She went past her own bedroom and into Robert’s. She no longer slept there, but she cleaned for him, and she knew where he kept his things. She clicked on the bedside lamp and went into his closet, the light spilling after her in a bright sliver through the cracked door. In the rear of his closet was a smaller door that opened into a storage area. She found the key on the shelf above, where she knew he kept it, fitted the key in place, and released the lock.
Inside was the twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun he had once used for hunting and now kept mostly out of habit. She removed it from its leather slipcase and brought it into the light. The polished wooden stock and smooth metal barrel gleamed softly. She knew he cleaned it regularly, that it would fire if needed. There were boxes of shells in a cardboard box at the back of the storage area. She brought the box into the closet and opened it, bypassing the birdshot for the heavier double-ought shells that could blow a hole through you the size of a fist if the range was close and your aim true. Her hands were steady as she slid six shells through the loading slot into the magazine and dumped another six in a pocket of her housedress.
She stood motionless then, looking down at the shotgun, thinking that it had been almost ten years since she had fired it. She had been a good shot once, had hunted alongside Robert in the crisp fall days when duck season opened and the air smelled musky and the wind had a raw edge. It was a long time ago. She wondered if she could still fire this weapon. It felt familiar and comfortable in her hands, but she was old and not so steady. What if her strength failed her?
She chambered a shell with a quick, practiced movement of her hands, checked to make certain the safety was on, and smiled wryly. That would be the day.
Shotgun in hand, she exited the closet and moved back through the house. She stopped off in Nest’s room long enough to scribble a few words on a piece of notebook paper, which she then tucked under her granddaughter’s favorite down pillow. Satisfied that she had done what she could, she advanced down the hallway on mouse paws, listening to the silence, feeling the tension within her beginning to mount. It would happen quickly now. She was glad Robert was not there, that she did not have to worry about him. By the time he returned with Nest, it would be over. She wasn’t really worried about the girl, despite the urgency of her admonition to Robert to find her. Nest was better protected than any of them; she had seen to that. The monster that had appeared to threaten her didn’t know the half of it.
She emerged from the house with the shotgun pressed against her side where it could not be clearly seen, and she stopped just beyond the screen door to survey the darkness beyond, her senses alert. Nothing had changed. He was not there yet. Only the feeders had gathered. She moved down the porch to where her rocker was situated, leaned the gun up against the wall in the deep shadows, and settled herself comfortably in place.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil …
The demon would come for her. It would come for her because it hated her for what she had done to it all those years ago and because she was the one human it feared. Odd, that it should still feel this way, now that she was old and frail and virtually powerless. She wondered at the symmetry of life, at the ways the good and the bad of what you did came back to repay you, to reveal you. She had made so many mistakes, but she had made good choices, too. Robert, for openers. He had loved her through everything, even when Caitlin’s death had shattered her and her drinking and smoking had left her dissipated and hollowed out and bereft of peace. And Nest, linked to her by blood and magic, the image of herself as a girl, but stronger and more controlled. She closed her eyes momentarily, thinking of her granddaughter. Nest, sweet child, who stood unseeing at the center of the maelstrom that was about to commence.
“Good evening, Evelyn.”
Her eyes snapped open, raking the dark. She recognized his voice instantly, the smooth, insinuating lilt rising softly out of the heat. He was standing just off the walk, not quite close enough that she could see him clearly.
She tried to still the shaking inside, rocking slowly to settle her fear. “You took your time,” she said.
“Well, time has never been of much concern to me.” She could feel as much as see his smile. “It’s too bad you can’t say the same, Evelyn. You have grown quite old.”
She was briefly angry, but she kept her voice calm. “Well, I don’t pretend to be something I’m not, either. I’m pretty well content with being who I am. I’ve learned to live with myself. I doubt that you can say the same.”
The demon chuckled, crossing his arms on his chest. “Oh, that’s a terrible lie, Evelyn! Shame on you! You hate yourself! You hate your life!” The laugh died away. “That’s why you drink and smoke and hide out in your house, isn’t it? It wasn’t like that before. You should have embraced the magic in the same way I did, years ago, when you were still young and pretty and talented. You had that chance, and you gave it up. You gave me up as well. Look at what it’s cost you. So, please. I think I can live with myself better than you can.” He paused. “Which is what matters have to come down to, haven’t they?”
She nodded. “I suppose they have.”
The demon studied her. “You knew I’d come back to finish things, didn’t you? You didn’t think you could escape me?”
“Not for a moment. But I’m surprised you thought you needed help.”
He stared at her, a hint of confusion in his bland face. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”
“John Ross.”
The demon snorted. “Oh, Evelyn, don’t be obtuse. Ross is a creature of the Word. He’s been tracking me for some time. Without much success, I might add.”
Well, well, it seems I was wrong about Mr. Ross, she thought in surprise.
The demon was watching her closely. “Don’t get your hopes up, dear heart. John Ross is not going to change the outcome of things. I’ve already seen to that.”
“I expect you have,” she replied quietly.
He made a point of glancing around then, a slow, casual survey of the shadows. His smile was empty and cold. “Look who’s come to say good-bye to you.”
She had already seen them. Feeders by the dozens, slinking out of the darkness to gather at the edges of the light, crowding forward in anticipation, eyes unblinking and expressionless, dark bodies coiled. Some had already advanced to the far ends of the porch, their heads pressed up against the railing like grotesque children in search of a treat.
She gave him a flat, hard stare. “Perhaps they’ve come to say good-bye to you, instead.” She beckoned casually. “Step closer so I can see you better.”
The demon did so, moving just out of the shadows, his arms loose, his pale, washed-out blue eyes looking almost sleepy.
“Oh, you’ve changed considerably,” she told him. “If you think I’ve aged, you ought to take a close look at yourself. Is that the best you can do? Did you sell your soul for so little? How sad.”
There was a long silence between them. Then the demon whispered, “This is the end of the line for you, Evelyn.”
She rose to her feet and stood looking at him, feeling small and vulnerable in the presence of his strength. But she was buttressed by her anger and by her certainty that he was not half so clever as he thought. She moved slowly around to the back of her rocker and leaned on it, giving him a broad, sardonic smile.
“Why don’t you come up on the porch so we can discuss it?” she said.
He smiled in return. “What are you up to, Evelyn?” He cocked his head to one side as if reflecting on the possibilities.
She waited patiently, saying nothing, and after a moment he started toward her, accepting her challenge. The feeders trailed after him, skittish with anticipation. She had not seen so many in one place in years. Not since she had played with them at night in the park as a young girl. Not since the demon and she were lovers. The memories roiled within her, a bitter stirring of emotions that turned the night’s heat and darkness suffocating.
r /> When he was almost to the steps, she reached behind her for the shotgun and brought it up in a single, smooth movement so that the long barrel was leveled directly at his chest. She flipped off the safety and placed her finger over the trigger. He was less than fifteen feet away, a clear target. He stopped instantly, genuine surprise showing on his face.
“You can’t hurt me with that,” he said.
“I can blow that disguise you’re hiding behind to smithereens,” she declared calmly. “And it will take you a while to put together another, won’t it? A little extra time might be all I need and more than you can afford.”
He laughed softly in response, his hands clasping before him as if in childish admiration. “Evelyn, you are astonishing! I missed it completely! How could I have been so stupid? You’ve lost your use of the magic, haven’t you? That’s why you have the shotgun! Your magic doesn’t work anymore!” He grinned, excited by his discovery. “And to think I was worried that you might prove troublesome. Tell me. What happened? Did you use it all up? No, you wouldn’t have done that. You were saving it to use against me. Or against yourself. Remember how you threatened to do that when you found out what I was? That was a long time ago. Oh, I hated you so for that! I’ve waited patiently to make you pay for what you did to me. But there was always your magic to consider, wasn’t there?” He paused. “Ah-ha! That’s it! You lost it because you didn’t use it! You worked so hard at hoarding it, you grew old and tired and lost it completely! That’s why you haven’t come after me. That’s why you’ve waited for me to come to you. Oh, dear! Poor Evelyn!”
“Poor you,” she replied, snapped the gun stock to her shoulder, and blew a hole right through his chest. The whole front of his shirt exploded in a gruesome red shower and the demon was knocked backward onto the shadow-streaked lawn.
Except that a moment later, he wasn’t there at all. He simply disappeared, fading away into the ether. Then abruptly he reappeared six feet farther to the right, unharmed, standing there looking at her, laughing softly.
“Your aim was a little off.” He smirked.
Feeders raced back and forth, darting toward her with lightning-quick rushes, frantic with hunger. She realized at once what had happened. It wasn’t the demon she had fired at. It was an illusion he had created to fool her.
“Good-bye, Evelyn,” he whispered.
His hand lifted in a casual gesture, drawing her eyes to his, and she felt a crushing force close about her chest. She wrenched her eyes away, brought up the shotgun, and fired a second time. Again, the demon’s chest blew apart and he was flung away. The feeders ran in all directions, clawing their way onto the porch only to leap off again, lantern eyes wild with expectation. Evelyn was already swinging the barrel of the shotgun about, searching for him, firing both left and right of where he had been, the heavy shot ripping the air, lead pellets hammering into the fence posts at the gate and into the trunks of the old shagbarks and the graceful limbs of the spruce. Lights started to come on in the houses closest to hers.
“Damn you!” she hissed.
She racked the slide a fifth time, chambering a fresh shell, swung the barrel to her right, where the feeders were massed thickest, and fired into their midst, the shotgun booming. Her arms and shoulders throbbed with weariness and pain, and her rage burned in her throat and chest like fire. One shell left. She saw him climbing over the railing at the other end of the porch, pumped the final shell into the firing chamber, swung the shotgun left, and fired down the length of the house.
Reload!
She backed against the screen door and fumbled for the shells in her dress pocket, kicking at the empties underfoot. He was right in front of her then, reaching out his hand. She felt his fingers on her chest, pressing. The shotgun fell away as she sought to claw his face.
Then the feeders swarmed over her, and everything disappeared in a bright red haze.
George Paulsen ran from the Sinnissippi Townhomes and the screams of Enid Scott, his hands covering his face. He burst through the screen door of the Scott apartment with such force that he ripped it from its hinges and tore the skin from his hands. There was blood on him everywhere, and the stink of it was in his nostrils. But it was not from the screams or the blood or even the ragged, broken form he had left crumpled on the living-room floor that he fled.
It was from Evelyn Freemark.
She was right in front of him, a shimmering image come out of the ether, dark and spectral. No matter which way he turned, there she was. She whispered at him, repeating the words she had spoken earlier that day in the park, her dark warning of what would happen if he laid a hand on Enid Scott or her children. He screamed against the persistent sound of it, tearing at the air and at his own face. He ran mindlessly across the barren dirt yard into the roadway, desperate to escape.
The dark things bounded after him, the creatures that had appeared as he beat aside Jared Scott’s futile defenses. They had encouraged him to hurt the boy; they had wanted the boy to suffer.
But now they were coming after him as well.
He could feel their hunger in the ragged sound of their breathing.
Oh, God! Oh, God! He screamed the words over and over into the silence and the dark.
Staggering blindly up the roadway, he crested the rise that led out to Lincoln Highway, and a car came out of the lights of the buildings ahead. George Paulsen lurched aside as the car raced past, its horn blaring angrily. The dark things caught him then, bore him back against the cemetery fence, and began to rip him apart. His insides were being shredded beneath their claws and teeth; he could hear himself shriek. With the dark things clinging to him, he turned toward the cemetery fence and scrambled up the chain links. He reached the top, lost his footing, and slid back heavily. He grabbed for something to slow his fall, hooked his fingers into the mesh, and caught his neck on the exposed edges of a gap near the fence top.
Jagged steel sliced through soft flesh and exposed arteries, and George Paulsen’s blood gushed forth. He sagged weakly, pain flooding through him. The dark things slowed their attack, closing on him more deliberately, taking their time. He wouldn’t escape them now, he knew. He closed his eyes against his fear and desperation. They were touching him, their fingers dipping experimentally in his blood. Oh, God!
A moment later, the life went out of him.
Chicago is afire. Everywhere the Knight of the Word looks the flames rise up against the darkening skyline, bleeding their red glare into the smoky twilight. It is an exceptionally hot, dry summer, and the parched grasses that fill the empty parks and push through the cracks in the concrete burn readily. The homes closest to the hollowed-out steel-and-glass monoliths of the abandoned downtown wait their turn, helpless victims of the destruction that approaches. Down along the piers and shipyards, old storage tanks and fuel wells blaze brightly, the residue of their contents exploding like cannon shots.
John Ross jogs quickly along the walkway bordering the Chicago River, moving south from the breach in the fortress walls. He carries his staff before him, but he has temporarily lost the use of its magic, the consequence of another of those times in the past when he was forced to call upon it—before the Armageddon, before the fall. Thus he must flee and hide as common men. Already, his enemies look for him. They have tracked him here, as they track him everywhere, and they know that somewhere in the conflagration he will be found. A Knight of the Word is a great prize, and those who find him will be well rewarded. But they know, too, that he will not be taken easily, and their caution gives him an edge.
He has come late to the city’s fall. The attack has been in progress for months, the once-men and their demon masters laying siege to the makeshift walls and reinforced gates that keep the people within protected. Chicago is one of the strongest bastions remaining, a military camp run with discipline and skill, its people armed and trained. But no bastion is impregnable, and the attackers have finally found a way in. He is told they gain entry through the sewers, that there is no lon
ger any way of keeping them out. Now the end is at hand, and there is nothing anyone can do but flee or die.
Bodies line the streets, flung casually aside by those who leave them lifeless. Men, women, and children—no exceptions are made. Slaves are plentiful and food is scarce. Besides, a lesson is needed. Feeders slink through the shadows, working their way from corpse to corpse, seeking a shred of fading life, of pain, of horror, of helpless rage, of shock and anguish on which to feed. But the battle moves on to other places, and so the feeders follow after. Ross works his way along a brick wall fronting the postage-stamp yards of a line of abandoned brick homes, searching for a way out, listening to the screams and cries of those who have failed to do so. The attack shifts to a point ahead of him, and he recognizes the danger. He must turn back. He must find another way. But his options are running out, and without the magic to protect him he is less certain of what he should do.
Finally he begins to retrace his steps, angling west toward the outskirts of the city, away from Lake Michigan and the downtown. It will be nightfall soon, and the hunters will not find him so easily. If he can reach the freeways, he can follow them into the suburbs and be gone before they realize he has escaped. His throat is dry, and his muscles ache, for he has not slept in days. His coming to the city was in response to a dream that foretold of its destruction. But he is mistrusted everywhere, a Cassandra crying out in the wilderness of a crumbling Troy, and his warnings are ignored. Some would imprison him as a spy. Some would throw him from the walls. If they did not fear his magic, he would already be dead. It is a pointless, debilitating life he leads, but it is all he has left.
He comes up against a firefight at an intersection in the streets and spins quickly back into a shadowed niche to hide from the combatants. Automatic weapons riddle wooden doors and pock brick walls and take the lives of everyone caught in their field of fire. The feeders frolic through the carnage, leaping and twisting with unrestrained glee, feeding on the rage and fear of the combatants. Killing is the most powerful form of madness and therefore the feeders’ strongest source of food, and they are drawn to it as flies to blood. No sounds come from them, nor is any form of recognition accorded them, for they are a silent, invisible presence. But in their lantern eyes Ross sees the pleasure they derive from the dark emotions the killing releases, and he is reminded of the Furies in the old Greek myths, driving insane those who had committed unconscionable crimes. If there were Furies in real life, he thinks, they would be mothers to these feeders.