Night of Demons - 02 (14 page)

She was still in the drawing room at the rear of her house. Had been there almost the whole day. Had not eaten, nor drunk a drop, such was the level of her anticipation. She’d smoked a few cigarettes, but that was all. Their odor lingered.

As the last light fled, Millicent Tollburn went to the narrow glass and chrome desk at the back of the room, and picked up the object she had placed there. The Thieftaker. She returned to the darkened window, cupping the device between her palms. Its facets shifted very gently as she moved, making the softest humming. There was a faint rasping motion on her skin. The thing seemed more like a machine than a jewel.

Everything beyond the glass panes was reduced to a series of vague silhouettes. She could see thousands of small lights when she looked down at the town, but her gaze dropped from it. She was concentrating hard now. Woodard Raine had told her precisely what to do. She had memorized every action, every word, even the emphasis on certain syllables.

She bowed her head. And held the Thieftaker as high as she could.

Latin, he had told her. But no. This spell covered both the taker of the object, and the stolen thing in question. It would be better to address the wand in its own tongue, the way her grandfather always had.

In French, she decided. And then she began.

Thief, you are discovered.

“Voleur, vous êtes découvert.”

The hundreds of tiny facets shifted a bit more. And a small surge of energy seemed to pulse out from them, rushing through her hands. Millicent was not wholly surprised. Her family’s magic had always been mighty, and the sorcery of the Raines was notoriously strong. Combined, who knew what they might achieve? This was merely the start of it—of that much she was certain.

Thief, there is nowhere to hide.

“Voleur, il n’y a pas de lieu pour se cacher.”

Return to me my property.

“Rendez à moi ce qui m’appartient.”

Your fate? The gods can then decide.

“Votre destin? Les dieux puissent décider.”

The shining, overlapping strands of the Thieftaker started to turn slowly, crisscrossing each other in patterns so intricate that she could not begin to make sense of them.

And it wasn’t just a mild pressure against her palms, this time. Hold on any longer, she realized, and the miniscule facets would start to cut her. And so Millicent let go of it.

It didn’t fall. Didn’t drop so much as half an inch. It simply floated in the air, precisely where she’d left it, remaining aloft like a hummingbird and letting out a grating sound.

She was so beguiled she practically forgot the next few words. And had to struggle to remember them.

You have no choice. There is no option. In chains you are bound. Appear before me now.

“Vous n’avez pas de choix! Il n’y a pas d’option! Vous êtes enchainé! Révélez-vous maintenant!”

The room abruptly shuddered, like it was vibrating to the heartbeat of some giant. And there was a brilliant flash of light. So intense that—if she’d not been warned by Raine to close her eyes—it would have blinded her.

When she opened them again, the Thieftaker was glowing furiously, a huge white fire seeming to churn within it. In fact, the thing had grown larger. Was the size of a softball by this time. And the facets were rotating even faster, clacking, whizzing as they turned.

As she watched, the individual gems seemed to lose their substance. They became simply revolving flecks of light. Were following the same complex orbits as before, but their trajectories were widening.

In less than a minute, they had spread so wide they nearly touched the floor and ceiling. They had formed a cage of spinning brilliance, which continued to clatter and fizz. About eight feet tall and five feet wide—large enough to contain any man.

There was one more sentence remaining to complete the spell. She raised her right arm, and jabbed at the whirling brightness with her sharply pointed index finger.

Thief, despair, for you are trapped.

“Voleur, perdez espoir, car vous êtes attrapé!”

The instant she said that, she felt a tremor run through her. It wasn’t a vibration on the air, this time. No, it was an instinct. She had shuddered. The cloud of vapor was very close. She could sense it!

Her flesh turned clammy. Yes, she knew it was inside the house. She turned toward the drawing room door. Thought she saw it shudder in its frame, the instant before the pale gray smoke came seeping underneath it.

It reformed into a ball in midair, hanging there as if it was unsure which direction it should take. Millicent tensed up. Had the spell gone wrong, so that she’d brought it here but did not have any real control over it?

But the strands of brilliance were churning even faster, lighting the whole room up like a strobe lamp gone berserk. The sounds they were emitting had grown to an intense, fragile whine that set her teeth on edge.

The pall of vapor tried to drift away, but then gave up and submitted to the magic. A few of the bright strands opened for it, and it floated in between them. Then they closed behind the cloud again. It hung there at the center, passive and immobile.

The noise died down, although the lights continued to revolve. Millicent felt the tension dropping from her body. She drew in a breath, then stepped up to the thing. There was no need for French, any longer. So she spoke to it in flat, plain English.

“Finally!”

Her top lip curled. Her eyes flashed.

“You’re the one who robbed me! Let’s see who you really are?”

Trapped in there, the thief had to obey her. It was part of the spell too, and there was no way to defy it. The smoke reformed until it was in vaguely human shape. Then it resolved itself more clearly.

My God, he was fat wasn’t he, whoever this was? Disgustingly so. And bald as well. Men looked so vile, the older they got. His features began appearing.

Lifeless eyes. Jowls all stubbled. And a thick-lipped mouth that had an ugly tilt to it, like he was smirking at some obscene joke.

The man was wearing a polo shirt, old enough that it had holes in it. He had on baggy sweatpants, fastened loosely with a drawstring at the top. And on his feet…stained white socks, with larger holes in them. No shoes, oddly.

He was breathing heavily, his beady gaze fixed on hers. In his right hand was a small knife, the blade glinting sharply.

And in his left?

There was no left hand. That part of him had not been revealed. It was still a ball of vapor. And hanging from it was a darker, thinner strand. She immediately knew what that was. The Wand of Dantiere itself.

Millicent could see what had happened. A fresh shock went through her as she took it in. The wand had bound itself to this man. Had become part of him, their essences fusing. And because of that, the Thieftaker hadn’t managed to do everything it was supposed to. It could apparently control the human being, but not the magic instrument.

In which case, could he still get out? How much danger was she in? She took a step away alarmedly.

The man seemed to pick up on that, with the keen sense all predators have. His grip tightened around the blade. He lowered his head slightly, peering at her through his bushy eyebrows. Grinned. Then started to move forward.

It took an effort, but he began to pass right through the strands of light. They ought to have held him just as solidly as iron bars. But the wand was helping him. He pressed himself against them, and they bulged out slowly under the pressure. Then gave way finally, parting. And by this time, his smile had become savage, feral, almost like he was already tasting blood.

Millicent felt the urge to run, but fought it. If she only knew who this man was. Understood what drove him, what he really wanted. While he was still closing the distance between them—and he was taking his time about it—she muttered a Spell of Linking.

There was no sound this time, no bright flashing lights. But their minds became connected instantly. She could see his thoughts, his memories. And drew in the information that she needed.

Yes, now she saw it. This was no one to be genuinely afraid of, whatever the rest of the world might think. A lowly and pathetic creature really, even more wretched than most normal men. She could see his one real weakness. What this Shadow Man genuinely feared. And she could control him with that knowledge. She was quite certain of that.

So, raising her arms slightly, she started changing her appearance. It was not real. Her own dark witchcraft was not strong enough for that. She was simply bending the light around her, so that anyone who looked at her would see a different person.

But it looked genuine enough. She seemed to grow shorter. And her hair became gray and tangled, rubbing at her brow. Her face expanded, growing rounder. There was even a double chin.

She glanced across at her reflection in the window. Her eyes were now piggy, exactly like the man’s. Her stubby nose was noticeably red, and dimpled like a strawberry. And a flush had extended itself across her newly flattened cheekbones. Years of drunkenness had been the cause of that.

Her hands were precisely the same as his, like those of a massive, pudgy baby. The clothes she wore were old ones, very cheap. Her thick legs had blue veins running down them, the tops of her stockings furled around her knees. And there were battered, fluffy green mules on her swollen stubs of feet.

Her lips parted, showing rotten teeth.

“Cornelius!”

She spat the name out like a curse.

He halted. Stared at her, aghast. His ugly grin vanished, like it had never been there in the first place. Then he shrank away from her, actually cowering. It was the bizarrest thing, watching a man so large—and with a knife, and murderous intent behind it—behaving this way. Almost comical, though she was careful not to show it.

His expression was horrified. He couldn’t seem to fathom what had happened. But he believed that what he was seeing was real. There was little doubt of that.

When he finally found the courage to speak, one solitary whimpered syllable came trickling out.

“Ma?”

“Cornelius! What in the blue blazes do you think you’re doing with that knife?”

Her voice rang out like a thunderclap. It had a strong Irish accent, and the words were all a little slurred. But she pinned him with her gaze as if he were a bug. The man quaked. The whites of his eyes showed clearly.

“Who are you planning to harm with that, you halfwit?”

It dropped from his grasp, glinting as it fell. Cornelius was shaking furiously by the time it hit the floor.

“No one, Ma.” And then he added, “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re a sorry excuse for a human being, that’s what you are!” She took a heavy, wobbling step in his direction. “What’s that in your other hand? You can put that down as well.”

His left arm came up, but it had not changed above the wrist. Was still composed of vapor, and the wand as well. He shook at it, but it remained in place, all part of the same structure.

“I can’t do that, Ma.” He gazed back at her helplessly. “It seems to be stuck.”

She lurched at him suddenly, and cuffed him around the ear. Cornelius let out a piteous wail, and crouched lower in front of her.

“Stuck, is it? Do you know what you’re holding there? It’s been in my family since the Norman Conquest.”

She was so anxious to get at it that she’d forgotten herself, dropping out of character. Cornelius squinted up at her, and Millicent stopped dead.

“What, Ma?” His expression, though still terrified, had grown slightly puzzled. “I…don’t understand.”

She saw she had to keep up the momentum. The man wouldn’t dare to question her if she only went at him hard enough.

“That’s because you are an utter moron! An embarrassment to the family name! Hand it over to me, or I’ll fix you good and proper.”

He shook his arm even more furiously, but the slender line remained intact.

“I can’t do it!” He began to panic. “Can’t! I can’t! I can’t!”

He covered his bald crown with his right hand, expecting another blow.

But Millicent paused thoughtfully, the Thieftaker still casting flecks of light around her. Some of her original shape returned. Her eyes became turquoise again, her mouth thinning and her nose regaining something of its slender sharpness. And yes, she was getting a clearer idea of precisely what had happened. The wand was vastly powerful, hugely varied in the functions it performed. And—like any such magic object—it had a mind of its own. A will. A sense of purpose.

It had, quite literally, grown attached to Cornelius here. She remembered the old stories regarding its origin. Its creator had been completely mad. And so perhaps one distorted intellect had found sympathy with another.

She linked with him again. Saw the intention of the wand itself, through the medium of the man’s thoughts. And she also saw what they’d been doing since Cornelius had gotten hold of it. Her sense of understanding grew.

The wand had enjoyed the killings. Blood, and pain, and death? It wanted more.

A momentary surge of jealousy ran through her. She regarded the thing as her own. Her rightful inheritance. What business did it have, attaching itself to such an awful, unclean misfit? But she was forced to recognize two facts.

She simply had to accept matters the way they’d turned out. The wand was far too strong for her to countermand its wishes. And—the more she turned it over—then the more she understood how this might go to her advantage. With this killer by her side, she could genuinely wreak some bloody vengeance on this town.

The real point was this. Cornelius had been working at a very simple stage of magic, up until this point. He had no idea what the instrument he was holding was capable of. So it was up to her to show him.

She brushed her fingertips together. The Thieftaker stopped moving, and the sparks of brilliance disappeared. When she reached for his head again, he made a small keening noise. But she did not hit him his time. Merely stroked his scalp. The sensation was repellent to her, but she continued with it. There was no other option, since she needed him completely on her side.