Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack) (13 page)

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—now official that the sun set early for the third day in a row. It dropped below the western horizon at 7:11
P.M.
, robbing us of nearly two hours of daylight. The scientific community is becoming increasingly alarmed about the environmental effects of the shortened days. In a statement …

Sutton Square

Gia kissed him at the door to the town house.

“Sure,” she said with a sardonic smile. “Eat and run.”

Jack returned the kiss and ran his fingertips through her short blond hair.

“I’ve got an appointment at Julio’s.”

Her clear blue eyes flashed. “A new customer?”

“An old one.” She opened her mouth to speak but he pressed a finger across her full lips. “We just need to settle up.”

She kissed his finger and pulled it away.

“I was just going to say that Vicky wants you to stay.”

Vicky. The other bright spot in his life. The skinny little ten-year-old who’d wormed her way into his heart years ago and refused to leave.

“Really?” Jack slipped his arms around her waist and pressed her slim body against him.

“I wish you’d stay too.”

He ran his hands over Gia’s back and noticed the tight muscles. He knew she was a high-strung sort, but tonight she seemed unusually tense.

“Something wrong?”

“I don’t know. I feel jumpy. Like something’s going to happen.”

“Something already has. You saw the news: The sun set even earlier and a big chunk of Central Park fell all the way to hell.”

“That’s not it. Something in the air. Is it what I saw in the coma, do you think?”

“I hope not.”

Ever since the near-fatal accident last year she’d become … he guessed “sensitized” was the best word for it. She’d seen a landscape of the future while she was out, and it had ended in impenetrable darkness this spring.

“Don’t you feel it?”

Jack did feel it. A pervasive imminence in the still darkness at his back. The very air seemed heavy, pregnant with menace.

“It’s probably all these strange things that’ve been happening.”

“Maybe. But I don’t want to be alone with Vicky tonight. Can you come back later?”

“Sure. Be glad to. I shouldn’t be too—”

“Jack-Jack-Jack!”

Over Gia’s shoulder Jack could see Vicky running down the hall, a piece of paper in her hand. She had her mother’s blue eyes and her late father’s brown hair, tied back in a long ponytail that flicked back and forth as she ran. Bony limbs and a dazzling smile that could pull Jack from his blackest moods.

“What is it, Vicks?”

“I drew you a picture.”

Vicky had inherited her mother’s artistic abilities and was increasingly into drawing. Jack took the proffered sheet of paper and stared at it. A swarm of tentacled things filled the air over the Manhattan skyline. It was … disturbing.

He smiled through his discomfiture. “It’s great, Vicks. Is this from
War of the Worlds
?”

“No. It’s raining octopuses!”

“Yeah … I guess it is. What made you think of that?”

“I don’t know,” she said, wrinkling her brow. “It just came to me.”

“Well, thanks,” Jack said, rolling it up into a tube. “I’ll add it to my Victoria Westphalen collection.”

She beamed and flashed him that smile. “Because it’s going to be worth a lot when I’m famous, right?”

“You got it, kid. You’re gonna help me retire.”

Jack gave her a kiss and a hug, then another quick kiss for Gia.

“Be back later.”

Gia gave his hand a squeeze of thanks, then he was out on the street, walking west.

As he headed up 58th, Mr. Veilleur’s final words of the afternoon echoed in his head.

Do not go out after dark, especially near that hole.

Why the hell not? The warning was like a waving red flag. And since he’d have to pass the park on his way to Julio’s …

Ernst Drexler smiled as he turned off Allen Street toward the Order’s downtown Lodge.

The last twenty-four hours had been quite entertaining. Quite entertaining indeed. Not if you didn’t understand the portent of the events, of course. Then you were baffled, perhaps even frightened. As well you should be.

No doubt about it—the Change had begun.

Ernst had been anticipating it since the death of the Lady. Two uneventful months had passed, leaving him wondering at the delay. But he supposed these things took time. The One had to give the Enemy time to conclude that sentience here had died and to move on to greener pastures, so to speak. Maybe the stars had to align or the spheres of the multiverse had to rotate into a certain configuration. Who knew? All that mattered was that it had begun.

The One’s time, the Order’s time, and most important,
Ernst’s
time was at hand.

He just wished he’d been given some warning.

He’d consulted the head of the High Council as soon as he heard about the late sunrise. But the Council had been given no prior notice either.

Despite the One’s saying he would not be contacting him if his plans bore fruit, the lack of warning bothered Ernst.

He replayed the moment on that frigid night back in March when he had dropped off the One in midtown, near Central Park. He remembered his words exactly.

Events will reach a head in the next few hours or days or … they will not. If they go our way, phones and money will be irrelevant. If they do not, you will hear from me.

If they go
our
way … Ernst had spent the ensuing weeks clinging to that pronoun.

The brothers of the Ancient Septimus Fraternal Order had spent millennia manipulating people and events to maintain a certain level of chaos to pave the way for the Change. Ernst’s own father had been instrumental in fomenting much of the turmoil of the first half of the twentieth century. Of all living brothers, certainly no one had provided the One more personal service toward bringing the Change than Ernst Drexler. He’d been the One’s go-to guy, as Americans liked to put it.

Ernst hadn’t done it out of the goodness of his heart. He and the upper echelons of the Order expected to be rewarded in the world that followed the Change.

If they go
our
way …

Our
way …

Yet not one word from the One since that night. He certainly hadn’t been shy about contacting Ernst before that. Oh, they’d had a minor falling out, but that fence had been mended. He’d—

A bird buzzed past his ear.

Buzzed? Since when do birds buzz? It was sailing down the street toward the Lodge, and he got a better look at it as it slowed and banked around a streetlight. Not a bird. Something else, something insectoid, with four diaphanous wings and a pendulous translucent sack for a body.

When it completed its turn he realized it was coming back his way, heading straight for his face. Ernst ducked to the right and swung his cane as it passed. He might be well into his seventh decade, but he’d remained trim and agile. The silver head made a direct hit on the middle of the thing’s back, damaging two of its wings with a satisfying
crunch.

It caromed off a nearby car and dropped to the sidewalk where its remaining wings buzzed in a furious attempt to fly again but succeeded only in propelling it off the curb. Ernst stepped closer but couldn’t make out more details in the shadowed gutter.

Nasty, aggressive thing. He stabbed it with the end of his cane, puncturing its sack. Clear fluid oozed from the wound. Ernst was about to stab it again when another buzzed past.

Deciding he might be better off inside, he hurried the rest of the way to the Lodge. As he neared he was surprised to see the front steps deserted. Ever since the Order had allowed Hank Thompson to use it as a headquarters for his Kicker movement, the front steps had become the smoking area for his followers, giving the stately, granite-block building the appearance of some sort of halfway house for paroled felons rather than a branch of the world’s oldest fraternal order. Ernst didn’t like Thompson, loathed his scruffy retinue, and had been opposed to allowing them use of the downtown Lodge.

He had to admit that the group had come in handy at times, but still …

When he reached the steps he glanced up at the second floor and noticed that the hurricane shutters Thompson had installed a couple of months ago on the windows of his quarters had been lowered. Another reason to dislike Thompson: He’d defaced this historic building.

As Ernst hurried up the steps he noticed a splash of fresh blood on the stone balustrade. And below that, among the cigarette butts littering the steps, a trail of blood leading to the heavy front doors. He pushed through them into the marble foyer.

“Close it!” said a familiar voice. The man himself, Hank Thompson, stood to his right, peering through one of the doorway’s narrow sidelights. “Close it right now!”

Ernst ignored him, of course. Instead he strode a few steps farther into the lobby. The trail of blood led to a dreadlocked Kicker sitting on the floor against the far wall while a couple of his fellows ministered to him.

An entry door slammed behind him. He turned to see Thompson staring at him. Tall, lean, and shaggy-haired as usual, but his customary insouciance had vanished. He stood there tense, pale-faced, and wide-eyed.

“What’s it like out there?” he said, pointing to the doors.

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“The birds! They’re attacking!”

Ernst assumed he was referring to that thing that had come at him. A bit unsettling, yes, but Thompson looked nearly unhinged.

“Well, I saw some strange-looking—”

Thompson stepped closer. “You weren’t attacked? Kewan was out there on a cigarette break, minding his own business, when this thing swoops down and takes a chunk out of his shoulder.”

Ernst had had to deal with Kewan from time to time, and had found him brighter than he looked, despite his ridiculous hair.

Thompson leaned even closer and lowered his voice. “You think this is how it starts, with the birds turning on us?”

“Are you referring to that du Maurier story?”

Thompson made a face. “Who’s that?” He shook his head. “Whatever. You think this is it? I mean, first that hole, now—”

Ernst nodded. “Yes, I believe the Change has begun.”

Thompson kept his voice low but was speaking through his teeth. “Then what’s the idea of attacking
us
? We’re on his side! We helped him get here!”

Yes, Thompson and his Kickers had been useful in bringing down the Internet, but the end result had fallen short of everyone’s expectations. Especially the One’s.

“You didn’t really believe your followers would get a pass, did you?”

“Well…”

“Only you and I and a few others will be exalted. The rest…” He shrugged.

Ernst doubted that Hank Thompson himself would be spared, but didn’t say that. He still might have his uses.

“It’s just like that dream I’ve been having. But I’m prepared. I’m protected. Ain’t no birds getting to me.”

With that he turned and hurried up the stairway to the upper floors. To his quarters, no doubt, to huddle behind his storm shutters and steel door.