7.
The perpetual din of the police station wasn't loud enough to break the concentration of Inspector Cavendish. With a phone to his ear, his free hand collected a stack of slips containing numerous complaints. Or, rather, one complaint filed numerous times. He scanned the slips, heard the voice of a constable on patrol giving a description of what he'd witnessed, and Cavendish felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He grumbled something to the constable on the telephone, then let the earpiece drop till it dangled over the side of the desk. He didn't notice, his thoughts dragged through the quagmire of possibilities. At every desk around him, telephones rang—one after another. His fellow officers, of every rank, were dashing in and out of the station. In a daze, he wondered what was expected of him, what he could do to stop this. He looked at Oswald Malin, who remained composed—always had and always would—even in the terrific cacophony that plagued the station.
"Malin," Cavendish said, for the first time in his life having his voice sound small, "I think you'd better take your guests and skedaddle. Looks like things will be getting kind of strange here."
"What is going on?" Oswald examined what he'd already been observing: the chaos of the station, a rigorous ballet of attentiveness and diligence. He tossed his head around, first over his shoulder, then transferred to a position best suited for examining Cavendish's office. Rex and Mr. Gus Weatherstaff were still in a discussion. From what Oswald could see of Rex, his brother was pale, his mouth hanging open slightly in the anticipation of words that wouldn't come. To his left, Estella watched the same feature he did. He rather doubted Estella would go home, even at Oswald's suggestion. Watching Moon, living up to verb in his name, watched on, hands clasped over his knees, the calmest person in the building.
Estella picked up words here and there. Those that answered telephones were saying what they were expected to say at such moments. "Yes, sir, we're aware of the problem and we've sent many officers to investigate." It'd gone on like this for the last three minutes, though she hadn't yet heard a description of the problem, able to gather that it was a multitudinous plight. The serene voices of the station staff suggested it was nothing too frightful, not a fire that was swallowing the city in flames, or any other disaster that threatened life. By the way Rex handled the discussion with Mr. Gus Weatherstaff, Estella was not wholly alarmed, but intrigued.
"Don't worry," George Weatherstaff said to her, "I'm sure Mr. Malin will be fine. My brother's got a way with words, and he won't say anything that'll hurt Mr. Malin's feelings—even if he wanted to. And I rather doubt there's much he could say to Mr. Malin that Mr. Malin doesn't already know. It's kind of you to worry about him."
Estella glanced at Mr. Weatherstaff, wondering what he was about. Feeling a tingle of heat hit her cheeks, she glanced at Oswald. He seemed to think the same as she, that Mr. Weatherstaff was making implications about her relationship with her employer. "Being his secretary and business associate, yes, I've my fair share of concern for Mr. Malin, but perhaps not so broadly as you think, Mr. Weatherstaff."
He blinked, sucking in his lips. He'd forgotten that women could be bold. Lydia—Lydia was a timid mouse who professed opinions only that matched with his. He was embarrassed, too, that he'd spoken of what had seemed very natural to him, very unnatural to Ms. Bradley. Stuttering over the first few words of an apology, he was interrupted by a large holler from the far corner of the room. There stood a tall, big man with graying black hair and a thick, almost invisible neck.
"Chief Inspector Hendry," Cavendish explained to Weatherstaff. About time the old goat did something!—but he didn't say that part out loud.
"Listen up, all! We've got a crisis on our hands, and we'd better be on our toes the whole night! I'm dividing you into squads, and I want each squad to stick to the plan I give them!"
He started calling names off a list. Though the telephones continued to ring, as more officers were collected and given orders, far fewer calls were answered. Cavendish had answered one, but had to hang up promptly when his name sounded through the room. Just as he was receiving his orders and meeting his squad, the door to his office opened and closed. Taking a glance at Mr. Malin, he saw a disturbed mask in place of Malin's common blandness. Gus Weatherstaff had evidently said something startling enough to displace Malin's mood. Now, of course, he wouldn't find out what it was.
He tried to have a word with the chief inspector. "The thing is, I think Malin's on to something, something that might have to do with what we're dealing with tonight." A response would've been more likely if he'd thrown it at the wall rather than the chief inspector.
"What's the jigging featherhead doing here?"
Cavendish could only guess the derogatory term meant Egbert Watching Moon, who'd moved from his harmless observance on a seat to standing, almost crookedly to favor his bad leg, with the Malin brothers and the rest of the crew. A second passed, and Hendry commented on the woman standing in his station.
"Who's the dame with the Indian? Get them out of here, Cavendish."
"I will in a moment, sir." The obstreperous comment received an unintentional result: Cavendish had his boss's full attention. "But they know something—something more about what's going on around here. It's got to do with the wolves and a lady, sir."
"Cavendish, I hope you realize that your statement makes very little sense."
"No less than a bunch of wolves running around Toronto make sense, sir. There's nothing I can say that will make it more believable. Trust me. I've tried."
Hendry liked his hard-nosed, cranky and occasionally rowdy inspector. Examining the squad lines he'd spent the last ten minutes putting together, he saw where he could excuse Cavendish and put the rest of the inspector's squad into another. "Fine, do what you think is best. Your judgments are usually fairly sound. But get the featherhead out of here unless he's been arrested. The squaw, too."
Thinking it a better success than he might've hoped for, Cavendish returned to his party. His hard, dark stare hit Rex Malin. "You've got five seconds to explain to me where we're going and who we're going after, Malin."
Five seconds to explain was hardly within Rex's capabilities. He thought he was stronger and more resilient than most men, but this was too much information in such a short amount of time. "I think I know where to go, sir, but as to an explanation—"
"All right, I waive my rights to an explanation. A destination's good enough for me. We'll have to walk. We'll never get a car tonight."
"May I offer the use of my vehicle?" Oswald said, dangling the possibility of a swift and rather painless jaunt to his brother's mysterious location. "I have it parked around the corner, and it should still be there, in working condition, save in the event a fictional character has decided that it would make a very savory meal."
"Why didn't you say so in the first place?" griped Cavendish. "I'll drive."
Oswald laughed openly at this, as if they were planning on motoring through the countryside. "My car, my driving, Inspector." He regarded his brother, eager for information, but far more eager to be of service. The condition wasn't lost on Rex.
"The Church of St. James," Rex said, and let out a long breath. He was thinking of the woman he'd known in France. "Again."
Inspector Cavendish rounded out their small crew with the only other available compeer, Constable Holland, who had a leg almost as bad as Watching Moon's. Exempt from the beat, but anxious to be a part of the uncanny and scary circumstances then gripping Toronto, Holland threw on his coat and followed his superior's orders. On their way out the side door, Cavendish stopped in the armory room to load him and Holland down with a rifle each.
"You will not need it," Watching Moon told the inspector, softly applying his hand to the rifle barrel.
"What's that matter? I'm taking it anyway. Holland!" He hailed his plebeian, calling to the rest of them in effect.
Watching Moon passed a grave expression to Rex, but followed Cavendish from the station. Silently, words too unimporta
nt and thoughts to grave to say them, the rest trailed into the open, leaving the safety of stone walls behind them.
The air was cold, a touch of metallic in it from dry snow, a touch of dirt in it from pollution. In a clear sky only the brightest stars shone. The streets were strangely deserted, but lights lit up the sides and fronts of nearly every surrounding building, indicating that people were burrowed safely in their dens. But for all the abandoned roads and alleys, for all the silent shops and dim-lit storefronts, there came a constant wail mixed with a constant howl, a fight of sounds between police car klaxons and spectral wolves feasting on the odd moon's energy.
Oswald stopped and, being the tallest of their troop of good intentions, made the rest stop with him. "If you want to stay," he started, finding their blank faces full of the same determination he carried within, and he had a self-imposed need to finish his statement. "If you want to stay, I'll fetch the car and bring it round here. That way, not all of us have to walk—"
"Wasting your breath, Malin," grumbled Cavendish, stooping his shoulders and adding more gumption into every step. He carried the rifle at port, seemingly not the only one of the company having flashbacks to France, Belgium, and other horrors from a decade ago. The smell was hardly the same. The territory was too familiar. French towns had a scarcity of automobiles as nice as Oswald Malin's.
How they managed to fit everyone inside, no one quite figured out. Never again would they be able to emulate the feat, only laugh about it when the danger had passed and the memories ceased to sting. Nothing happened to them, except at the end of their piling into the cabin, when Holland, who'd been set to watch, caught sight of a pack of three wolves traipsing across the road ahead. Their silhouettes against moonlight, snow and ambient glow was enough to make him freeze, stare in disbelief—then come to in time to usher himself into the vehicle. Aloud, without being aware of his speech, he said he'd heard the stories from numerous telephone calls he'd answered at the station the last forty-five minutes, and knew that a dozen citizens in the same city couldn't be dreaming up lupine visions all at the same time. But he hadn't really believed it. He found himself sitting next to Watching Moon. "I believe them now," he said pointedly, with a self-humbling tone.
Cavendish, concentrating on the road and watching for creatures one normally didn't watch for in Toronto, had no ability to interrogate Rex Malin and Gus Weatherstaff. He only sneered when he said, "You've got some explaining to do, Malin—and you, Weatherstaff—" He had to inhale sharply when Oswald Malin braked suddenly for a small, bony white wolf that crossed the road. "God help us. I'm going to throw you in a holding cell, Malin—and you, Weatherstaff—assuming each of us lives through this."
Oswald thought this was no time to dally, and cops or no cops in his car, dropped heavy weight on the gas pedal. The car lurched forward. They all tilted sharply when a left turn was taken far too fast. His jaw set tight, his focus was for the road and what might happen when they reached the church. "Why the church?" He asked no one in particular, just to ask, just so they might talk about it.
"Algonquin legend states that the wicked wolf spirit is afraid of daylight," Watching Moon was the first to speak. "The church has many hiding places."
Oswald supposed that was fair. "Wolf spirit?"
Rex laced his fingers together, forming a unified fist that represented his strength and his madness. "She's a god," he said, the last bit of it curled into a laugh. "You'd think I'd have noticed."
"A god?" George echoed. Rapidly, his recollections of Lydia Botsaris flew through his mind. He'd always thought her beautiful, a kind of virginal aura about her. But—a god, a goddess? A member of a magical pantheon? He laughed loudly, shunning the idea as his absurd laugh died in his throat. And yet—yet— "Why should you have known, Malin? You weren't planning to marry the girl."
"I'll explain another time," Rex answered. Estella, sitting next to him, showed him a sympathetic grin, wavering in its uncertainty and flashing with speculation. "You're handling this well, Estella. You don't seem a bit concerned."
"She's a brick," said George. "Plain and simple." If they'd had any sense, they would've asked the one lady on their excursion not to join them. He wondered why he hadn't, other than the confusion of the moment, but he'd never been unaware of Ms. Bradley. He'd been sure that she'd been used to such strange goings-on by now, the overworked secretary of a man who never forgot anything.
Any continuation of that idea was lost when Oswald yanked the car into another too-fast turn. George's head tapped against Ms. Bradley's, into the soft, yielding fabric of her cloche hat, until their skulls knocked together. "I beg your pardon," he said, rubbing the sore spot. It was so silly, and so ridiculous to try being comfortable with Oswald driving at a preposterous speed, that they almost chortled at the aches in their noggins. They nearly rammed into one another again, and the back of the seat in front of them, when Oswald braked the car.
They tried to see what had caused him to stop, only to notice that they were parked in the middle of King Street, right in front of St. James—and the whole front of the church seemed to sway and move with the dark waves of wolves' bodies. They covered the snowy-sleek grass to the street, the shallow front steps leading to the inset doors, beneath the pointed entrance to the narthex.
Holland had a tickle in the back of his throat, a tingle at the end of his nose. If he didn't say something, he was going to laugh, and though he wouldn't be the first one to laugh in the last five minutes, he felt, somehow, that he shouldn't. "Isn't there a legend about St. Francis and a wolf?"
Oswald maintained his wits long enough to reply. "Yes, but he was Catholic. I hardly think it applies."
"Still, it'd be nice if he were here."
"Invoke him with prayer, if you'd like. It certainly couldn't hurt. Well," Oswald deadened the idling car, "suppose we should just park here. Don't think any constables will come along and give me a ticket for my flagrantly illegal parking job."
Rex stood with the others just outside the automobile, with its doors still ajar should they need to run into it again. If the wolves wanted to attack them, they were using the tactic of disinterest, perhaps planning for a surprise maul, to go about it. Out of a nervous habit, Rex stuck his pipe in his mouth, and, without thinking, lit the remaining tobacco in it. He puffed, observing with the others the wolves' rest.
Holland looked around, waiting for another wolf to come by and threaten them. None did. It was unnerving and unreal, standing on King Street and watching wolves.
"Where'd they all come from?" he asked, feeling again that it was too eerie to be real. But he had a practical side. "And how are we going to get rid of them? And are we sure she's in there, this god or goddess or whatever she is?"
"A god's a god, and giving it a feminine suffix isn't going to change matters," Oswald said, externally very composed, while internally suffering a battle with himself. "I think the thing to do, in this case, is walk right in."
"She'll be expecting me." Rex said the words biting on the pipe.
"Why you?" George asked. "Why will she not expect me? I was going to marry her—a god."
"No one will blame you for reneging your promise, you know, Weatherstaff," said Oswald, hoping to prove a point and elevate the man's lacking perspective. "She's not likely to hold it against you. Not now."
"Oh do be quiet, Malin," George spat, folding back his quirky, loose hair with a quivering hand and putting his hat back in place. "I'm tired of your sassy remarks. She was supposed to be my wife, and now all of this has—it has—"
"Precluded any agreement, verbal and binding, that the two of you might've entered in. Yes," Oswald flashed a shallow but winning smile, "see, I do understand your predicament, George, I do, I do! But let's maintain the idea that Lydia, whoever and whatever she is, has somehow touched the lives of two men in our mighty if tiny squadron: my brother Rex and his old pilot friend Augustin. If anyone should have a vendetta against the unwanted interferences of a god, it bel
ongs to Rex and Gus, not with us."
"I don't understand any of this," griped Cavendish, but he was regarding Rex with blatant sympathy. He winced, aggravated by his own frustration. "She did something to you?"
"I'll explain later," Rex retorted, feeling lost, floating in the brook of a late-night dream just beginning to switch and fade. "But my brother's right: this is for me and for Gus. The rest of you had better stay here." He made a show of telling it to Estella, and then he lingered for a moment in front of her. He might never have another chance to explain. "You'll find a few messages hidden in my desk. Letters from Mr. Abernathy."
Estella refused to echo the man's name. The landlord? Why was Rex bringing this up now? "What a silly and stupid thing to talk about right this minute, Rex Malin!"
He ignored the outburst. She knew why he was telling her these things. "In the locked drawer, left-hand side. Key," he gave her his small set of keys from his coat pocket. "Mr. Abernathy is um—he's demanded that we vacate the building. It's been condemned. It's being demolished in two months. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, Estella. It's been worrying me."
She breathed heavily, a faint, playful grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. "That explains the rye-bread sandwiches I've found in the bin."
"I suppose it does," he said, not sure how and not sure why she mentioned rye sandwiches. He saw that she was crying a little, he didn't even know Estella Bradley could cry. But he unwound his handkerchief from a pocket, gave it to her, and patted her on the shoulder as a means of bulwarking her despondency. "Look after her, if she needs you to."
Expecting to say it to Oswald, Rex found himself saying it to George Weatherstaff. George touched the brim of his hat.
"I would do, Rex, and I will do, but that I'm planning on going in with you," George said, sounding grand and proud, not a smidgen afraid.
Rex saluted him as a means of thanking him for the proposed sacrifice. He didn't eye his brother again before turning away, thinking it would be too painful. Oswald had always looked out for him, and, even if they'd been separated during the war, Oswald, Rex had felt, still looked out for him. But he didn't walk towards the wolves alone. Quietly, Gus shuffled along beside him—and then a fourth set of footfalls reverberated through the night. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the tell-tale limp of Watching Moon.
"You don't have to come, old friend."
"I've always looked out for you, too," Watching Moon said, as if reading his thoughts, "wìdjìwàgan."
Back at Oswald's automobile, Holland leaned towards Cavendish. "I feel that I should've gone with them, sir."
"They didn't want you to." Cavendish continued to carry the rifle, but no longer at post. He teetered between fright, disbelief and anger. "It's their battle. Not the first time they've ever faced anything resembling hell, either."
Estella stood still, eyes fastened to the three men approaching the first wave of wolves. She inhaled as several wolves moved aside, one stopping to howl. It sent a wave of otherworldly canine pules into the uncanny night. Even the smell of Rex's pipe tobacco lingered in the still air. Those by the automobile caught wafts of it, and Estella found it pleasant against the terror of a thousand urban wolves.
Oswald grimaced and shifted when the wolves parted to allow his brother to reach the church doors. The three of them didn't let the delay of entrance stop them. The door slammed shut at Watching Moon's back, and the wolves settled down again. Oswald sighed, unsure how long they would have to wait, far less sure what they would be waiting for.
In the narthex, Rex caught his bearings from his previous visit to the church. He whispered to his companions. "There must be a lower gallery to this place. The trick is to find a way into it."
"It's this way," Watching Moon said, sidling into the nave between two columns of pews.
"How's he know that?" Gus queried, then, getting no response, he turned to Rex. "How's he know that?"
"I did some work on the building not too many years ago," Watching Moon answered for himself. It was very dark; the stars didn't cast their dying light far into the church, even through stained glass and clerestories. The disappearing moon offered nothing. Watching Moon brought out his butane lighter, held it above the level of his eyes to keep the flame's glare from blinding him. "I know this place well. I don't think they belong here, though."
A pile of wolves upon the high altar caused Watching Moon to freeze, and, with him, the mass of startled bodies suddenly stopped. No further search was required to find Lydia Botsaris. She'd crept from the shadows, or she'd oozed from the rock, and formed herself into the shape familiar to the rest of them. Gus and Rex saw the woman they'd known in France. George saw his former fiancée, the veneer of the gentle and charismatic soul he'd known set over the hardened, flinty outline of a being no longer able to hide her form.
At first, Rex thought Lydia must be immobile, a mere caryatid, sculpted from stone or marble, lost in ancient days. His mouth opened, ready with a breathless warning, the moment she moved. She did not exactly walk, but she did not exactly float. As she stepped from the high altar, through the chancel and choir section, closer to them, the wolves parted, set their heads down as if to bow to her. Her shadowy form became more definite. Her clothes shifted from a thin blackness to bulkiness, from ebony air to black feathers and streaky gray fur. She stopped the top of the stairs, and enjoyed the spectacle she'd created, savored their presence, their defiance of the oddness that'd overcome their city just to find her.
When she spoke, it was with the great echo that came upon anyone who spoke in the empty place, and with a chill in it, full of its own vocal massiveness.
"You've come about the boy."
Her voice boomed and rattled through Rex's chest. He set his hand over his heart, not for a display of sentimentality or depth of feeling, but to keep the necessary organ from shaking through skin and bone.
"The boy in the alley," Lydia continued, stoic in tone, but mindful of the destruction, the sense of loss. "He was my brother."
Oswald snapped his gaze up, left it on Lydia only for a half-breath. He'd traced the history of Leventis, from hours after his death to his life inside a shoe factory. No one could've been further from the pantheon. "Was he supposed to watch the wolves when you had left them?"
She nodded, then, noticing so few of them saw her, gave her answer a voice. "Yes, he was supposed to. For a while, he did, and he was successful. His power soon ebbed. His distractions were too many, and perhaps he was too young to withstand your realm's intrigues. It must be very difficult to be a young man in this world, too much to see and do. The wolves are not meant to be shown the slightest crack in their guardian's strength. That is what happened to him. Seeing their opening, a chance to be unrestrained, they attacked him, destroyed him, killed him. And I am sorry for him." Lydia bowed her head, remembering, then remembering why they had made the journey in the company of others. "When my brother died that morning, I had to leave. There was no other guardian. Now, there will never be another guardian. Only I have a spirit resilient enough to contain their force. Here I will stay."
Gus wasn't altogether pleased. His stomach rolled over and bile entered the base of his throat. "What a wretched existence you gods must endure. You should pack up your animals and get out of here as quickly as you can."
Her smile upon Gus was short and shallow, an edge of warm affection in it. "We depart at daybreak. There is another round of business I must settle first. Not with the wolves, but with my friends—or those who were once my friends." A gaze swam across Rex Malin, returned to Augustin Weatherstaff. "Gentlemen, were my gifts of compassion and magic not enough for either of you?"
Gus's eyes were glued to the shallow steps, a small shaft of moonlight that seemed to be stuck there. "I didn't know you'd given me anything, my lady." She could've told him how to address her, a goddess, if they ever happened to meet again. "Didn't know it till I fell overboard in a storm, and thought I was going to die, and didn't die at all
. In fact, I found myself under the water a long time, sucking in the air just like a fish would do. And breathing like that until I found a rope my mates had thrown overboard, and I caught it. They hauled me up, and it was like I'd thought I'd died. But I hadn't. Why," now he looked at her, angered, humiliated all over again by the instance that'd once frightened him, whose sensations of uniqueness continued to plague him, "why would you gift me with something like that?"
She paused briefly before speaking. "It fit with your inner desire, your call to the sea, your love of water and the life it took you to."
Rex felt her eyes boring into his forehead, since he, too, was unable to look upon her without flinching, without a sour memory. She failed to speak directly to him, and spoke to the two of them.
"It seems as though I've bestowed gifts upon subjects who are now uncertain of themselves, unsure of what they want, unsure that they have the wish to use what was given to them. My concern for your disinterest in your gifts has returned me to this place."
The door at their backs opened and shut. Oswald hurried inside, carrying no weapon but his intention to be protective of his brother. He saw Rex with Gus, George and Watching Moon, and all three were unharmed. The goddess herself was perched at an altar not decorated to worship her array of miracles. Oswald was wholly unafraid of her, but trembled slightly in a kind of awe for her—and a stark awareness of the wolves at her feet.
"Are you all right?" Oswald asked his brother. He received a nod of gratefulness in return. "I was sitting in the car," he said, "and figured everything out. I hope you don't mind that I've dropped in." Being the boldest of them, and having no quarrel with the lady, aside from what she might've done to Rex, took a half-step forward, cleared his throat. "I beg your pardon, my lady, but if your queries were for my brother and Mr. Weatherstaff, wouldn't have been much simpler if you had merely rapped upon the doors of each gentleman and said, 'Hello, why do you not like my gift?' Why all the diversionary tactics? Why the great display of lupine control and hoodoo about the moon?"
"She can't," Watching Moon said. He waited to be reprimanded by the wolf-goddess for speaking out of turn, but she encouraged him in his explanation, her dainty eyebrows lofted interestedly. "She can't, since she's been here too many times already, and too many times in the last ten years. It takes less energy for her to be here with her parade of wolves than it does for her to be here without them. She's already come here too often just herself."
"And why not remind the world, once in a while, that we are still listening?" Lydia smiled a little, funneling her humor upon Oswald Malin. "I hope that answers your question. Haven't you spoken to your brother about his desire to quit his work, give up the gift I presented to him when he was injured in France?"
"I confess that I should expect to be the last person in whom my brother confesses most anything, my lady."
Lydia laughed a little, not out of politeness but genuine amusement. "I gave him the gift of being able to remember as much as he possibly could, as much as he wanted to. He's used it well. But not well enough. He's grown discouraged."
The news was fresh and revolutionary to Oswald, who'd guessed his brother's soi-disant attitude of despair was nothing more than a manifestation of boredom. He did what no other man in his presence had been able to do the last two minutes: He ignored their visiting goddess. "Is that true, Rexie? Are you really in a constant ponder as to whether you should forfeit your career, your wondrous career that you've brought up from nothing, save, of course, for this superlative talent of yours to remember every speck of detail? Are you? I understand how taxing a dilemma it must be, both emotionally and, I may say, physically, to know that the building out of which you work seven days a week is shortly to be rubble upon the street. But there are other offices you may move into. Better ones, with nicer views and a finer eatery across the street. Why on earth wouldn't you have told me about this? I should've been able to help, you know. I know a great many person of business in and about town, who are own all sorts of useful edifices! Merely say the word, and I will introduce you to them, find you a more suitable location. You needn't give all of this up."
Rex's mouth drew tightly to his teeth, his hand touching a small itch, where a lock of hair bothered his skin, at the end of his brother's heartfelt monologue. Oswald was right, that a brother was meant to help a brother. It'd happened so fast, however. One moment, he was enjoying the perpetuity of his position as a man who had the city's smallest and sharpest points of information at the tip of his fingers, and the next moment his time at the dilapidated building had been cut short—very short, in fact. "I never got a warning, and I needed time to think—"
"Time to think of what to do," Oswald nodded, "yes, I understand. But I wish you'd come to me sooner."
Rex inhaled, exhaled as he gave voice to an idea that'd been dancing around his mind since the announcement of demolition. "I've been thinking of taking a holiday, anyhow." Now he was able to renew his strength and regard Lydia. He saw the same exquisite and earthly beauty he'd known of his French nurse. "Thank you for my gift. I'm sorry I doubted it. And I'm sorry I didn't realize sooner that you were responsible for it."
"I'm grateful for mine, too," said Gus, giving his head a modest bow. "Without it, I'd never have seen my brother Georgie after all this time, when he really needed me. And I'm sure I wouldn't have thought about you again at all, my lady. That nurse who staunched my bleeding wounds and wrapped them for me, healed them up with her own magic. But why were you here at all? Why then?"
"We have a fascination with humankind's wars," she replied, setting a hand on the crown of a wolf beside her. "The contradiction of it. The dichotomy of men. It shows the best and worst of you, what you can do, what you cannot do without. Those lessons teach you nothing, only how to better equip yourselves for future occurrences of worldwide belligerence. We are sorry you learn so little. But we've fought among ourselves, too. The great curse of the world. We can leave gifts to help you better your lives, though we have no gift that prevents conflict. Will you continue to use your talents? All of you?"
Rex said he would. "After I've had a holiday. I'm … I'm tired."
"Having a talent that makes you stand out from crowd, yes," she paused, reflecting on her own history. "The burden of a gift can, at times, outweigh its created marvels."
"I should like to know, my lady," piped up Gus, "if you've made me immortal throughout time, or if I'll grow old and die?"
"Your gift is an imperviousness towards water, drowning, and death in that way, not in any other way. You will grow old and die," she answered, a quirk of amusement burning in her silver eyes. "But not if you are under water."
"Oh," Gus slammed his cap back on his head, still slightly unsure. "If I went and lived with mermaids, you mean I'd live forever?"
She provided no answer, merely gazing at him at the epitome of a goddess thoroughly entertained by the little mortal people of Earth. The humor faded as she watched George Weatherstaff. "I always intended to stay and share a life with you. I am sorry I've brought you regret."
"Don't be," he said bravely. "It was good for me. I'm too used to always getting what I want. You gave me a gift, too, Lydia. Humility. I needed a lesson in that. But I thank you for the memories."
Lydia brought her palms together, held them under her chin, and gave him a smile laced with sweetness, a tilt of the head holding respect and gratitude. She turned to Watching Moon. "What is your wish? There's nothing I can give you that you don't already have."
"I have no need of gifts," he returned, seeing her, seeing the wolves in the shadows beyond her. "I have friendship and I have purpose. Those are all that I need."
"We don't need anything, the rest of us," Oswald said. He jammed his elbow up and over to George, who eventually repeated with a mumbled and a rapid series of nods. "Just leave the city in peace, and that's all I ask. And if I see you in Toronto again, my lady, I want you back as a goddess stepping around town in human form. No more wolves a
nd spells and magic. You've given the police a serious headache, and, admittedly, I rather liked it, though I've been at the zenith of confusion since this morning."
She laughed, a mild, soft thing that slipped down three notes and faded. "Tomorrow morning, all will be as it was, and those who never spoke to me will not remember the wolves."
For the first time, she stepped from the stairs and walked to one of them. A small, glittering object was held out to George. He pinched it, looked at it, and gave her his thanks for its return. With the ring back in his pocket, he saw Lydia climb the steps again, two wolves flanking her, and thought he must've loved a dream, what a thrill it must've been for her to be engaged to marry a mortal man. Perhaps the rest of the gods were jealous. Perhaps the wolves had been jealous, unable to let her exist in a world with an ending for all living things.
"Try to be happy yourself, Lydia," George told her, for once sounding as earnest and sincere as he felt. "Try."
"I will."
He wondered if she meant that she'd try, or if she was declaring that of course she would be happy. The time to ask her had drawn to a close.
She lifted a hand, palm out and full of an impossible light. Beams and rays shot from her, catapulting them into temporary blindness.
Rex opened his eyes, seeing a glassy sky above, a film of clouds incubating the dawn's silvery radiance. He was damp, chilled, but still. He had a fleeting reminder of what had transpired just seconds ago. But the light of day told him hours had passed. He cocked his head up, and found himself lying on the grassy portion in front of the church. Stopped along King Street were workers of all trades, up early and ready for the day. One, a milkman, scratched his head under his cap, watching him.
"You all right?" he finally asked, figuring someone should.
"Yes," Rex propped himself up on his elbows, still looking around, "yes, I'm all right."
Dotting the grass were his friends, even Cavendish and Holland, Watching Moon and Estella. Oswald had an inquisitive squirrel darting over his waistcoated belly. The rodent's friskiness must've woken him. Oswald scurried to his feet, frightened by the squirrel and frightening the squirrel himself. Others were slowly waking to the day. Estella batted her eyes to adjust them to the sight of a blank but beautiful sky over her head. She touched the curled ends of her bobbed hair, feeling them slick and cold with dew. Even the tips of her shoes were smothered in watery spots. She peeked at everyone else lying on the grass, a few having risen to their feet. She found George Weatherstaff tilting over her, then helping her upright.
"I didn't expect that you would remember or that you'd be here with us this morning." George, an arm at Ms. Bradley's waist, led them to the group meeting on the stone walk in front of the church.
"I don't remember much," Estella admitted. "But I remember watching you and Oswald going into the church. What happened in there?" She'd asked it just as they reached the assembly. Cavendish, pale and groggy, had heard her.
"I think we'd better get back to the station and figure things out from there." His next line was a reaction to the three police cars that hoisted themselves in front of the church. "Great, now the cavalry shows up, just when I don't want them to. Come on, Holland. We'd better explain."
"I don't even know what to say, sir," admitted Holland, trying to swipe dew off his cap. He jumped when Inspector Cavendish laughed.
"I don't know, either! We'll just make something up."
Rex stood in with Gus and Oswald. "Well," he felt exhausted, and disappointed for a reason he couldn't pinpoint, "I wonder what happens now?" Melancholia swam through him. Very likely, he was sad to hear that he did, indeed, have a gift from a goddess, that his talent wasn't his alone, something he'd hone through the traumas of war. But, when he thought of it in another handful of seconds, was there really any difference?
"We go home," Oswald swooped in and looped an arm at his little brother's shoulders, "and start planning your holiday! I'm very good at planning holidays. I've had an interest lately in visiting Rome, and perhaps Athens. I grant you, it does sound a bit EM Forster of me, but I hope that doesn't influence your decision to come along."
"I don't want to miss the demolition."
"Hogwash," Oswald spat. "Demolition be damned! I'll have some strapping young haulers remove your goods from the office in the next few days. They'll move your belongings into the empty study at my country residence. It'll be a fine temporary office until we return from our European sojourns and discover a new place for you, Rexie. And perhaps you'll be able to add my name to yours on that painted entry door. It's high time we considered forming a decent partnership. You can hold all the details your mind is capable of, and I'll continue doing the grunt work. Besides, I should like to have a business card that, for once, says something more than 'Oswald Malin, Gentleman.' A splendid card is exactly the variety of perquisite I've been searching for my whole life."
"We can discuss that on the ship," Rex said, giving his first laugh in days. Soon, though, they were hailed by a piercing whistle. Cavendish wanted them with the rest of the officers. Rex hadn't seen much of Chief Inspector Hendry, but he was fairly sure he would never see the man so bewildered and so angry ever again. He certainly hoped he wouldn't. "It's going to be a long morning," he said to Oswald and Gus.
Suddenly, he realized one of them was missing. Glancing around, he caught no trace of Watching Moon. Oswald knew who he was looking for.
"I saw him sneak away," explained Oswald, then winced. "At least, I'm fairly certain it was he. I'm sure he's fine. Perhaps he just couldn't face our dear Chief Inspector again. If that were the case, I can set no blame upon him."
"No, neither can I blame him for that," Rex agreed. "If I need to speak to him again, he'll show up. He always does. Do you remember anything at all that happened last night?"
"I remember it only in the way one remembers the edges of dreams, and things that have happened that we discard as small magics, as things that are too improbable to really exist."
* * * *