.”

“Mr. Gask,” she called to him as he started down the porch steps toward the walk. He turned back to her, squinting against the bright December sunlight. “My grandfather kept a shotgun in his bedroom closet for duck hunting. When my father tried to come back into this house fifteen years ago, my grandmother used that shotgun to prevent him from doing so. I still have that shotgun. If you ever step foot on my property again, I will use it on you. I will blow away your miserable disguise and leave you naked in your demon form for however long it takes you to put yourself back together and all the while be hoping to God you won’t be able to do so!”