Angel Fire East (21 page)

Nest climbed back to her feet and looked around helplessly. When had Bennett left? How long had she been gone? Where would she go without taking Harper, without telling anyone, without a car? She knew the answer before she finished the question, and she experienced a rush of anger and despair.

She bounded back up the stairs to find Robert. She would have to go looking, of course—even without knowing where to start. She would have to call John home to watch the children while she took the car and conducted a search.

In a snowstorm where everything was shut down and cars were barely moving? On a night when the wind chill was low enough to freeze you to death?

She felt the futility of what she was proposing threaten to overwhelm her, but she shoved aside her doubts to concentrate on the task at hand. She found Robert coming down the stairs from the second floor, shaking his head.

“Beats me, Nest. I looked everywhere I could think—”

Nest brushed the rest of what he was going to say aside with a wave of her hand. “She’s gone. I got that much out of Harper. She left sometime back. I don’t know why.”

Robert sighed wearily. “But you can guess, can’t you? She’s an addict, Nest. I saw the tracks on her arms.” He shook his head. “Look, I know this is none of my business, but—”

“Don’t start, Robert. Just don’t!” She clenched his wrist so hard he winced. “Don’t lecture me about the company I keep, about Bennett and John Ross and all the strange things happening and how you remember it was just like this fifteen years ago on the Fourth of July! Just warm up your car while I get the children into their coats and boots and then drive us home!”

She let go of his wrist. “Do you think you can manage that?”

He looked mortified. “Of course I can manage it! Geez!”

She leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You’re a good guy, Robert. But you require a lot of maintenance. Now get going.”

T
he demons bundled Bennett Scott into her parka and took her out of the house and into the night, letting the drugs in her system do the job of keeping her in line. Snow was flying in all directions, the wind was blowing hard, and it was so cold that nose hairs froze, but Bennett Scott was floating somewhere outside her body, barely aware of anything but the pleasant feeling of not really being connected to reality. Every so often, something around her would come sharply into focus—the bite of the wind, the white fury of the snow, the skeletal shadow of a crooked tree limb, or the faces of Findo Gask and Penny Dreadful, one on either side, propping her up and moving her along. But mostly there was only a low buzzing in her ears and a wondrous sense of peace.

Findo Gask had left everything in the house as he found it, closing the front door behind them without locking it. He wanted Nest Freemark to return home without suspecting he had been there, so he had been careful not to do anything that would scare her off. If she grew too cautious, it would spoil the surprise he had left for her.

With Penny laughing and talking nonstop, they climbed into the car, backed out of the driveway onto Woodlawn, drove to the park entrance, parked in front of the crossbar, and set off on foot. Sinnissippi Park was a black hole of cold and sleet, the darkness unbroken and endless across the flats and through the woods, the snow freezing to ice in the grip of the north wind howling up the river channel. The lights that normally lit the roadway had been lost earlier when a power line went down, and the curtain of blowing snow masked the pale glimmerings of the nearby residences and townhomes. Tonight, the park might as well have been on the moon.

Bennett Scott stumbled and mushed through the deepening snowdrifts, her feet dragging, her body listless, her progress made possible by the fact that the demons who clutched either arm were dragging her. She gulped blasts of frigid air for breath and ducked her head for warmth, automatic responses from her body, but her mind told her almost nothing of what she was doing. She remembered Penny being there, the sharing of drugs that gave her such relief, and the thin, tenuous thread of hope she clung to that somehow, someday, she would find her way back to Harper. Now and again, she would hear her daughter’s voice calling to her, small words, little noises, bits and pieces of memories retrieved from the haze of her thoughts.

She saw nothing of the eyes that began to appear in the dark, bright pairs of yellow slits coming out of nowhere in twos and threes until there were dozens.

They crossed the park to the bluffs, then continued west past the Indian mounds to the turnaround and the cliffs. The road had disappeared in the snow, and the entire area was a white carpet beneath the ragged limbs of the leafless hardwoods. Findo Gask was unconcerned about being interrupted; there was no one else in the park. Together with Penny, he nudged Bennett Scott toward the cliff edge, maneuvering her forward until she was only a few yards from the drop.

The feeders pressed closer, eager to become involved.

“Let her go, Penny,” Gask ordered.

They stepped back from Bennett, leaving her alone at the cliff’s edge, facing out toward the river, her head lolling and her arms hanging loose. The feeders closed on her, touching her softly, cajoling her voicelessly, urging her to give them what they needed.

Bennett stood without moving, her mind in another time zone, gliding through valleys and over peaks, the land all white-edged and golden bright, the singing of her blood in her veins sustaining and comforting. She soared unfettered for a long time, staring at nothing, and then remembered suddenly that she had not come alone.

“Penny?” she managed.

The wind howled at her.

“Penny?”

A child’s voice called sharply. “Mommy!”

Bennett lifted her head and peered into the snow and darkness. It was Harper!

“Mommy, can you hear me?”

“Baby, where are you? Baby?”

“Mommy, I need you! Please, Mommy!”

Bennett felt the cold suddenly, a taste of its bite ripping past the armor of her stupor, leaving her shaking and breathing hard. She licked at her dry lips and glanced around. She saw the eyes now, close and watchful and hungry, and she jerked away in shock and fear.

“Harper!” she screamed.

“Mommy, run!” she heard Harper call out.

She saw her daughter then, a faint image just ahead of her in the darkness, lit by a pale white light that brightened and faded with the beating of her own heart, with the pulsing of her blood. She saw Harper and reached for her, but Harper was already moving away.

“Harper!” she wailed.

She couldn’t go to her, knew she couldn’t, knew there was something very wrong with trying to do so. She had a vague memory of having been in this situation once before, but she could not remember when or why.

“Mommy!” Harper begged, stumbling as she retreated.

Something was pulling at the little girl, dragging her away—something dark and shapeless and forbidding. It was too much for Bennett Scott. She cast off her lethargy and fear and burst through the knot of eyes that pressed against her, lunging after her daughter.

She was close enough to touch Harper, to see the fear in her daughter’s eyes, when the ground disappeared beneath her feet and she fell away into the dark.

CHAPTER 20

R
obert Heppler pulled the big Navigator into the empty driveway and put it in park, leaving the engine running. Nest gave a quick sigh of relief. It was blowing snow so hard that the driveway itself and all traces of tire tracks that might have marked its location had long since disappeared, so it was a good thing he knew the way by heart or they could easily have ended up in the front yard. She stared at the lighted windows of the house, but could see no movement. There were more lights on now than when she had left for the party, so someone must have gotten there ahead of her. She felt a surge of hope. Maybe she was wrong about Bennett. Maybe Bennett was waiting inside.

“Do you want me to come in with you?” Robert asked. She shifted her eyes to meet his, and he gestured vaguely. “Just to make sure.”

She knew what he meant, even if he wasn’t saying it straight out. “No, I can handle this. Thanks for bringing us back, Robert.”

He shrugged. “Anytime. Call if you need me.”

She opened the door into the shriek of the wind and climbed out, sinking in snow up to her knees.
Criminy,
as Pick would say. “Watch yourself driving home, Robert!” she shouted at him.

She got the children out of the backseat, small bundles of padded clothing and loose scarf ends, and began herding them toward the house. The wind whipped at them, shoving them this way and that as they trundled through its deep carpet, heads bent, shoulders hunched. It was bitter cold, and Nest could feel it reach all the way down to her bones. She heard the rumble of the Navigator as it backed out of the driveway and turned up the road. In seconds, the sound of the engine had disappeared into the wind’s howl.

They clambered up the ice-rimmed wooden steps to the relative shelter of the front porch, where the children stamped their boots and brushed snow from their shoulders in mimicry of Nest. She tested the front door and found it unlocked—a sure sign someone was home—and ushered Harper and Little John inside.

It was silent in the house when she closed the door against the weather, so silent that she knew almost at once she had assumed wrongly; no one else was there, and if they had been, they had come and gone. She could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock and the rattle of the shutters at the back of the house where the wind worked them against their fastenings, but that was all.

She glanced down and noticed Bennett’s small bag packed and sitting by the front door. Close by, she saw the damp outline of bootprints that were not their own. Then she caught sight of a glint of metal in the carpet. She bent slowly to pick it up. It was a syringe.

She felt a moment of incredible sorrow. Placing the syringe inside a small vase on the entry table, she turned to the children and began helping them off with their coats. Harper’s face was red with cold and her eyes were tired. Little John looked the way he always did—pale, distant, and haunted. But he seemed frail, too, as if the passing of time drained him of energy and life and was finally beginning to leave its mark. She stopped in the middle of removing his coat, stared at him a moment, and then pulled him against her, hugging him close, trying to infuse him with some small sense of what she was feeling, trying once again to break through to him.

“Little John,” she whispered.

He did not react to being held, but when she released him, he looked at her, and curiosity and wonder were in his eyes.

“Neth,” Harper said at her elbow, touching her sleeve. “Appo jus?”

She glanced at the little girl and smiled. “Just a minute, sweetie. Let’s finish getting these coats and boots off.”

She dropped the coats on top of Bennett’s bag to hide it from view, pulled off the children’s boots, and laid their gloves and scarves over the old radiator. Outside, a car wearing chains rumbled down the snowy pavement, its passing audible only a moment before disappearing into the wind. Shadows flickered across the window panes as tree limbs swayed and shook amid the swirling snow. Nest stood by the door without moving, drawn by the sounds and movements, wondering if Bennett had been foolish enough to go out. The packed bag by the door suggested otherwise, but the house felt so empty.

“Come on, guys,” she invited, taking the children by the hand and leading them down the hallway to the kitchen.

She glanced over her shoulder. It was dark in the back of the house. If Bennett was there, she was sleeping. Her gaze shifted to the shadowy corners of the living room as they passed, and she caught sight of Hawkeye’s gleaming orbs way back under the Christmas tree, behind the presents.

Then she looked ahead, down the hall. The basement door was open. She slowed, suddenly wary. That door had been closed when she left. Would Bennett have gone down there for some reason?

She stopped at the kitchen entry and stared at the door. There was nothing in the basement. Only the furnace room, electrical panels, and storage. There were no finished rooms.

Outside, the wind gusted sharply, shaking the back door so hard the glass rattled. Nest started at the sound, releasing the children’s hands.

“Go sit at the table,” she ordered, gently shooing them into the kitchen.

Standing by the doorway, she picked up the phone to call John Ross, but the line was dead. She put the receiver back in its cradle and looked again at the basement door.

She was being silly, she told herself as she walked over to it swiftly, closed it without looking down the stairs, and punched the button lock on the knob. She stood where she was for a moment, contemplating her act, surprised at how much better it made her feel.

Satisfied, she walked back into the kitchen and began setting out cider and cookies. When the cider and cookies were distributed, she took a moment to check out the bedrooms, just to be sure Bennett was not there. She wasn’t. Nest returned to the kitchen, considering her options. Only one made any real sense. She would have to get a hold of the police. She did not like contemplating what that meant.

She was sipping cider and munching cookies with the children when the shriek of ripping or tearing of metal rose out of the bowels of the house. She heard the sound once, and then everything went silent.

She sat for a moment without moving, then rose from her chair, walked out of the kitchen and down the hallway a few steps, and stopped again to listen. “Bennett?” she called softly.

An instant later, the lights went out.

J
ohn Ross dreams of the future. The day is gray and clouded, and the light is poor. It is morning, but the sun is only a spot of hazy brightness in the deeply overcast sky. The walls of partially collapsed buildings hem him in on all sides, shutting away the world beyond and giving him the feel of what it must be like to be a rat in a maze. He moves down passageways and streets with quick, furtive movements, sliding from doorway to alcove, from alleyway to darkened corner. He is being hunted, and he feels his hunters drawing close.

He is in a village. He has been hiding there for several days, tired and worn and bereft of his magic. He carries his rune-scrolled black staff, but its magic is dormant. An expenditure of that magic in his past has left him without its use in his present. It has been more than a week since the magic was his to command, the longest time he has spent without its protection. He does not know why the magic has failed him so thoroughly and for so long, but he is running out of time. In the world of the future he has failed to prevent, a week without armor or weapons is a lifetime.

Ahead, he sees the shapes of trees through a haze that never clears. If he can make it to those trees, he may have a chance. Someone in the village has betrayed him, as someone always does. They depend on him, but they do not trust him. The magic he wields is powerful, but it is frightening as well. Sooner or later, someone always decides he is more dangerous than the once-men and the demons he battles. They arrive at the decision out of a misguided belief that by sacrificing him, they can save themselves. It is a condition of humankind brought about by the collapse of civilization. He has long since accepted it as the way of things, but he cannot get used to it. Even as he runs for his life yet another time, he is filled with anger and disgust for those he tries so hard to protect.

The sounds of pursuit are audible now, and he picks up his pace, making for the concealment of the trees. Once clear of the village and deep enough into the woods, he will be difficult to find. He is physically fit, toughened by his years of survival in the brave new world of the Void’s ascendancy. He is no longer hampered by the limp that shackled him in the old world, when the Word held sway. He knows how to flee and hide as well as how to attack and fight, and he will not be easily found. He remembers how little he knew of such things in his old life. He was a Knight of the Word then, too, but in the old world there was still hope. Bitterness colors his thoughts; if he had not failed in his efforts there, his survival knowledge would not be necessary here.

Feeders shadow him as he gains the tangle of the trees and melts into their darkened mass. They are always with him, hopeful that one day they will feed on him as they have fed on so many others. Everywhere he goes, they are drawn to him. He has come to accept this, too. He is a magnet for predators of all sorts, and the feeders are only the most pervasive of the breed. Sometimes they will challenge him, but they cannot stand against his magic. It is only now, when the magic is out of his reach, that they sense they have a chance. He tries to ignore the hunger that reflects in their eyes as they keep pace with him, but he does not completely succeed.

Behind him, screams begin to rise from the village. The demons and once-men are reaping their harvest of death, reducing the village to ashes and rubble. It is unavoidable. All communities of men, whether city fortresses or unwalled villages, are targeted for this end. The destruction of humankind is the goal to which the servants of the Void are pledged. It is a goal that will be attained one day in the not-too-distant future, even though a few like himself struggle still to prevent it. It will be attained because all chance of winning has been lost in the past, and the Word has been reduced to memory and lost in time.

There are movements on his left and right, and he realizes his hunters have flanked him, moving more quickly than he has expected. He slows and listens, trying to judge what he must do. But there is little time for speculation, and after a moment he plunges on, reduced to hoping he can outdistance them. He does not succeed. They come upon him moments later, one or two at first, crying out wildly as they discover him, quickly bringing more, until soon there are so many the trees are thick with them. Still he races on, zigzagging down ravines and up hills, knocking aside the few brave enough to challenge him alone. He tries to call up the magic, hoping that it has returned, that it has not forsaken him when he needs it most, but the magic does not respond.

They catch him in a clearing where there is room enough for them to come at
him from all sides. He struggles ferociously, bringing to bear all of his considerable fighting skills, but his attackers overwhelm him by sheer numbers. He is thrown to the ground and pinned fast by many hands, the stench of the once-men thick in his nostrils, their eyes bright with expectation and fever. Feeders swarm over him, finding him helpless at last, already beginning to touch him, to savor the emotions he emits while trapped and helpless.

A demon emerges from the crush of bodies and rips the black staff from his hands. No one has ever been able to do this before, but that is because he has always had the magic to prevent it and now he does not. The demon studies the staff, its twisted face bristling with dark hair and pocked with deep hollows where the leathery skin has collapsed into the bone. It attempts to snap the staff in two, using its inhuman strength, but the staff resists its efforts. Frustrated, the demon throws it down and stamps on it, but the staff will not break. Finally, the demon burns it with magic, scattering the once-men who have gotten too close, leaving the staff charred and smoking within an outline of blackened earth.

They bear him from the clearing then, dozens of hands holding him fast as they move back through the woods toward the village. The demon follows, clutching the remains of the staff. He can hear anew the shrieks and moans of the injured and dying, of the people who first harbored him and then gave him up, guilty and innocent alike. Many will be dead before the day is done, and this time, he knows, he will be one of them. The thought of dying does not frighten him; he has lived with the possibility for too long to fear it now. Nor is he frightened of the pain. There are rents and tears in his skin, and his blood flows down his arms and legs, but he does not feel it. The pain he feels most lies deep inside his heart.

His captors bear him past the village through a ruined orchard and up a small rise to a country church. The church is smoldering from a fire that has mostly burned itself out. The roof has collapsed, the walls are scorched, and the windows have been broken out. A clutch of once-men have brought a large wooden cross from within and laid it on the open ground. The brackets that secured it to the wall behind the altar are still attached, twisted and scarred. Once-men with hammers and iron spikes stand waiting, heads turning quickly at his approach.

Hands lower him roughly to the earth and hold him pinned against the wooden cross, arms outstretched, legs crossed at the ankles. They strip off his boots so that his feet will be unprotected. He does not struggle against them. There is no reason to do so. His time as a Knight of the Word is ended. He watches almost disinterestedly as
the demon casts the ruined staff on the ground at his feet and the men with the hammers and spikes kneel beside him. They force one hand open and place the tip of a spike against his palm. He remembers a dream he had—long ago, when there was still hope—of being in this time and place, of hanging broken from a cross. He remembers, and thinks that perhaps the measure of any life is the joining of the past and the future at the moment of death.