Knight of the Word
by
Terry Brooks


A writer since high school, Terry Brookes published his first novel,
The Sword of Shannara, In 1977.  It became the first work of fiction
ever to appear on The New York Times Trade Paperback bestseller list,
where it remained for more than five months.  He has published thirteen
best selling novels since.

A practising attorney for many years, Terry Brooks now writes full time
and lives with his wife, judine, in the Pacific Northwest and Hawaii

JACKET DESIGN BY DAVID STEVENSON JACKET PAINTING BY BROM AUTHOR

PHOTOGRAPH BY JUDINE BROOKS


Also by Terry Brooks:

Shannara

FIRST KING OF SHANNARA THE SWORD OF SHANNARA THE ELF STONES OF

SHANNARA

THE WISH SONG OF SHANNARA

The Heritage of Shannara THE SCIONS OF SHANNARA THE DRUID OF SHANNARA

THE ELF QUEEN OF SHANNARA THE TALISMANS OF SHANNARA

The Magic Kingdom of Landover

MAGIC KINGDOM FOR SALE SOLD!

THE BLACK UNICORN

WIZARD AT LARGE

THE TANGLE BOX

WITCHES' BREW

RUNNING WITH THE DEMON

Wow

BCA1


LONDON NEW YORK SYDNEY TOil ONTO This edition published 1998 ByBCA By
arrangement with Little, Brown & Co (UK)

CN 9534

First published in Great Britain by Orbit 1998

Copyright 1998 by Terry Brooks

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

As characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior
permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in
any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published
and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed
on the subsequent purchaser.

Typeset by Solidus (Bristol) Ltd Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Mackays of Chatham PLC, Chatham, Kent


TO JIM SIMON SON LAURIE JAEGER, LARRY GRELLA, & MOLLIETREMAINE

Good friends and the best of neighbors.


prologue

He stands on a hillside south of the city looking back at the
carnage.

A long, gray ribbon of broken highway winds through the green expanse
of woods and scrub to where the ruin begins.  Fires burn among the
steel and glass skeletons of the abandoned skyscrapers, flames bright
and angry against the washed-out haze of the deeply clouded horizon. 
Smoke rises in long, greasy spirals that stain the air with ash and
soot.  He can hear the crackling of the fires and smell their acrid
stench even here.

That buildings of concrete and iron will burn so fiercely puzzles
him.

It seems they should not burn at all, that nothing short of jackhammers
and wrecking balls should be able to bring them down.  It seems that in
this post apocalyptic world of broken lives and fading hopes the
buildings should be as enduring as mountains.  And yet already he can
see sections of walls beginning to collapse as the fires spread and
consume.

Rainfalls in a steady drizzle, streaking his face.  He blinks against
the dampness in order to see better what is happening.  He remembers
Seattle as being beautiful.  But that was in another life, when there
was still a chance to change the future and he was still a Knight of
the Word.

John Ross closes his eyes momentarily as the screams of the wounded and
dying reach out to him.  The slaughter has been going on for more than
six hours, ever since the collapse of the outer defenses just after
dawn.  The demons and the once-men have broken through and another of
the dwindling bastions still left to free men has fallen.

On the broad span of the high bridge linking the east and west sections
of the city, the combatants surge up against one another in dark knots.
Small figures tumble from the heights, pinwheeling madly against the
glare of the flames as their lives are snuffed out.

Automatic weapons---fire ebbs and flows.

The armies will fight on through the remainder of the day, but the
outcome is already decided.  By tomorrow the victors will be building
slave pens.  By the day after, the conquered will be discovering how
life can sometimes be worse than death.

At the edges of the city, down where the highway snakes between the
first of the buildings that flank the Duwarnish River, the feeders are
beginning to appear.  They mushroom as if by magic amid the carnage
that consumes the city.  Refugees flee and hunters pursue, and wherever
the conflict spreads, the feeders are drawn.  They are mankind's
vultures, picking clean the bones of human emotion, of shattered lives.
They are the Word's creation, an enigmatic part of the equation that
defines the balance in all things and requires accountability for human
behavior.  No one is exempt; no one is spared.  When madness prevails
over reason, when what is darkest and most terrible surfaces, the
feeders are there.

As they are now, he thinks, watching.  Unseen and unknown, inexplicable
in their single-mindedness, they are always there.  He sees them
tearing at the combatants closest to the city's edges, feeding on the
strong emotions generated by the individual struggles of life and death
taking place at every quarter, responding instinctively to the impulses
that motivate their behavior.  They are a force of nature and, as such,
a part of nature's law.  He hates them for what they are, but he
understands the need for what they do.

Something explodes in the center of the burning city, and a building
collapses in a low rumble of stone walls and iron girders.  He could
turn away and look south and see only the green of the hills and the
silver glint of the lakes and the sound spread out beneath the snowy
majesty of Mount Rainier, but he will not do that.  He will watch until
it is finished.

He notices suddenly the people who surround him.  There are perhaps
several dozen, ragged and hollow-eyed figures slumped down in the
midday gloom, faces streaked with rain and ash.  They stare at him as
if expecting something.  He does not know what it is.  He is no longer
a Knight of the Word.  He is just an ordinary man.  He leans on the
rune-carved black staff that was once the symbol of his office and the
source of his power.  What do they expect of him?

An old man approaches, shambling out of the gloom, stick-thin and
haggard.  An arm as brittle as dry wood lifts and points accusingly.

I know you, he whispers hoarsely.

Ross shakes his head in denial, confused.

I know you, the old man repeats.  Bald and white-bearded, his face is
lined with age and by weather and his eyes are a strange milky color,
their focus blurred.

I was there when you killed him, all those years ago.

Killed who?  Ross cannot make himself speak the words, only mouth them,
aware of the eyes of the others who are gathered fixing on him as the
old man's words are heard.

The old man cocks his head and lets his jaw drop, laughing softly, the
sound high and eerie, and with this simple gesture he reveals
himself.

He is unbalanced-neither altogether mad nor completely sane, but
something in between.  He lives in a river that flows between two
worlds, shifting from one to the other, a leaf caught by the current's
inexorable tug, his destiny beyond his control.

The Wizard!  The old man spits, his voice rising brokenly in the
hissing sound of the rain.  The Wizard of Oz You are the one who killed
him!  I saw you!  There, in the palace he visited, in the shadow of the
Tin Woodman, in the Emerald City!  You killed the Wizard!  You killed
him!  You!

The worn face crumples and the light in the milky eyes dims.  Tears
flood the old man's eyes and trickle down his weathered cheeks.  He
whispers, Oh God, it was the end of everything!

And Ross remembers then, a jagged-edged, poisonous memory he had
thought forever buried, and he knows with a chilling certainty that
what the old man tells him is true.

John Ross opened his eyes to the street lit darkness and let his memory
of the dream fade away.  Where had the old man been standing, that he
could have seen it all?  He shook his head.  The time for memories and
the questions they invoked had come and gone.

He stood in the shadows of a building backed up on Occidental Park in
the heart of Pioneer Square, his breath coming in quick, ragged gasps
as he fought to draw the cool, autumn night air into his burning lungs.
He had walked all the way from the Seattle Art Museum, all the way from
the center of downtown Seattle some dozen blocks away.

Limped, really, since he could not run as normal men could and relied
upon a black walnut staff to keep upright when he moved.  Anger and
despair had driven him when muscles had failed.  Crippled of mind and
body and soul, reduced to an empty shell, he had come home to die
because dying was all that was left.

The shade trees of the park loomed in dark formation before him, rising
out of cobblestones and concrete, out of bricks and curbing, shadowing
the sprawl of benches and trash receptacles and the scattering of
homeless and disenfranchised that roamed the city night.

Some few looked at him as he pushed off the brick wall and came toward
them.  One or two even hesitated before moving away.  His face was
terrible to look upon, all bloodied and scraped, and the clothes that
draped his lean body were in tatters.  Blood leaked from deep rents in
the skin of his shoulder and chest, and several of his ribs felt
cracked or broken.  He had the appearance of a man who had risen
straight out of Hell, but in truth he was just on his way down.

Feeders gathered at the edges of his vision, hunchbacked and
beacon-eyed, ready to show him the way.

It was Halloween night, All Hallows' Eve, and he was about to come
face-to-face with the most personal of his demons.

His mind spun with the implications of this acknowledgment.  He crossed
the stone and concrete open space thinking of greener places and times,
of the smell of grass and forest air, lost to him here, gone out of his
life as surely as the hopes he had harbored once that he might become a
normal man again.  He had traded what was possible for lies and half
truths and convinced himself that what he was doing was right.  He had
failed to listen to the voices that mattered.  He had failed to heed
the warnings that counted.  He had been betrayed at every turn.

He stopped momentarily in a pool of streetlight and looked off into the
darkened spires of the city.  The faces and voices came back to him in
a rush of sounds and images.  Simon Lawrence.  Andrew Wren.  O'olish
Amaneh.  The Lady and Owain Glyndwr.

Nest Freemark.

Stefanie.

His hands tightened on the staff, and he could feel the power of the
magic coursing through the wood beneath his palms.  Power to
preserve.

Power to destroy.  The distinction had always seemed a large one, but
he thought now that it was impossibly small.

Was he still, in the ways that mattered, a Knight of the Word?

Did he possess courage and strength of will in sufficient measure that
they would sustain him in the battle that lay ahead?  He could not
tell, could not know without putting it to the test.  By placing
himself in harm's way he would discover how much remained to him of the
power that was once his.  He did not think that it would be enough to
save his life, but he hoped that it might be enough to destroy the
enemy who had undone him.

It did not seem too much to ask.

In truth, it did not seem half enough.

Somewhere in the distance a siren sounded, shrill and lingering amid
the hard-edged noises that rang down the stone and glass corridors of
the city's canyons.

He took a deep breath and gritted his teeth against the pain that
racked his body.  With slow, measured steps, he started forward once
more.

Death followed in his shadow.


sunday,

OCTOBER 28


It was dawn when she woke, the sky just beginning to brighten in the
east, nights shadows still draping the trunks and limbs of the big
shade trees in inky layers.  She lay quietly for a time, looking
through her curtained window as the day advanced, aware of a gradual
change in the light that warmed the cool darkness of her bedroom.  From
beneath the covers she listened to the sounds of the morning.  She
could hear birdsong in counterpoint to the fading hum of tires as a car
sped down Woodlawn's blacktop toward the highway.  She could hear small
creaks and mutterings from the old house, some of them so familiar that
she remembered them from her childhood.  She could hear the sound of
voices, of Gran and Old Bob, whispering to each other in the kitchen as
they drank their morning coffee and waited for her to come out for
breakfast.

But the voices were only in her mind, of course.  Old Bob and Gran were
gone.

Nest Freemark rose to a sitting position, drew up her long legs to her
chest, rested her forehead against her knees, and closed her eyes.

Gone.  Both of them.  Gran for five years and Old Bob since May.  It
was hard to believe, even now.  She wished every day that she could
have them back again.  Even for five minutes.  Even for five seconds.

The sounds of the house wrapped her, small and comforting, all part of
her nineteen years of life.  She had always lived in this house, right
up to the day she had left for college in September of last year, a
freshman on a full ride at one of the most prestigious schools in the
country.  Northwestern University.  Her grandfather had been so proud,
telling her she should remember she had earned the right to attend this
school, but the school, in turn, had merited her interest, so both of
them should get something out of the bargain.  He had laughed, his
voice low and deep, his strong hands coming about her shoulders to hold
her, and she had known instinctively that he was holding her for Gran,
as well.

Now he was gone, dead of a heart attack three days before the end of
her first year, gone in a moment, the doctor said afterward--no pain,
no suffering, the way it should be.  She had come to accept the
doctor's reassurance, but it didn't make her miss her grandfather any
the less.  With both Gran and Old Bob gone, and her parents gone longer
still, she had only herself to rely upon.

But, then, she supposed in a way that had always been so.

She lifted her head and smiled.  It was how she had grown up, wasn't
it?  Learning to be alone, to be independent, to accept that she would
never be like any other child?

She ticked off the ways in which she was different, running through
them in a familiar litany that helped define and settle the borders of
her life.

She could do magic--had been able to do magic for a long time.  It had
frightened her at first, confused and troubled her, but she had learned
to adapt to the magics demands, taught first by Gran, who had once had
use of the magic herself, and later by Pick.  She had learned to
control and nurture it, to find a place for it in her life without
letting it consume her.  She had discovered how to maintain the balance
within herself in the same way that Pick was always working to maintain
the balance in the park.

Pick, her best friend, was a six-inch-high sylvan, a forest creature
who looked for the most part like something a child had made of the
discards of a bird's nest, with body and limbs of twigs and hair and
beard of moss.  Pick was the guardian of Sinnissippi Park, sent to keep
in balance the magic that permeated all things and to hold in check the
feeders that worked to upset that balance.  It was a big job for a lone
sylvan, as he was fond of saying, and over the years various
generations of the Freemark women had helped him.

Nest was the latest.  Perhaps she would be the last.

There was her family, of course.  Gran had possessed the magic, as had
others of the Freemark women before her.  Not Old Bob, who had
struggled all his life to accept that the magic even existed.  Maybe
not her mother, who had died three months after Nest was born and whose
life remained an enigma.  But her father .  She shook her head at the
walls.  Her father.  She didn't like to think of him, but he was a fact
of her life, and there was enough time and distance between them now
that she could accept what he had been.  A demon.  A monster.  A
seducer.  The killer of both her mother and her grandmother.  Dead now,
destroyed by his own ambition and hate, by Gran's magic and his own, by
Nests determination, and by Wraith.

Wraith.  She looked out the window in the diminishing shadows and
shivered.  The ways in which she had been different from other children
began and ended with Wraith.

She sighed and shook her head mockingly.  Enough of that sort of
rumination.

She rose and walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, let it run
hot, and stepped in.  She stood with her eyes closed and the water
streaming over her, lost in the heat and the damp.  She was nineteen
and stood just under five feet ten inches.  Her honey-colored hair was
still short and curly, but most of her freckles were gone.  Her green
eyes dominated her smooth, round face.  Her body was lean and fit.  She
was the best middle-distance runner ever to come out of the state of
Illinois and one of the best in history.  She didn't think about her
talent much, but it was always there, in much the same way as her
magic.  She wondered often if her running ability was tied in some way
to her use of the magic.  There was no obvious connection and even Pick
tended to brush the suggestion aside, but she wondered anyway.  She had
been admitted to Northwestern on a full track-and-field scholarship.

Her grades were good, but it was her athletic skills that got her in.

She had won several middle-distance events at last spring's NCAA
track-and-field championships.  She had already broken several college
records and one world.  In two years the summer Olympics would be held
in Melbourne, Australia.  Nest Freemark was expected to contend for a
medal in multiple running events.  She was expected to win at least one
gold.

She turned off the shower, stepped out onto the mat, grabbed a towel,
and dried herself off.  She tried not to think about the Olympics too
often.  It was too distant in time and too mind- boggling to
consider.

She had learned a hard lesson when she was fourteen and her father had
revealed himself for what he was.  Never take anything in your life for
granted; always be prepared for radical change.

Besides, there were more pressing problems just now.  There was
school;

she had to earn grades high enough to allow her to continue to train
and to compete.  There was Pick, who was persistent and unending in his
demand that she give more of her time and effort to helping him with
the park--which seemed silly until she listened to his reasoning.

And, right at the moment, there was the matter of the house.

She dressed slowly, thinking of the house, which was the reason she was
home this weekend when her time would have been better spent at school,
studying.  With her grandfather's death, the house and all of its
possessions had passed to her.  She had spent the summer going through
it, room by room, closet by closet, cataloguing, boxing, packing, and
sorting what would stay and go.  It was her home, but she was barely
there enough to look after it properly and, Pick's entreaties
notwithstanding, she had no real expectation of coming back after
graduation to live.  The realtors, sensing this, had already begun to
descend.  The house and lot were in a prime location.  She could get a
good price if she was to sell.  The money could be put to good use
helping defray her training and competition expenses.  The real estate
market was strong just now, a seller's market.  Wasn't this the right
time to act?

She had received several offers over the summer, and this past week
Alien Kruppert had called from ERA Realty to tender one so ridiculously
high that she had agreed to consider it.  She had come after classes on
Friday, skipping track-and-field practice, so that she could meet with
Alien on Saturday morning and look over the papers.  Alien was a
rotund, jovial young man, whom she had met on several occasions at
church picnics, and he impressed her because he never tried to pressure
her into anything where the house was concerned but seemed content just
to present his offers and step back.

The house was not listed, but if she was to make the decision to sell,
she knew, she would almost certainly list it with him.  The papers he
had provided on this latest offer sat on the kitchen table where she
had left them last night.  The prospective buyer had already signed.

The financing was in place.  All that was needed was her signature and
the deal was done.

She put the papers aside and sat down to eat a bowl of cereal with her
orange juice and coffee, her curly hair still damp against her face as
golden light spread through the curtained windows and the sun rose over
the trees.

If she signed, her financial concerns for the immediate future would be
over.

Pick, of course, would have a heart attack.  Which was not a good thing
if you were already a hundred and fifty years old.

She was just finishing the cereal when she heard a knock at the back
door.  She frowned; it was only eight o'clock in the morning, not the
time people usually came calling.  Besides, no one ever used the back
door, except.  She walked from the kitchen down the hall to the porch.
A shadowy figure stood leaning into the screen, trying to peer inside.
Couldn't be, could it?  But, as she stepped down to unlatch the screen
door, she could already see it was.

"Hey, Nest," Robert Heppler said.

He stood with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans and
one tennis shoe bumping nervously against the worn threshold.

"You going to invite me in or what?"  He gave her one of his patented
cocky grins and tossed back the shoulder-length blond hair from his
angular face.

She shook her head.

"I don't know.  What are you doing here, anyway?"

"You mean like, ' here at eight o'clock in the morning,' or like,
'here in Hopewell as opposed to Palo Alto?' You're wondering if I was
tossed out of school, right?  "

"Were you?"

"Naw.  Stanford needs me to keep its grade point average high enough to
attract similarly brilliant students.  I was just in the neighborhood
and decided to stop by, share a few laughs, maybe see if you're in the
market for a boyfriend."  He was talking fast and loose to keep up his
confidence.  He glanced past her toward the kitchen.

"Do I smell coffee?  You're alone, aren't you?  I mean, I'm not
interrupting anything, am I?"

"Jeez, Robert, you are such a load."  She sighed and stepped back.
"Come on in."

She beckoned him to follow and led him down the hall.  The screen door
banged shut behind them and she winced, remembering how Gran had hated
it when she did that.

"So what are you really doing here?"  she pressed him, gesturing
vaguely in the direction of the kitchen table as she reached for the
coffeepot and a cup.  The coffee steamed in the morning air as she
poured it.

He shrugged, giving her a furtive look.

"I saw your car, knew you were home, thought I should say hello.  I
know it's early, but I was afraid I might miss you."

She handed him the coffee and motioned for him to sit down, but he
remained standing.

"I've been waiting to hear from you," she said pointedly.

"You know me, I don't like to rush things."  He looked away quickly,
unable to meet her steady gaze.  He sipped gingerly from his cup, then
made a face.

"What is this stuff?"

Nest lost her patience.

"Look, did you come here to insult me, or do you need something, or are
you just lonely again?"

He gave her his hurt puppy look.

"None of the above."  He glanced down at the real estate papers, which
were sitting on the counter next to him, then looked up at her again.

"I just wanted to see you.  I didn't see you all summer, what with you
off running over hill and dale and cinder track."

"Robert, don't start..."

"Okay, I know, I know.  But it's true.  I haven't seen you since your
grandfathers funeral."

"And whose fault is that, do you think?"

He pushed his glasses further up on his nose and screwed up his
mouth.

"Okay, all right.  Its my fault.  I haven't seen you because I knew how
badly I messed up."

"You were a jerk, Robert."

He flinched as if struck.

"I didn't mean anything."

"You didn't?"  A slow flush worked its way up her neck and into her
cheeks.

"My grandfather's funeral service was barely finished and there you
were, making a serious effort to grope me.  I don't know what that was
all about, but I didn't appreciate it one bit."

He shook his head rapidly.

"I wasn't trying to grope you exactly." 

"Yes, you were.  Exactly.  You might have done yourself some good, you
know, if you'd stuck around to apologize afterward instead of running
off."   

His laugh was forced.
"I was running for my life.  You just about took my head off."  

She stared at him, waiting.  She knew how he felt about her, how he had
always felt about her.  She knew this was difficult for him and she
wasn't making it any easier.  But his misguided attempt at an intimate
relationship was strictly one-sided and she had to put a stop to it now
or whatever was left of their friendship would go right out the
window.

He took a deep breath.

"I made a big mistake, and I'm sorry.  I guess I just thought you
needed ... that you wanted someone to ... Well, I just wasn't thinking,
that's all."  He pushed back his long hair nervously.

"I'm not so good at stuff like that, and you, well, you know how I
feel..."  He stopped and looked down at his feet.

"It was stupid.  I'm really sorry."

She didn't say anything, letting him dangle in the wind a little
longer, letting him wonder.  He looked up at her after a minute,
meeting her gaze squarely for the first time.

"I don't know what else to say, Nest.  I'm sorry.  Are we still
friends?"

Even though he had grown taller and gotten broader through the
shoulders, she still saw him as being fourteen.  There was a little-boy
look and sound to him that she thought he might never entirely
escape.

"Are we?"  he pressed.

She gave him a considering look.

"Yes, Robert, we are.  We always will be, I hope.  But we're just
friends, okay?  Don't try to make it into anything else.  If you do,
you're just going to make me mad all over again."

He looked doubtful, but nodded anyway.

"Okay."  He glanced down again at the real estate papers.

"Are you going to sell the house?"

"Robert!"

"Well, that's what it looks like."

"I don't care what it looks like, it's none of your business!"

Irritated at herself for being so abrupt, she added, "Look, I haven't
decided anything yet."

He put his coffee cup in the exact center of the papers, making a
ring.

"I don't think you should sell."

She snatched the cup away.

"Robert..."

"Well, I don't.  I think you should let some time pass before you do
anything."  He held up his hands in a placating gesture.

"Wait, let me finish.  My dad says you should never make any big
changes right after someone you love dies.  You should wait at least a
year.  You should give yourself time to grieve, to let everything
settle so you know what you really want.  I don't think he's right
about much, but I think he might be right about this."

She pictured Roberts father in her mind, a spectacled, gentle man who
was employed as a chemical engineer but spent all his free time engaged
in gardening and lawn care.  Robert used to call him Mr.  Green Jeans
and swore that his father would have been happier if his son had been
born a plant.

"Robert," she said gently, 'that's very good advice.  "

He stared at her in surprise.

"I mean it.  I'll give it some thought."

She put the coffee cups aside.  Robert was annoying, but she liked him
anyway.  He was funny and smart and fearless.  Maybe more to the point,
she could depend on him.  He had stood up for her five years earlier
when her father had come back into her life.  If not for Robert, her
grandfather would never have found her trussed up in the caves below
the Sinmissippi Park cliffs.  It was Robert who had come after her on the
night she had confronted her father, when it seemed she was all alone.
She had knocked the pins out from under him for his trouble, leaving
him senseless on the ground while she went on alone.

But he had cared enough to follow.

She felt a momentary pang at the memory.  Robert was the only real
friend she had left from those days.

"I have to go back to school tonight," she said.

"How long do you have?"

He shrugged.

"Day after tomorrow."

"You came all the way home from California for the weekend?"

He looked uncomfortable.

"Well..."

"To visit your parents?"

"Nest..  :

"You can't say it, can you?"

He shook his head and blushed.

"No."

She nodded.

"Just so you don't think I can't see through you like glass.  You just
watch yourself, buster."

He looked down at his feet, embarrassed.  She liked him like
this--sweet and vulnerable.

"You want to walk over to Gran and Grandpa's graves with me, put some
flowers in their urns?"

He brightened at once.

"Sure."

She was already heading for the hall closet.

"Let me get my coat, Mr.

Smooth.  "

"Jeez," he said.


chapter 2

They went out the porch door, down the steps, across the yard, and
through the hedgerow that marked the back end of the Freemark property,
then struck out into Sinnissippi Park.  Nest carried a large bundle of
flowers she had purchased the night before and left sitting overnight
in a bucket of water on the porch.  It was not yet nine, and the air
was still cool and the grass slick with damp in the pale morning light.
The park stretched away before them, broad expanses of lush, new-mown
grass fading into distant, shadowy woods and ragged curtains of mist
that rose off the Rock River.  The bare earth of the base paths,
pitcher's mounds, and batting boxes of the ball diamonds cornering the
central open space were dark and hard with moisture and the night's
chill.  The big shade trees had shed most of their leaves, the fall
colors carpeting the areas beneath them in a patchwork mix of red,
gold, orange, and brown.  Park toys dotted the landscape like weird
sculpture, and the wooden trestle and chute for the toboggan slide
glimmered with a thin coating of frost.  The crossbar at the entrance
was lowered, the fall hours in effect so that there was no vehicle
access to the park until after ten.  In the distance, a solitary walker
was towed in the wake of a hard-charging Irish setter that bounded
through the haze of soft light and mist in a brilliant flash of rust.

The cemetery lay at the west end of the park on the other side of a
chain-link fence.  Having grown up in the park, they had been climbing
that fence since they were kids--Robert and Cass Minter and Brianna
Brown and Jared Scott and herself.  Best friends for years, they had
shared adventures and discoveries and hopes and dreams.

Everything but the truth about who Nest was.

Robert shoved his bare hands in his pockets and exhaled a plume of
white moisture.

"We should have driven," he declared.

He was striding out ahead of her, taking the lead in typical Robert
fashion, not in the least intimidated by the fact that she was taller
and stronger and far more familiar with where she was going than he
was.

She smiled in spite of herself.  Robert would lead even if he were
blindfolded.

She remembered telling him her deepest secret once, long ago, on the
day after she had eluded him on her way to the deadly confrontation
with her father.  She had done something to him, he insisted, and he
wanted to know what it was.  That was the price he was demanding for
his help in getting into the hospital to see Jared.  She told him the
truth, that she had used magic.  She told him in a way that was meant
to leave him in doubt.  He could not quite believe her, but not quite
ignore her, either.  He had never been able to resolve his confusion,
and that was a part of what attracted him to her, she supposed.

But there were distances between them that Robert could not even begin
to understand.  Between her and everyone she knew, now that Gran was
gone, because Nest was the only one who could do magic, the only one
who would ever be able to do magic, the only one who would probably
ever even know that magic was out there.  She was the one who had been
born to it, a legacy passed down through generations of the Freemark
women, but through her demon father, as well.  Magic that could come to
her in the blink of an eye, could come unbidden at times.  Magic that
lived within her heart and mind, a part of her life that she must
forever keep secret, because the danger that came from others knowing
far outweighed the burden of clandestine management.  Magic to heal and
magic to destroy.  She was still struggling to understand it.  She
could still feel it developing within her.

She looked off into the shadows of the woods that flanked the cliffs
and cemetery ahead, where the night still lingered in dark patches and
the feeders lurked.  She did not see them, but she could sense that
they were there.  As she had always been able to when others could not.
Unseen and unknown, the feeders existed on the fringes of human
consciousness.  Sylvans like Pick helped to keep them in check by
working to maintain a balance in the magic that was invested in and
determinative of the behavior of all living things.  But humans were
prone to adversely affect that balance, tilting it mostly without even
knowing, changing it with their behavior and their feelings, altering
it in the careless, unseeing way that mudslides altered landscapes.

This was the other world, the one to which Nest alone had access.

Since she was very small, she had worked to understand it, to help Pick
maintain it, and to find a way to reconcile it with the world that
everyone else inhabited and believed fully defined.  There, in
no-man's-land between the known and the secret, she was an anomaly,
never entirely like her friends, never just another child.

"You've lived in your grandparents' house all your life," Robert said
suddenly, eyes determinedly fixed in a forward direction.  They were
crossing the entrance road and moving into the scattering of shade
trees and spruce that bordered the picnic grounds leading to the
chain-link fence and the cemetery.

"That house is your home, Nest.  If you sell it, you won't have a home
anymore."

She scuffed at the damp grass with her tennis shoes.

"I know that, Robert."

"Do you need the money?"

"I could use it.  Training and competition is expensive.  The school
doesn't pay for everything."

"Why don't you take out a mortgage, then?  Why sell, if you don't have
to?"

She couldn't explain it to him, not if she tried all day.  It had to do
with being who she was, and that wasn't something Robert could know
about without having lived her life.  She didn't even want to talk
about it with him because it was personal and private.

"Maybe I want a new home," she said enigmatically, giving sudden,
unexpected voice to the feelings that churned inside her.  It was hard
to keep from crying as she thought back upon their genesis.

Her friends were gone, all but Robert.  She could still see their
faces, but she saw them not as they were at the end, but as they were
when they were still fourteen and it seemed as if nothing in their
lives would ever change.  She saw them as they were during that last
summer they were all together, on that last weekend before everything
changed--when they were close and tight and believed they could stand
up to anything.

Brianna Brown and Jared Scott moved away within a year of that
summer.

Brianna wrote Nest at first, but the time between letters steadily
lengthened, and finally the letters ceased altogether.  Nest heard
later that Brianna was married and had a child.

She never heard from Jared at all.

Cass Minter remained her oldest and closest friend all through high
school.  Different from each other in so many ways, they continued to
find common ground in a lifetime of shared experiences and mutual
trust.  Cass planned to go to the University of Illinois and study
genetics, but two weeks before graduation, she died in her sleep.  The
doctor said it was an aneurysm.  No one had suspected it was there.

Jared, Brianna, and Cass--all gone.  Of her old friends, that left only
Robert, and by the end of her freshman year at Northwestern, Nest could
already feel herself beginning to drift.  Her parents were gone.

Her grandparents were gone.  Her friends were gone.  Even the cats,
Mr.

Scratch and Miss Minx, were gone, the former dead of old age two years
earlier, the latter moved to a neighbor's home with her grandfathers
passing.  Her future, she thought, lay somewhere else.  Her life was
going in a different direction, and she could feel Hopewell receding
steadily into her past.

They reached the chain-link fence and, without pausing to debate the
matter, scrambled over.  Holding the flowers for Nest while she
completed the climb, Robert gave them a cursory sniff before handing
them back.  Side by side, the two made their way down the paved road
that wound through the rows of tombstones and markers, feeling the
October sun grow warmer against their skin as it lifted into a clear
autumn sky.  Summer might be behind them and winter closing fast, but
there was nothing wrong with this day.

She felt her thoughts drift like clouds, returning to the past- She had
acquired new friends in high school but they lacked the history she
shared with the old, and she couldn't seem to get past that.

Of course, the Petersons still lived next door and Mildred Walker still
lived down the street.  Reverend Emery still conducted services at the
First Congregational Church, and a few of her grandfathers old cronies
still gathered for coffee at Josie's each morning to share gossip and
memories.  Once in a while, she even saw Josie, but she could sense the
other's discomfort, and understanding its source, kept her distance. In
any event, these were people of a different generation, and their real
friendships had been with her grandparents rather than with her.

There was always Pick, though.  And, until a year or so ago, there had
been Wraith .  Robert left the roadway to cut through the rows of
markers, bearing directly for the gravesites of her grandparents. Isn't
it odd, she thought, trailing distractedly in his wake, that Hopewell
should feel so alien to her?  Small towns were supposed to be stable
and unchanging.  It was part of their charm, one of their virtues, that
while larger communities would almost certainly undergo some form of
upheaval, they would remain the same.  But Hopewell didn't feel like
that to her.  It felt altered in ways that transcended expectation,
ways that did not involve population growth or economic peaks.  Those
were substantially the same as they had been five years earlier.  It
was something else, an intangible that she believed might have
influenced only her.

Perhaps it was her, she pondered.  Perhaps it was she who had changed
and not the town at all.

They walked up to her grandparents' graves and stopped below the
markers, looking down at the mounds that fronted them.

Gran's was thick and smooth with autumn grass; the grass on Old Bob's
was still sparse and the earth less seeded.  Identical tombstones
marked their resting places.  Nest read her grandmother's.  EVELYN

OPAL

FREE MARK BELOVED WIFE OF ROBERT.  SLEEP WITH ANGELS.  WAKE WITH

GOD.

Old Bob had chosen the wording for Gran's marker, and Nest had simply
copied it for his.

Her mothers gravestone stood just to the left.  CAITLIN ANNE

FREE MARK

BELOVED DAUGHTER & MOTHER.

A fourth plot, just a grassy space now, was reserved for her.

She studied it thoughtfully for a moment, then set about dividing up
the flowers she had brought, arranging them carefully in each of the
three metal vases that stood on tripods before the headstones.  Robert
watched her as she worked, saying nothing.

"Bring some water," she said, pointing toward the spigot and watering
can that sat in a small concrete well several dozen yards off.

Robert did, then poured water into each vase, being careful not to
disturb Nest's arrangements.

Together, they stood looking down at the plots, the sun streaming
through the branches of the old shade trees that surrounded them in
curtains of dappled brightness.

"I remember all the times your grandmother baked us cookies," Robert
said after a minute.

"She would sit us down at the picnic table out back and bring us a
plate heaped with them and glasses of cold milk.

She was always saying a child couldn't grow up right without cookies
and milk.  I could never get that across to my mother.  She thought you
couldn't grow up right without vegetables.  "

Nest grinned.

"Gran was big on vegetables, too.  You just weren't there for that
particular lecture."

"Every Christmas we had that cookie bake in your kitchen.  Balls of
dough and cookie sheets and cutters and frosting and little bottles of
sprinkles and whatnot everywhere.  We trashed her kitchen, and she
never blinked an eye."

"I remember making cookies for bake sales."  Nest shook her head.

"For the church, for mission aid or something.  It seemed for a while
that I was doing it every other weekend.  Gran never objected once,
even after she stopped going to church altogether."

Robert nodded.

"Your grandmother never needed to go to church.  I think God probably
told her she didn't have to go, that he would come to see her
instead."

Nest looked at him.

"That's a very nice thing to say, Robert."

He pursed his lips and shrugged.

"Yeah, well, I'm just trying to get back into your good graces. Anyway,
I liked your grandmother.  I always thought, when things got a little
rough at home, that if they got real bad I could move in with you if I
really wanted to.  Sure, you and your grandfather might object, but
your grandmother would have me in an instant.  That's what I
thought."

Nest nodded.

"She probably would have, too."

Robert folded his arms across his chest.

"You cant sell your house, Nest.  You know why?  Because your
grandmother's still there."

Nest was silent for a moment.

"I don't think so."

"Yes, she is.  She's in every room and closet, in every corner, and
under every carpet, down in the basement and up in the attic.  That's
where she is.  Nest.  Where else would she be?"

Nest didn't answer.

"Up in Heaven playing a harp?  I wouldn't think so.  Too boring.  Not
floating around on a cloud either.  Not your grandmother.  She's in
that house, and I don't think you should move out on her."

Nest wondered what Robert would say if he knew the truth of things.

She wondered what he would say if he knew that Gran's transgressions
years earlier had doomed her family in ways that would horrify him,
that Gran had roamed the park at night like a wild thing, that she had
run with the feeders and cast her magic in dangerous ways, that her
encounter with a demon had brought about both her own death and the
death of Nest's mother.  Would he think that she- belonged in an
afterlife of peace and light or that perhaps she should be consigned to
a place where penance might be better served?

She regretted the thought immediately, a rumination both uncharitable
and harsh, but she found she could not dispel it entirely.

Still, was Robert's truth any less valid in determining the worth of
Gran's life than her own?

Robert cleared his throat to regain her attention.  She looked at
him.

"I'll think about it," she said.

"Good.

"Cause there are a lot of memories in that house, Nest."

Yes, there are, she thought, looking off into the sun-streaked trees to
where the river was a blue glint through the dark limbs.  But not all
the memories were ones she wanted to keep, and perhaps memories alone
were not enough in any case.  There was a lack of substance in memories
and a danger in embracing them.  You did not want to be tied too
closely to something you could never recapture.

"I wouldn't sell if it was me, you know," Robert persisted.

"I

wouldn't sell unless I didn't have a choice.  "

He was pushing his luck, irritating her with his insistence on making
the decision for her, on assuming she couldn't think it through as
carefully as he could and needed his advice.  It was typical Robert.

She gave him a look and dared him to speak.  To his credit, he
didn't.

"Let's go," she said.

They walked back through the cemetery in silence, climbed the fence a
second time, and crossed the park.  The crossbar was raised now, and a
few cars had driven in.  One or two families were playing on the swing
sets, and a picnic was being spread in a sunny spot across from the
Sinnissippi burial mounds.  Nest thought suddenly of Two Bears, of
O'olish Amaneh, the last of the Sinnissippi.  She hadn't thought of him
in a long time.  She hadn't seen him in five years.  Now and then she
wondered what had become of him.  As she wondered what had become of
John Ross, the Knight of the Word.

The memories flooded through her.

At the hedgerow bordering her yard, she leaned over impulsively and
gave Robert a kiss on the cheek.

"Thanks for coming by.  It was sweet of you."

Robert looked flustered.  He was being dismissed, and he wasn't ready
for that.

"Uh, are you, do you have any plans for the rest of the day?

Or anything?  "

"Or anything?"  she repeated.

"Well, lunch, maybe.  You know what I mean."

She knew exactly.  She knew better than he did.  Robert would never
change.  The best thing she could do for them both was not to encourage
him.

"I'll call you if I get some time later, okay?" 

It had to be okay, of course, so Robert shrugged and nodded.  If it
doesn't work out, I'll see you at Thanksgiving.  Or Christmas.  "

She nodded.

"I'll drop you a note at school.  Study hard, Robert.  I need to know
you're out there setting an example for the rest of us."

He grinned, regaining a bit of his lost composure.

"It's a heck of a burden, but I try."  He began to move away into the
park.

"See you.

Nest.  " He tossed back his long blond hair and gave her a jaunty
wave.

She watched him walk down the service road that ran behind her
backyard, then cut across the park toward his home, which lay beyond
the woods at the east end.  He grew smaller and less distinct as he
went, receding slowly into the distance.  It was like watching her past
fade before her eyes.  Even when she saw him again, it would not be the
same.  She knew it instinctively.  They would be different people
leading different lives, and there would be no going back to the lives
they had lived as children.

Her throat tightened, and she took a deep breath.  Oh, Robert!

She waited a moment longer, letting the memories flood through her one
final time, then turned away.


chapter 3

As Nest pushed through the hedgerow into her backyard, Pick dropped
from the branches onto her shoulder with a pronounced grunt.

"That boy is sweet on you.  Sweet, sweet, sweet."

Pick's voice was harried and thin, and when he spoke he sounded like
one of those fuzzy creatures on Sesame Street.  Nest thought he
wouldn't be so smug if he could hear himself on tape sometime.

"They're all sweet on me," she said, deflecting his dig, moving toward
the picnic table.

"Didn't you know?"

"No, I didn't.  But if that one were any sweeter, he could be bottled
for syrup."  Pick sniffed.

"Classic case of youthful hormonal imbalance."

She laughed.

"Since when did you know anything about " youthful hormonal imbalance"?
Didn't you tell me once that you were born in a pod?"

"That doesn't mean I don't know about humans.  I suppose you don't
think I've learned anything in my life, is that it?  Since I'm roughly
ten times your age, it's probably safe to assume I've learned a great
deal more than you have!"

She straddled one of the picnic bench seats, and Pick slid down her arm
and jumped onto the table in front of her, hands on hips, eyes defiant.
At first glance, he looked like a lot of different things.  A quick
glimpse suggested he was some sort of weird forest flotsam and jetsam,
shed by a big fir or blown off an aging cedar.  A

second look suggested he was a poorly designed child's doll made out of
tree parts.  A thick layer of bark encrusted him from head to foot, and
tiny leaves blossomed out of various nooks and crannies where his
joints were formed.  He was a sylvan, in fact, six inches high and so
full of himself Nest was sometimes surprised he didn't just float away
on the wind.  He never stopped talking and, in the many years she had
known him, had seldom stopped moving.  He was full of energy and
advice, and he had a tendency to overwhelm her with both.

"Where have you been?"  he demanded, clearly agitated that he had been
forced to wait on her return.

She brushed back her cinnamon-colored hair and shook her head at him.

"We walked over to the cemetery and put flowers on my grandparents' and
mothers graves.  What is your problem anyway?"

"My problem?"  Pick huffed.

"Well, since you asked, my problem is that I have this entire park to
look after, all two-hundred-odd acres of it, and I have to do it by
myself. Now, you might say, " But that's your job.  Pick, so what are
you complaining about?  " Well, that's true enough, isn't it?  But time
was I had a little help from a certain young lady who lived in this
house.  Now what was her name again?  I forget, its been so long since
I've seen her."

"Oh, please!"  Nest moaned.

"Sure, it's easy for you to go off to your big school and your other
life, but words like " commitment" and " responsibility" mean something
to some of us."  He stamped hard on the picnic table.

"I thought the least you could do was to spend some time with me this
weekend, this one solitary weekend in the whole of this autumn that
you've chosen to come home!  But no, I haven't seen you for five
minutes, have I?  And now, today, what do you do?  Go off with that
Heppler boy instead of looking for me!  I could have gone to the graves
with you, you know.  I would have liked to go, as a matter of fact.
Your grandmother was my friend, too, and I don't forget my friends ..."
He trailed off meaningfully.

"Unlike some people," she finished for him.

"I wasn't going to say that."

"Oh, not for a minute."  She sighed.

"Robert came by to apologize for his behavior last spring at the
funeral."

"Oh, that.  Criminy."  Pick knew right away.  They might fight like
cats and dogs, but they confided in each other anyway.

"So I had to spend a little time with him, and I didn't think it would
hurt if we walked over to the cemetery.  I was saving the rest of the
day to work with you, all right?  Now stop complaining."

He held up his twiggy hands.

"Too late.  Way too late."

"To stop complaining?"

"No!  To do any work!"

She hunched down so that her face was close to his.  It was a little
like facing down a beetle.

"What are you talking about?  It isn't even noon.  I don't have to go
back until tonight.  Why is it too late?"

He folded his stick arms across his narrow chest, scrunched up his
face, and looked off into the park.  She always wondered how he could
make his features move like that when they were made out of wood, but
since he had a tendency to regard such questions as some sort of
invasion of his personal life, she'd never had the courage to ask.  She
waited patiently as he sighed and fussed and jittered about.

"There's someone here to see you," he announced finally.

"Who?"

"Well, I think you had better see for yourself She studied him a
moment.  He refused to meet her eyes, and a cold feeling seeped through
her.

"Someone from before?"  she asked quietly.

"From when my father ... ?"

"No, no!"  He held up his hands quickly to calm her fears.

"No one you've met before.  No one from then.  But..."  He stopped.

"I can't tell you who it is without getting myself in deeper than I
care to go.  I've thought about it, and it will be better if you just
come with me and ask your questions there."

She nodded.  Ask my questions where?  "

"Down by the bayou below the deep woods.  She's waiting there."

She.  Nest frowned.

"Well, when did she get here?"

"Early this morning."  Pick sighed.

"I just wish these things wouldn't happen so suddenly, that's all.  I
just wish I'd be given a little notice beforehand.  It's hard enough
doing my job without these constant interruptions."

"Well, maybe it won't take long," she offered, trying to ease his
obvious distress.

"If it doesn't, we can still get some work done in the park before I
have to go back."

He didn't even argue the point.  His anger was deflated, his fire
burned to ash.  He just stared off at nothing and nodded.

Nest straightened.

"Pick, it's a beautiful October morning, filled with sunshine.  The
park has never looked better.  I haven't seen a single feeder, so the
magic is in some sort of balance.  You've done your job well, even
without my help.  Enjoy yourself for five minutes."

She reached over, plucked him off the tabletop, and set him on her
shoulder.

"Come on, let's take a walk over to the deep woods."

Without waiting for an answer, she rose and headed for the hedgerow
pushing through the thin branches into the park.  Sunshine streamed
down out of a cloudless sky, filling the morning air with the pale,
washed-out light peculiar to late autumn.  There was a nip in the air,
a hint of winter on the rise, but there was also the scent of dried
leaves and cut grass mingling with the pungent smells of cooking that
wafted out of barbecue grills and kitchen vents from the houses
bordering the park.  Cars dotted the parking lots and turnoffs beneath
the trees, and families were setting out picnic lunches and running
with dogs and throwing Frisbees across the grassy play areas ahead.

On such days, she thought to herself with a smile, she could almost
imagine she would never leave.

"Pick, if we don't get back to it today, I'll come home again next
weekend," she announced impulsively.

"I know I haven't been as good about working with you as I should. I've
let other things get in the way, and I shouldn't do that.  This is more
important."

He rode her shoulder in silence, apparently not ready to be
mollified.

She glanced down at him covertly.  He didn't seem angry.

He just seemed distant, as if he were looking beyond her words to
something else.

She traversed the central open space to the parking lot serving the
ball diamonds and play areas at the far end of the park, crossed the
road, and entered the woods.  The toboggan slide stood waiting for
winter, the last sections of the wooden chute and the ladder that
allowed access to the loading platform still in storage, removed and
locked away as a safeguard against kids' climbing on and falling off
before the snows came.  It never seemed to help much, of course.  Kids
climbed anything that had footholds whether it was intended for that
purpose or not, and the absence of stairs just made the challenge that
much more attractive.  Nest smiled faintly.  She had done it herself
more times than she could count.  But she supposed that one day some
kid would fall off and the parents would sue and that would be the end
of it; the slide would come down.

She walked through the hilly woods that marked the beginning of the
eastern end of the park, alone now with Pick, wrapped in the silence of
the big hardwoods.  The trees rose bare- limbed and skeletal against
the autumn sky, stripped of their leaves, waiting for winters approach.
Their colors not yet completely faded, the fallen leaves formed a thick
carpet on the ground, still damp and soft with morning dew.  She peered
ahead into the tangled clutter of limbs and scrub and shadow. The
forest had a bristling, hostile appearance.  Everything looked as if it
were wrapped in barbed wire.

Her long strides covered the ground rapidly as she descended to the
creek that wound out of the woods and emptied into the bayou.  How much
bigger the park had seemed when she was a child growing up in it.

Sometimes her home felt the same way-too small for her now.  She
supposed it was true of her child's world entirely, that she had
outgrown it, that she needed more room.

"How much farther?"  she asked as she crossed the wooden bridge that
spanned the creek bed, and started up the slope toward the deep
woods.

"Bear right," he grunted.

She angled toward the bayou, following the tree line.  She glanced
involuntarily toward the deep woods, just as she always did, any time
she came here, remembering what had taken place there five years
earlier.  Sometimes she could see it all quite clearly, could see her
father and John Ross and the maentwrog.  Sometimes she could even see
Wraith.

"Has there been any sign of him?"  she asked suddenly, the words
escaping from her mouth before she could think better of them.

Pick understood what she was talking about.

"Nothing.  Not since ..."

Not since she turned eighteen two summers ago, she finished as he
trailed off.  That was the last time either of them had seen Wraith.

After so many years of having him around, it seemed impossible that he
could be gone.  Her father had created the giant ghost wolf out of his
dark magic to serve as a protector for the daughter he intended one day
to return for.  Wraith was to keep her safe while she grew.  All the
time she had worked with Pick to keep the magic in balance and the
feeders from luring children into the park.  Wraith had warded her. But
Gran had discerned Wraith's true purpose and altered his makeup with
her own magic in such a way that when Nest's father returned to claim
her.  Wraith destroyed him.

She could see it happening all over again through the dark huddle of
the trees.  Night cloaked the deep woods, and on the slopes of the
park, over by the toboggan slide.  Fourth of July fireworks were
exploding in a shower of bright colors and deep booms.  The white oak
that had imprisoned the maentwrog was in shreds, and the maentwrog
itself was turned to ash.  John Ross lay motionless upon the charred
earth, damaged and exhausted.  Nest faced her father, who approached
with hand outstretched and soothing, persuasive words.  "You belong to
me.  You are my blood.  You are my life."

And Wraith, come out of the night like an express train exploding free
of a mountain tunnel.  She was fourteen when she learned the truth
about her father.  And her family.  And herself.  Wraith had stayed as
her protector afterward, a shadowy presence in the park, showing
himself only occasionally as the next few years passed, but always when
the feeders came too close.  Now and then she would think that he
seemed less substantive than she remembered, less solid when he loomed
out of the darkness.  But that seemed silly.

However, as she neared her eighteenth birthday, Wraith turned pale and
then ethereal and finally disappeared completely.  It happened
quickly.

One day he was just as he had always been, his thick body massive and
bristling, his gray and black tiger-stripe facial markings wicked and
menacing, and the next he was fading away.  Like the ghost he had
always seemed, but finally become.

The last time she saw him, she was walking the park at sunset, and he
had appeared unexpectedly from the shadows.  He was already so
insubstantial she could see right through him.  She stopped, and he
walked right up to her, passing so close that she felt his rough coat
brush against her.  She blinked in surprise at the unexpected contact,
and when she turned to follow him, he was already gone.

She hadn't seen him since.  Neither had Pick.  That was almost a year
and a half ago.

"Where do you think he's gone?"  she asked quietly.

Pick, riding her shoulder in silence, shrugged.

"Cant say."

"He was disappearing though, there at the end, wasn't he?"

"It looked that way, sure enough."

"So maybe he was all used up."

"Maybe."

"Except you told me magic never gets used up.  You told me it works
like energy; it becomes transformed.  So if Wraith was transformed,
what was he transformed into?"

"Criminy, Nest!"

"Have you noticed anything different about the park?"

The sylvan tugged at his beard.

"No, nothing."

"So where did he go then?"

Pick wheeled on her.

"You know what?  If you spent a little more time helping me out around
here, maybe you could answer the question for yourself instead of
pestering me!  Now turn down here and head for the riverbank and stop
asking me stuff!"

She did as he asked, still pondering the mystery of Wraith, thinking
that maybe because she was grown up and Wraith had served his purpose,
he had reverted to whatever form he had occupied before he was created
to be her protector.  Yes, maybe that was it.

But her doubts lingered.

She reached the riverbank and stopped.  The bayou spread out before
her, a body of water dammed up behind the levy on which the railroad
tracks had been built to carry the freight trains west out of
Chicago.

Reeds and cattails grew in thick clumps along the edges of the water,
and shallow inlets that eroded the riverbank were filmed with
stagnation and debris.  There was little movement in the water, the
swift current of the Rock River absent here.

She looked down at Pick.

"Now what?"

He gestured to her right without speaking.

She turned and found herself staring right at the tatterdemalion.  She
had seen only a handful in her life, and then just for a few seconds
each time, but she knew this one for what it was right away.  It stood
less than a dozen yards away, slight and ephemeral in the pale autumn
light.  Diaphanous clothing and silky hair trailed from its body and
limbs in wispy strands, as if on the verge of being carried off by the
wind.  The tatterdemalions features were childlike and haunted.  This
one was a girl.  Her eyes were depthless in dark-ringed sockets and her
rosebud mouth pinched against her sunken face.  Her skin was the color
and texture of parchment.  She might have been a runaway who had not
eaten in days and was still terrified of what she had left behind.  She
had that look.  But tatterdemalions were nothing of the sort.  They
weren't really children at all, let alone runaways.  They weren't even
human.

Are you Nest Freemark?  " this one asked in her soft, lilting childlike
voice.

"I am," Nest answered, risking a quick glance down at Pick.  The sylvan
was mired in the deepest frown she had ever seen on him and was hunched
forward on her shoulder in a combative stance.  She had a sudden,
inescapable premonition he was trying to protect her.

"My name is Ariel," said the tatterdemalion.

"I have a message for you from the Lady."

Nest's throat went dry.  She knew who the Lady was.  The Lady was the
Voice of the Word.

"I have been sent to tell you of John Ross," Ariel said.

Of course.  John Ross.  She had thought of him earlier that morning for
the first time in weeks.  She pictured him anew, enigmatic and
resourceful, a mix of light and dark, gone from Hopewell five years
earlier in the wake of her father's destruction, gone out of her
life.

Maybe she had inadvertently wished him back into it.  Maybe that was
why the mention of him seemed somehow inevitable.

"John Ross," she repeated, as if the words would make of his memory
something more substantial.

Ariel stood motionless in a mix of shadow and sunlight, as if pinned
like a butterfly to a board.  When she spoke, her voice was reed-thin
and faintly musical, filled with the sound of the wind rising off trees
heavy with new leaves.

"He has fallen from grace," she said to Nest Freemark, and the dark
eyes bore into her.

"Listen, and I will tell you what has become of him."

As with almost everything since John Ross had become a Knight of the
Word, his disintegration began with a dream.

His dreams were always of the future, a future grim and horrific, one
where the balance of magic had shifted so dramatically that
civilization was on the verge of extinction.  The Void had gained
ascendancy over the Word, good had lost the eternal struggle against
evil, and humanity had become a pathetic shadow of the brilliant ideal
it had once approached.  Men were reduced to hunters and hunted, the
former led by demons and driven by feeders, the latter banded together
in fortress cities and scattered outposts in a landscape fallen into
ruin and neglect.  Once-men and their prey, they were born of the same
flesh, but changed by the separate and divisive moral codes they had
embraced and by the indelible patterns of their lives.  It had taken
more than a decade, but in the end governments had toppled, nations had
collapsed, armies had broken into pieces, and peoples worldwide had
reverted to a savagery that had not been in evidence since well before
the birth of Christ.

The dreams were given to John Ross for a purpose.  It was the mission
of a Knight of the Word to change the course of history.  The dreams
were a reminder of what the future would be like if he failed.  The
dreams were also a means of discovering pivotal events that might be
altered by the Knight on waking.  John Ross had learned something of
the dreams over time.  The dreams always revealed events that would
occur, usually within a matter of months.

The events were always instigated by men and women who had fallen under
the sway of the demons who served the Void.  And the men and women who
would perpetrate the monstrous acts that would alter in varying,
cumulative ways the direction in which humanity drifted could always be
tracked down.

But even then there was a limit to what a Knight of the Word could do,
and John Ross discovered the full truth of this at San
Sobel.

In his dream, he was traveling through the nightmare landscape of
civilization's collapse on his way to an armed camp in San Francisco.

He had come from Chicago, where another camp had fallen to an onslaught
of demons and once-men, where he had fought to save the city and
failed, where he had seen yet another small light smothered, snuffed
out in an ever-growing darkness.  Thousands had died, and thousands
more had been taken to the slave pens for work and breeding.

He had come to San Francisco to prevent this happening again, knowing
that a new army was massing and moving west to assault the Bay Area
fortress, to reduce humanity's tenuous handhold on survival by yet
another digit.  He would plead with those in charge once again, knowing
that they would probably refuse to listen, distrustful of him, fearful
of his motives, knowing only that their past was lost and their future
had become an encroaching nightmare.  Now and again, someone would pay
heed.  Now and again, a city would be saved.  But the number of his
successes was dwindling rapidly as the strength of the Void's forces
grew.  The outcome was inevitable; it had been foreordained since he
had become a Knight of the Word years ago.  His failure then had writ
in stone what the future must be.  Even in his determined effort to
chip away the hateful letters, he was only prolonging the inevitable.

Yet he went on, because that was all that was left for him to do.

The dream began in the town of San Sobel, west and south of the Mission
Peak Preserve below San Francisco.  It was just another town, just one
more collection of empty shops and houses, of concrete streets buckling
with wear and disuse, of yards and parks turned to weeds and bare earth
amid a jumble of debris and abandoned cars.  Wild dogs roamed in packs
and feral cats slunk like shadows through the midday heat.  He walked
past windows and doors that gaped broken and dark like sightless eyes
and voiceless mouths.  Roofs had sagged and walls had collapsed;

the earth was reclaiming its own.  Now and again he would spy a furtive
figure making its way through the rubble, a stray human in search of
food and shelter, another refugee from the past.  They never approached
him.  They saw something in him that frightened them, something he
could not identify.  It was in his bearing or his gaze or perhaps in
the black, rune-scrolled staff that was the source of his power.  He
would stride down the center of a boulevard, made whole now with the
fulfillment of the Word's dark prophecy, his ruined leg healed because
his failure had brought that prophecy to pass, and no one would come
near him.  He was empowered to help them, and they shunned him as
anathema.  It was the final irony of his existence.

In San Sobel, no one approached him either.  He saw them, the strays,
hiding in the shadows, skittering from one bolt-hole to the next, but
they would not come near.  He walked alone through the town's ruin, his
eyes set on the horizon, his mind fixed on his mission, and he came
upon the woman quite unexpectedly.  She did not see him.  She was not
even aware of him.  She stood at the edge of a weed-grown lot and
stared fixedly at the remains of what had once been a school.  The name
was still visible in the crumbling stone of an arch that bridged a
drive leading up to the school's entry.  SAN

SO BEL PREPARATORY

ACADEMY.

Her gaze was unwavering as she stood there, arms folded, body swaying
slightly.  As he approached, he could hear small, unidentifiable sounds
coming from her lips.  She was worn and haggard, her hair hung limp and
unwashed, and she looked as if she had not eaten in a while.  There
were sores on her arms and face, and he recognized the markings of one
of the cluster of new diseases that were going untreated and killing
with increasing regularity.

He spoke to her softly, and she did not reply.  He came right up behind
her and spoke again, and she did not turn.

When finally he touched her, she still did not turn, but she began to
speak.  It was as if he had turned on a tape recorder.  Her voice was a
dull, empty monotone, and her story was one that quite obviously she
had told before.  She related it to him without caring whether he heard
her or not, giving vent to a need that was selfcontained and personal
and without meaningful connection to him.  He was her audience, but his
presence served only to trigger a release of words she would have
spoken to anyone.

He was my youngest child, she said.  My baby, Teddy.  He was six years
old.  We had enrolled him in kindergarten the year before, and now he
was finishing first grade.  He was so sweet.  He had blond hair and blue
eyes, and he was always smiling.  He could change the light in a room
just by walking into it.  I loved him so much.  Bert and I both worked,
and we made pretty good money, but it was still a stretch to send him
here.  But it was such a good school, and we wanted him to have the
best.  He was very bright.  He could have been anything, if he had
lived.

There was another boy in the school who was a little older, Aaron
Pilkington.  His father was very successful, very wealthy.  Some men
decided to kidnap him and make his father pay them money to set him
back.  They were stupid men, not even bright enough to know the best
way to kidnap someone.  They tried to take him out of the school.  They
just walked right in and tried to take him.  On April Fools' Day can
you imagine that?  I wonder if they knew.  They just walked in and
tried to take him.  But they couldn't find him.  They weren't even sure
which room he was in, which class he attended, who his teacher was,
anything. They had a picture, and they thought that would be enough.

But a picture doesn't always help.  Children in a picture often tend to
look alike.  So they couldn't find him, and the police were called, and
they surrounded the school, and the men took a teacher and her class
hostage because they were afraid and they didn't know what else to do,
I suppose.

My son was a student in that class.

The police tried to get the men to release the teacher and the
children, but the men wouldn't agree to the terms the police offered
and the police wouldn't agree to the terms the men offered, and the
whole thing just fell to pieces.  The men grew desperate and erratic.

One of them kept talking to someone who wasn't there, asking, What
should he do, what should he do?  They killed the teacher.  The police
decided they couldn't wait any longer, that the children were in too
much danger.  The men had moved the children to the auditorium where
they held their assemblies and performed their plays.  They had them
all seated in the first two rows, all in a line facing the stage.  When
the police broke in, they started shooting.  They just.  started
shooting.  Everywhere.  The children .  She never looked at him as she
spoke.  She never acknowledged his presence.  She was inaccessible to
him, lost in the past, reliving the horror of those moments.  She kept
her gaze fixed on the school, unwavering.

I was there, she said, her voice unchanging, toneless and empty.  I was
a room mother helping out that day.  There was going to be a birthday
party at the end of recess.  When the shooting began, I tried to reach
him.  I threw myself.  His name was Teddy.  Theodore, but we called
him Teddy, because he was just a little boy.  Teddy .  Then she went
silent, stared at the school a moment longer, turned, and walked off
down the broken sidewalk.  She seemed to know where she was going, but
he could not discern her purpose.  He watched after her a moment, then
looked at the school.

In his mind, he could hear the sounds of gunfire and children
screaming.

When he woke, he knew at once what he would do.  The woman had said
that one of the men spoke to someone who wasn't there.  He knew from
experience that it would be a demon, a creature no one but the man
could see.  He knew that a demon would have inspired this event, that
it would have used it to rip apart the fabric of the community, to
steal away San Sobel's sense of safety and tranquillity, to erode its
belief that what happened in other places could not happen there.  Once
such seeds of doubt and fear were planted, it grew easier to undermine
the foundations of human behavior and reason that kept animal madness
at bay.

It was late winter, and time was already short when he left for
California.  He reached San Sobel more than a week before April 1, and
he felt confident that he had sufficient time to prevent the impending
tragedy.  There had been no further dreams of this event, but that was
not unusual.  Often the dreams came only once, and he was forced to act
on what he was given.  Sometimes he did not know where the event would
happen, or even when.  This time he was lucky; he knew both.  The demon
would have set things in motion already, but Ross had come up against
demons time and again since he had taken up the cause of the Word, and
he was not intimidated.  Demons were powerful and elusive adversaries,
relentless in their hatred of humans and their determination to see
them subjugated, but they were no match for him.  It was the vagaries
of the humans they used as their tools that more often proved
troubling.

There were the feeders to be concerned about, too.  The feeders were
the dark things that drove humans to madness and then consumed them,
creatures of the mind and soul that lived mostly in the imagination
until venal behavior made them real.  The feeders devoured the dark
emotions of the humans they preyed upon and were sustained and given
life by.  Few could see them.  Few had any reason to.  They appeared as
shadows at the corner of the eye or small movements in a hazy distance.
The demons stirred them into the human population as they would a
poison.  If they could infect a few, the poison might spread to the
many.  History had proved that this was so.

The feeders would delight in a slaughter of innocents, of children who
could barely understand what was wanted of them by the men John Ross
would confront.  He could not search out these men; he had no way to do
so.  Nor could he trace the demon.  Demons were changelings and hid
themselves with false identities.  He must wait for the men and the
demons who manipulated them to reveal themselves, which meant that he
must be waiting at the place he expected them to strike.

So he went to San Sobel Preparatory Academy to speak with the
headmaster.  He did not tell the headmaster of his dream, or of the
demon, or of the men the demon would send, or of the horror that waited
barely a week away.  There was no point in doing that because he had no
way to convince the headmaster he was not insane.  He told the
headmaster instead that he was the parent of a child who would be
eligible for admission to the academy in the fall and that he would
like some information on the school.  He apologized for his
appearance--he was wearing jeans and a blue denim shirt under his
corduroy jacket with the patches on the elbows and a pair of worn
walking shoes--but he was a nature writer on assignment, and he was
taking half a day off to make this visit.  The headmaster took note of
his odd walking staff and his limp, and his clear blue eyes and warm
smile gave evidence of the fact that he was both sympathetic and
understanding of his visitor's needs.

He talked to John Ross of the school's history and of its mission.  He
gave Ross materials to read.  Finally, he took Ross on a tour of the
buildings--which was what Ross had been waiting for.  They passed down
the shadowed corridors from one classroom to the next and at last to
the auditorium where the tragedy of the dream would occur.  Ross
lingered, asking questions so that he would have time to study the
room, to memorize its layout, its entries and exits and hiding
places.

A quick study was all it took.  When he was satisfied, he thanked the
headmaster for his time and consideration and left.

He found out later in the day that a boy named Aaron Pilkington
attended the academy, that he was enrolled in the third grade, and that
his parents had been made enormously wealthy through his father's work
with microchips.

That night, he devised a plan.  It was not complicated.  He had learned
that by keeping his plans simple, his chances of successfully
implementing them improved.  There were small lives at stake, and he
did not want to expose them to any greater risk than necessary.

It seemed to him, thinking the matter through in his motel room that
night, that he had everything under control.

He waited patiently for the days to pass.  On the morning of April 1,
he arrived at the school just before sunrise.  He had visited the
school late in the afternoon of the day before and left a wedge of
paper in the lock of one of the classroom windows at the back of the
main building so the lock would not close all the way.  He slipped
through the window in the darkness, listening for the movement of other
people as he did so.  But the maintenance staff didn't arrive for
another half hour, and he was alone.  He worked his way down the
hallway to the auditorium, found one of the storage rooms where the
play props were kept at the rear and side of the stage, and concealed
himself inside.

Then he waited.

He did not know when the attack would come, but he did know that until
the moment of his intervention, history would repeat itself and the
events of the dream would transpire exactly as related by Teddy's
mother.  It was up to him to choose just when he would try to alter the
outcome.

He crouched in the darkness of his hiding place and listened to the
sounds of the school about him as the day began.  The storage room had
sufficient space that he was able to change positions and move around
so his leg didn't stiffen up.  He had brought food.  Time slipped
away.

No one came to the auditorium.  Nothing unusual occurred.

Then the doors burst open, and Ross could hear the screams and cries of
children, the pleas of several women, and the angry, rough voices of
men fill the room.  Ross waited patiently, the storage door cracked
open just far enough that he could see what was happening.  A hooded
figure bounded onto the stage between the half-closed curtains, glanced
around hurriedly, and began barking orders.  A second figure joined
him.  The women and children filed hurriedly into the front rows of the
theater in response to the men's directions.

Still Ross waited.

One of the men had a cell phone.  It rang, and he began talking into
it, growing increasingly angry.  He jumped down off the stage,
screaming obscenities into the mouthpiece.  Ross slipped out of the
storage room, the black staff gleaming with the magic's light.  He
moved slowly, steadily through the shadows, closing on the lone man who
stood at the front of the stage.  The man held a handgun, but he was
looking at his captives.  Ross could see a third man now, one standing
at the far side of the room, looking out the door into the hallway.

Ross came up to the man standing on the stage and leveled him with a
single blow of the staff.  He caught a glimpse of the other two, the
one on the phone still yelling and screaming with his back turned, the
other wheeling in surprise as he caught sight of Ross.  The children's
eyes went wide as Ross appeared, and with a sweep of his staff Ross
threw a heavy blanket of magic over the children, a weighted net that
forced them to lower their heads and shield their eyes.  The man at the
door was swinging his AK-47 around to fire as Ross hit him with a bolt
of bright magic and knocked him senseless.

The third man dropped the phone, still screaming, and brought up a
second AK-47.  But Ross was waiting for him as well, and again the
magic lanced from the staff.  A burst from the man's weapon sprayed the
ceiling harmlessly as he went down in a heap.

Ross scanned the room swiftly for other kidnappers.  There were none.

Just the three.  The children and their teacher and two other women
were still crouched in their seats, weighted down by the magic.  Ross
lifted it away, setting them free.  No one was hurt.  Everything was
all right.  Then he saw the feeders, dozens of them, oozing through
cracks in the windows and doors, sliding out of corners and alcoves,
dark shadows gathering to feast, sensing something that was hidden from
him.

Ross wheeled about in desperation, searching everywhere at once, his
heart pounding, his mind racing .  And police burst through the doors
and windows, shattering wood and glass.  Someone was yelling, Throw
down your weapons!  Now, now, now!

The women and children were screaming anew, scrambling out of their
seats in terror, and someone was yelling, He's got a gun!  Shoot him,
shoot him!  Ross was trying to tell them, No, no, it's all right, it's
okay now!  But no one was listening, and everything was chaotic and out
of control, and the feeders were leaping about in a frenzy, climbing
over everything, and there were weapons firing everywhere, catching the
kidnapper who was just coming to his knees in front of the stage, still
too stunned to know what was happening, lifting him in a red spatter
and dropping him back again in a crumpled heap, and small bodies were
being struck by the bullets as well, hammered sideways and sent flying
as screams of fear turned to shrieks of pain, and still the voice was
veiling, He's got a gun, he's got a gun!  Even though Ross still
couldn't see any gun, couldn't understand what the voice was veiling
about, the police kept firing, over and over and over into the
children.  He read about it in the newspapers in the days that
followed. Fourteen children were killed.  Two of the kidnappers died. 
There was considerable debate over who fired the shots, but informed
speculation had it that several of the children had been caught in a
crossfire.

There was only brief mention of Ross.  In the confusion that followed
the shooting, Ross had backed away into the shadows and slipped out
through the rear of the auditorium into a crowd of parents and
bystanders and disappeared before anyone could stop him.  The teacher
who had been held hostage told of a mysterious man who had helped free
them, but the police insisted that the man was one of the kidnappers
and that the teacher was mistaken about what she had seen.

Descriptions of what he looked like varied dramatically, and after a
time the search to find him waned and died.

But John Ross was left devastated.  How had this terrible thing
happened?  What had gone wrong?  He had done exactly as he intended to
do.  The men had been subdued.  The danger was past.  And still the
children had died, the police misreading the situation, hearing screams
over the kidnappers dropped cell phone, hearing the AK-47 go off,
bursting in with weapons ready, firing impulsively, foolishly .

Fourteen children dead.  Ross couldn't accept it.  He could tell
himself rationally that it wasn't his fault.  He could explain away
everything that had happened, could argue persuasively and passionately
to himself that he had done everything he could, but it still didn't
help.  Fourteen children were dead.

One of them, he discovered, was a blond, blue-eyed little boy named
Teddy.

He saw all of their pictures in magazines, and he read their stories in
papers for weeks afterward.  The horror of what had happened enveloped
and consumed him.  It haunted his sleep and destroyed his peace of
mind.  He could not function.  He sat paralyzed in motel rooms in small
towns far away from San Sobel, trying to regain his sense of purpose.
He had experienced failures before, but nothing with consequences that
were so dramatic and so personal.  He had thought he could handle
anything, but he wasn't prepared for this.

Fourteen lives were on his conscience, and he could hardly bear it.  He
cried often, and he ached deep inside.  He replayed the events over and
over in his mind, trying to decide what it was he had done wrong.

It was weeks before he realized his mistake.  He had assumed that the
demon who sought to inspire the killings had relied on the kidnappers
alone.  But it was the police who had killed the children.  Someone had
yelled at them to shoot, had prompted them to fire, had put them on
edge.  It took only one additional man, one further intent, one other
weapon.  The demon had seduced one of the police officers as well. Ross
had missed it.  He hadn't even thought of it.

After a time, he began to question everything he was doing in his
service to the Word.  What was the point of it all if so many small
lives could be lost so easily?  He was a poor choice to serve as a
Knight of the Word if he couldn't do any better than this.  And what
sort of supreme being would permit such a thing to happen in the first
place?  Was this the best the Word could do?  Was it necessary for
those fourteen children to die?  Was that the message?  John Ross began
to wonder, then to grow certain, that the difference between the Word
and the Void was small indeed.  It was all so pointless, so ridiculous.
He began to doubt and then to despair.  He was servant to a master who
lacked compassion and reason, whose poor efforts seemed unable to
accomplish anything of worth.  John Ross looked back over the past
twelve years and was appalled.  Where was the proof that anything he
had done had served a purpose?  What sort of battle was it he fought?

Time after time he had stood against the forces of the Void, and what
was there to show for it?

There was a limit to what he could endure, he decided finally.  There
was a limit to what he could demand of himself.  He was broken by what
had happened in San Sobel, and he could not put himself back together
again.  He no longer cared who he was or what he had pledged himself to
do.  He was finished with everything.

Let someone else take up the Word's cause.

Let someone else carry the burden of all those lives.

Let someone else, because he was done.

Ariel paused, and Nest found that she couldn't keep quiet any longer.

"You mean he quit?"  she demanded incredulously.

"He just quit?"

The tatterdemalion seemed to consider.

"He no longer thinks of himself as a Knight of the Word, so he has
stopped acting like one.  But he can never quit.  The choice isn't his
to make."

Her words carried a dark implication that Nest did not miss.

"What do you mean?"

Ariel's childlike face seemed to shimmer in the midday sun as she
shifted her stance slightly.  It was the first time she had moved, and
it almost caused her to disappear.

"Only the Lady can create a Knight of the Word, and only the Lady can
set one free."  Ariel's voice was so soft that Nest could barely hear
her.

"John Ross is bound to his charge.  When he took up the staff that
gives him his power, he bound himself forever.  He cannot free himself
of the staff or of the charge.  Even if he no longer thinks of himself
as a Knight of the Word, he remains one."

Nest shook her head in confusion.

"But he isn't doing any thing to be a Knight of the Word.  He's given
it all up, you said.  So what difference does it make whether or not he
really is a Knight of the Word?  If he's not only stopped thinking of
himself as a Knight, but he's stopped functioning as one, he might as
well be a bricklayer."

Ariel nodded.

"This is what John Ross believes, as well.  This is why he is in so
much danger."

Nest hesitated.  How much of this did she really want to know?  The
Lady hadn't sent Ariel just to bring her up to date on what was
happening to John Ross.  The Lady wanted something from her, and where
Ross was concerned, she wasn't at all sure it would be something she
wanted to give.  She hadn't seen or heard from Ross in five years, and
they hadn't parted under the best of circumstances.  John Ross had come
to Hopewell to accomplish one of two things--to help thwart her
father's intentions for her or to make certain she would never carry
them out.

He had seen her future, and while he would not describe it to her, he
made it clear that it was dark and horrific.  So she would live to
change it or she would die.  That was his mission in coming to
Hopewell.  He had admitted it at the end, just before he left.  She had
never quite gotten over it.  This was a man she had grown to like and
respect and trust.  This was a man she had believed for a short time to
be her father--a man she would have liked to have had for a father.

And he had come to kill her if he couldn't save her.  The truth was
shattering.  He was not a demon, as her real father had been, but he
was close enough that she was still unable to come to terms with how
she felt about him.

"The difficulty for John Ross is that he cannot stop being a Knight of
the Word just because he chooses to," Ariel said suddenly.

She had moved to within six feet of Nest.  Nest hadn't seen her do
that, preoccupied with her thoughts of Ross.  The tatterdemalion was
close enough that Nest could see the shadowy things that moved inside
her semitransparent form like scraps of stray paper stirred by the
wind.  Pick had told her that tatterdemalions were made up mostly of
dead children's memories and dreams, and that they were born fully
grown and did not age afterward but lived only a short time.  All of
them took on the aspects of the children who had formed them, becoming
something of the children themselves while never achieving real
substance.  Magic shaped and bound them for the time they existed, and
when the magic could no longer hold them together, the children's
memories and dreams simply scattered into the wind and the
tatterdemalion was gone.

"But the magic John Ross was given binds him forever," Ariel said.

"He cannot disown it, even if he chooses not to use it.  It is a part
of him.  It marks him.  He cannot be anything other than what he is,
even if he pretends otherwise.  Those who serve the Word will always
know him.  More importantly, those who serve the Void will know him as
well."

"Oh, oh," muttered Pick, sitting up a little straighter.

"He is in great danger," Ariel repeated.

"Neither the Word nor the Void will accept that he is no longer a
Knight.  Both seek to bind him to their cause, each in a different way.
The Word has already tried reason and persuasion and has failed.  The
Void will try another approach.  A Knight who has lost his faith is
susceptible to the Voids treachery and deceit.  The Void will seek to
turn John Ross through subterfuge.  He will have begun to do so
already.  John Ross will not know that it is happening.  He will not
see the truth of things until it is too late.  It does not happen all
at once; it does not happen in a recognizable way.  It will begin with
a single misstep.  But once that first step is taken, the second
becomes much easier.  The path is a familiar one.  Knights have been
lost to the Void before."

Nest brushed at a few stray strands of hair that had blown into her
eyes.  Clouds were moving in from the west.  She had read that rain was
expected later in the day.

"Does he know this will happen?"  she asked sharply, almost
accusatorily.  She was suddenly angry.

"How many years of his life has he given to the Word?  Doesn't he at
least deserve a warning?"

Ariel's body shimmered, and her eyes blinked slowly, flower petals
opening to the sun.

"He has been warned.  But the warning was ignored.

John Ross no longer trusts us.  He no longer listens.  He believes
himself free to do as he chooses.  He is a prisoner of his
self-deception.  "

Nest thought about John Ross, picturing him in her mind.  She saw a
lean, rawboned, careworn man with haunted eyes and a rootless
existence.  But she saw a fiercely determined man as well,

hardened of purpose and principle, a man who would not be easily
swayed.  She could not imagine how the Void would turn him.  She
remembered the strength of his commitment; he would die before he would
betray it.

Yet he had already given it up, hadn't he?  By shedding his identity as
a Knight of the Word, he had given it up.  She knew the truth of
things.  People changed.  Lives took strange turns.

"The Lady sent me to ask you to go to John Ross and warn him one final
time."

Ariel's words jarred her.  Nest stared in disbelief.  The?  Why would
he listen to me?  "

"The Lady says you hold a special place in his heart."  Ariel said it
in a matter-of-fact way, as if Nest ought to know what this would
mean.

"She believes that John Ross will listen to you, that he trusts and
respects you, and that you have the best chance of persuading him of
the danger he faces."

Nest shook her head stubbornly.

"I wouldn't know what to say.  I'm not the right choice for this."  She
hesitated.

"Look, the truth is, I'm not even sure how I feel about John Ross.
Where is he, anyway?"

"Seattle."

"Seattle?  You want me to go all the way out to Seattle?"  Nest was
aghast.

"I'm in school!  I've got classes tomorrow!"

Ariel stared at her in silence, and suddenly Nest was aware of how
foolish she sounded.  The tatterdemalion was telling her John Ross was
in danger, his life was at risk, she might have a chance to help him,
and she was busy worrying about missing a few classes.  It was more
than that, of course, but it hadn't come out sounding that way.

"This is a lot of nonsense!"  Pick stormed suddenly, leaping to his
feet on her shoulder.

"Nest Freemark is needed here, with me!  Who knows what could happen to
her out there!  After what she went through with her father, she
shouldn't have to go anywhere!"

"Pick, relax," Nest soothed.

"Criminy!"  Pick was not about to relax.

"Why can't the Lady go herself?  Why can't she speak to Ross?  She's
the one who recruited him, isn't she?  Why can't she send one of her
other people, another Knight, maybe?"

"She has already done all she could," Ariel answered, her strange voice
calm and distant, her slight form ephemeral in the changing light.

"She has sent others to speak for her.  He ignores them all.  He is
lost to himself, locked away by his choice to abandon his charge, and
given over to his doom."  Her childlike hand gestured.

"There is only Nest."

"Well, she's not going!"  Pick declared firmly.

"So that's it for John Ross, I guess.  Thanks for coming, but I think
you'd better be on your way."

"Pick!"  Nest admonished, surprised at his vehemence.

"Be nice, will you?"  She looked at Ariel.

"What happens if I don't go?"  she asked.

Ariel's strange eyes, clear as stream water, locked on her own.

"John Ross has had a dream.  The events of the dream will occur in
three days.  On the last day of October.  On Halloween, Ross will be a
part of these events.  To the extent that he is, there is a very great
chance he will become ensnared by the Void and will begin to turn.  The
Lady cannot know this for certain, but she suspects it.  She will not
let that happen.  She has already sent someone to see that it
doesn't."

Nest felt a chill sweep through her.  She sent Ross to me,five
years ago.  If Ross is subverted, he will be killed.  Someone has been
sent to see to it.

"You are his last chance," Ariel said again.

"Will you go to him?  Will you speak to him?  Will you try to save
him?"

Her thin voice drifted on the autumn breeze and was lost in a rustle of
dry leaves.

Nest walked back through the park, lost in thought.  Pick rode her
shoulder in silence.  The afternoon was lengthening out from midday,
and the park was busy with fall picnickers, hikers, a few stray pickup
ballplayers, and parents with kids and dogs.  The blue skies were still
bright with sunshine, but the sun was easing steadily west toward a
large bank of storm clouds that were rolling out of the plains.  Nest
could smell the coming rain in the soft, cool air.

"What are you going to do Pick asked finally.

She shook her head.

"I don't know."

"You're seriously thinking about going, aren't you?"

"I'm thinking about it."

"Well, you should forget about it right here and now."

"Why do you feel so strongly about this?"  She slowed in the shadow of
a large oak and looked down at him.

"What do you know that you're not telling me?"

Picks wooden face twisted in an expression of distaste, and his twiggy
body contorted into a knot.  His eyes looked straight ahead.

"Nothing."

She waited, knowing from experience that there would be more.

"You remember what happened five years ago," Pick said finally, still
not looking at her.

"You remember what that was like-with John Ross and your grandparents
and your ... You remember?"  He shook his head.

"It wasn't any of it what it seemed to be at first glance.  It wasn't
any of it what you thought it was.  There were things you didn't
know.

Things I didn't know, for that matter.  Secrets.  It was over before
you found out everything.  "

He paused.

"It will be like that with this business, too.  It always is.  The Word
doesn't reveal everything.  It isn't His nature to do so."

Something was being hidden from her; Pick could sense it, even if he
couldn't identify what it was.  Maybe so.  Maybe it was even something
that could hurt her.  But it didn't change what was happening to John
Ross.  It didn't change what was being asked of her.  Did she have the
right to use it as a reason for not going?

She tried a different tack.  Ariel says she will go with me, that she
will help me.  "

Pick snorted.

"Ariel is a tatterdemalion.  How much help can she be?

She's made out of air and lost memories.  She's only alive for a
heartbeat.  She doesn't know anything about humans and their problems.
Tatterdemalions come together mostly by chance, wander about like
ghosts, and then disappear again.  She's a messenger, nothing more. "

"She says she can serve as a guide for me.  She says that the Lady has
sent her for that purpose."

"The blind leading the blind, as your grandmother used to say."  Pick
was having none of it.

Nest angled through the trees, bypassing the picnickers and
ballplayers, turning up the service road that ran along the backside of
the residences bordering the park.  Her mind spun in a jumble of
concerns and considerations.  This was not going to be an easy decision
to make.

"Would you come with me?"  she asked suddenly.

Pick went still, stiffening.  He didn't say anything for a moment, then
muttered in a barely audible voice, "Well, the fact of the matter is,
I've never been out of the park."

She was surprised, although she shouldn't have been.  Why would Pick
ever have gone anywhere else?  What would have taken him away?  The
park was his home, his work, his life.  He was telling her, without
quite speaking the words, that the idea of leaving was frightening to
him.

She had embarrassed him, she realized.

"Well, I'm being selfish asking you to go," she said quickly, as if
brushing her suggestion aside.

"Who would look after the park if you weren't here?  It's bad enough
that I'm gone so much of the time.  But if you left, there wouldn't be
anyone to keep an eye on things, would there?"

Pick shook his head quickly.

"True enough.  No one at all.  It's a big responsibility."

She nodded.

"Just forget I said anything."

She turned down the service road toward home.  Shadows were already
beginning to lengthen, the days growing shorter with winter's approach.
They spread in black pools from the trees and houses, staining the
lawns and roadways and walks.  A Sunday type of silence cloaked the
park, sleepy and restful.  Sounds carried a long way.  She could hear
voices discussing dinner from one of the houses to her right.  She
could hear laughter and shouts from off toward the river, down below
the bluff where children were playing.

She could hear the deep bark of a dog in the woods east.

"I could do this trip in a day and be back," she said, trying out the
idea on him.

"I could fly out, talk to him, and fly right back."

Pick did not respond.  She walked down the roadway with him in
silence.

She sat inside by herself afterward, staring out through the curtains,
thinking the matter over.  Clouds masked the sky beyond, and rain was
starting to fall in scattered drops.  The people in the park had gone
home.  Lights were beginning to come on in the windows of the houses
across Woodlawn Road.

What should I do?

John Ross had always been an enigma.  Now he was a dilemma as well, a
responsibility she did not want.  He had been living in Seattle for
over a year, working for a man named Simon Lawrence at a place called
Fresh Start.  She remembered both the man and the place from a report
someone had done in one of her classes last year.  Fresh Start was a
shelter for battered and homeless women, founded several years ago by
Lawrence.  He had also founded Pass/ Go, a transitional school for
homeless children.  The success of both had been something of a
celebrity cause for a time, and Simon Lawrence had been labeled the
Wizard of Oz.  Oz, because Seattle was commonly known as the Emerald
City.  Now John Ross was there, working at the shelter.  So Ariel had
informed her.

Nest scuffed at the floor idly with her tennis shoe and tried to
picture Ross as a Munchkin in the employ of the great and mighty Oz.

Oh, God.  What should I do?

She had told Ariel she would think about it, that she would decide by
evening.  Ariel would return for her answer then.

She got up and walked into the kitchen to make herself a cup of hot
tea.  As she stood by the stove waiting for the kettle to boil,

she glanced over at the real estate papers for the sale of the house.

She had forgotten about them.  She stared at them, but made no move to
pick them up.  They didn't seem very important in light of the John
Ross matter, and she didn't want to think about them right now.  Alien
Kruppert and ERA Realty would just have to wait.

Standing at the living room picture window, holding her steaming cup of
tea in front of her, she watched the rain begin to fall in earnest,
streaking the glass, turning the old shade trees and the grass dark and
shiny.  The feeders would come out to prowl in this weather, bolder
when the light was poor and the shadows thick.  They preferred the
night, but a gloomy day would do just as well.  She still watched for
them, not so much afraid anymore as curious, always thinking she would
solve their mystery somehow, that she would discover what they were.

She knew what they did, of course; she understood their place in
natures scheme.  No one else even knew they were out there.  But there
was so much more-how they procreated, what they were composed of, how
they could inflict madness, how they could appear as shadows and still
affect things of substance.  She remembered them touching her when her
father had made her a prisoner in the caves below the park.

She remembered the horror and disgust that blossomed within her.  She
remembered how badly she had wanted to scream.

But her friends and her grandparents had been there to save her, and
now only the memory remained.

Maybe it was her turn to be there for John Ross.

Her brow furrowed.  No matter how many ways she looked at the problem,
she kept coming back to the same thing.  If something happened to John
Ross and she hadn't tried to prevent it, how could she live with
herself?  She would always wonder if she might have changed things. She
would always live in doubt.  If she tried and failed, well, at least
she would have tried.  But if she did nothing ..

She sipped at her tea and stared out the window fixedly.  John Ross,
the Knight of the Word.  She could not imagine him ever being different
from what he had been five years ago.  She could not imagine him being
anything other than what he was.  How had he fallen so far away from
his fierce commitment to saving the world?  It sounded overblown when
she said it, but that was what he was doing.  Saving the world, saving
humanity from itself.  O'olish Amaneh had made it plain to her that
such a war was taking place, even before Ross had appeared to confirm
it.  We are destroying ourselves.  Two Bears had told her; we are
risking the fate of the Sinnissippi--that we shall disappear completely
and no one will know who we were.

Are we still destroying ourselves?  she wondered.  Are we still
traveling the road of the Sinnissippi?  She hadn't thought about it for
a long time, wrapped up in her own life, the events of five years
earlier behind her, buried in a past she would rather forget.  She had
been only a girl of fourteen.  Her world had been saved, and at the
time she had been grateful enough to let it go at that.

But her world was expanding now, reaching out to places and people
beyond Hopewell.  What was happening in that larger world, the world
into which her future would take her?  What would become of it without
John Ross?

Rain coated the windows in glistening sheets that turned everything
beyond into a shimmering haze.  The park and her backyard
disappeared.

The world beyond vanished.

She walked to the phone and dialed Robert Heppler.  He answered on the
fourth ring, sounding distracted.

"Yeah, hello?"

"Back on the computer, Robert?"  she asked teasingly.

"Nest?"

"Want to go out for a pizza later?"

"Well, yeah, of course."  He was alert and eager now, if surprised.

"When?"

"In an hour.  I'll pick you up.  But there's a small price for this."

"What is it?"

"You have to drive me to O'Hare tomorrow morning.  I can go whenever
you want, and you can use my car.  Just bring it back when you're done
and park it in the drive."

She didn't know how Ariel would get to Seattle, but she didn't think it
was something she needed to worry about.  The Lady's creatures seemed
able to get around just fine without any help from humans.

She waited for Robert to say something.  There was a long pause before
he did.

"O'Hare?  Where are you going?"

"Seattle."

"Seattle?"

"The Emerald City, Robert."

"Yeah, I know what it's called.  Why are you going there?"

She sighed and stared off through the window into the rainy gloom.

"I

guess you could say I'm off to see the Wizard.  " She paused for
effect.

"Bye, Robert."

Then she hung up.

MONDAY, OCTOBER 29 chapter 6

John Ross finished the closing paragraph of Simons Seattle Art Museum
speech, read it through a final time to make certain it all hung
together, dropped his pen, and leaned back in his chair with a
satisfied sigh.  Not bad.  He was getting pretty good at this
speech-writing business.  It wasn't what Simon had hired him for, but
it looked like it was a permanent part of his job description now.  All
those years he had spent knocking around in graduate English programs
were serving a useful purpose after all.  He grinned and glanced out
the window of his tiny office.  Morning rain was giving way to
afternoon sun.  Overhead, the drifting clouds were beginning to reveal
small patches of blue.  Just another typical Seattle day.

He glanced at the clock on his desk and saw that it was nearing
three.

He had been at this since late morning.  Time for a break.

He pushed back his chair and levered himself to his feet.  He was three
years beyond forty, but when rested he could easily pass for ten years
less.  Lean and fit, he had the sun-browned, rawboned look of an
outdoorsman, his face weathered, yet still boyish.  His long brown hair
was tied back with a rolled bandanna, giving him the look of a man who
might not be altogether comfortable with the idea of growing up.  Pale
green eyes looked out at the world as if still trying to decide what to
make of it.

And, indeed, John Ross had been working on deciphering the meaning of
life for a long time.

He stood with his hand gripping the polished walnut staff that served
as his crutch, wondering again what would happen if he simply cast it
away, if he defied the warning that had accompanied its bestowal and
cut loose his final tie to the Word.  He had considered it often in the
last few months, thinking there was no reason for further delay and he
should simply make the decision and act on it.  But he could never
quite bring himself to carry through, even though he was no longer a
Knight of the Word and the staff's power was no longer a part of his
life.

He ran his fingers slowly up and down the smooth wood, trying to detect
whether he was still bound to it.  But the staff revealed nothing.  He
did not even know if the magic it contained was still his to command;
he no longer felt its warmth or saw its gleam in the wood's dark
surface.  He no longer sensed its presence.

He closed his eyes momentarily.  He had wanted his old life back, the
one he had given up to become a Knight of the Word.  He had been
willing to risk everything to regain it.  And perhaps, he thought
darkly, he had done exactly that.  The Word, after all, was the
Creator.  What did the Creator feel when you told Him you wanted to
back out of an agreement?  Maybe Ross would never know.  What he did
know was that his life was his own again, and he would not let go of it
easily.  The staff, he reasoned, looking warily at it, was a reminder
of what it would mean for him if he did.

Raised voices, high-pitched and tearful, chased Delia Jenkins down the
hall.  Delia swept past his doorway, muttering to herself, giving him a
frustrated shake of her head.  She was back a moment later, returning
the way she had come, a clutch of papers in one hand.  Curious, he
trailed after her up the hallway to the lobby at the front of the old
building, taking his time, leaning on his staff for support.  Delia was
working the reception desk today, and Mondays were always tough.  More
things seemed to happen over the weekend than during the
week--confrontations of all sorts, exploding out of pressure cookers
that had been on low boil for weeks or months or even years.  He could
never understand it.  Why such things were so often done on a weekend
was a mystery to him.  He always thought a Friday would do just as
well, but maybe weekends for the battered and abused were bridges to
the new beginnings that Mondays finally required.

By the time Ross reached the lobby, the voices had died away.  He
paused in the doorway and peeked out guardedly.  Delia was bent close
to a teenage girl who had collapsed in a chair to one side of the
reception desk and begun to cry.  A younger girl was clinging tightly
to one arm, tears streaking her face.  Delia's hand was resting lightly
on the older girls shoulder, and she was speaking softly in her ear.

Delia was a large woman with big hair, skin the color of milk
chocolate, and a series of dresses that seemed to come only in primary
colors.  She had both a low, gentle voice and a formidable glare, and
she was adept at bringing either to bear as the situation demanded.  In
this instance, she seemed to have abandoned the latter in favor of the
former, and already the older girl's sobs were fading.  A handful of
women and children occupied chairs in other parts of the room.  A few
were looking over with a mix of curiosity and sympathy.  New arrivals,
applying for a bed.  When they saw Ross, the women went back to work on
their application forms and the children shifted their attention to
him.  He gave them a smile, and one little girl smiled back.

"There, now, you take your time, look it all over, fill out what you
can, I'll help you with the rest," Delia finished, straightening,
taking her hand from the older girl's shoulder.

"That's right.  I'll be right over here, you just come on up when
you're ready."

She moved back behind the desk, giving Ross a glance and a shrug and
settling herself into place with a sigh.  Like all the front- desk
people, she was a trained professional with experience working
intake.

Delia had been at Fresh Start for something like five years, almost
from its inception, according to Ray Hapgood, so she had pretty much
seen and heard it all.

Ross moved over to stand beside her, and she gave him a suspicious
frown for his trouble.

"You at loose ends, Mr.  Speechwriter?  Need something more to do,
maybe?"

"I'm depressed, and I need one of your smiles," he answered with a
wink.

"Shoo, what office you running for?"  She gave him a look, then
gestured with her head.

"Little lady over there, she's seventeen, says she's pregnant, says the
father doesn't want her or the baby, doesn't want nothing to do with
none of it.  Gangbanger or some such, just eighteen himself Other girl
is her sister.  Been living wherever, the both of them.  Runaways,
street kids, babies making babies.  Told her we could get them a bed,
but she had to see a doctor and if there were parents, they had to be
notified.  Course, she doesn't want that, doesn't trust doctors, hates
her parents, such as they are.  Good Lord Almighty!"

Ross nodded.

"You explain the reason for all this?"

Delia gave him the glare.

"Course I explained it!  What you think I'm doing here, anyway--just
taking up space?  Who's been here longer, you or me?"

Ross winced.

"Sorry I asked."

She punched him lightly on the arm.

"No, you ain't," He glanced around the room.

"How many new beds have come in today?"

"Seven.  Not counting these."  Delia shook her head ruefully.

"This keeps up, we're going to have to start putting them up in your
office, having them sleep on your floor.  You mind stepping over a few
babies and mothers while you work--assuming you actually do any work
while you're sitting back there?"

He shrugged.

"Wall-to-wall homeless.  Maybe I can put some of them to work writing
for me.  They probably have better ideas about all this than I do."

"They probably do."  Delia was not going to cut him any slack.

"You on your way to somewhere or did you just come out here to get
underfoot?"

"I'm on my way to get some coffee.  Do you want some?"

"No, I don't.  I got too much work to do.  Unlike some I know."  She
returned to the paperwork on her desk, dismissing him.  Then she added,
"Course, if you brought me some--cream and sugar, please--I guess I'd
drink it all right."

He went back down the hall to the elevator and pressed the button.  The
staff's coffee room was in the basement along with a kitchen, storage
rooms for food and supplies, maintenance enuipment, and the water
	heaters and furnace.  Space was at a premium.

Fresh Start sheltered anywhere from a hundred and fifty to two hundred
women and children at any given time, all of them homeless, most of
them abused.  Administrative offices and a first- aid room occupied the
ground floor of the six-story building, and the top five floors had
been converted into a mix of dormitories and bedrooms.  The second
floor also housed a dining hall that could seat up to a hundred people,
which worked fine if everyone ate in shifts.  Just next door, in the
adjacent building, was Pass/ Go the alternative school for the children
housed at Fresh Start.  The school served upward of sixty or seventy
children most of the time.  The Pass/ Go staff numbered twelve, the
Fresh Start staff fifteen.  Volunteers filled in the gaps.

No signs marked the location of the buildings or gave evidence of the
nature of the work conducted within.  The buildings were drab and
unremarkable and occupied space just east of Occidental Park in the
Pioneer Square district of Seattle.  The International District lay
just to the south above the Kingdome.  Downtown, with its hotels and
skyscrapers and shopping, lay a dozen blocks north.  Elliott Bay and
the waterfront lay west.  Clients were plentiful; you could find them
on the streets nearby, if you took the time to look.

Fresh Start and Pass/ Go were nonprofit corporations funded by Seattle
Public Schools, various charitable foundations, and private
donations.

Both organizations were the brainchild of one man--Simon Lawrence.

John Ross looked down at his feet.  Simon Lawrence.  The Wizard of
Oz.

The man he was supposed to kill in exactly two days, according to his
dreams.

The elevator doors opened and he stepped in.  There were stairs, but he
still walked with difficulty, his resignation from the Words service
notwithstanding.  He supposed he always would.  It didn't seem fair he
should remain crippled after terminating his position, given that he
had become crippled by accepting it, but he guessed the Word didn't see
matters that way.  Life, after all, wasn't especially fair.

He smiled.  He could joke about it now.  His new life allowed for
joking.  He wasn't at the forefront of the war against the creatures of
the Void, wasn't striving any longer to prevent the destruction of
humanity.  That was in the past, in a time when there was little to
smile about and a great deal to fear.  He had served the Word for the
better part of fifteen years, a warrior who had been both hunter and
hunted, a man always just one step ahead of Death.  He had spent each
day of the first twelve years trying to change the horror revealed in
his dreams of the night before.  San Sobel had been the breaking point,
and for a while he thought he might never recover from it.  Then Stef
had come along, and everything had changed.  Now he had his life back,
and his future was no longer determined by his dreams.

His dreams?  His nightmares.  He seldom had them now, their frequency
and intensity diminishing steadily from the time he had walked away
from being a Knight of the Word.  That much, at least, suggested his
escape had been successful.  The dreams had come every night when he
was a Knight of the Word, because the dreams were all he had to work
with.  But now they almost never came, and when they did, they were
vague and indistinct, shadows rather than pictures, and they no longer
suggested or revealed or threatened.

Except for his dream about Simon Lawrence, the one in which the old man
recognized him from the past, the one in which he recognized that the
old man's words were true and he had indeed killed the Wizard of Oz.
He'd had that same dream three times now, and each time it had revealed
a little bit more of what he would do.  He had never had a dream three
times, even when he was a Knight of the Word; he had never had a dream
more than once.  It had frightened him at first, unnerved him so that
even though he was already living in Seattle and working for Simon he
had thought to leave at once, to go far, far away from even the
possibility of the dream coming to pass.

It was Stef who had convinced him that the way you banish the things
you fear is to stand up to them.  He had decided to stay finally, and
it had been the right choice.  He wasn't afraid of the dream anymore.
He knew it wasn't going to happen, that he wasn't going to kill Simon.
Simon Lawrence and his incredible work at Fresh Start and Pass/ Go was
the future John Ross had chosen to embrace.

Ross stepped out of the elevator into the coffee room.  The room was
large but bare, save for a couple of multipurpose tables with folding
chairs clustered about, the coffee machine and cups sitting on a
cabinet filled with coffee-making materials, a small refrigerator, a
microwave, and a set of old shelves containing an odd assortment of
everyday china pieces, silverware, and glasses.

Ray Hapgood was sitting at one of the tables as Ross appeared, reading
the Post-Intellismicer.

"My man, John!"  he greeted, glancing up.

"How goes the speech-writing effort?  We gonna make the Wiz sound like
the Second Coming?"

Ross laughed.

"He doesn't need that kind of help from me.  Most people already think
he is the Second Coming."

Hapgood chuckled and shook his head.  Ray was the director of education
at Pass/ Go a graduate of the University of Washington with an
undergraduate degree in English literature and years of teaching
experience in the Seattle public school system, where he had worked
before coming to Simon.  He was a tall, lean black man with
short-cropped hair receding dramatically toward the crown of his head,
his eyes bright and welcoming, his smile ready.  He was a 'black' man
because that was what he called himself None of that "African American
stuff for him.  Black American was okay, but black was good enough.  He
had little time or patience for that political-correctness nonsense.

What you called him wasn't going to make any difference as to whether
or not he liked you or were his friend.  He was that kind of
guy--blunt, open, hardworking, right to the point.  Ross liked him a
lot.

"Delia sends you her love," Ross said, tongue firmly in cheek, and
moved over to the coffee machine.  He would have preferred a latte, but
that meant a two-block hike.  He wasn't up to it.

"Yeah, Delia's in love with me, sure enough," Ray agreed solemnly.

"Can't blame the woman, can you?"

Ross shook his head, pouring himself a cup and stirring in a little
cream.

"But it isn't right for you to string her along like you do.  You have
to fish or cut bait, Ray."

"Fish or cut bait?"  Ray stared at him.

"What's that, some sort of midwestern saying, something you Ohio home
boys tell each other?"

"Yep."  Ross moved over and sat down across from him, leaning the black
staff against his chair.  He took a sip.

"What do you Seattle home boys say?"

"We say, " Shit or get off the pot," but I expect that sort of talk
offends your senses, so I don't use it around you."  Ray shrugged and
went back to his paper.  After a minute, he said, "Damn, why do I
bother reading this rag?  It just depresses me."

Carole Price walked in, smiled at Ross, and moved over to the coffee
machine.

"What depresses you.  Ray?"

"This damn newspaper!  People!  Life in general!"  Ray Hapgood leaned
back and shook the paper as if to rid it of spiders.

"Listen to this.

There's three stories in here, all of them the same story really.

Story one.  Woman living in Renton is depressed--lost her job,
ex-husbands not paying support for the one kid that's admittedly his,
boyfriend beats her regularly and with enough disregard for the
neighbors that they've called the police a dozen times, and then he
drinks and totals her car.  End result?  She goes home and puts a gun
to her head and kills herself--But she takes time first to kill all
three children because--as she says in the note she so thoughtfully
leaves--she can't imagine them wanting to live without her.  "

Carole nodded.  Blond, fit, middle-aged, a veteran of the war against
the abuse of women and children, she was the director of Fresh Start.

"I read about that."

"Story two."  Hapgood plowed ahead with a nod of satisfaction.

"Estranged husband decides he's had enough of life.  Goes home to visit
the wife and children, two of them his from a former marriage, two of
them hers from same.  Kills her, 'cause she's his wife, and kills his
children, cause they're his, see.  Lets her children live, 'cause they
aren't his and he doesn't see them as his responsibility."

Carole shook her head and sighed.

"Story three."  Hapgood rolled his eyes dramatically before
continuing.

"Ex-husband can't stand the thought of his former wife with another
man.  Goes over to their trailer with a gun, shoots them both, then
shoots himself.  Leaves three small children orphaned and homeless in
the process.  Too bad for them."

He threw down the newspaper.

"We could have helped all these people, damn it!  We could have helped
if we could have gotten to them!  If they'd just come to us, these
women, just come to 'us and told us they felt threatened and ..."  He
threw up his hands.

"I don't know, it's all such a waste!"

"It's that, all right," agreed Carole.  Ross sipped his coffee and
nodded, but didn't say anything.

"Then, right on the same page, like they can't see the irony of it, is
an article about the fuss being created over the Pirates of the
Caribbean exhibit in Disney World!"  Ray looked furious.

"See, these pirates are chasing these serving wenches around a table
and then auctioning them off, all on this ride, and some people are
offended.

Okay, I can understand that.  But this story, and all the fuss over it,
earns the same amount of space, and a whole lot more public interest,
than what's happened to these women and children.  And I'll bet Disney
gives the pirates more time and money than they give the homeless.  I
mean, who cares about the homeless, right?  Long as it isn't you or me,
who cares?  "

"You're obsessing, Ray," said Jip Wing, a young volunteer who had
wandered in during the exchange.  Hapgood shot him a look.

"How about the article on the next page about the kid who wont compete
in judo competition anymore if she's required to bow to the mat?"

Carole grinned wolfishly.

"She says bowing to the mat has religious connotations, so she
shouldn't have to do it.  Mat worship or something.  Her mother backs
her up, of course.  That story gets half a page, more than the killings
or the pirates."

"Well, the priorities are all skewed, that's the point."  Ray shook his
head.

"When the newspapers start thinking that what goes on at Disney World
or at a judo competition deserves as much attention as what goes on
with homeless women and children, we are in big trouble."

"That doesn't even begin to address the amount of coverage given to
sports," Jip Wing interjected with a shrug.

"Well, politically incorrect pirates and mat worship, not to mention
sports, are easier to deal with than the homeless, aren't they?"

Carole snapped.

"Way of the world.  Ray.  People deal with what they can handle. What's
too hard or doesn't offer an easy solution gets shoved aside. Too much
for me, they think.  Too big for one man or woman.  We need committees,
experts, organizations, entire governments to solve this one.  But,
hey, mat worship?  Pirates chasing wenches?  I can handle those."

Ross stayed quiet.  He was thinking about his own choices in life.  He
had given up the pressures of trying to serve on a far larger and more
violent battlefield than anything that was being talked about here.  He
had abandoned a fight that had become overwhelming and not a little
incomprehensible.  He had walked away from demons and feeders and
maentwrogs, beings of magic and darkness, creatures of the Void.

Because after San Sobel he felt that he wasn't getting anywhere with
his efforts to destroy them, that he couldn't control the results
anymore, that it was dumb luck if he ended up killing the monsters
instead of the humans.  He felt adrift and ineffective and dangerously
inadequate.  Children had died because of him.  He couldn't bear the
thought of that happening again.

Even so, it seemed as if Ray were speaking directly to him, and in the
other man's anger and frustration with humanity's lack of an adequate
response to the problem of homeless and abused women and children, he
felt the sharp sting of a personal reprimand.

He took a deep breath, listening as Ray and Carole continued their
discussion.  How much good do you think we're doing?  he wanted to ask
them.  With the homeless.  With the people you're talking about.
Through all our programs and hard work.  How much good are we really
doing? But he didn't say anything.  He couldn't.  He sat there in
silence, contemplating his own failures and shortcomings, his own
questionable choices in life.  The fact remained that he liked what he
was doing here and he did think he was doing some good-more good than
he had done as a Knight of the Word.  Here, he could see the results on
a case-by-case basis.  Not all of his efforts--their efforts--were
successful, but the failures were easier to live with and less costly.
If change for the better was achieved one step at a time, then surely
the people involved with Fresh Start and Pass/ Go were headed in the
right direction.

He took a fresh grip on his commitment.  The past was behind him and he
should keep it there.  He was not meant to be a Knight of the Word.  He
had never been more than adequate to the undertaking, never more than
satisfactory.  It required someone stronger and more fit, someone whose
dedication and determination eclipsed his own.  He had done the best he
could, but he had done as much as he could, as well.  It was finished
after San Sobel.  It was ended.

"Time to get back to work," he said to no one in particular.

The talk still swirled about him as he rose.  A couple of other
staffers had wandered in, and everyone was trying to get a word in
edgewise.  With a nod to Ray, who glanced up as he moved toward the
elevator, he crossed the room, pressed the button, stepped inside the
empty cubicle when it arrived, and watched the break room and its
occupants disappear as the doors closed.

He rode up to the main floor in silence, closing his eyes to the past
and its memories, sealing himself in a momentary blackness.

When the elevator stopped and he stepped out, Stefanie Winslow was
passing by carrying two Starbucks containers, napkins, straws, and
plastic spoons nestled in a small cardboard tray.

"Coffee, tea, or me?"  she asked brightly, tossing back her
shoulder-length, curly black hair, looking curiously girlish with the
gesture.

"Guess."  He pursed his lips to keep from smiling.

"Whacha got there?"

"Two double-tall, low-fat, vanilla lattes, fella."

"One of those for me?"

She smirked.

"You wish.  How's the speech coming?"

"Done, except for a final polish.  The Wiz will amaze this

Halloween.  " He gestured at the tray.

"So who gets those?"

"Simon is in his office giving an interview to Andrew Wren of The New
York Times.  That's Andrew Wren, the investigative reporter."

"Oh?  What's he investigating?"

"Well, sweetie, that's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn't
it?"  She motioned with her head.

"Out of my way, I have places to go;

He stepped obediently aside, letting her pass.  She glanced back at him
over her shoulder.

"I booked dinner at Umberto's for six.  Meet you in your office at
five-thirty sharp; She gave him a wink.

He watched her walk down the hall toward Simon's office.  He was no
longer thinking about the homeless and abused, about Ray and Carole,
about his past and its memories, about anything but her.  It was like
that with Stef.  It had been like that from the moment they met.  She
was the best thing that had ever happened to him.  He loved her so much
it hurt.  But the hurt was pleasurable.  The hurt was sweet.  The way
she made him feel was a mystery he did not ever want to solve.

"I'll be there; he said softly.

He had to admit, his new life was pretty good.  He went back to his
office smiling.


chapter 7

Andrew Wren stood looking out the window of the Wiz's corner office at
the derelicts occupying space in Occidental Park across the way.  They
slouched on benches, slept curled up in old blankets in tree wells, and
huddled on the low steps and curbing that differentiated the various
concrete and flagstone levels of the open space.  They drank from
bottles concealed in paper sacks, exchanged tokens and pennies, and
stared into space.  Tourists and shoppers gave them a wide berth.

Almost no one looked at them.  A pair of cops on bicycles surveyed the
scene with wary eyes, then moved over to speak to a man staggering out
of a doorway leading to a card shop.  Pale afternoon sunlight peeked
through masses of cumulous clouds on their way to distant places.

Wren turned away.  Simon Lawrence was seated at his desk, talking on
the phone to the mayor about Wednesday evening's festivities at the
Seattle Art Museum.  The mayor was making the official announcement of
the dedication on behalf of the city.  An abandoned apartment building
just across the street had been purchased by the city and was being
donated to Fresh Start to provide additional housing for homeless women
and children.  Donations had been pledged that would cover needed
renovations to the interior.  The money would bring the building up to
code and provide sleeping rooms, a kitchen, dining room, and
administrative offices for staff and volunteers.  Persuading the city
to dedicate the building and land had taken the better part of two
years.  Raising the money necessary to make the dedication meaningful
had taken almost as long.  It was, all in all.  a terrific coup.

Andrew Wren looked down at his shoes.  The Wizard of Oz had done it
again.  But at what cost to himself and the organizations he had
founded?  That was the truth Wren had come all the way from New York to
discover.

He was a burly, slow-moving man with a thatch of unruly, grizzled brown
hair that refused to be tamed and stuck out every which way no matter
what was done to it.  The clothes he wore were rumpled and well used,
the kind that let him be comfortable while he worked, that gave him an
un intimidating slightly shabby look.  He carried a worn leather
briefcase in which he kept his notepads, source logs, and whatever book
he was currently reading, together with a secret stash of bagged nuts
and candy that he used to sustain himself when meals were missed or
forgotten in the heat of his work.  He had a round, kindly face with
bushy eyebrows, heavy cheeks, and he wore glasses that tended to slide
down his nose when he bent forward to listen to compensate for his
failing hearing.  He was almost fifty, but he looked as if he could
just as easily be sixty.  He could have been a college professor or a
favorite uncle or a writer of charming anecdotes and pithy sayings that
stayed with you and made you smile when you thought back on them.

But he wasn't any of these things.  His worn, familiar teddy- bear look
was what made him so effective at what he did.  He looked harmless and
mildly confused, but how he looked was dangerously deceptive.  Andrew
Wren was a bulldog when it came to ferreting out the truth.  He was
relentless in getting to the bottom of things.  Investigative reporting
was a tough racket, and you had to be both lucky and good.  Wren had
always been both.  He had a knack for being in the right place at the
right time, for sensing when there was a story worth following up.  His
instincts were uncanny, and behind those kindly eyes and rumpled look
was a razor-sharp mind that could peel away layers of deception and dig
down to that tiny nugget of truth buried under a mound of bullshit.
More than one overconfident jackass had been undone by underestimating
Andrew Wren.

Simon Lawrence was not likely to turn into one of these unfortunates,
however.  Wren knew him well enough to appreciate the fact that the Wiz
hadn't gotten where he was by underestimating anyone.

Simon hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair.

"Sorry about that, Andrew, but you don't keep the mayor waiting."

Wren nodded benignly, shrugging. "I understand.  Wednesday's event
means a lot to you.  "

"Yes, but more to the point, it means a lot to the mayor.  He went out
on a limb for us, persuading the council to pass a resolution
dedicating the building, then selling the idea to the voters.  I want
to be certain that he comes out of this experience feeling good about
things."

Wren walked over to the easy chair that fronted Simon's desk and sat
down.  Even though they had met only once before, and that was two
years ago, Simon Lawrence felt comfortable enough with Wren to call him
by his first name.  Wren wouldn't do anything to discourage that just
yet.

"I should think just about everyone is feeling pretty good about this
one, Simon," he complimented.

"It's quite an accomplishment."

Simon leaned forward and put his elbows on his desk and his chin in his
hands, giving Wren a thoughtful look.  He was handsome in a rugged sort
of way, with nicely chiseled features, thick dark hair, and startling
blue eyes.  When he walked, he looked like a big cat, sort of gliding
from place to place, slow and graceful, never hurried, with an air of
confidence about him that suggested he would not be easily surprised.
Wren placed him at a little over six feet and maybe two hundred pounds.
His birth certificate, which Wren had ferreted out by searching the
records in a suburb of St.  Louis two years earlier in an unsuccessful
attempt to learn something about his childhood, put him at forty-five
years of age.  He was unmarried, had no children, had no living
relatives that anyone could identify, lived alone, and was the most
important voice of his generation in the fight against homelessness.

His was a remarkable story.  He had come to Seattle eight years ago
after spending several years working for nationally based programs like
Habitat for Humanity and Child Risk.  He worked for the Union Gospel
Mission and Treehouse, then after three years, founded Fresh Start.  He
began with an all-volunteer staff and an old warehouse on Jackson
Street.  Within a year, he had secured sufficient funding to lease the
building where Fresh Start was presently housed, to hire a full-time
staff of three, including Ray Hapgood, and to begin generating seed
money for his next project, Pass/ Go He wrote a book on homeless women
and children, entitled Street Lives.  A documentary filmmaker became
interested in his work and shot a feature that won an Academy Award.
Shortly afterward, Simon was nominated for the prestigious Jefferson
Award, which honors ordinary citizens who do extraordinary things in
the field of community service.  He was one of five statewide winners,
was selected as an entry for national competition, and was subsequently
a winner of the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Award.

From there, things really took off.  The media began to cover him
regularly.  He was photogenic, charming, and passionate about his work,
and he gave terrific interviews.  His programs became nationally
known.

Hollywood adopted him as a cause, and he was smart enough to know how
to make the most of that.  Money poured in.  He purchased the buildings
that housed Fresh Start and Pass/ Go increased his full-time staff,
began a volunteer training program, and developed a comprehensive
informational program on the roots of homelessness, which he made
available to organizations working with the homeless in other cities.

He held several high-profile fund-raisers that brought in national
celebrities to mingle with the locals, and with the ensuing
contributions established a foundation to provide seed money for
programs similar to his own.

He also wrote a second book, this one more controversial than the
first, but more critically acclaimed.  The title was The Spiritual
Child.  It was something of a surprise to everyone, because it did not
deal with the homeless, but with the spiritual growth of children.  It
argued rather forcibly that children were possessed of an innate
intelligence that allowed them to comprehend the lessons of
spirituality, and that adults would do better if they were to spend
less time trying to impose their personal religious and secular views
and more time encouraging children to explore their own.  It was a
controversial position but Simon Lawrence was adept at advancing an
argument without seeming argumentative, and he pretty much carried the
day.

By now he was being referred to regularly as the Wizard of Oz, a name
that had been coined early on by People magazine when it ran a fluff
piece on the miracles he had performed in getting Fresh Start up and
running.  Wren knew Simon Lawrence wasn't overly fond of the tag, but
he also knew the Wiz understood the value of advertising, and a catchy
name didn't hurt when it came to raising dollars.  He lived in the
Emerald City, after all, so he couldn't very well complain if the media
decided to label him the Wizard of Oz.  Or the Wiz, more usually, for
these days everyone seemed to think they were on a first-name basis
with him.  Simon Lawrence was hot stuff, which made him news, which
made Andrew Wren's purpose in coming to see him all the more
intriguing.

"An accomplishment," Simon said softly, repeating Wren's words.  He
shook his head.

"Andrew, I'm like the Dutch boy with his finger in the hole in the dike
and the sea rising on the other side.  Let me give you some statistics
to think about.  Use them or not when you write your next story, I
don't care.  But remember them.

"There are two hundred beds in this facility.  With the new building,
we should be able to double that.  That will give us four hundred. Four
hundred to service homeless women and children.  There are twelve
hundred school-age homeless children, Andrew.  That's children, not
women.  Twenty-four percent of all our homeless are under the age of
eighteen.  And that number is growing every day.

"Ours is a specific focus.  We provide help to homeless women and
children.  Eighty percent of those women and children are homeless
because of domestic violence.  The problem of domestic violence is
growing worldwide, but especially here, in the United States.  The
statistics regarding children who die violently are all out of
proportion with the rest of the world.  An American child is five times
more likely to be killed before the age of eighteen than a child living
in another industrialized nation.  The rate of gun deaths and suicides
among our children is more than twice that of other countries.  We like
to think of ourselves as progressive and enlightened, but you have to
wonder.  Homelessness is an alternative to dying, but not an especially
attractive one.  So it is difficult for me to dwell on accomplishments
when the problem remains so acute."

Wren nodded.

"I've seen the statistics."

"Good.  Then let me give you an overview of our response as a nation to
the problem of being homeless."  Simon Lawrence leaned back again in
his chair.

"In a time in which the homeless problem is growing by leaps and bounds
worldwide--due, to varying extents, to increases in the population, job
elimination, technological advances, disintegration of the family
structure, violence, and the rising cost of housing--our response state
by state and city by city has been an all-out effort to look the other
way.  Or, as an alternative, to try to relocate the problem to some
other part of the country.  We are engaged in a nationwide effort to
crack down on the homeless by passing new ordinances designed to move
these people to where we can't see them.

Stop them from panhandling, don't let them sleep in our parks and
public places, conduct police sweeps to round them up, and get them the
hell out of town-that's our solution.  Is there a concerted effort to
get at the root problems of homelessness, to find ways to rehabilitate
and reform, to address the differences between types of homelessness so
that those who need one kind of treatment versus another can get it?
How many tax dollars are being spent to build shelters and provide
showers and hot meals?  What efforts are being made to explore the ways
in which domestic violence contributes to the problem, especially where
women and children are concerned?  "

He folded his arms across his chest.

"We have thousands and thousands of people living homeless on the
streets of our cities at the same time that we have men and women
earning millions of dollars a year running companies that make products
whose continued usage will ruin our health, our environment, and our
values.  The irony is incredible.  It's obscene."

Wren nodded.

"But you can't change that, Simon.  The problem is too indigenous to
who we are, too much a part of how we live our lives."

"Tell me about it.  I feel like Don Quixote, tilting at windmills."

Simon shrugged.

"It's obviously hopeless, isn't it?  But you know something, Andrew?  I
refuse to give up.  I really do.  It doesn't matter to me if I fail. It
matters to me if I don't try."  He thought about it a moment.

"Too bad I'm not really the Wizard of Oz.  If I were, I could just step
behind the old curtain and pull a lever and change everything--just
like that."

Wren chuckled.

"No, you couldn't.  The Wizard of Oz was a humbug, remember?"

Simon Lawrence laughed with him.

"Unfortunately, I do.  I think about it every time someone refers to me
as the Wiz.  Do me a favor, Andrew.

Please refrain from using that hideous appellation in whatever article
you end up writing.  Call me Toto or something;

maybe it will catch on.  "

There was a soft knock, the door opened, and Stefanie Winslow walked in
carrying the lattes Simon had sent her to purchase from the coffee shop
at Elliott Bay Book Company.  Both men started to rise, but she
motioned them back into their seats.

"Stay where you are, gentlemen, you probably need all your energy for
the interview.  I'll just set these on the desk and be on my way."

She gave Wren a dazzling smile, and he wished instantly that he was
younger and cooler and even then he would probably need to be a cross
between Harrison Ford and Bill Gates to have a chance with this
woman.

Stefanie Winslow was beautiful, but she was exotic as well, a
combination that made her unforgettable.  She was tall and slim with
jet-black hair that curled down to her shoulders, cut back from her
face and ears in a sweep so that it shimmered like satin in sunlight.

Her skin was a strange smoky color, suggesting that she was of mixed
ancestry, the product of more than one culture, more than one people.
Startling emerald eyes dominated an oval face with tiny, perfect
features.  She moved in a graceful, willowy way that accentuated her
long limbs and neck and stunning shape.  She seemed oblivious to how
she looked and comfortable within herself, radiating a relaxed
confidence that had both an infectious and unsettling effect on the
people around her.  Andrew Wren would have made the journey to Seattle
just to see her in the flesh for ten seconds.

She set the lattes before them and started for the door.

"Simon, I'm going to finish with the SAM arrangements, then I'm out of
here.  John has your speech all done except for a once-over, so we're
going out for a long, quiet, intimate dinner.  See you tomorrow."

"Bye, Step Simon waved her out.

"Nice seeing you, Mr.  Wren," she called back.

The door closed behind her with a soft click.  Wren shook his head.

"Shouldn't she be a model or an actress or something?  What sort of
hold do you have over her, Simon?"

Simon Lawrence shrugged.

"Will you be staying for the dedication on Wednesday, Andrew, or do you
have to get right back?"

Wren reached for his latte and took a long sip.

"No, I'm staying until Thursday.  The dedication is part of what I came
for.  It's central to the article I'm writing."

Simon nodded.

"Excellent.  Now what's the other part, if you don't mind my asking?
Everything we've talked about has been covered in the newspapers
already--ad nauseam, I might add.  The New York Times didn't send its
top investigative reporter to interview me for a rerun, did it?  What's
up, Andrew?"

Wren shrugged, trying to appear casual in making the gesture.

"Well, part of it is the dedication.  I'm doing a piece on corporate
and governmental involvement--or the lack thereof-in the social
problems of urban America, God knows, there's little enough to write
about that's positive, and your programs are bright lights in a mostly
shadowy panorama of neglect and disinterest.

You've actually done something where others have just talked about
it--and what you've done works.  "

"But?"

"But in the last month or so the paper has received a series of
anonymous phone calls and letters suggesting that there are financial
improprieties in your programs that need to be investigated.  So my
editor ordered me to follow it up, and here I am."

Simon Lawrence nodded, his face expressionless.

"Financial improprieties.  I see He studied Wren.

"You must have done some work on this already.  Have you found
anything?"

Wren shook his head.

"Not a thing."

"You won't, either.  The charge is ridiculous."  Simon sipped at his
latte and sighed.

"But what else would I say, right?  So to set your mind at ease,
Andrew, and to demonstrate that I have nothing to hide, I'll let you
have a look at our books.  I don't often do this, you understand, but
in this case I'll make an exception.  You already know, I expect, that
we have accountants and lawyers and a board of directors to make
certain that everything we do is above reproach.

Were a high-profile operation with important donors.  We don't take
chances with our image.  "

"I know that," Wren demurred, looking vaguely embarrassed to deflect
the implied criticism.

"But I appreciate your letting me see for myself " The books will show
you what comes in and what goes out, everything but the names of the
donors.  You aren't asking for those, are you, Andrew?  "

"No, no."  Wren shook his head quickly.

"It's what happens to the money after it comes in that concerns me.  I
just want to be certain that when I write my article extolling the
virtues of Fresh Start and Pass/ Go and Toto the Wonder Wizard, I won't
be shown up as an idiot later on."  He tacked on a sheepish smile.

Simon Lawrence gave him a cool look.  An idiot?  Not you, Andrew.  Not
likely.  Besides, if there's something crooked going on, I want to know
about it, too.  "

He stood up.

"Finish your latte.  I'll have Jenny Parent, our bookkeeper, bring up
the records.  You can sit here and look them over to your heart's
content."  He glanced down at his watch.

"I've got a meeting with some people downtown at five, but you can stay
as long as you like.  I'll catch up with you in the morning, and you
can give me your report then.  Fair enough?"

Wren nodded.

"More than fair.  Thank you, Simon."

Simon Lawrence paused midway around his desk.

"Let me be honest with you about my feelings on this matter, Andrew.
You are in a position to do a great deal of harm here, to undo an awful
lot of hard work, and I don't want that to happen.  I resent the hell
out of the implication that I would do anything to subvert the efforts
of Fresh Start and Pass/ Go and the people who have given so much time
and effort and money in support of those programs, but I understand
that you can't ignore the possibility that the rumors and innuendos
have some basis in fact.  You wouldn't be doing your job if you did. 
So I am trusting you to be up front with me on anything you find--or,
more to the point, don't find.  Whatever you need, I'll try to give it
to you.  But I'm giving it to you in the belief that you won't write an
article where rumors and accusations are repeated without any basis in
fact."

Wren studied Lawrence for a moment.

"I don't ever limit the scope of an investigation by offering
conditions," he said quietly.

"But I can also say that I have never based a report on anything that
wasn't backed up by solid facts.  It won't be any different here."

The other man held his gaze a moment longer.

"See you tomorrow, Andrew."

He walked out the door and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Wren
alone in his office.  Wren sat where he was and finished his latte,
then stood up and walked over to the window again.  He admired the Wiz,
admired the work he had done with the homeless.  He hoped he wouldn't
find anything bad to write about.  He hoped the phone calls and letters
were baseless--sour grapes from a former employee or an errant shot at
trouble making from an extremist group of 'real Americans.  " He'd read
the letters and listened to the tapes of the phone calls.  It was
possible there was nothing to them.

But his instincts told him otherwise.  And he had learned from
twenty-five years of experience that his instincts were seldom wrong.

-The demon gave Andrew Wren the better part of an hour with the
foundation's financial records, waiting patiently, allowing the
reporter enough time to familiarize himself with the overall record of
donations to Fresh Start and Pass/ Go then checked to make certain the
hallway was empty and slipped into the room behind him.  Wren never
heard the demon approach, his back to the door, his head lowered to the
open books as he ran his finger across the notations.  The demon stood
looking at him for a moment, thinking how easy it would be to kill him,
feeling the familiar hunger begin to build.

But now was not the time and Wren had not been lured to Seattle to
satisfy the demons hunger.  There were plenty of others for that.

The demon moved up behind Andrew Wren and placed its fingers on the
back of the man's exposed neck.  Wren did not move, did not turn, did
not feel anything as the dark magic entered him.  His eyes locked on
the pages before him, and his mind froze.  The demon probed his
thoughts, drew his attention, and then whispered the words that were
needed to manipulate him.

I won't find what I'm looking for here.  Simon Lawrence is much too
clever for that.  He wouldn't be stupid enough to let me look at these
books if he thought they were incriminating.  I have to be patient.  I
have to wait for my source to contact me.

The demon spoke in Andrew Wren's voice, in Andrew Wrens mind, in Andrew
Wren's thoughts, and it would seem to the reporter as if the words were
his own.  He would do as the demon wanted without ever realizing it; he
would be the demons tool.  He would think that the ideas the demon gave
him were his own and that the conclusions the demon reached for him
were his.  It was easy enough to arrange.  Andrew Wren was an
investigative reporter, and investigative reporters believed that
everyone was covering up something.  Why should Simon Lawrence be
different?

Andrew Wren hesitated a moment as the demon's words took root, and then
he closed the book before him and began to stack it with the others.

The demon smiled in satisfaction.  It wouldn't be long now until
everything was in place.  Another two days was all it would take.  John
Ross would be turned.  A Knight of the Word would become a servant of
the Void.  It would happen so swiftly that it would be over before Ross
even realized what was taking place.  Even afterward, he would not know
what had been done to him.  But the demon would know, and that would be
enough.  A single step was all that was required to change John Ross's
life, a step away from the light and into the dark.  Andrew Wren would
help make that happen.

The demon lifted its fingers from Andrew Wren's neck, slipped back out
the door, and was gone.


chapter 8

In the aftermath of San Sobel, John Ross decided to return to the Fairy
Glen and the Lady.

It took him a long time to reach his decision to do so.  He was
paralyzed for weeks following the massacre, consumed with despair and
guilt, replaying the events over and over in his mind in an effort to
make sense of them.  Even after he had reached his conclusion that the
demon had subverted a member of the police rescue squad, he could not
lay the matter to rest.  To begin with, he could never know for certain
if his conclusion was correct.  There would always be some small doubt
that he still didn't have it right and might have done something else
to prevent what had happened.  Besides, wasn't he just looking for a
way to shift the blame from himself?  Wasn't that what it all came down
to?  Whatever the answer, the fact remained that he had been
responsible for preventing the slaughter of those children, and he had
failed.

So, after a lengthy deliberation on the matter, he decided he could no
longer serve as a Knight of the Word.

But how was he to go about handing in his resignation?  He might have
decided he was quitting, but how did he go about giving notice?  He had
already stopped trying to function as a Knight, had ceased thinking of
himself as the Word's champion.  He had retreated so far from who and
what he had been that even the nature of his dreams had begun to
change.  Although he still dreamed, the dreams had turned vague and
purposeless.  He still wandered a grim and desolate future in which his
world had been destroyed and its people reduced to animals, but his
part in that world was no longer clear.  When he dreamed, he drifted
from landscape to landscape, encountering no one, seeing nothing of
value, discovering nothing of his past that he might use as a Knight of
the Word.  It was what he wanted, not to be burdened with knowledge of
events he might influence, but it was vaguely troubling as well.  He
still carried the staff bequeathed to him by the Word, the talisman
that gave him his power, but he no longer used it for its magic, only
as a walking stick.  He still felt the magic within, a small tingling,
a brief surge of heat, but he felt removed and disconnected from it.

He no longer saw himself as a Knight of the Word, had quit thinking of
himself as one, but he needed a way to sever his ties for good.  He
decided finally that to do this he must go back to where it had all
begun.

To Wales, to the Fairy Glen, and to the Lady.

He had not been back in more than ten years, not since he had traveled
to England in his late twenties, a graduate student permanently mired
in his search for his life's purpose, not since he had drifted from
postgraduate course to postgraduate course, a prisoner of his own
indecision.  He had gone to England to change the direction of his
life, to travel and study and find a path that had meaning for him.  In
the course of that pursuit, he had journeyed into Wales to stay at the
cottage of a friend's parents in the village of Betwys-y-Coed in
Gwynedd in the heart of the Snowdonia wilderness.  He had been studying
the history of the English kings, particularly of Edward Longshanks who
had built the iron ring of fortresses to subdue the Welsh in the
Snowdonia region, and so was drawn to the opportunity to travel
there.

Once arrived, he began to fall under the spell of the country and its
people, to become enmeshed in their history and folklore, and to sense
that there was a purpose to his being there beyond what was immediately
apparent.

Then he found the Fairy Glen and the ghost of Owain Glyndwr, the Welsh
patriot, who appeared to him as a fisherman and persuaded him to come
back at midnight so that he could see the fairies at play.  Skeptical
of the idea of fairies and a little frightened by the encounter, but
captivated as well by the setting and the possibility that there was
some truth to the fisherman's words, he eventually did as he was asked.
It was there, in the blackness of the new moon and the sweep of a
thousand stars on a clear summer night, that the Lady appeared to him
for the first and only time.  She told him of her need for his services
as a Knight of the Word.  She revealed to him his blood link to Owain
Glyndwr who had served her as a Knight in his lifetime.  She showed to
him a vision of the future that would be if her Knights failed to
prevent it.  She persuaded him to accept her, to accept the position
she offered him, to accept a new direction in his life.

To accept the way of the Word.

Now, to abandon that way, to sever the ties that bound him to the Words
path, he decided he must return to her.

He bought a ticket, packed a single bag, and flew east.  He arrived at
Heathrow, boarded a train, and traveled west to Bristol and then across
the border into Wales.  He found the journey nostalgic and unsettling;
his warm memories of the past competed with the harsh reality of his
purpose in the present, and his emotions were left jumbled, his nerves
on edge.  It was late fall, and the countryside was beginning to take
on a wintry cast as the colors of summer and autumn slowly drained
away.  The postage-stamp fields and meadows lay fallow, and the
livestock huddled closer to the buildings and feeding troughs.

Flowers had disappeared, and skies were clouded and gray with the
changing weather.

He reached Betwys-y-Coed after expending several days and utilizing
various forms of transportation, and he booked himself at a small
inn.

It began to rain the day he arrived, and it kept raining afterward.  He
waited for the rain to stop, spending time in the public rooms of the
inn and exploring various shops he remembered from his visit before.  A
few of the residents remembered him.  The village, he found, was
substantially unchanged.

He spent time thinking about what he would say to the Lady when he came
face-to-face with her.  It would not be easy to tell her he could no
longer be in her service.  She was a powerful presence,

and she would try to dissuade him from his purpose.  Perhaps she would
even hurt him.  He still remembered how she had crippled him.  After
his return to his parents' home in Ohio, her emissary, O'olish Amaneh,
had come to him with the staff, and he had sensed immediately that his
life would change irrevocably if he accepted it.  His determination and
conviction had been eroding steadily since his return from England, but
now there was no time left to equivocate.  The staff was thrust upon
him, and the moment his hands touched the polished wood, his foot and
leg cramped and withered, the pain excruciating, and he was bound to
the talisman forever.

Would that change now?  he wondered.  If he was no longer a Knight of
the Word, would his leg be healed, be made whole and strong again?  Or
would his decision to abandon his charge cost him even more?

He tried not to dwell on the matter, but the longer he waited, the
harder it became to convince himself to carry through on his resolve.

His imagination was working overtime after a week of deliberation,
stimulated by the rain and the gray and his own fears, turned gloomy
and despairing of hope.  This was a mistake, he began to believe.  This
was stupid.  He should not have come here.  He should have stayed where
he was.  It was sufficient that he refused to act as a Knight of the
Word- His decision did not require the Lady's validation.  He barely
dreamed at all anymore, his dreams so indistinct by now that they
lacked any recognizable purpose.  They were closer to real dreams, to
the ones normal people had that involved bits and pieces of events and
places and people, all of it disjointed and meaningless.  He was no
longer being shown a usable future.  He was no longer being given clues
to a past he might act upon.  Wasn't that sufficient proof that he was
severed from his charge as a Knight of the Word?

But in the end he decided that he was being cowardly.  He had come a
long way just to turn around and go home again, and he should at least
give it a try.  He put on a slicker and boots and hitched a ride out to
the Fairy Glen.  He went at midday, thinking that perhaps the daylight
would lessen his trepidation.  But it was a slow, steady rain that
fell, turning everything gray and misty, and the world had taken on a
hazy, ephemeral look in which nothing seemed substantive, but was all
made of shadows and the damp.

His ride dropped him right next to the white board sign with black
letters that read FAIRY GLEN.  Ahead, a rutted lane led away from the
highway and disappeared over a low rise, following a wooden fence.  A
small parking lot was situated on the left with a box for donations,
and a wooden arrow pointed down the lane, saying TO THE GLEN.

It was all as he remembered.

The car drove away, and he was left alone.  The forest about him on
both sides of the road was deep and silent and empty of movement.  He
could see no houses.  Fences ran along the road at various points, bent
with its curves, and disappeared into the gray.  He took a long moment
to stare at the signs, the donation box, the parking lot, and the
rutted lane, and then at the countryside about him, recalling what it
had been like when he had come here for the first time.  It had been
magical.  Right from the beginning, he had felt it.  He had been filled
with wonder and expectation.  Now he was weary and uncertain and
burdened with a deep-seated sense of failure.  As if all he had
accomplished had gone for nothing.  As if all he had given of himself
had been for naught.

He walked up the rutted lane to find the break in the fence line that
would lead him down into the glen.  He walked slowly, placing his feet
carefully, listening to the patter of the rain and the silence behind
it.  The branches of the trees hung over him like giants' arms, poised
to sweep him up and carry him off.  Shadows moved and drifted with the
clouds, and his eyes swept the haze uneasily.

At the opening in the fence, he paused again, listening.  There was
nothing to hear, but he kept thinking there should be, that something
of what he remembered of his previous visit would reveal itself.  But
everything seemed new and different, and while the terrain looked as he
remembered, it didn't feel the same.  Something was missing, he knew.
Something was changed.

He went through the gate in the fence and started down the pathway that
wound into the ravine.  Leaning heavily on his staff, he worked his way
slowly ahead.  The Fairy Glen was a jumble of massive boulders and
broken rock and isolated patches of wildflowers and long grasses.  A
waterfall tumbled out of the high rocks to become a meandering stream
of eddies and rapids, with pools so clear and still he could see the
colored pebbles they collected.  Rain dripped from the trees and
puddled on the trail and ran down the steep sides of the ravine in
rivulets that eroded the earth in intricate designs.  No birdsong
disturbed the white noise of the water's rush or the fall of the rain. 
No movement disrupted the deep carpet of shadows.

As he reached the floor of the ravine, he glanced back to where the
waterfall spilled off the rocks, but there was no sign of the
fairies.

He slowed and looked around carefully.  The Lady was nowhere to be
seen.  The Fairy Glen was cloaked in shadow and curtained by rain, and
it was empty of life.  It was as he remembered, but different, too.

Like before, he decided, when he had stood at the gate opening, it
seemed changed.  He took a long moment to figure out what the nature of
that change might be.

Then he had it.  It was the absence of any magic.  He couldn't feel any
magic here.  He couldn't feel anything.

His hand tightened on the staff, searching.  The magic failed to
respond.  He stood staring at the Fairy Glen in disbelief, unable to
accept that this could be so.  Were the Lady and the fairies gone from
the Glen?  Was that why he could not sense the magic?  Because the
magic was no longer here?

He walked along the rugged bank of the rain-choked stream, picking his
way carefully over the litter of broken rock and thick grasses.  On a
flat stone shelf, he knelt and peered down into a still pool.  He could
see his reflection clearly.  He looked for something more, for
something different, for a sign.  Nothing revealed itself.  He watched
the rain pock his reflection with droplets that sent glistening,
concentric rings arcing away, one after the other.  His image grew
shimmery and distorted, and he looked quickly away.

When he lifted his head, a fisherman was standing on the opposite shore
a dozen yards away, staring at him.  For a moment,

Ross couldn't believe what he was seeing.  He had convinced himself
that the Fairy Glen was abandoned; he had given up hope of finding
anyone here.  But he recognized the fisherman instantly.  His clothes
and size and posture were unmistakable.  And his look.  Because he was
a ghost and was not entirely solid, his body shifted and changed as the
light played over it.  When he tilted his head, as he did now, a slight
movement of his broad-brimmed hat, his familiar features were revealed.
It was Owain Glyndwr, his ancestor, the Welsh patriot who had fought
against the English Bolingbroke, Henry IV--Owain Glyndwr, dead now for
hundreds of years, but given new life in his service to the Lady.  He
looked just as he had years earlier, when Ross had first come upon him
in the Fairy Glen.

Seeing him like this, materialized unexpectedly, would have startled
John Ross before, but not now.  Instead, he felt his heart leap with
gratitude and hope.

"Hello, Owain," he greeted with an anxious wave of his hand.

The fisherman nodded, a spare, brief movement.

"Hello, John.  How are you?"

Ross hesitated, suddenly unsure of what he should say.

"Not well.

Something's happened.  Something terrible.  "

The other man nodded and turned away, working his line carefully
through the rapids that swirled in front of where he stood.

"Terrible things always happen when you are a Knight of the Word, John.
A Knight of the Word is drawn to terrible things.  A Knight of the Word
stands at the center of them."

Ross adjusted the hood of his slicker to ward off the rain that blew
into his eyes.

"Not any longer.  I'm not a Knight of the Word anymore.

I've given it up.  "

The fisherman didn't look at him.

"You cannot give it up.  The choice isn't yours to make."

"Then whose choice is it?"

The fisherman was silent.

"Is she here, Owain?"  Ross asked finally, coming forward to the very
edge of the rock shelf on which he stood.

"Is the Lady here?"

The fisherman gave a barely perceptible nod.

"She is."

"Good.  Because I couldn't feel her, couldn't feel anything of the
magic when I walked down."  Ross groped for the words he needed.

"I

suppose it's because I've been away for so long.  But .  it doesn't
feel right.  " He hesitated.

"Maybe it's because I'm here in the daylight, instead of at night.  You
told me, the first day we met, that if it was magic I was looking for,
if I wanted to see the fairies, it was best to come at night.  I'd
almost forgotten about that.  I don't know what I was thinking.  I'll
come back tonight--" " John.  " Owains soft voice stopped him
mid-sentence.

"Don't come back.

She won't appear for you.  "

John Ross stared.

"The Lady?  She won't?  Why not?"

The fisherman took a long time before answering.

"Because the choice isn't yours to make."

Ross shook his head, confused.

"I don't understand what you're saying.

Which choice?  The one for her to appear or the one for me to stop
being a Knight of the Word?  "

The other man worked his pole and line without looking up.

"Do you know why you can't feel the magic, John?  You can't feel it
because you don't admit that it's inside yourself anymore.  Magic
doesn't just happen.  It doesn't just appear.  You have to believe in
it."

He looked over at Ross.

"You've stopped believing."

Ross flushed.  I've stopped believing in its usefulness.  I've stopped
wanting it to rule my life.  That's not the same thing.  "

"When you become a Knight of the Word, you give yourself over to a life
of service to the Word."  Owain Glyndwr ran his big, gnarled hands
smoothly along the pole and line.  Shadows from passing clouds darkened
his features.

"If it was an easy thing to do, anyone would be suitable to the task.
Most aren't."

"Perhaps I'm one of them," Ross argued, anxious to find a way to get
his foot in the door the Lady had apparently closed on him.

"Perhaps the Word made a mistake with me."

He paused, waiting for a response.  There was none.  This was stupid,
he thought, arguing with a ghost.  Pointless.  He closed his eyes,
remembering San Sobel.

"Listen to me, Owain.  I can't go through it anymore.  I can't live
with it another day.  The dreams and the killing and the monsters and
the hate and fear and all of it endless and purposeless and stupid!  I
can't do it.  I don't know how you did it.

The big man turned to face him again, taking up the pole and line,
looking away from the stream.

"I did it because I had to, John.

Because I was there.  Because maybe there was no one else.  Because I
was needed to do it.  Like you.  "

Ross clenched his hands on the walnut staff.

"I just want to return the staff he said quietly.

"Why don't I give it to you?"

"It doesn't belong to me."

"You could give it to the Lady for me."

The fisherman shook his head.  If I take it from you, how will you
leave the Fairy Glen?  You cannot walk without the staff.  Will you
crawl out on your hands and knees like an animal?  If you do, what will
you find waiting for you at the rim?  When you became a Knight of the
Word, you were transformed.  Do you think you can be as you were?  Do
you think you can forget what you know, what you've seen, or what
you've done?  Ever?  "

John Ross closed his eyes against the tears that suddenly welled up.

"I just want my life back.  I just want this to be over."

He felt the rain on his hands, heard the sound of the drops striking
the rocks and trees and stream, small splashes and mutterings that
whispered of other things.

"Please, help me," he said quietly.

But when he looked up again, the ghost of Owain Glyndwr was gone, and
he was alone.

He climbed out of the Fairy Glen and returned--walking more than
half the distance before he found a ride--to his inn.  He ate dinner in
the public rooms and drank several pints of the local ale, thinking on
what he would do, on what he believed must happen.  The rain continued
to fall, but as midnight neared it eased off to a slow, soft drizzle
that was more mist than rain.

The innkeeper let him borrow his car, and Ross drove out to the Fairy
Glen and parked in the little parking lot and walked once more to the
gap in the fence.  The night was clouded and dark, the world filled
with shadows and wet sounds, and the interlaced branches of the trees
formed a thick net that looked as if it were poised to drop over him.
He eased his way through the gap and proceeded carefully down the
narrow, twisting trail.  The Fairy Glen was filled with the sound of
water rushing over the rocks of the rain-swollen stream, and the rutted
trail was slick with moisture.  Ross took a long time to reach the
floor of the ravine, and once there he stood peering about cautiously
for a long time.  When nothing showed itself he walked to the edge of
the stream and stood looking back at the falls.

But the fairies, those pinpricks of scattered, whirling bright light he
remembered so well, did not appear.  Nor did the Lady.  Nor did Owain
Glyndwr.  He stood in the darkness and rain for hours, waiting
patiently and expectantly, willing them to appear, reaching out to them
with his thoughts, as if by the force of his need alone he could make
them materialize.  But no one came.

He returned to his rooms in disappointment, slept for most of the day,
rose to eat, waited anew, and went out again the following night.  And
again, no one appeared.  He refused to give up.  He went out each night
for a week and twice more during the days, certain that someone would
appear, that they could not ignore him entirely, that his determination
and persistence would yield him something.

But it was as if that other world had ceased to exist.  The Lady and
the fairies had vanished completely.  Not even Owain returned to speak
with him.  Not a hint of the magic revealed itself.  Time after time he
waited at the edge of the stream, a patient supplicant.  Surely they
would not abandon him when he needed help so badly.  At some point they
would speak to him, if only to reject his plea.  His pain was
palpable.

They must feel it.  Wasn't he entitled to at least the reassurance that
they understood?  The rain continued to fall in steady sheets, the
forests of Snowdonia stayed dark and shadowy, and the air continued
damp and cold in the wake of fall's passing and the approach of
winter.

Finally he went home to America.  He despaired of giving up,

but there seemed to be no other choice.  It was clear he was to be
given no audience, to be offered no further contact.  He was wasting
his time.  He packed his bags, bussed and trained his way back to
Heathrow, boarded a plane, and flew home.  He thought more than once to
turn around and go back to the Fairy Glen, to try again, but he knew in
his heart it was futile.  By choosing to give up his office, he had
made himself an outcast.  Perhaps Owain Glyndwr was right, that once
you gave up on the magic, it gave up on you, as well.  He no longer
felt a part of it, that much was certain.  Even when he touched the
rune-scrolled length of his staff he could find no sign of life.  He
had wanted to distance himself from the magic, and apparently he had
done so.

He accepted that this was the way it must be if he was to stop being a
Knight of the Word.  Whatever ties had bound him to the Word's service
were apparently severed.  The magic was gone.  The dreams had nearly
ceased.  He was a normal man again.  He could go about finding a normal
life.

But he remembered Owain Glyndwr's words about how, by becoming a Knight
of the Word, he had been transformed and things could never be the same
again.  He found himself thinking of a time several years earlier in
Hopewell, Illinois, when Josie Jackson had made him feel for just a few
hours of his nightmarish existence what it was like to be loved, and of
how he had walked away from her because he knew he had nothing to give
her in return.  He recalled how Nest Freemark had asked him in despair
and desperation if he was her father, and he remembered wishing so
badly he could tell her that he was.

He thought of these things, and he wondered if anything even remotely
resembling a normal life would ever be possible again.


chapter 9

It was already dark when John Ross and Stefanie Winslow exited the
offices of Fresh Start, turned down Main Street, and headed for
Umberto's.  Daylight saving time was over for another year, and all the
clocks had been reset Sunday morning in an effort to conserve
daylight--spring forward, fall back--but the approach of winter in the
northwest shortened Seattle days to not much more than eight hours
anyway.  Streetlights threw their hazy glare on the rough pavement of
the roadways and sidewalks, and the air was sharp and crisp with
cold.

It had rained earlier in the day, so shallow puddles dotted the
concrete and dampness permeated the fall air.  Traffic moved sluggishly
through a heavy concentration of mist, and the city was wrapped in a
ghostly pall.

Ross and Stefanie crossed Second Avenue and continued west past
Waterfall Park, a strange, secretive hideaway tucked into an enclosure
of brick walls and iron fences that abutted the apartment building
where they lived.  One entire wall and corner of the park's enclosure
was devoted to a massive waterfall that tumbled over huge rocks with
such a thunderous rush that conversation attempted in its immediate
vicinity was drowned out.  A walkway dropped down along a catchment and
circled back around to a narrow pavilion with two additional features
involving a spill of water over stone, and a cluster of tables and
chairs settled amid a collection of small trees and flowering vines.

In better weather, people employed in the vicinity would come into the
park on their lunch breaks to watch the waterfall and to eat.  John and
Stefanie did so frequently.  From their bedroom window, they could look
down on the park and across at the offices of Fresh Start.

Adjoining Waterfall Park was Occidental Park, a broad open space paved
with cobblestones that overlapped Main from Jackson to Yesler and
fronted a series of shops and restaurants and a parking lot that
serviced the entire Pioneer Square area.  The new Seattle was built on
the old Seattle, the earlier version of the city having burned to the
ground in a turn-of-the-century fire.  An underground tour of portions
of the old city began just a few blocks to the north.  By passing
through a nondescript door and descending a steep, narrow flight of
stairs, you could step back in time.

But the present was above ground, and that was what most people came to
see.  Pioneer Square was an eclectic collection of art galleries, craft
outlets, bookstores, bars, restaurants, souvenir shops, and oddities,
funky and unassuming and all-embracing, and John Ross had felt at home
from the day he arrived.

He had come to Seattle with Stef more than a year ago.  They had been
together for several months by then, were drifting more or less, and
had read about Fresh Start and thought it would be a good place for
them to work.  They had come on a whim, not even knowing if there might
be jobs available, and there hadn't been, not at first, but they had
fallen in love with the city and particularly with Pioneer Square.

They had rented a small apartment to see how things would go, and while
he had been pessimistic about their chances of catching on at Fresh
Start--they had been told, after all, that there were no paid openings
and none expected anytime soon--Stef had just laughed and told him to
be patient.  And sure enough, within a week Simon Lawrence had called
her back and said he had something, and within a month after that,
after spending his time doing volunteer work at the shelter, Ross had
been offered full-time employment, too.

He glanced over at Stef surreptitiously as they crossed Occidental
Park.  He was wearing his greatcoat with the huge collar turned up and
his heavy wool scarf with the fringed ends trailing behind, and as he
limped along with the aid of his heavy walking staff, he looked a
little like a modern-day Gandalf.  Stefanie matched her pace to his,
all sleek and smooth and flawless with her shimmering black hair and
long limbs.  She seemed entirely out of place amid the jumble of old
buildings, antique street lamps, and funky people.  She looked odd
walking past the trolley that was stopped at the little island across
from The Paper Cat, as if she had gotten off at the wrong stop on her
way to the glass and steel towers of the high-rent district uptown. You
might have thought she was slumming amid the homeless men who were
clustered together next to the carved wooden totems and on the benches
and under the mushroom-shaped pavilion across the way.

But you would have been wrong.  If there was one thing Ross had learned
about Stefanie Winslow, it was that notwithstanding how she looked and
dressed, she was right at home anywhere.  You might think you could
tell something about her by just looking at her, but you couldn't.  She
was comfortable with herself in a way that astonished him.  Stef was
one of those rare people who could walk into any situation, anyplace,
anytime, and find a way to deal with it.  It was a combination of
presence and attitude and intelligence.  It was the reason Simon
Lawrence had hired her.  And subsequently hired him, for that matter.

Stefanie made you feel she was indispensable.  She made you believe she
was up to anything.  It was, in large part, he knew, why he was in love
with her.

They rounded the corner at Elliott Bay Book Company and walked down
First Avenue to King Street, then turned into the door of Umberto's
Restorante.  The hostess checked off their names, smiled warmly at
Stef, and said that their table was ready.  She led them down several
steps to the dining area, past the salad island toward the neon sign
that said IL PICCOLO, which was the tiny corner bar, then turned right
down a hallway covered with posters of upcoming Seattle arts events.

Ross looked at Stef in surprise.  The dining room was behind them
now;

where were they going?  Stef gave him a wink.

At the end of the hallway was the wine cellar, a small room closed away
behind an iron gate in which a single table had been set for dinner.
The hostess opened the wrought-iron door and seated them inside.  A
white tablecloth, green napkins, and silver and china seemed to glow in
soft candlelight amid the racks of wines surrounding them.

"How did you manage this?"  Ross asked in genuine amazement as the
hostess left them alone.

Stef tossed back her hair, reached for his hand, and said, "I told them
it was for you."

He had been back from Wales for almost a month when he met
her.

He had returned defeated in spirit and bereft of hope.  He had failed
in his effort to speak with the Lady or return the staff of power.  His
parents were dead, and his childhood home sold.  He had lost contact
with his few relatives years earlier.  He had nowhere to go and no one
to go to.  For lack of a better idea, he went up from New York to
Boston College, where he had studied years earlier, and began auditing
classes while he worked out his future.  He was offered a position in
the graduate-studies program in English literature, but he asked for
time to think about it, uncertain if he wanted to go back into
academia.  What he really wanted was to do something that would allow
him to make a difference in peoples lives, to take a job working with
people he could help.  He needed human contact again.  He needed
validation of his existence.  He worked hard at thinking of himself as
something other than a Knight of the Word.  He struggled bravely to
develop a new identity.

Each day he would take his lunch in the student cafeteria, sitting at a
long table, poring through his study books and staring out the windows
of the dining hall.  It was winter, and snow lay thick and white on the
ground, ice hung from the eaves, and breath clouded in the air like
smoke.  Christmas was approaching, and he had nowhere to spend it and
no one to spend it with.  He felt incredibly lonely and adrift.

That was when he first saw Stefanie Winslow.  It was early December,
only days before the Christmas break.  He wasn't sure if she had been
coming there all along and he just hadn't noticed her or if she had
suddenly appeared.  Once he saw her though, he couldn't look away.  She
was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever seen--exotic, stunning,
and unforgettable.  He couldn't find words to give voice to what he was
feeling.  He watched her all through the lunch hour and stayed
afterward when he should have been auditing his class, continuing to
stare at her until she got up and walked away.

The next day she was back, sitting at the same table, off to one side,
all alone.  He watched her come in and sit down to have her lunch for
five days, thinking each time that he had to go over to her and say
something, had to introduce himself, had to make some sort of contact,
but he always ended up just sitting there.  He was intimidated by
her.

But he was compelled, as well.  No one else tried to sit with her; no
one else even tried to approach.  That gave him pause.  But his
connection with her was so strong, so visceral, that he could not
ignore it.

Finally, at the beginning of the following week, he just got up and
walked over, limped over really, feeling stupid and inadequate with his
heavy staff and rough look, and said hello.  She smiled up at him as if
he were the most important thing in her life, and said hello back.  He
told her his name, she told him hers.

"I've been watching you for several days," he said, giving her a
deprecatory shrug.

"I know," she said, arching one eyebrow speculatively.

He flushed.

"I guess I overdid it if I was that obvious.  I was wondering if you
were a student at the college."

She shook her head, her black hair catching the winter light.

"No, I work in administration."

"Oh.  Well, I'm auditing some classes."  He let the words trail away.
He didn't know where else to go with it.  He felt suddenly awkward
about what he was doing, sitting here with her.  He glanced about.

"I didn't mean to intrude, I just..."

"John," she interrupted gently, drawing his eyes back to hers, holding
them.

"Do you know why I've been sitting here alone every day?"

He shook his head slowly.

"Because," she said, drawing out the word, "I've been waiting for you
to join me."

She always knew the right thing to say.  He had been in love with her
from the beginning, and his feelings had just grown stronger over time.
He sat watching her now as she gave their order to the waiter, a young
man with long sideburns and a Vandyke beard, holding his attention with
her eyes, with her voice, with her very presence.  The waiter wouldn't
look away if a bomb went off, Ross thought.  When he left with the
order, the wine steward, who had been by earlier, reappeared with the
bottle of Pinot Grigio Stef had ordered.  He poured it for Ross to
taste, but Ross indicated Stef was in charge.  She tasted it, nodded,
and the wine steward filled their glasses and disappeared.

They sat close within the dim circle of candlelight and stared at each
other without speaking.  Silently Ross hoisted his glass.  She
responded in kind, they clinked crystal softly, and drank.

"Is this some sort of special occasion?"  he asked finally.

"Did I forget an important date?"

"You did," she advised solemnly.

"And you won't tell me what it is, will you?"

As a matter of fact, I will.  But only because I don't want to see how
long it takes you to remember.  " She cocked her head slightly in his
direction.

"It was one year ago today, exactly, that Simon Lawrence hired you to
work at Fresh Start."

"You're kidding."

"I don't kid.  Josh, yes.  Tease, now and then.  Never kid."  She took
a sip of her wine and licked her lips.

"Cause for celebration, don't you think?  Who would have thought you
would end up writing speeches for the Wizard of Oz?"

Ross shook his head.

"Who would have thought I would have ended up living with Glinda the
Good?"

Stef arched her eyebrows in mock horror.

"Glinda the Good?  Wasn't she a witch?"

A good witch.  That's why she was called Glinda the Good.  "

Stef gave him a considering look.

"John, I love you deeply, madly, truly.  But don't call me Glinda the
Good.  Don't call me anything that smacks of the Wizard of Oz or the
Emerald City or Munchkins or Dorothy or the yellow brick road.  I get
quite enough of that at work.  Our life is separate and distinct from
all this Wiz business."

He leaned back, looking hurt.

"But it's the date of my hiring.  Isn't the analogy appropriate under
those circumstances?"

The waiter returned with their salads, and they began to eat.  The
sounds of the main dining room seemed distant and disconnected from
their little haven.  Ross thought about all the years he had dreaded
nights coming and sleep, plagued by the knowledge that when he slept he
was condemned to dream of the future he must prevent and of the horror
he must live if he failed.  Once, he had thought he would never escape
that life, and that even if he did, its memories would haunt him
forever.  Stefanie had saved him from that, helped him find his way
free of the labyrinth of his past, and brought him back into the light
of possibility and hope.

"Have you finished your polish of the Wiz's speech?"  she asked.

"Hmm, good salad.  I like the bits of walnuts and blue cheese."

"It's all done," he replied with a sigh.  Another masterpiece.  Simon
will be quoted for weeks afterward.  " He grinned.

"I shall live vicariously through him, his words my own."

"Yes, well, I don't know how much of this vicarious-living business you
want to indulge in," she mused, lifting her wineglass and studying it
speculatively.

"He seemed pretty on edge after Andrew Wren's visit."

Ross looked up from his salad.

"Really?  What was that all about anyway, did you ever find out?"

She shook her head.

"But it's never good news for a public figure when an investigative
reporter comes calling."

"No, I suppose not."

"Jenny told me Simon asked for the books cataloguing donations and
expenditures to be brought up for Wren to look at.  What does that
suggest to you?"

"Financial impropriety."  Ross shrugged.

"Wren will hunt a long time before he'll find evidence of that.  Simons
a fanatic about keeping clean books.  He can account for every penny
received or spent."

He went back to eating his salad.  Stef continued to study her
wineglass, finally taking a sip from it.

"I just don't like the way Simon is behaving," she said finally.

"He isn't himself lately.

Something is bothering him.  "

Ross finished chewing, kept his eyes lowered, then forced himself to
look up at her and smile.

"Something is bothering almost everyone, Stef.  The thing to remember
is, mostly we have to work these things out by ourselves."

John Ross dreams.  It is the same dream, the only dream he has anymore
that he can remember upon waking It is a dream of the future he was
sworn to prevent as a Knight of the Word, and each time it reoccurs it
is a little darker than it was before.

This time is no exception.

He stands on a hillside south of Seattle, watching as the city burns.

Hordes of once-men and demons pour through gaps in the shattered
defenses and drive the defenders steadily back toward the water that
hems them in on all sides but his.  Feeders cavort through the carnage
and drink in the terror and frenzy and rage of the dying and wounded.

It is a nightmarish scene, the whole of the scorched and burning
landscape awash in rain and mist, darkened by clouds and gloom, wrapped
in a madness that finds voice in the screams and cries of the humans it
consumes.

But the feelings that fill Ross are unfamiliar ones.  They are not of
frustration or anger, not of despair or sadness, as they have been each
time before.  His feelings now are dull and empty, devoid of anything
but irritation and a faint boredom.  He stands with a group of the
city's survivors, but he has no regard for them either.  Rather, he is
a shell, armored and invulnerable, but emotionless.  He has no idea how
he became this way, but it is a transcending experience to realize it
has happened.  He is no longer a Knight of the Word; he is something
else entirely.  The humans he stands with are not a part of him.  They
do not meet his gaze as he looks over at them speculatively.  They cower
in his presence and huddle submissively before him.  They are
frightened of him.  They are terrified.

Then the old man approaches and whispers that he knows him, that he
remembers him from years earlier His hollow-eyed gaze is vacant, and
his voice is flat and toneless.  He looks and speaks as if he is
disconnected from his body.  He repeats the familiar words.  You were
there, in the Emerald City!  You killed the Wizard of Oz!  It was
Halloween night, and you were wearing a mask of death!  They were
celebrating his life, and you killed him!

He shoves the old man away roughly.  The old man collapses in a heap
and begins to sob.  He lies helpless in the dirt and rainwater, his
ragged clothes and head matted with mud, his frail body shaking.

Ross looks away.  He knows the words the old man speaks are true, but
he does not care.  He has walled away all guilt long since, and killing
no longer means anything to him.

He realizes in that moment that he is no longer part of the humans
clustered at his feet.  He has shed his humanity; he has left it behind
him in a past he can barely remember.

Suddenly, he understands why the humans look at him as they do.

He is the enemy who has come to destroy them.

Ross and Ste'f walked slowly back along First Avenue after leaving
Umberto's, arms linked, shoulders hunched against the cold.  The air
was still hazy and damp and the sky still gray, but there was no rain
yet.  The street lamps of Pioneer Square blazed above them, casting
their shadows on the sidewalk as they passed, dark human patterns
lengthening and then fading with each bright new circle.

The dream had come again last night, for the first time in several
weeks, and Ross was still wrestling with its implications.  In this
latest version of the future, Simon Lawrence was still dead, and Ross
was still his killer.  But now Ross was one of the bad guys, no longer
a Knight of the Word, no longer even a passive observer as he had been
every time the dream came to him before.  He was some sort of demon
clone, a creature of the Void and only barely recognizable as having
ever been human.

He frowned into the upturned collar of his coat.  It was ridiculous,
ludicrous to think that any of this could ever come to pass.

So why was he having this dream?

Why was he being plagued with visions of a future he would never let
happen?

"The state legislature is going to pass a bill before the end of the
week that will cut back on state funding for welfare recipients to
match what the federal government has already done in cutting back its
funding to the state."  Stefs voice was soft and detached in the
gloom.

"Maybe that's what has got Simon so upset."

"Well, by all means, let's put more people back on the streets."  Ross
shook his head, thinking of other things.

"Welfare encourages people not to work, John.  You know that.  You hear
it all the time.  Cutting off their aid will force them to get out
there and get a job."

"Good thing it's all so simple.  We can just ignore the culture of
poverty.  We can just pretend that poor people are just rich people
without money.  We can tell ourselves that educational, social, and
cultural opportunities are the same for everyone.  We can ignore the
statistics on domestic violence and teen pregnancy and rate of exposure
to crime and disease and family stability.  Cut off welfare and put 'em
to work.  I don't know why anyone didn't think of it before.  We can
have everyone off the street and working by the end of the month, I
bet."

"Yep.  Then we can tackle a cure for cancer and get that out of the
way, too."  She snuggled her face into his shoulder, her dark hair
spilling over him like silk.

"I liked our dinner," he ventured, trying to take the edge off his
frustration.

She nodded into his coat.

"Good.  I liked it, too."

They rounded the corner of Main at Elliott Bay Book Company and started
for home.  Occidental Park sprawled ahead of them, empty of life,
watched over by the wooden totems, spectral sentinels in the gloom. The
homeless had moved on to warmer spots for the night, abandoning their
daytime haunt.  Some would find a bed in one of the shelters. Some
would make their bed on the streets.  Some would wake up in the
morning.  Some would not.

"There are just not enough of us," Ross said quietly.

She lifted her head to look at him.

"Not enough of who?"

"Not of who.  Of what.  I mis-spoke Not enough shelters for the
homeless.  Not enough schools for displaced children.  Not enough food
banks.  Not enough care facilities.  Not enough churches working with
the needy.  Not enough charities.  Not enough programs or funding or
answers.  Not enough of anything."

She nodded.

"There's a lot of competition for people's money and time, John.  The
choices aren't always easy."

"Maybe it would be easier if people remembered there's a lot of
competition for their souls, as well."

She stared hard at him for a moment.

"Then everyone should be able to figure out what to do, shouldn't
they?"

They crossed Main to Waterfall Park, peering into the blackness where
the sound of rushing water welled up and reverberated off the brick
walls.  Amid the cluster of rocks and trees and garden tables, shadows
shifted with barely perceptible movements.  Ross thought he caught a
glimpse of lantern eyes peering out at him.  He didn't see the feeders
much anymore--only brief glimpses.  It bothered him sometimes that he
couldn't see them better.  He had wanted to remove himself from their
world, and it didn't help knowing they were there and not being able to
see them.

It reminded him of something Owain Glyndwr had asked of him.

Do you think you can ever be as you were?

He found himself thinking of the dream again, of the way he had
appeared in it, of the way it made him feel.  He might not ever be as
he was, but at least he could keep himself from being like that.  He
could manage that much, couldn't he?

He stared into the shadows in silence, Stefanie clinging to his arm,
and dared the things that lurked within to come into the light.  It
seemed to him as he did so that he could feel them daring him, in turn,
to come into the dark.


chapter 10

Even though its hunger had become all-consuming, the demon waited until
after midnight to hunt.

It crept from its lair as silent as the death that awaited its victims
and slipped out onto the empty streets of Pioneer Square.  The
weeknight city had closed its eyes early, and even the bars and
restaurants had shuttered their doors and clicked off their lights.

The air was damp and heavy with mist and the beginnings of a fresh
rain, and the moisture glistened on the concrete in a satiny sheen.

Cars eased past in ones and twos, carrying their occupants to home and
bed, strays following in the wake of the early evening rush.  The demon
watched from the shadows close by Occidental Park, wary of being
seen.

But the park and sidewalks and streets were empty and still.  The demon
was alone.

It crept from its hiding place in human form, standing upright,
maintaining its guise as it made its way to the place where the hunt
would begin.  It wore running shoes and sweats to mask the sound of its
passing, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, sliding along the
walls of the darkened buildings, across the shadowed stretches of the
park, and through the blackened tunnels of the alleys and walkways.

The homeless who spent their days in the park had all gone elsewhere,
and the Indian totems loomed above the empty stone spaces like hunters
in search of prey, eyes fearsome and staring, beaks and talons at the
ready.

But the demon's hunt was not for food.  Its hunger was of a different
sort.  Its hunger was more primal and less easily understood.  The
demon hunted because it needed to kill.  It hunted to feel the
struggles of its victims as it rent their flesh, cracked their bones,
and spilled their blood.  It hunted to experience that exquisite moment
of fulfillment when its efforts claimed another human life--that last
shudder of consciousness, that final exhalation of breath, that
concluding gasp as death arrived.  The demons need for killing humans
was indigenous to its makeup.  It had been human itself once, long ago,
and to continue to be what it was, it was necessary for it to keep
killing its human self over and over again.  It accomplished this
through the killing of others.  Its own humanity was drowned completely
in the madness that drove it, but it was necessary that it pretend at
being human so that it could move freely among its victims, and there
was danger in this.  Killing kept the pretense from ever threatening to
become even a momentary reality.

At the corner of First Avenue andYesler, the demon paused a final time
in the shadows to look about.  Seeing neither cars nor people
approaching, it slipped quickly across First to the line of old
doorways and basement windows that fronted the street, and hunkered
down beside a set of concrete steps that led into a kite and banner
shop.  Again, it paused to look about and listen.  Again, it saw and
heard nothing.

Scooting forward like a crab, it paused in front of an old, wood-frame
basement window with its glass painted out, levered the window open
with practiced ease, slithered through the opening into the darkness
beyond, and was gone.

Inside, it dropped softly to the basement floor and waited for its eyes
to adjust.  It took only a moment, for the demons sight was as keen in
darkness as in light.  It saw with all its senses, unlike the human it
had once been, unlike the humans it hunted.  It despised the weaknesses
of flesh and blood and bone it had long ago discarded.  It despised the
humanity that it had shed like a snake's skin.  It was not burdened by
moral codes or emotional balance or innate sensibility or anything even
approaching responsibility.  The demon functioned in its service to the
Void without any restrictions save one--to survive.  It did not
question that it served the Void; it did so because it could not conceive of any other way to be and because the Void's interests were a perfect fit with its own.  The
demon's purpose in life was to destroy the humans of whom it had once
been part.  Its purpose was to wipe them from the face of the earth.

That it served the Void in doing so seemed mostly chance.

It stood motionless in the darkness for a long moment, then began to
strip off its clothes.  It would hunt better once it had transformed.

Its human guise was uncomfortable and restrictive, and it served only
to remind the demon of the shell it had been trapped inside for so many
years.  All demons were mutable and, given time, could become whatever
they chose.  But this demon was particularly adept.  It could change
forms effortlessly, which was not usually the case.  Most demons were
required to keep to the form they adopted because it took so long to
build another.  But this demon was different.  It could change forms
with the speed of a chameleon changing colors, rebuilding itself in
moments.  Its ability had served it well as a creature of the Void.  It
specialized in ferreting out and subverting the more powerful servants
of the Word.  It had destroyed many of them.  It was working now at
destroying John Ross.

Of course, it was only the part of Ross that was human that the demon
sought to destroy.  It would keep the rest.  It would keep his magic.
It would keep his knowledge.  It would set free the dark underside that
he worked so hard to contain and give it mastery over what remained of
his spirit.

When its clothes lay on the floor, the demon began to change.  Its
human form disappeared as its body swelled and knotted with muscle and
its skin sprouted thick, coarse hair.  Its head lengthened, its jaws
widened, and its teeth grew long and sharp.  It took on the appearance
of something that was a cross between a huge cat and a massive dog, but
it resembled most closely a monstrous hyena--all powerful neck and
sinewy shoulders and ranged muzzle.

Altered, it dropped down on all fours and began to make its way through
the darkness.  It passed from the basement down a set of open stairs to
another level.  Now it was inside the burned-out shell of old Seattle,
of the ruin that served as the foundation for the city above.  This was
not a part of the old city that was covered by the underground tour. It
was a part that was closed off, inaccessible to most.  The streets and
alleyways ran on for hundreds of yards, mysterious and empty. Parts of
it collapsed from time to time, and sometimes its darkened corridors
flooded with runoff from the streets and sewers during heavy rains. 
Few knew it even existed.  No one ever came down at night.

Except for the homeless.

And the demon who liked to hunt them.

The demon was thinking of John Ross, imagining what it would be like to
close its massive jaws about his throat, to crush the life from him, to
feel the blood spurt from his torn body.  The demon hated Ross.

But the demon was attracted to him, too.  All that magic, all that
power, the legacy of a Knight of the Word.  The demon would like to
taste that.  It would like to share it.  It hungered for killing, but
it hungered for the taste of magic even more.

Its feral eyes cast about in the black as it loped through the darkness
on silent paws, ears pricked forward, listening.  All about, feeders
kept pace.  There would be killing, they sensed.  There would be terror
and rage and desperation, and they were anxious to taste them all. Just
as the demon hungered after magic and killing, the feeders hungered for
the residual emotions in humans that both evoked.

John Ross belongs to me, the demon was thinking.  He belongs to me
because I have found him, claimed him, and understand his uses.  I will
subvert him, and I will set him free.  I will make him over as I have
made myself over.  It will happen soon, so soon.  The wheels of the
machine that will make it possible are in motion.  No one can stop
them.  No one can change what I intend.

John Ross is mine.

Ahead, distant still through the seemingly unending darkness, the faint
sound of voices rose.  The demons jaws hung open and its tongue lolled
out.  The eyes of the feeders gleamed more brightly and their movements
grew more intense.

Head lowered, nose sniffing expectantly at the cobblestones of the
underground city's abandoned streets, the demon began to creep
forward.

Above ground and unaware of the demon's presence, Nest Freemark was
less than two blocks away.

It had taken her all day to get to Seattle, and she had arrived too
late to make a serious effort at contacting John Ross until
tomorrow--which, by now, was today, because it was after midnight.

Fending off endless questions regarding her travel plans and misguided
offers of help, she had booked a United flight leaving O'Hare at
three-fifteen in the afternoon and, as planned, ridden into Chicago
that morning with Robert.  Robert meant well, but he still didn't know
when to back off.  She avoided telling him exactly what it was she was
doing or why she was going.  It was an unexpected trip, a visit to some
relatives, and that was all she would say.  Robert was beside himself
with curiosity, but she thought it would do him good to have to deal
with his frustration.  Besides, she wasn't entirely unhappy with the
idea of letting him suffer a little more as penance for his behavior at
her grandfather's funeral.

He dropped her at the ticketing entrance to United, still offering to
come along, to accompany her, to meet her, to do whatever she asked.

She smiled, shook her head, said good-bye, picked up her bag, and
walked inside.  Robert drove away.  She waited to make sure.

She hadn't seen Ariel since the night before and had no idea how the
tatterdemalion planned to reach Seattle, but that wasn't her problem.

She checked her bag, received her boarding pass, and was advised that
the departure time had been moved back to five o'clock due to a problem
with the plane.

She walked down to the assigned gate, took a seat, and resumed reading
the book she had begun the night before.  It was titled The Spiritual
Child, and it was written by Simon Lawrence.  She was drawn to the book
for several reasons--first, because it made frequent reference to the
writing of Robert Coles, and to his book

The Spiritual Life of ChiUren in particular, which she had read for a
class in psychology last semester and enjoyed immensely, and second,
because she was on her way to find John Ross, who was working for
Lawrence at Fresh Start, and she wanted to know something about the
thinking of the man with whom a failed Knight of the Word would ally
himself.  Of course, it might be that this was only a job for Ross and
nothing more, but Nest didn't think so.  That didn't sound like John
Ross.  He wasn't the sort to take a job indiscriminately.  After
abandoning his service to the Word, he would want to find something he
felt strongly about to commit to.

In any case, she had whiled away the time reading Simon Lawrence, the
airplane still hadn't shown, the weather had begun to deteriorate with
the approach of a heavy thunderstorm, and the departure time had been
pushed back yet again.  Growing concerned that she might not get out at
all, Nest had gone up to the gate agent and asked what the chances were
that the flight might not leave.  The agent said she didn't know.

Nest retraced her steps to customer service and asked the agent on duty
if she could transfer to another flight.  The agent looked doubtful
until Nest explained that a close friend was dying, and she needed to
get to Seattle right away if she was to be of any comfort to him.  It
was close enough to the truth that she didn't feel too bad about saying
it, and it got her a seat on a flight to Denver connecting on to
Seattle.

The flight had left a little after five, she was in Denver by six
forty-five, mountain time, and back on a second plane to Seattle by
seven-fifty.  The flight up took another two hours and something, and
it was approaching ten o'clock Pacific time before the plane touched
down at Sea-Tac.  Nest disembarked carrying her bag, walked outside to
the taxi stand, and caught a ride downtown.  Her driver was Pakistani
or East Indian, a Sikh perhaps, wearing one of those turbans, and he
didn't have much to say.  She still hadn't seen a sign of Ariel, and
she was beginning to worry.  She could find her way around the city,
locate John Ross, and make her pitch alone if she had to, but she would
feel better having someone she could turn to for advice if she came up
against a problem.  She was already composing what she would say to
Ross.  She was wondering as well why he would pay any attention to her,
the Lady's assurances notwithstanding.

She missed Pick terribly.  She hadn't thought their separation would be
so bad, but it was.  He had been with her almost constantly from the
time she was six years old; he was her best friend.  She had been able
to leave him to go off to school, but Northwestern University was only
a three-hour drive from Hopewell and it didn't feel so far away.  She
supposed her grandfather's death contributed to her discomfort as well;
Pick was the last link to her childhood, and she didn't like leaving
him behind.  It was also the first time she had done anything involving
the magic without him.  Whatever the reason, not having him there made
her decidedly uneasy.

The taxi driver had taken her to the Alexis Hotel, where she had booked
a room the night before by phone.  The Alexis was situated right at the
north end of Pioneer Square, not far from the offices of Fresh Start.
It was the best hotel in the area, and Nest had decided from the start
that if she was going to travel to a strange city, she wanted to stay
in a good place.  She had been able to get a favorable rate on a
standard room for the two-night stopover she had planned.

She checked in at the front desk, took the elevator to her room,
dropped her bag on the bed, and looked around restlessly.

Despite the fact that she had been traveling all day, she was not
tired.  She unpacked her bag, glanced through a guide to Seattle, and
walked to the window and looked out.  The street below glistened with
dampness, and the air was hazy with mist.  All of the shops and offices
she could see were closed.  There were only a few cars passing and
fewer people.  It was just a little after eleven- thirty.

She had decided to go for a walk.

Nest was no fool.  She knew about cities at night and the dangers they
presented for the unwary.  On the other hand, she had grown up with the
feeders in Sinnissippi Park, spending night after night prowling the
darkness they favored, avoiding their traps, and surviving
confrontations far more dangerous than anything she was likely to
encounter here.  Moreover, she had the magic to protect her, and while
she hadn't used it in a while and didn't know what stage of growth it
was in at the moment, she had confidence that it would keep her safe.

So she had slipped on her heavy windbreaker, ridden the elevator back
down to the lobby, and gone out the door.

She was no sooner outside and walking south along First Avenue toward
the banks of old-fashioned street lamps that marked the beginning of
Pioneer Square than Ariel had appeared.  The tatterdemalion
materialized out of the mist and gloom, filling a space in the darkness
beside Nest with her vague, transparent whiteness.  Her sudden
appearance startled Nest, but she didn't seem to notice, her dark eyes
cast forward, her silken hair flowing out from her body as if caught in
a breeze.

"Where are you going?"  she asked in her thin childlike voice.

"Walking.  I can't sleep yet.  I'm too wound up."  Nest watched the
shadows whirl and spin inside the tatterdemalions gauzy body.

"How did you get here?"

Ariel didn't seem to hear the question, her dark eyes shifting
anxiously.

"It isn't safe," she said.

"What isn't safe?"

"The city at night."

They had crossed from the hotel and walked into the next block.  Nest
looked around cautiously at the darkened doorways and alcoves of the
buildings.  There was no one to be seen.

"I remember about cities," Ariel continued, her voice small and
distant.  She seemed to float across the pavement, a ghostly
hologram.

"I remember how they feel and what they hide.  I remember what they can
do to you.  They are filled with people who will hurt you.  They are
places in which children can disappear in the blink of an eye.

Sometimes they lock you away in dark places and no one comes for you.

Sometimes they wall you up forever," She was speaking from the memories
of the children she had been once, of the only memories she had.  Nest
decided she didn't want to know about those memories, the memories of
dead children.

"It will be all right," she said.

"We won't go far."

They walked quite a distance though, all the way down First Avenue
under Pioneer Squares turn-of-the-century street lamps past shuttered
shops and galleries to where they could see the Kingdome rising up
against the night sky in a massive hump.  The mist thickened and
swirled about them, clinging to Nest's face and hands in a thin, cold
layer of moisture.  Nest drew her windbreaker tighter about her
shoulders.  When the character of the neighborhood began to change, the
shops and galleries giving way to warehouses and industrial plants,
Nest turned around again, with Ariel hovering close, and started
back.

They were approaching a small, concrete, triangular park with benches
and shade trees fronting a series of buildings that included one
advertising Seattle's Underground Tour when the screams began.

They were so faint that at first Nest couldn't believe she was hearing
them.  She slowed and looked around doubtfully.  She was all alone on
the streets.  There was no one else in sight.  But the screams
continued, harsh and terrible in the blackness and mist.

"Something hunts," Ariel hissed as she shimmered brightly, darting left
and right.

Nest wheeled around, looking everywhere at once.

"Where are they coming from?"  she demanded, frantic now.

"Beneath us," Ariel said.

Nest looked down at the concrete sidewalk in disbelief.

"From the sewers?"

Ariel moved close, her childlike face smooth and expressionless, but
her eyes filled with terror.

"There is an old city beneath the new.

The screams are coming from there!  "

The demon worked its way ahead slowly through the blackness of the
underground city, following the scent of the humans and the sound of
their voices.  It wound through narrow streets and alleyways and in and
out of doors and gaps in crumbling walls.  It was filled with hunger
and flushed with a need to kill.  It was driven.

Scores of feeders trailed after it, lantern eyes glowing in the musky
gloom.

After a time, the demon saw the first flicker of light.  The voices of
the humans were clear now; it could hear their words distinctly.  There
were three of them, not yet grown to adulthood, a girl and two boys.

The demon crept forward, eyes narrowing, pulse racing.

"What's that?"  one of them said suddenly as stone and earth scraped
softly under the demons paw.

The demon could see them now, huddled about a pair of candles set into
broken pieces of old china placed on a wooden crate.  They were in a
room in which the doors and windows had long since fallen away and the
walls had begun to collapse.  The ceiling was ribbed with pipes and
conduits from the streets and buildings above, and the air was damp and
smelled of rotting wood and earth.  The boys and the girl had made a
home of sorts in the open space, furnishing it with several wooden
crates, a couple of old mattresses and sleeping bags, several plastic
sacks filled with stuff they had scavenged, and a few books.  Where
they had come from was anybody's guess.  They must have found their way
down from the streets where they spent their days, taking shelter each
night as so many did in the abandoned labyrinth of the older city.

The demon rounded the corner of a building across from them and paused.
Feeders crowded forward and hovered close.  The older of the two boys
came to his feet and stood looking out into the dark.  The other two
crouched guardedly to either side.  There was only one way in or out of
their shelter.  The demon had them trapped.

It advanced slowly into the light, showing itself gradually, letting
them see what it was.  Fear showed on their faces and in their eyes.

Frantic exclamations escaped their lips--low, muttered curses that
sounded like prayers.  The demon was filled with joy.

The older boy produced a long-bladed knife.

"Get away!"  he warned, and swore violently at the demon.  The demon
came forward anyway, the feeders trailing in its wake.  The girl and
the younger boy shrank from it in terror.  The girl was already crying.
Neither would challenge it; the demon could tell from what it saw in
their eyes.

Only the older boy would make a stand.  The demons tongue licked out
across its hooked teeth, and its jaws snapped hungrily at the air.

The demon crept through the doorway in a crouch, eyes fixed on the
knife.  All three of its intended victims retreated toward the back
wall of the room.  Foolish choice, the demon thought.  They had let it
inside, let it block their only escape.

Then the younger boy wheeled away in a flurry of arms and legs and
threw himself toward one of the broken windows, intent on breaking free
that way.  But the demon was too quick.  It lunged sideways and caught
the unfortunate boy in a single bound.  It dragged him to the earthen
floor, closed its massive jaws on his neck as he screamed and thrashed
frantically, and crushed the life from him with a single snap.

The boy fell back lifelessly.  Feeders piled onto the body, tearing at
it.  The demon swung its bloodied muzzle toward the other two, showing
all its teeth.  The girl was screaming now, and the older boy was
cursing and shouting and brandishing the knife more as a talisman than
as a weapon.  They might have made a run for the open doorway while the
demon was engaged in killing their companion, but they had failed to do
so.  Or even to try.  The girl was on her knees with her arms about her
head, keening.  The older boy was standing his ground, but it seemed to
the demon that he was doing so because he could not bring himself to
move.

The demon advanced on the older boy, stiff-legged, alert.  When it was
close enough, it waited until the boy lunged with the knife, then
hurled itself under the gleaming blade, jaws closing on the hand that
wielded it.  Bones crunched and muscles tore, and the boy screamed in
pain.  The demon knocked the boy backward against the wall and tore out
his throat while he was still staring at his ruined hand.

Feeders sprang out of the darkness in knots of black shadow,

falling on the dying boy, lapping up the life that drained away from
him, feeding on the raw feelings of terror and despair and pain.

The girl had begun to crawl toward the open door, a futile attempt to
get free.  The demon moved quickly to intercept her.  She crouched
before it in a shivering heap, her arms clasped over her head, her eyes
closed.  She was crying and screaming and begging-Don't, please, don't,
please, don't--over and over again.  The demon studied her for a
moment, intrigued by the way the madness had enveloped her.  It was no
longer in a hurry, its hunger appeased with the killing of the boys.

It felt languorous and sleepy.  It watched the girl through lidded
eyes.  There were feeders crawling all over her, savoring the emotions
she expended, licking them up anxiously.  Perhaps she could feel them,
perhaps even see them by now, with death so close.  Perhaps she sensed
what death held in store for her.  The demon wondered.

Then it closed its jaws almost tenderly about the back of the girl's
exposed white neck and crushed the slender stalk to pulp.

Abruptly, the screams faded to silence.  Nest froze, staring into
the mist and gloom, into the faint pools of streetlight, listening.

She couldn't hear a thing.

Ariel drifted close.  The tatterdemalion hung suspended on the air,
spectral, barely a presence at all.

"It is over."

Nest blinked.  Over.  So quickly.  Her mind spun.

"What was it?"  she asked quietly.

"A creature of the Void."

Nest stared into the tatterdemalions eyes and knew exactly which
creature.  She felt a chill sweep through her body and settle in her
throat.  A demon," she whispered.

"Its stink is in the air," Ariel said.

"What was it hunting?"

"The humans who live under the streets."

Homeless people.  Nest closed her eyes in despair.  Could she have
helped them, if she had been quicker, if she had known where to go, if
she had summoned her magic?  If, if, if.  She took a deep breath.  She
wondered suddenly if these killings were connected in some way with
John Ross.  Was this monster hunting for him, as well?  Mustn't it be,
if it was here, so close to where he was working?

"We have to go," said Ariel.  Her childlike voice was a ripple of
breeze in the silence.

"It isn't safe for us to remain here."

Because it might come for us next, Nest thought.  She stood her ground
a moment longer, tempted to invite it to try, riddled with anger and
disgust.  But staying would be foolish.  Demons were too strong for
her.

She had learned that lesson from her father five years earlier.

She began to walk, Ariel skimming the air beside her, moving toward the
hotel once more.  She had been searching the shadows for feeders the
entire time they had walked, a habit she would never break, but she
hadn't seen any.  Now she understood why.  They were all underground
with the demon, drinking in the detritus of its kills.

She stared off into the night, down the darkened corridors of side
streets and alleyways, into blackened doorways and landings, and along
shadowy eaves and overhangs.  It isn't safe for us to remain here,
Ariel had said, urging her to move quickly away, to flee.

Maybe so, she thought.  Not with a demon present.  But demons seemed to
be everywhere in her life.  Demons and dark magic, the workings of the
Void.

It isn't safe for us here. But maybe it was no longer safe anywhere.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 30


chapter 11

When Nest Freemark awoke the following morning, the sun was streaming
so brightly through her window that she thought she must have
overslept.  The clock radio she had set the night before was playing
softly, which meant that the alarm had gone off and she leaned over
quickly to check the time.  But it was only nine o'clock, the hour she
had chosen for her wake-up, so she was right on schedule.  She glanced
over at the window, and she realized that the reason it was so bright
was that she had forgotten to draw the blinds.

She laid her head back on her pillow sleepily for a moment, still
disoriented from her sudden awakening.  She could hear the sounds of
traffic on the street below, brash and jarring, but her room was a
bright cocoon of silence and warmth.  She had read somewhere that it
rained a lot in Seattle, but apparently that wasn't going to be the
case today.

She closed her eyes and then opened them again, searching her mind.

Last night's memories of her walk into Pioneer Square seemed distant
and vague, almost as if they were part of a dream.  She stared at the
ceiling and forced herself to remember.  Walking alone with Ariel.

Hearing the screams.  Feeling frightened and helpless.  Hearing Ariel's
words.

Something hunts.

A demon, she had replied.

She rose and walked to the window and looked down at the street.  Same
street as last night, only brighter and more populated in the daylight.
She watched the people and cars for a few minutes, organizing her
scattered thoughts and gathering up the shards of confusion and
uncertainty that littered her mind.  Then she went into the bathroom
and showered.  She stood beneath the hot stream of water for a long
time, eyes closed, thinking.  She was a long way from home, and she was
still uncertain of her purpose in coming to find John Ross.  She wished
she had a better idea of what she was going to do when she found him. 
She wished she knew what she was going to say.  She wished she were
better prepared.

She toweled dry and dressed, thinking once again of the demon.  She
would tell Ross of last night; she knew that much, at least.  She would
tell him of the Lady's concern, of her warning to him.  She would try
to convince him of his danger.  But what else could she do?  What did
she really know about all this, after all?  She knew what Ariel had
told her, but she couldn't say for certain that it was the truth.  If
Pick's response was any measure of things, it probably wasn't.  The
truth wasn't something you got whole doth from the Word anyway; it came
in bits and pieces, riddles and questions, and self-examination and
deductive reasoning that, if you were lucky, eventually led to some
sort of revelation.  She had learned that much from her father.

The truth wasn't simple; it was complex.  Worse, it wasn't easily
decipherable, and it was often difficult to accept.

She sighed, looking about the room, as if the answer to her dilemma
might be hidden there.  It wasn't, of course.  There were no answers
here; the answers all lay with John Ross.

She went down to the lobby for her breakfast, pausing to stare out
through large plate-glass doors at the busy city streets.  Although the
day was bright and sunny, people out walking were bundled up in coats
and scarves, so she knew it must be cold.  She continued on to the
dining room and ate alone at a table near the back, sipping at her
coffee and nibbling on her toast and scrambled eggs as she formulated
her plan for the day.

She would have preferred to talk things over with Ariel, but there was
no sign of the tatterdemalion.  Nor was there likely to be.

She remembered Ariel saying to her last night, just before she went
back into the hotel, "Don't worry.  I'll be close to you.  You won't
see me, but I'll be there when you need me."

Reassuring, but not particularly satisfactory.  It made her wish Pick
was with her.  Pick would have appeared whether she needed him or
not.

Pick would have talked everything over with her.  She still missed
him.

She found herself comparing the sylvan and the tatterdemalion and
decided that, given the choice, she still preferred Pick's incessant
chatter to Ariel's wraithlike presence.

She tried to remember the rest of what Pick had told her about
tatterdemalions.  It wasn't much.  Like sylvans they were born fully
formed, but unlike sylvans they lived only a short time and didn't age.
Both were forest creatures, but sylvans never went beyond the territory
for which they were given responsibility, while tatterdemalions rode
everywhere on the back of the wind and went all over the world. 
Sylvans worked at managing the magic, at its practical application, at
keeping the balance in check.  Tatterdemalions did none of that, cared
nothing for the magic, were as insubstantial in their work as they were
in their forms.  They served the Word, but their service was less
carefully defined and more subject to change than that of sylvans. 
Tatterdemalions were like ghosts.

Nest finished the last of her orange juice and stood up.

Tatterdemalions were strange, even as fairy creatures went.  She tried
to imagine what it must be like to be Ariel, to have lived without
experiencing a childhood and with no expectation of ever becoming an
adult, to know you would be alive only a short time and then be gone
again.  She supposed the concept of time was a relative one, and some
creatures had no concept of time at all.  Maybe that was the way it was
with tatterdemalions.  But what would it be like to live your entire
life with the memories of dead children, of lives come and gone before
your own, to have only their memories and none of your own?

She gave it up.  She would never be able to put herself in Ariel's
place, not even in the most abstract sense, because she had no
reference point to help her gain any real insight.  They were as
different as night and day.  And yet they both served the Word, and
they were both, in some sense, creatures of magic.

Nest stopped thinking about it, went back to her room, brushed her
teeth, put on her heavy windbreaker and scarf, and went out to greet
the day.

She had looked up the address to Fresh Start and consulted a map of
Pioneer Square, so she pretty much knew where she was going.  The map
was tucked in her pocket for ready reference.  She walked down First
Avenue, retracing her steps from the night before, until she reached
the triangular open space where she had heard the death screams of the
demons victims.  She stood in the center of the little concrete park
and looked around.  No one acted as if anyone had died.  No one seemed
to think anything was amiss.  People came and went along the
walk--workers, shoppers, and tourists.  A few sad-looking homeless
people sat with their backs to the walls of buildings fronting the
street, holding out handlettered cardboard signs and worn paper cups as
they begged for a few coins.  The former mostly ignored the latter,
looking elsewhere as they passed, engaging in conversations that kept
their eyes averted, acting as if they didn't see.  In a way, she
supposed, they didn't.  She thought that was an accurate indicator of
how the world worked, that people frequently managed to find ways of
ignoring what troubled them.  Out of sight, out of mind.  Maybe that
was how the demon got away with killing homeless people;

everyone was ignoring them anyway, so when a few disappeared, no one
even noticed.

Maybe that was the cause that John Ross had taken up in joining forces
with Simon Lawrence.  Maybe that was his passion now that he was no
longer a Knight of the Word.  The thought appealed to her.

She walked on, doing her best to turn away from the gusts of cold wind
that blew at her.  Winter was coming; she didn't like to think of her
world turning to ice and snow and temperature drops and wind-chill
factors.  She didn't like thinking of everything turning white and gray
and mud-streaked.  She glanced back at the people begging.  How much
worse it would be for them.

At the corner of Main, she turned east and walked through a broad open
space that was marked on her map as Occidental Park.  It wasn't much of
a park, she thought.  Cobblestones and concrete steps, with a few shade
trees planted in squares of open earth, a scattering of bushes, a few
scary totem poles, some benches, and a strange steel and Plexiglas
pavilion.  Clusters of what looked to be homeless were gathered here,
many of them Native Americans, and a couple of police officers on
bicycles.  She followed the sidewalk east and found herself at the
entrance to an odd little enclosure formed of brick walls and iron
fencing with a sign that identified it as Waterfall Park.  The space
was filled with small trees, vines, and tables and chairs, and was
backed by a thunderous man-made waterfall that cascaded into a narrow
catchment over massive rocks stacked up against the wall of the
building it attached to.

She glanced back at Occidental Park, then into Waterfall Park once
again.  The parks here weren't much like the parks she was familiar
with, and nothing like Sinnissippi Park, but she supposed you made do
with what you had.

She crossed Second Avenue and began to read the numbers on the
buildings.  There was no sign identifying Fresh Start, but she found
the building number easily enough and went through the front door.

Once inside, she found herself in a lobby that was mostly empty.  A
heavyset black woman sat at a desk facing the door, engaged in writing
something on a clipboard, and a Hispanic woman sat holding her baby on
one of a duster of folding chairs that lined the windowless walls of
the room.  Behind the black woman and her desk, a hallway led to what
looked like an elevator.

Almost immediately.  Nest experienced an odd feeling of uneasiness. She
glanced around automatically in an effort to locate its source, but
there was nothing to see.

Shrugging it off, she walked up to the desk and stopped.  The black
woman didn't look up.

"Can I help you, young lady?"

I'm looking for John Ross," Nest told her.

"Does he work here?"

The black lady's eyes lifted, and she gave Nest a careful once-over.

"He does, but he's not here right now.  Would you like to wait for him?
He shouldn't be gone long."

Nest nodded.

"Thanks."  She looked around at the empty seats, deciding where to
sit.

"What's your name, young lady?"  The black woman regained her
attention.

"Nest Freemark."

"Nest.  Now, that's an unusual name.  Nest.  Very different.  I like
it.

Wish I had a different name like that.  I'm Delia, Nest.  Delia
Jenkins.  "

She stuck out her hand and Nest shook it.  The handshake was firm and
businesslike, but warm, too.

"Nice to meet you," Nest said.

"Nice to meet you, too," Delia said, and smiled now.

"I work intake here at the center.  Been at it from the start.  How do
you know John?

Isn't anyone ever came in before that knows John.  I was beginning to
think he didn't have a life before he came here.  I was beginning to
think he was one of those pod people.  " She laughed.

Nest grinned.

"Well, I don't know him very well.  He was a friend of my mother's."
She shaded the truth deliberately, unwilling to give anything away she
didn't have to.

"I was in town, and I thought I ought to stop in and say hello."

Delia nodded.

"Well, how about that?  John was a friend of your mothers.  John
doesn't talk much about his past life with us.  Hardly at all.  A
friend of your mother's.  How about that."  She seemed amazed.

Nest blushed.

"Oh, now, don't you be embarrassed, Nest.  I'm just making conversation
to hide my surprise at anybody knowing John from before him coming
here.  You know, really, he spends all his time with Stef--that's
Stefanie Winslow, his oh, what do you call it, I always forget?  Oh,
that's right, his " significant other.  " Sounds so awkward, saying it
like that, doesn't it?  His significant other.

Anyway, that's what Stefanie is.  Real pretty girl, his sweetheart.  Do
anything for him.  They came here together about a year ago, and
neither one of them talks hardly at all about what went on before.  "

Nest nodded, distracted.  The uneasiness was stealing over her again, a
persistent tugging that refused to be ignored.  She couldn't understand
where it was coming from.  She had never experienced anything like
it.

Delia stood up abruptly.

"You want a cup of coffee while you wait.

Nest?  Tell you what.  Why don't you come with me, and I'll introduce
you to a few of the people who work here, some of John's friends, let
them catch you up on what he's been doing?  He's downtown at the
Seattle Art Museum checking things out for tomorrow night.  Big
dedication party.  Simons giving a speech John wrote, thanking the city
and so forth for the building, their support and all.  You probably
don't know about that, but John can fill you in later.  C'mon, young
lady, right this way.  "

She led Nest around the intake desk and down the hallway toward the
elevator.  Nest followed reluctantly, still trying to sort out the
reason for her discomfort.  Was Ariel responsible?  Was the
tatterdemalion trying to communicate with her in some way?

As they reached the elevator doors, a tall, lean, mostly balding black
man walked through a doorway from further down the hall and came toward
them.

"Ray!"  Delia Jenkins called out to him at once.

"Come over here and meet Nest Freemark.  Nest is an old friend of
John's, come by to say hello."

The black man strolled up, grinning broadly.

"We talking about John Ross, the man with no past?  I didn't think he
had any old friends.

Does he know about this.  Nest, about you being his old friend?  Or are
you here to surprise him with the news?  "

He held out his hand and Nest took it.

"Ray Hapgood," he introduced himself.

"Very pleased to meet you, and welcome to Seattle."

"Ray, you take Nest on down and get her some coffee, will you?

Introduce her to Stef and Carole and whoever, and keep her company
until John gets back.  " Delia was already looking over her shoulder at
the lobby entrance as the elevator doors opened.

"I got to get back out front and keep an eye on things.  Go on now."

She gave Nest a smile and a wave and walked away.  The doors closed,
leaving Nest alone with Ray Hapgood.

"What brings you to Seattle, Nest?"  he asked, smiling.

She hesitated.

"I was thinking of transferring schools," she said, inventing a lie to
suit the situation.

He nodded.

"Lot of good schools in Washington.  You'd like it out here.

So tell me.  You know John a long time?  I meant what I said; he never
talks about his past, never mentions anything about it.  "

"I don't know him all that well, actually."  She glanced up at the
floor numbers on the reader board.

"Mostly, my mother knows him.  Knew him.  She's dead.  I didn't know
him until a few years ago, when he came to visit.  For a few days,
that's all."

She was talking too much, giving up too much, but her uneasiness was
increasing with every passing moment.  She was beginning to hear
voices--vague whispers that might be coming from her, but might also be
coming from someone else.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that.  About your mother."  Ray Hapgood seemed
genuinely embarrassed.

"Has she been gone a long time?"

Nest suddenly felt trapped in the elevator.  She thought that if she
didn't get out right away, right this instant, she might start to
scream.  She was racked with shivers and her skin was crawling and her
breathing was coming much too quickly.

"She's been dead since I was little," she managed.

The elevator doors opened, and she burst through in a near panic,
feeling stupid and frightened and confused all at the same time.  Ray
Hapgood followed, looking at her funnily.

"I don't like close places," she lied.

Oh, he mouthed silently, nodded, and gave her a reassuring smile.

They were in a basement room filled with long, multipurpose tables and
folding chairs, a coffee machine, shelves with dishes, and storage
cabinets.  There were mingled smells of cooking and musty dampness, and
she could hear a furnace cranking away from behind a closed door at the
back of the room.  Fluorescent lighting from low-hung fixtures cast a
brilliant white glare over the whole of the windowless enclosure,
giving it a harsh, unnatural brightness.  A young man sat alone at a
table to one side, poring through a sheaf of papers.  Two women sat
together at another table close to the coffee machine, talking in low
voices.  The women looked up as Nest appeared with Ray Hapgood.  One
was middleaged and unremarkable, with short blond hair and a kind face.
The other was probably not yet thirty and strikingly beautiful.  Nest
knew at once that she was Stefanie Winslow.

"Ladies," Ray greeted, steering Nest toward their table.

"Say hello to Nest Freemark, an old friend of John's.  Nest, this is
Carole Price, our director of operations here at Fresh Start, and
Stefanie Winslow, the boss's press secretary and all-around
troubleshooter."

Nest shook hands with each in turn, noting the looks of surprise that
appeared on both faces when Ray mentioned her connection to Ross.  It
was becoming clear that when John Ross had ceased to be a Knight of the
Word, he had turned his back on his past entirely.  The women smiled at
Nest, and she smiled back, but this whole business of her relationship
with Ross was growing awkward, and she wished he would just hurry up
and get back so that she could get this visit over with.

"Sit down, Nest," Carole Price suggested, pulling out a chair.

"I

can't believe we have someone here who actually knows John from.  well,
from when?  "

"A long time ago," Nest answered, trying not to sound evasive.  She sat
down.

"It was my mother who knew him, really."

"Your mother?"  Carole Price prompted.

"They went to school together."

"Good heavens!"  Carole Price seemed amazed.

"Even Stef doesn't know much about our boy from those days."

Stefanie Winslow shook her head in quick agreement.

"He never talks about himself, about what he was doing or who he was
before we met."

Her smile was dazzling.

"Tell us something about him.  Nest.  Before he gets back.  Tell us
something he won't tell us himself " Yeah, go on," Ray Hapgood urged,
drawing up a chair across from her.

What Nest Freemark wanted to do most right then was to get out of
there.  The room felt impossibly close and airless, the fluorescent
light hot and revealing, and the presence of these people she didn't
know a weight she could barely shoulder.  What was happening inside her
was indescribable.  The uneasiness had taken on a life of its own, and
it was careening about in her chest and throat like a pinball,
shrieking unintelligibly and battering her senses.  It was taking all
her energy to keep it from getting completely out of control, to
prevent it from breaking free in a form she could only begin to
imagine.  She had never experienced anything like it before.

She was frightened and confused.  She was wishing she had never come
looking for John Ross.

"Come on.  Nest, tell us something," Stefanie Winslow urged
cheerfully.

"He was in love with my mother," she blurted out, saying the first
thing that came to mind, not caring if it was true or not, just wanting
to shift their focus to something else.  What in heavens name was wrong
with her?

There was a flicker of uncertainty in Stefanie Winslow's eyes.  Then
Ray Hapgood said, "Her mother died some years ago, Stef.  This was a
college romance, I'd guess."

"It was," Nest agreed quickly, realizing what Stefanie Winslow must be
thinking.

"It happened a long time ago."

"Let's get you some coffee, Nest," Hapgood announced.

"I don't want Delia on my case for not keeping my promises."

He stood up and walked over to the coffee machine and drew down a cup
and filled it.

"Cream or sugar?"

Nest shook her head.  She no longer wanted the coffee.  She thought if
she drank it, she would throw it right back up.  She was physically
sick to her stomach, her head was throbbing, and there was a buzzing in
her ears.  But it was the uneasiness that roiled through her like a
riptide that commanded her focus.

"Nest, you don't look well," Carole Price said suddenly, concern
shadowing her blunt features.

"I am a little queasy," she admitted.

"I think maybe it was something I ate at breakfast."

"Do you want to lie down for a little while?  We've got some beds that
aren't in use, up on two."

Nest shook her head.

"No, I just need to ... you know, maybe what I need is to go back up
and get some fresh air for a moment."

Carole Price was on her feet instantly.

"Here, I'll take you right up.

Ray, forget about that coffee.  I don't think it's what she needs just
now.  C'mon, Nest, come with me.  "

She took Nest's arm and led her toward the elevator.

"Nice meeting you, Nest," Stefanie Winslow called after her.

"Maybe I'll see you later."

"Bye, Nest," Ray Hapgood said.

"You take care."

Carole Price had her almost to the elevator when the doors opened and
Simon Lawrence stepped out.  She knew him right away from his pictures
in the magazine articles and books.  He was dressed in jeans with the
sleeves of his plain blue workshirt rolled up, but there was something
polished and elegant about the way he held himself as he stepped out of
the lift and smiled at her.

He held out his hands.

"Here, here, what's this?  Carole, where are you taking her?  She just
got here.  I haven't even met her yet.  Is everything all right?"

"She's feeling a little queasy, that's all," Carole replied, slowing.

"I was taking her up for some air."

Simon Lawrence took Nests hands in his own and held them.

"Well, we can't have you getting sick," he said.

"You go on upstairs, Nest, and we'll talk later.  I want you to know
that I'm very pleased you've come to see us.  I didn't realize you were
a friend of Johns, but I certainly know who you are."

Everyone stared at them, confused.  Simon Lawrence laughed.

"You don't recognize her, do you?"  He shook his head.

"I have got to get you out of the office more, all of you.  Or at least
reading the papers about something besides the homeless once in a
while.  Ray, I'm especially disappointed in you."  He squeezed Nests
hands.

"This young lady is the best college distance runner in the
nation--maybe in the world.  She's been written up in any number of
articles as the next Mary Decker Slaney--except that Nest isn't going
to fall when she runs in the next Olympics, are you.  Nest?  You're
going to win."

Nest knew she was expected to say something, but she couldn't think of
what it should be.  Finally she said, "It's a long way off yet."

Simon Lawrence laughed and released her hand.

"Good point, young lady.

We shouldn't get ahead of ourselves.  But you'll do fine, I know.  It's
very nice to meet you.  Now you go on up with Carole, and I'll see you
later.  "

He walked past Nest with a smile, already back to kidding Ray Hapgood
about his failure to recognize Nest Freemark when he was such an avid
sports fan.  Stefanie Winslow was on her feet, grinning and joking, as
well.  Nest stepped into the elevator with Carole Price and let the
doors close behind them.

She rode back up to the ground floor with something approaching panic,
but she made it down the hall past a wondering Delia Jenkins and out
the front door, where she stood with Carole holding on to her while she
took huge gulps of fresh air in an effort to steady herself.  The deep
breathing seemed to work.  The nausea and headache went away.  Her
uneasiness lingered, but gradually it began to lessen.  Her insides
quit churning, and the whispers and buzzing receded into the sounds of
the city about her.

"Are you feeling better?"  Carole asked her after a few minutes.

Nest nodded.

"I am, thanks.  Much better."  She straightened, gently freeing herself
from Carole's proprietorial grip.  She tried out a fresh smile.

"I didn't come here to get underfoot.  I know you must have work to do,
and I'm fine now.  I'll just wait out here for John.

Maybe I'll come back inside in a few minutes.  "

Carole seemed uncertain, but Nest reassured her, and the other woman
left her alone.  Nest leaned against the wall of the building and
stared out at the people and traffic, trying to make sense of what had
happened.  She could not account for it.  This odd uneasiness was an
entirely new experience.  It was like having a sudden bout of flu
coupled with a good scare.  It didn't make any sense.  The feeling had
started when she entered the building and talked with the people who
worked there.  Was it something connected with that?  Was it her magic,
reacting to something?  If so, her magic was taking a new direction; it
hadn't ever done anything like this before.

She whispered Ariel's name as she stood with her back against the
building wall, thinking that the tatterdemalion might appear and reveal
to her the source of her discomfort.  But Ariel stayed hidden.

Nest stood to one side of the doorway and considered the matter from
every angle she could imagine, but the answer she was seeking eluded
her.

She was still deliberating when a taxi pulled up in front of her and
the man she had come to Seattle to find stepped out.


chapter 12

John Ross.

She recognized him immediately.  Even though it had been five years
since she had seen him last and she had been only a girl at the time,
she recognized him.  He didn't look as if he had changed at all.  His
boyish face was still weathered and rugged, still all planes and
angles, still the face of the boy next door grown up.  He still wore
jeans and a blue denim shirt with worn walking shoes and a
silver-budded belt, looking as if he might be one meal or one paycheck
from being homeless himself.  He still wore his long brown hair tied
back from his face with a bandanna, and he still carried the heavy
black staff.

It was as if he had been frozen in time, and while she had changed,
grown into a young woman, he had remained exactly the same.

She watched him climb gingerly from the taxi, leaning heavily on the
staff, reach back to pay the driver, then start toward the front door
of Fresh Start.  She straightened and moved away from the wall.  He
looked at her without recognition and smiled pleasantly.

Then surprise shadowed his face and turned quickly to astonishment
mingled with something else.  He stared at her, slowing, then came
forward again, an uncertain smile chasing the feelings back into
hiding.

"Nest?"  he asked carefully.

"Is that you?"

"Hello, John," she greeted.

"I don't believe it," he said.

He stopped in front of her and stood there awkwardly, shaking his head,
the smile broadening.  His clear green eyes looked her up and down,
assessing her, comparing her with what he remembered.  She could read
everything in his expression--how much she had changed, and at the same
time, how familiar he found her.

She started to extend her hand, then stopped, feeling it wasn't enough.
He glanced down, then up again, meeting her gaze, and their arms
extended toward each other at the same moment and they embraced
warmly.

"Nest, Nest, Nest," he whispered, and he said it with such tenderness
that it made her want to cry.

She drew back after a moment and grinned.

"Guess I've changed a bit from what you remember."

He returned her grin.

"Guess you have.  You look good.  Nest.  You look terrific."

She blushed in spite of herself "Well, gee."  She shook her head in
embarrassment.

"You look pretty terrific yourself They stood in the middle of the
sidewalk staring at each other.  People walked by, a few glancing over
curiously, but neither one paid the least attention.  For Nest, it was
as if time had stopped completely.

She wasn't prepared for how good it was to see him.  She wasn't
prepared for how good it made her feel.  She had come looking for John
Ross because she believed she must if she did not want his death on her
conscience, and not because she felt she needed to see him.  She had
lived five years with such ambivalent feelings about him that she could
not come to terms with whether she ever wanted to see him again.

Now, in an instants time, five years of uncertainty were swept away,
and she knew that coming to find him, that seeing him, was exactly the
right thing.

"I just can't believe that you're standing here."  He opened his arms
to emphasize the extent of his amazement.

"I suppose I should have written you or called, but I wasn't sure ...
well, that you would want to speak to me."

She smiled sadly.

"Neither was I. Not until right now."

"How did you ever find me?"

She shrugged.

"I had some help."

"I didn't think anyone knew where I was.  I haven't talked to anyone,
told anyone here about..."

"I know.  They told me you've kept your life a mystery."

"You've been inside already?"  He glanced toward the doorway.

"You met Simon?"  She nodded.

"And Stef?"  She nodded again.

"Ray, Carole, all the others?"

"Some of them, anyway.  The lady at the reception desk, Delia, sent me
downstairs to wait for you.  I met everyone there.  They were amazed
you had any friends from the past."  She gave him a meaningful look.

"They were amazed you even had a past."

He nodded slowly.

"I expect so.  I don't ever talk about it."  He hesitated.

"I don't know what to say.  Or where to begin.  Things have changed for
me, Nest.  A lot of things."

"I know that, too," she said.

He looked closely at her now, and suddenly there was suspicion as well
as curiosity mirrored in his eyes.

"I've read some articles about you," he said, his words tentative,
cautious.

"I know you're a student at Northwestern University, that you're still
running competitively, that you're good enough that you're expected to
represent the United States in the next Olympics."  He hesitated.

"Is that why you're here?"

She waited a heartbeat, meeting his intense gaze.

"No.  I came here looking for you.  I was sent.  By the Lady."

He stared at her, astonishment filling his eyes.  When he spoke, his
voice was unsteady.

"The Lady sent you?"

"Is there somewhere we could talk about it?"  she asked, no longer
comfortable standing out in the open where they could be heard.

"Just for a little while."

He seemed distracted, uncertain.

"Sure, of course."  He glanced toward the building.

"No, not in there," she said quickly.

"Somewhere else, please."

He nodded slowly.  All right.  It's almost noon.  Why don't we go down
to the waterfront, and I'll buy you a northwest kind of lunch.  Some
clam chowder, some fish and chips.  How would that be?  "

"That would be good," she said.

He didn't bother with going in to tell anyone he was leaving.  He
didn't even pause to consider doing so.  He simply motioned her toward
the direction from which she had come, and they began to walk.  They
crossed Second Avenue, passed by Waterfall Park, and moved over to the
island platform in the center of Main where the trolley stopped on its
way down to the waterfront.  They sat together on the wrought-iron
bench and stared out over the cobblestones of Occidental Park,
waiting.

"Do you know what I do now?"  he asked after a minute.  His tone of
voice was distant and weary, as if he were at the start of a long
journey.

"I know you work for Simon Lawrence at Fresh Start," she replied.

"I

know about the work Fresh Start does.  "

He nodded.

"It's important work.  Nest.  The most important work I've done in a
long time.  Maybe ever."  He paused.

"Did the Lady tell you about me?"

Nest nodded, saying nothing.

"Then you know I'm no longer a Knight of the Word?"

She nodded a second time.  It's what you believe anyway, she thought,
but she didn't speak the words.

They didn't say anything further for a time, wrapped in their separate
thoughts amid the jumbled noise of traffic and people's voices.  This
is going to be hard, Nest thought.  He was not going to want to hear
what she had to say.  Maybe he would simply refuse to listen.  Maybe he
would just walk away.  She could see him doing that.  He had walked
away already from the most important part of his life.

"Do you still live on the park?"  he asked finally.

"Yes."  She glanced at him.

"But Grandpa died last May, so I live there alone."

She could see the pain reflect in his face.  He was remembering the
time he had spent in their house, pretending to be someone he was
not.

He was remembering how he had left things with her grandfather.

"I'm sorry he's gone," he said finally.

"I liked him very much."

Nest nodded.

"Everybody did.  Pick is still there, looking after the park.  He wants
me to come back and help him like I used to."

"That would be very hard for you now, I expect," he said.

"It is," she agreed.

"Things change.  Life changes.  Nothing stays the same."

She wasn't sure she agreed with this, but she nodded anyway, not
wanting to get into a debate about it.

A few moments later, the trolley arrived and they boarded.  Ross gave
the conductor two tokens, and they took a seat near the front.  They
rode the trolley down a hill between rows of buildings, under a
two-tiered viaduct that supported an expressway, over some railroad
tracks, and then turned right on Alaskan Way to follow the waterfront
north.  It was too noisy inside the open-air trolley for conversation,
so they rode in silence.

At the Madison Street stop, they got off and walked across Alaskan Way
to the piers.  Orange cranes stretched steel limbs skyward at the edges
of the loading docks along Elliott Bay, dominating the skyline.  Huge
container ships piled with freight sat at rest beneath their cabled
lifts, some being unloaded of the shipments they had brought from
abroad and others loaded with whatever was being exported.  Trawlers
were tied up at the ends of several piers, winches cinched, nets drawn
up and folded.  To their immediate left, a terminal buttressed by huge
clumps of wooden pilings provided docking slips for the ferries that
serviced the islands and the Olympic Peninsula.  Tour boats filled with
passengers nosed their way along the waterfront, poking into the
channels that ran back to the ends of the docking slips of Harbor
Island and into the Duwamish River.  Small sailboats with brightly
colored, wind-filled spinnakers rode the crest of the silver-tipped
blue waves, and tiny fishing boats dotted the bay, straddling the
shipping lanes on the open water.

The piers closest to where they departed the trolley were dominated by
long, wooden buildings housing shops and restaurants.  The one to which
John Ross took Nest was painted yellow with red letters that identified
it as Pier 56.  They navigated the noonday crowd strolling the walkways
out front and pushed through the doors of a glassed-in entryway beneath
a sign that announced they were guests of Elliott's Oyster House.  The
entryway was stuffy and hot.  A hostess greeted them and led them to a
booth near the back of the dining area, further out on the pier toward
the water.  Nest seated herself across from Ross and looked out at the
view.  The sun shone brightly through scattered clouds, and the sky was
azure and depthless.  In the distance, beyond the bay and the sound,
the peaks of the Olympics gleamed whitely against the horizon.

The waitress brought them water and menus and asked if they were ready
to order.  Nest glanced at the menu, then at Ross, arching one
eyebrow.

"Two bowls of chowder, two orders of the fish and chips, and two iced
teas," he told the waitress, and she picked up the menus and left.

Nest looked out the window again.

"This is a wonderful city," she told him.

"People who visit when it's not raining always say that," he advised,
shrugging.

"I guess I'm lucky to be here now."

"Stay a few more days, and you can see what its like the rest of the
time."

She looked out at the tour boats, which were anchored right next to
where they were sitting.  A small crowd of tourists was boarding one of
two tied up in the docking slips, filing through the interior and out
onto the upper and lower decks.  They were bundled up against the
chill, and they all carried cameras at the ready.  Nest thought she
would like to be going out with them.  She would like to look back at
the city from the water, see if the view was as spectacular from that
direction.  Maybe she would do so later.

"So you like your new life," she said to him, looking for a place to
start.

He nodded slowly.

"I like what I do at Fresh Start.  I like Simon Lawrence and the others
who work for him.  I've met someone I'm very much in love with, and who
is very much in love with me--something I thought would never happen.
Yes, I like my life.  I'm happy."

"Stefanie is beautiful," she said.

"She is.  But she's more than that.  A lot more.  She saved me when I
thought there wasn't anything left worth saving.  After San Sobel:

Nest wondered suddenly if he ever thought about Josie Jackson.  Early
on, not long after he left, Josie had asked Nest if she had heard from
him; from the way she asked.  Nest had known that there had been
something between them.  But that was a long time ago.  He probably
didn't think of Josie at all these days.  Maybe she had stopped
thinking about him, too.

"What happened at San Sobel must have been awful," she said.

"It was, but it's over."  He looked up as the waitress reappeared with
their iced teas.  When she left again, he took a careful sip of his,
and then said, "Why did the Lady send you to find me.  Nest?"

Nest shook her head doubtfully.

"To talk with you.  To tell you something you probably already know.
I'm not sure."  She looked away from him, out over the water.

"The truth is, I came because I don't want to hear later that something
bad has happened to you and find myself wishing I'd tried to prevent
it."

He grinned cautiously.

"What is it you think might happen?"

She sighed.

"Let me start at the beginning, all right?  Let me tell it my way,
maybe work up to the part about what might happen.  I'm not really sure
about any of this myself.  Maybe you can fill in the gaps for me. Maybe
you can even persuade me I came here for no better reason than to see
you again.  That would be all right."

She told him then about Ariel's appearance in the park two days
earlier, the tatterdemalions purpose in coming as a messenger, and the
Lady's request that Nest come to Seattle to find him in the hope he
might heed her warning that his life was in peril.

Nest paused.

"So I gather you've already been told that you're in some kind of
danger."

He seemed to consider the statement, to weigh it in a way she didn't
understand.  Then he nodded.

"I've been told.  I don't know that any warning is necessary."

She shrugged.

"I don't know that it is, either.  But here I am, delivering the
message anyway.  I guess you don't have any concerns about it, huh?"

He smiled unexpectedly.

"Nest, let me tell you what happened at San Sobel."

And he did so, retelling the story from his perspective, recounting it
carefully and thoroughly, obviously trying to make her understand how
terrible it was for him, to help her see why he had been unable to
continue as a Knight of the Word.  She listened attentively, for he
kept his voice low and his words shielded from the people eating around
them, pausing once when he came to the aftermath of the killings to
gather his thoughts so that he could relate clearly what the experience
had done to his psyche, pausing a second time when the bowls of clam
chowder arrived and the waitress was standing over them.

At the conclusion of his tale, he told her something he had never been
able to tell anyone.  He told her how close to suicide he had been when
he realized the fault might be his.  He had managed to get past that,
but only by determining he could never revisit that place in his mind,
could never again put himself in a position where he might have to hold
himself responsible for people dying.

Nest let him finish, then shook her head doubtfully.

"If you do nothing, people die anyway, John.  What would have happened
to me if you hadn't come to Hopewell?  I don't know that you can say
any of it is your fault."

"It feels like it is.  That's enough."  He looked down at the soup
cooling before him.  He hadn't eaten a bite.

"I don't mean to argue with you on this, but you can't know what it's
like if you're not me.

You don't have to live with the dreams.  You don't have to live with
the responsibility for what happens if they come true.  " He shook his
head.

"Its a special kind of hell."

"I know," she said.

"I wouldn't even try to put myself in your shoes.

I wouldn't presume.  "

She finished her soup.  All the bad feelings she had experienced at
Fresh Start had evaporated, and she found herself hungrier than
expected.

"I drifted afterward, looking for something to do, some place to be, a
reason for being alive."  Ross began to eat a little.

"Then I found Stef, and everything changed.  She gave me back what I
had lost at San Sobel.  Or maybe lost even before that.  She made me
feel good about something again.  So here we are, working at Fresh
Start with the Wizard of Oz, and doing something important.  I don't
want to go back to what I was.  Lets face it; I can't go back.  How
could I?  It would change everything."

He shrugged.

"I don't know what to tell you about being in danger, Nest.  I don't
feel as if I'm in any danger.  I'm not part of that life anymore.  I
don't have any connection to what I was or did.  I don't even dream
anymore--or hardly ever, anyway.  It's all in the past."

The fish and chips arrived, and they paused while the waitress set down
their plates, asked if there was anything else she could get them, and
walked away.  Nest picked up a piece of deep-fried halibut and bit into
it.

"Mmmm, this is wonderful," she said.

"Told you."  He picked up a piece of his own fish and began eating.

Ariel said the Lady thinks the Void will try to subvert you, whether or
not you think you're still involved in its battle with the Word.  "

Nest studied his face.

"She says you can't stop being a Knight of the Word.  She says you
can't quit unless the Word allows it."

He nodded soberly.

"I've heard it all before.  I don't think I believe it.  What have I
been doing for the past year if she's right?  Haven't I quit, if I
haven't served?  What else do I have to do?  Write a letter of
resignation?  I don't dream, I don't use the magic, I don't go out
looking for demons.  I'm done with all of it."

"She says you can't ever be done with it."  Nest paused, moving a
French fry around in a paper cup filled with ketchup.

"Here's the part that bothers me--the reason I came looking for you, I
guess.  She says you've had a dream, and the events of the dream will
take place on Halloween.  She says your involvement with the dream will
place you in danger of becoming ensnared by the Void."

She watched his reaction closely.  He said nothing, but she could tell
at once that he knew what she was talking about, that in fact there had
been a dream, and that in some way he was a part of it.

"The Lady told Ariel something else, John.  She told her she will never
let that happen, she will never allow a Knight of the Word to be
subverted.  She has sent someone to prevent it."

A flicker of recognition crossed his lean face.

"The way you were sent to me maybe, five years ago," she finished
quietly.

For an instant she thought he would tell her everything.  She could see
in his eyes that he wanted to, that a part of him was looking for a
way.  But he stayed silent.  She watched him a moment longer, then went
back to eating.  The voices around them filled the sudden silence.

"She told you all this?"  His anger was laced with irony.

"When I went back to Wales and the Fairy Glen to ask her to release me
from my duty, she wouldn't even speak to me."

Nest said nothing, didn't even look up at him, continuing to eat.

All the times I waited for her to come to me, to tell me what I had to
do, to help me .  " He trailed off, staring fixedly at her.

"Nothing is going to happen," he said finally.

She nodded.

"But you know about the dream, don't you?"

"It's only a dream.  It won't happen.  It can't happen, because I wont
let it."

She straightened and locked her eyes on his.

"You taught me about being strong, John.  I learned that from you in
Hopewell.  But I learned about caution, as well.  You don't seem
cautious enough to me.  You think you can't be hurt, no matter what,
unless you do something to invite it.  But I don't think that's how
life works."

"I think I can control what I do," he snapped.

"That's all I'm saying."

She shook her head.

"What if Stefanie's life is threatened, and you have to choose between
doing what the Void wants or letting her die?

What will you do?  If you love her as much as you say, what will you
do?  I don't think you can just shrug this off

Pushing back his lunch, he shook his head emphatically.

"I'm not shrugging anything off.  I'm not taking this lightly.  But
there's no reason for the Void to try to subvert me.  I'm worthless.  I
have nothing left to give.  I gave up everything already."

She looked at him.

"Did you?"  She looked over very deliberately at the black staff,
resting against the window ledge beside him.

"It doesn't work," he insisted quietly, but she could tell from the way
he said it that he was hedging.

"What if the Lady has sent someone to kill you, just to be sure you
don't switch sides?"  She flushed.  Are we going to pretend that what
happened five years ago couldn't happen again today?  That war between
the Word and the Void is still going on, and the creatures that fight
in it still exist.  There are still feeders out there, multiplying in
the wake of the bad things that happen.  Humans are still working hard
at destroying themselves.  Nothing has changed, John.  You act as if it
has.  The fact that your life is different doesn't mean the world is.

And it doesn't mean your connection to it has stopped having
significance.  Some things you can't walk away from.  Wasn't that the
lesson you taught me?  "

He stared at her for a moment without replying, then shook his head.

"It isn't the same."

He was lying to himself, and he didn't even realize it.  She saw it
clearly, a truth so obvious that she was appalled.  Why was he refusing
to listen to her?  She remembered him as being so clearheaded, so
focused on the reality of the world's harsh demands and unexpected
treacheries.  What had happened to him?

"Did you know there's a demon in Pioneer Square?"  she asked quietly.

That got his attention.  She watched his reaction with satisfaction, a
quick shirting of the pale green eyes, a hint of shock and disbelief on
the angular face.

"It was hunting homeless people last night in the catacombs of the old
city.  I was out walking with Ariel, after midnight, because I couldn't
sleep.  We could hear its victims screaming."

"You didn't see it?"

She shook her head.  Ariel could smell it.  She wouldn't let me go
after it.  She was terrified.  "

He glanced down at his food.

"Maybe she was mistaken."

Nest gave him a moment to consider what he had said, then replied,
"Maybe she wasn't."

She could tell what he was thinking.  He was wondering what a demon
would be doing so close to home.  He was wondering why he hadn't known,
then deciding it was because he had given up his position as a Knight
of the Word, then realizing how vulnerable that made him.  She let him
work it through, saying nothing.

"If there is a demon, it has nothing to do with me," he said after a
moment, sounding like a man trying hard to convince himself.

She finished her iced tea and looked over at him.

"You don't believe that for a moment."  She paused.

"You wouldn't care to tell me about your dream, would you?"

He shook his head.

She smiled.

"Okay, John.  I did my good deed.  I came here to warn you, and I've
warned you.  The rest is up to you.  I'm here until tomorrow.

We can talk about this some more, if you'd like.  Just give me a
call.

I'm staying at the Alexis.  "

She rose.  It was better to leave things where they were, not to say
anything more, to let him think about it.  He stared at her, perplexed
by her abruptness.  She reached for her purse.

"Can I help pay for the lunch?"

He shook his head quickly.

"Wait, I'll walk back with you."

"I'm not going back," she said.

"I'm staying down on the waterfront for a while, have a look around."

They stared at each other, neither saying anything.  She could see the
indecision mirrored in his green eyes.

"You believe what she's saying about me, don't you?"  he asked
finally.

"What the Lady's saying?"

"I don't know that I do," she answered him.

"I don't know what I believe.  It's difficult to decide.  But I think
you have to look carefully at the possibility that she might be telling
you the truth.

I think you have to protect yourself

He reached for his staff and levered himself to his feet.  The waitress
saw them rise, and she came over to give them the check.  Ross took it,
thanking her.  When she was gone, he held out his hand to Nest.

"I'm glad you came, Nest.  Whether or not it turns out there was a good
reason for it, I'm glad you came.  I've wondered about you often.  "

She nodded, brushing back her curly hair.

"I've wondered about you, too."

"I didn't like leaving things with you in Hopewell the way I did.  I've
always felt bad about that.  "

She smiled.

"It's over with, John."

"Sometimes it doesn't feel as if any of it will ever be over, as if the
past will ever really be the past."  He stepped around the table and
bent to kiss her cheek. "I'll think about what you've told me, I
promise.  I'll think about it carefully.  And I'll talk with you before
you leave.  "

"All right," she said, content to leave it at that.

They left together, walking out into the brilliant afternoon sunshine
and coolish fall air, and he left her standing on the sidewalk in front
of the harbor tours ticket booth, then limped across the street for the
trolley.  He looked older to her then, as if he had aged all at once,
his movements more studied, his stoop more pronounced.  She wished she
could do more to help him with this, but she had done everything she
could think to do.

Even so, she could not shake the feeling that it wasn't enough.


chapter 13

Nest was debating what to do with the rest of her day when Ariel
unexpectedly reappeared.  The tatterdemalion was gossamer thin and
spectral in the sunlight, and she floated close against Nest, as if
human contact had become suddenly necessary.  Nest glanced around
quickly to see if passersby were looking, but no one was.  It was clear
they couldn't see Ariel.  Only Nest could.

"Where have you--" she began, but the tatterdemalion cut her short with
a sudden rush of movement.

"Did you say everything to John Ross that you came to say?"  the forest
creature hissed in her soft, childlike voice.

Nest stared in surprise.

"Yes, I guess so, pretty much."

Ariel was hunched close against her, and Nest could feel her small,
transparent body vibrating as if it were a cord pulled taut in a high
wind.

"Then stay away from him."  The tatterdemalion's dark eyes were wide
and staring as she watched John Ross depart.

"Stay far away."

Nest followed Ariel's gaze across the roadway to where Ross was
boarding the trolley.

"What do you mean, stay away?"

The tatterdemalion darted behind her as the trolley moved down the
tracks, and Nest realized that she was trying to conceal herself.  Nest
didn't think Ariel was even conscious of the movement, that she was
reacting to something instinctual.  The vibrating had increased, turned
to a violent trembling, and Ariel was pressed so closely against her
that parts of them were beginning to blend together.  Nest shuddered at
the feeling of invasion, inundated by a wave of dark emotions and
terrifying memories.  She realized that she was reliving with Ariel
snippets of the lives of the children the magic had assimilated to
create the tatterdemalion, caught in their overpowering flow.  She
tried to close her mind against them, to seal herself away, but Ariel's
closeness made it impossible.  Nest recoiled with the impact of their
assault and stepped back in revulsion.  She tried to move away from
Ariel, to free herself of the other's presence, and she nearly collided
with an elderly couple passing behind her.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," she said hastily, then turned away and walked to
the railing overlooking the slips where the tour boats docked.  She
took several deep gulps of air, staring down at the choppy waters,
waiting for her mind to clear, for the dizziness to pass.

Ariel reappeared at her side, but did not try to touch her.

"I didn't mean to do that," she said.

Nest nodded.

"I know.  But it was, so ..."

"Sometimes, I forget myself.  Sometimes, all the children inside me
come together in a knot and claim me.  They want to be alive again.

They want to be who they were.  Their memories are so strong that they
overwhelm me.  I can feel everything they feel.  I can remember
everything they knew.  They fight to get out of me, to become free.

They need to touch another human being.  They want to be inside a human
body, to feel it warm and alive around them, to be real children again.
"

Her small voice faded away in a whisper, and her dark eyes seemed to
lose their focus.

"It scares me when that happens.  I think that if they succeed, there
will be nothing left of me."

Nest swallowed the dryness in her throat.

"It's all right, I wasn't hurt.  And you're still here."  She forced
herself to look into the tatterdemalion's opaque eyes.

"Tell me, Ariel.  What is it that bothers you about John Ross?  Why did
you tell me to stay away from him?"

"He is lost," the tatterdemalion replied softly.

"Lost?"  Nest shook her head.

"Lost how?  I don't understand."

"You can't save him.  Nothing you can do can save him.  It is too
late."

Nest stared in confusion.

"Why would you say that?  Why is it too late?"

The strange childlike face looked at her wonderingly.

"Because he has demon stink all over him.  He is already claimed."

They stood facing each other in the shadow of the overhang that
protected the pier walkway, eyes locked.  Nest started to speak again
and then stopped.  There were people moving all around them, passing on
their way to someplace else, talking, laughing, unaware.  She did not
want to draw attention to herself; she did not want them to hear.

The sun broke through the high clouds and blinded her.  She turned
away.  Demon stink?  On John Ross?  She shook her head slowly.  This
wasn't making sense.

"We have to go," Ariel said suddenly, and she started to move away.

"Wait!"  Nest called out to her, saying the word so loudly that heads
turned.  She tried to look nonchalant as she detached herself from the
pier railing and walked over to where Ariel hovered, glancing out at
the boats as she did so.

"Go where?"  she whispered fiercely.

Ariel pointed north, down the trolley line, away from the direction
they had come.

"Someone is waiting to see you."

"Who?"

"Someone you know.  Hurry, we have to go."

Ariel moved out to the sidewalk and Nest followed reluctantly.  They
turned north along the waterfront, passing Elliotts on Pier 56 and the
shops on Pier 57.  The wind whipped off the bay, cold and sharp, and in
spite of the sunshine.  Nest hunched down into her windbreaker, wishing
she had brought something warmer.

Her mind raced as her eyes followed the movement of her feet.  She
spoke without looking up.

"Ariel, were you in the building with me at Fresh Start, when I talked
to Johns friends?"

The tatterdemalion nodded.

"I was."

"Was the demon stink there, too?"

"Yes, everywhere."

"Was it as strong?"

"Yes, as strong."

Nest tried to decide what this meant.  Something had made her violently
ill inside the rooms of Fresh Start.  Could it be demon stink?  If
there was demon stink all over John Ross, wouldn't she have felt sick
around him, too?  Besides, she hadn't been able to detect demon stink
five years ago, when her demon father had come back into her life, so
why should she be able to detect it now?

Had something changed since then?

Maybe something about her?

She walked up Alaskan Way, keeping pace with Ariel, her head lowered
against the bite of the October wind.  The tatterdemalion seemed
unaffected by the cold and wind, her ephemeral form a steady presence,
her light silken coverings hanging limp and unruffled.  Ariel did not
look at her, but kept her gaze directed ahead, toward wherever it was
they were going.

The crossed Alaskan Way at Pier 59, which housed the Seattle Aquarium,
passed under the viaduct, and moved toward the broad, concrete steps of
a hill climb that led up to the city.  There was another possibility,
she realized, still thinking about what Ariel had said.  Maybe what had
happened at Fresh Start had nothing to do with demon stink.  Maybe it
had to do with the demon itself.  If there was demon stink all over
Fresh Start and John Ross, then it stood to reason the demon made its
home close to both.  So maybe the reason she became sick at Fresh Start
was that the demon had been right there beside her.

One of Rosss friends and coworkers.

One of the people he trusted.

It made sense.  The Lady said that the Void would send someone to
subvert Ross, that maybe it had already happened.  Ariel seemed to
think it had.  Ross did not.  But maybe Ross couldn't see what was
happening and that was the whole problem.  Maybe her job in coming to
find him was to make him take a closer look at himself.

Had she done that by speaking to him as she had?  Had she given him
enough cause to reexamine his situation?  She couldn't be sure.  But
she knew now that she had to find out.

She climbed the steps past a small Mexican restaurant and a series of
shops to Western Avenue, then turned up toward Pike Place Market.  She
knew where she was from the time she had spent studying the map of
Seattle.  Pike Place Market was a Seattle landmark, a long, low
building that consisted of stalls and kiosks and display tables that
were leased by vendors of fresh fish, fruits and vegetables, flowers,
and crafts.  Western ran below the market through warehouses and
buildings that had been converted into micro breweries restaurants,
retail shops, and parking garages.  The street sloped steadily upward
from where she left the hill climb passing beneath several overpasses
that connected the waterfront to the market and the surrounding
shops.

The crowds had dissipated to a scattering of people working their way
between the parking lots and shopping areas.  She wondered anew where
it was that Ariel was taking her.

They passed a ramp leading down into an open-sided parking garage that
abutted the expressway, and the sound of passing cars was a dull whine
of tires on concrete.  Then a park came into view.  It was a small
park, barely more than an open space with a grassy knoll at its center,
clusters of small trees, and a sidewalk winding out from the street to
a railing that overlooked Elliott Bay.  Wooden benches lined the
sidewalk and quarter-slot telescopes pointed out toward the Olympics.

A juncture of streets leading down to the Market from the city fronted
the little park, and traffic crawled past sluggishly in the afternoon
sun.

A blue and red sign at the edge of the lawn proclaimed that this was
Victor Steinbrueck Park.

"Here," said Ariel.

Nest walked up into the park for a closer look, drawn by the vista of
the bay and the distant mountains, by the bright, sunny mix of blue
water, green trees, and white-capped mountain peaks.

She glanced around at the people in the park.  They were an eclectic
group.  There were schoolchildren clustered at the railing with their
supervising teachers and parents.  There were shoppers on their way to
and from the market.  Businessmen and women were reading newspapers and
magazines in the warmth of the sun as they munched sandwiches and
sipped coffee.

But mostly there were Native Americans.  They occupied the majority of
the benches, particularly those fronting Western.  They sat together in
small groups on the grassy knoll.  One or two lay sleeping in the
sunshine, wrapped in old blankets or coats.  They were a ragged, sullen
group, their copper faces weathered, their black hair lank, and their
clothes shabby.  The ones sitting on the benches fronting the sidewalk
on Western had placed paper cups and boxes in front of them to solicit
handouts from passersby.  They kept their faces lowered and their eyes
on each other, seldom bothering even to look up at the people they
begged from.  Some drank from bottles wrapped in brown paper sacks.

Most were men, but there were a few women, as well.

Nest turned to find Ariel, to ask who it was that they had come to
meet, but the tatterdemalion was gone.

"Hello, little bird's Nest," someone growled from behind.

She knew the voice instantly, and even so she couldn't quite believe
it.  She turned around, and there stood Two Bears.  The Sinnissippi was
as ageless and unchanging as John Ross, his copper-colored features
blunt and smooth, his long hair ink black and woven into a single
braid, and his eyes so dark they seemed depthless.  He wore the
familiar army fatigue pants and boots, but here, where it was cooler,
he also wore a heavy jacket over a checked flannel shirt.  The silver
buckle of his belt was tarnished and the leather scarred.  He was as
big and imposing as she remembered, with huge shoulders and thick,
gnarled fingers.  He was a solid and immutable presence.

"O'olish Amaneh."  She spoke his Indian name carefully, as if it were
made of glass.

"You remember," he said approvingly.

"Good."

"Are you the one I'm supposed to meet?"

He cocked his head.

"I don't know.  Have you come here to meet someone, little bird's
Nest?"

She nodded.

"My friend Ariel brought me.  She said ..."

"Your friend?  Have you come with a friend?  Where is she?"

Nest looked around.

"Gone, I guess.  Hiding."

Ah, just like your friend in the park five years ago.  Mr.  Pick.  "
Two Bears seemed amused.  His broad face creased with his smile.  All
your friends want to hide from me, it seems."

She colored slightly.

"Maybe you frighten them."

"Do you think so?"  He shrugged, as if disclaiming responsibility.

"You've changed, little birds Nest.  Maybe I can't call you that
anymore.  Maybe you're too old, too grown up."

"You haven't changed," she replied.

"You look just the same.  What are you doing here?"

He looked around speculatively.

"Maybe I've come to be with my brothers and sisters.  The Sinnissippi
are gone, but there are still plenty of other tribes.  Some of them
have prospered.  They run casinos and sell fireworks.  They have
councils to govern their people and rules to enforce their
proclamations.  The government in Washington recognizes their
authority.  They call them Native Americans and pass laws that give
them special privileges.  They don't call them Indians or Redskins
anymore.  At least, not to their faces."

He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"There is even a segment of the population who believes that my people
were wronged once, long ago, when white Europeans took away their land
and their way of life.  Can you imagine that?"

Nest shook her head noncommittally.  Are you sure Ariel didn't bring me
here to see you?  "

His face remained expressionless.

"Why don't we sit down and talk, little bird's Nest?"

He led her to a bench facing out toward the water.  A group of
weathered men was sitting there, passing around a bottle and speaking
in low voices.  Two Bears said something to them in another language,
and they rose at once and moved away.  Two Bears took their place on
the bench, and Nest sat down next to him.

"What did you say to them?"  she asked.

He shrugged.

"I told them they have no pride in themselves and should be ashamed."
The copper skin of his blunt features tightened around his bones.

"We are such a sad and hopeless people.  Such a lost people.

There are some of us, it is true, who have money and property.  There
are some who have found a way of life that provides.  But most of us
have nothing but empty hearts and alcohol and bad memories.  Our pride
in ourselves was stripped away a long time ago, and we were left
hollow.  It is a sad thing to see.  Sadder to live.  "

He looked at her.

"Do you know what is wrong with us, little bird's Nest?  We are
homeless.  It is a bad way to be in the world.  But that is how we are.
We are adrift, tiny boats in a large ocean.  Even those of us who have
land and houses and friends and neighbors and some sort of life.  It is
a condition indigenous to our people.  We bear a legacy of loss passed
down to us by our ancestors.  We bear the memory of what we had and
what was taken.  It haunts us."

He shook his head slowly.

"You can be homeless in different ways.  You can be homeless like those
of my people you see here, living on the streets, surviving on
handouts, marking time between the seasons.  But you can be homeless in
your heart, too.  You can be empty inside yourself because you have no
spiritual center.  You can wander through life without any real sense
of who you are or where you belong.  You can exist without purpose or
cause.  Have you ever felt like that, little birds Nest?"

"No," she said at once, wondering where he was going with this.

"Indians know," he said softly.

"We have known for a long time.  We are homeless in the streets and we
are homeless in our hearts as well.  We have no purpose in the world.
We have no center.  Our way of life was changed for us long ago, and it
will never return.  Our new life is someone else's life imposed on us;
it is a false life.  We struggle to find our home, our center, but it
is as faded as the Sinnissippi.  A building is a home if the people who
inhabit it have memories and love and a place in the world.  Otherwise,
it is just a building, a shelter against the elements, and it can never
be anything more.  Indians know."

He bent close to her, pausing.

"There are others who know this, too.  A few, who have been uprooted
and displaced, who have been banished to the road and a life of
wandering, who have lost any sense of who they are.  Some of these are
like us--men and women whose way of life has been taken from them. Some
of them are looking for a way back home again.  Maybe you even know
one."

Nest stared at him in silence.

"Do you still have your magic?"  he asked suddenly.

Caught off guard by the question, she fumbled for an answer.

"I think so."

"Not sure, are you?  Perhaps it has changed as you have grown?"  He
nodded his understanding.

"It may be so.  Everything changes with time's passage.  Only change
itself is constant.  So you must adapt and adjust and remember to keep
close what is important and not to forget its purpose.  Remember when
we sat in the park and watched the spirits of the Sinnissippi dance?"

She did.  On the Fourth of July weekend five years earlier, at
midnight, she had gone into the park she had grown up in, the park that
Pick warded, to see if the spirits would speak to her.  The spirits had
come on Two Bears' summons, and they had danced in the starlit darkness
and shown to Nest in a vision a secret her family had hidden from her.
It had been the catalyst for her terrifying confrontation with her
father, and it had probably saved her life.  She had not understood it
that way at the time; she had not understood much of what had happened
to her that weekend until much later.

"We were searching for truths, you and I--me, about my people, and you,
about your father."  He shook his head.

"Hard questions were needed to uncover those truths.  But the truths
define who we are.  They measure our place in the world.  That is why
they have worth.  We search and we learn.  It is how we grow."

He looked out over the bay.

"Do you think this country has changed much since we spoke last, little
bird's Nest?  Since you were a girl, living in the park of the
Sinnissippi?  This is a hard question to answer, but the truth it masks
needs uncovering.  As a country, as a people, have we changed?  On the
surface we might appear to have done so, but underneath I think we are
still the same.  Our change is measurable, but not significant.  We
remain bent on destroying ourselves.  We still kill each other with
alarming frequency and for foolish reasons, and we begin the killing at
a younger age.  We have much to celebrate, but we live in fear and
doubt.  We are pessimistic about our own lives and the lives of our
children.  We trust almost no one.

"It is the same everywhere.  We are a people under siege, walled away
from each other and the world, trying to find a safe path through the
debris of hate and rage that collects around us.  We drive our cars as
if they were weapons.  We use our children and our friends as if their
love and trust were expendable and meaningless.  We think of ourselves
first and others second.  We lie and cheat and steal in little ways,
thinking it unimportant, justifying it by telling ourselves that others
do it, so it doesn't matter if we do it, too.  We have no patience with
the mistakes of others.  We have no empathy for their despair.  We have
no compassion for their misery.  Those who roam the streets are not our
concern; they are examples of failure and an embarrassment to us.  It
is best to ignore them.  If they are homeless, it is their own fault.
They give us nothing but trouble.  If they die, at least they will
provide us with more space to breathe."

His smile was bitter.

"Our war continues, the war we fight with one another, the war we wage
against ourselves.  It has its champions, good and bad, and sometimes
one or the other has the stronger hand.  Our place in this war is often
defined for us.  It is defined for many because they are powerless to
choose.  They are homeless or destitute.

They are a minority of sex or race or religion.  They are poor or
disenfranchised.  They are abused or disabled, physically or mentally,
and they have forgotten or never learned how to stand up for
themselves.

"But you and me, little bird's Nest, we are different.  We have
advantages others do not.  We have magic and knowledge and insight.  We
know of the ways men destroy themselves and of the reasons they do so.
We know the enemy who threatens us all.  Because we know these truths,
we are empowered and we can choose the ground we would defend.  We have
an obligation and a responsibility to decide where we will stand."

He paused.

"I chose my ground a long time ago, when I returned from the Nam.  I
did so because after I died and came back to life, I was no longer
afraid.  I did so because even though I was the last of my people, I
was made strong by the fire that tested me, and I was given purpose.
You have been tested and given purpose, as well.  You have been made
strong.  Now it is your turn to choose where you will stand."

Nest waited, impatient for the rest, guarded and edgy.  On the sidewalk
in front of her, close by the railing, the schoolchildren shrieked as a
seagull dove over their heads in a wide sweep and soared away.

Two Bears locked her eyes with his.

"Let me tell you a story.  It is just a story, but maybe it will speak
to you.  A long time ago, a servant of a very powerful lady carried a
talisman to a man who had agreed to become her champion.  This man was
conscripted to fight in a good and necessary cause.  He was to wield
the talisman as a weapon in an effort to help turn aside an evil that
threatened to destroy all.

He was fearful of his responsibilities, but he was determined as
well.

He took the talisman from the servant and bore it into battle, and for
many years he fought bravely.  His task was not easy, because the
people he fought to protect often acted badly and foolishly, and by
doing so they did harm to themselves.  But he remained their champion
nevertheless.

"Then something happened to him, and he lost faith in his cause.  He
abandoned hope; he gave up his fight.  He became one of those who are
homeless in their hearts.  He despaired of who he was, and he thought
to change everything about himself.  He ran away to find a place to
start over."

Two Bears looked around speculatively.

"He might even have come to a city like this.  This is the kind of city
a man might flee to, if he were looking to begin again, don't you
think, little bird's Nest?"

Her heart was hammering in her chest.

"Now the lady who had sent her servant to give this man her talisman
was very disappointed in his failure to keep his promise to her.

Shhhh, listen now, don't interrupt.  Ask yourself what you would do if
you were the lady in question.  Your talisman is in the hands of a man
who will not use it, but cannot give it back.  A talisman once given
cannot be returned.  The magic does not allow for it.  "

He smiled.

"Or so the story goes.  At any rate, the lady sent someone to talk to
this man, a young woman.  As a matter of fact, she was someone very
much like you.  She was the man's friend, and the lady thought she
might be able to persuade him of the danger he faced if he continued to
ignore who he was and what he had promised.  The lady thought the young
woman was his best hope."

His eyes glistened.

"Picture how this must be for the young woman.  She is faced with a
difficult task.  She must find a way to help her friend, even though he
does not wish her help.  She must help him, because he has no one else
and no other hope.  The young woman is like you, little bird's Nest.
She has magic at her command, and she has been tested by fire.  She has
a strength and purpose lacking in others."

He paused.  And so she must decide where she will stand.  Because of
who she is.  Because, as with you and me, she has an obligation and a
responsibility to do so.  "

Nest shook her head in dismay.

"But I don't know what..."

A big hand came up swiftly to cut her short.

"Because, if the young woman does not help him," he said carefully, his
rough voice leaning heavily on each word, 'he will be lost forever. "

She nodded, her breath tight in her throat.

"Because, if the young woman fails, the lady has made other
arrangements."  Two Bears leaned so close that his broad face was only
inches from her own.  His voice became a whisper.

"She cannot allow her champion to serve another cause, one that would
be harmful to her own.

She cannot allow her talisman to fall into the hands of her enemies.
"

There was no mistaking his meaning.  It was the same message the Lady
had given Ariel.  If John Ross succumbed to the Void, he would be
killed.  But how did you kill a Knight of the Word?  Who was strong
enough?  Who had a weapon more powerful than his?

Two Bears rose abruptly, and she with him.  They stood close, looking
out over the bay.  The wind blew in chilly gusts off the water, causing
Nest to shiver.

"As I said, it is only a story.  Who knows if it is true?  There are so
many stories like it.  Fairy tales.  But the young woman reminded me of
you."  Two Bears folded his massive arms.

"Tell me.  If you were the young woman in this story, what would you
do?"

She looked up at him, tall, broad-shouldered, and implacable.  She was
suddenly frightened.

"I don't know."

He smiled at her, and the smile was warm.

"Don't be so sure of that.

Maybe you know better than you think.  "

She took hold of his arm.

"If this is only a story, then it must have an ending.  Tell it to
me."

He said nothing, and his smile turned chilly.  Her hands fell away,
"There are many endings to this story.  They change over time and with
the teller.  The stories of the Sinnissippi were all changed when my
people perished.  The endings would be different if they had survived,
but they did not.  I know this much.  If you make the story your own,
then the ending becomes yours to tell as you wish."

He was leaving, and when he did so she would lose any chance of gaining
his help.  She fought down the desperation that flooded through her.

"Don't go," she begged.

"Our paths have crossed twice now, little bird's Nest," the Sinnissippi
said.

"I would not be surprised if they were to cross again."

"You could help me," she hissed, pleading with him.

He shook his head and placed his big hands on her slender shoulders.

"Perhaps it is for you to help me.  If I were the lady in the story, in
the event all else failed, I would send someone to take back the
talisman from my fallen champion, someone strong enough to do so,
someone who knew much about death and did not fear it, because he had
embraced it many times before."  He paused.

"Someone like me."

Nest's throat knotted in horror.  Images of the past flooded through
her mind.  In Sinnissippi Park, on the Fourth of July, five years
earlier, when he had appeared so mysteriously and done so much to help
her find the courage she needed to face her father, she had seen
nothing of this.  She stared at him in disbelief, unable to give voice
to what she was thinking.

"Speak my name," the big man said softly.

"O'olish Amaneh," she whispered.

He nodded.

"It sounds good when you say it.  I will remember that always."

One hand pointed.

"Look.  Over there, where the mountains and the forests and the lakes
shine in the sunlight.  Look closely, little birds Nest.  It will
remind you of home."

She did as he asked, compelled by his voice.  She stared out
expectantly at a vista of white and green and blue, at a panorama that
extended for miles, at a sweep of country that was so beautiful it took
her breath away.  Ferry boats churned through the bay below.

Sailboats tacked into the wind.  The late afternoon sun beat down on
the foaming waters, reflecting in bright silver bursts off the wave
caps.  The forests of the islands and peninsula were lush and
inviting.

The mountains shone.

Two Bears was right, she thought suddenly.  It did make her think of
home.

But when she turned to tell him so, he was gone.


chapter 14

John Ross had told Nest he had already been warned of the consequences
of his refusal to continue as a Knight of the Word.  What he hadn't
told her was that the warning had been delivered by O'olish Amaneh.

As he rode the trolley back up to Pioneer Square and the offices of
Fresh Start, thinking through everything Nest had said, he recalled
anew the circumstances of that visit.

It was not long after he met Stef and before they started living
together.  He was still residing in Boston and auditing classes at the
college.  It was just after Christmas, sometime in early January, and a
heavy snow had left everything blanketed in white.  The sky was thickly
clouded, and a rise in the temperature following a deep cold spell had
created a heavy mist that clung to the landscape like cotton to Velcro
and slowed traffic to a crawl.  It was the perfect day to stay indoors,
and that was what he was doing.  He was in his apartment, finished with
his classes, working his way through a book on behavioral science, when
the door (which he was certain he had locked) opened and there stood
the Indian.

Ross remembered his panic.  If he had been able to do so, he would have
bolted instantly, run for his life, consequences and appearances be
damned.  But he was settled back in his easy chair, encumbered by his
book and various notepads, so there was no possibility of leaping up to
escape.  His staff lay on the floor beside him, but he didn't bother to
reach for it.  He knew, without having ever been given any real proof
of it, that trying to use the staff's magic against O'olish Amaneh,
even in self-defense, would be a big mistake.

"What do you want?"  he asked instead, fighting to keep his voice
steady.

O'olish Amaneh stepped inside and closed the door softly behind him.

He was wearing a heavy winter parka, which he unzipped and removed.

Underneath, he wore fatigue pants and combat boots, a checked flannel
shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a fisherman's vest with mesh
pockets.  A wide leather belt with a silver buckle bound his waist,
metal bracelets encircled his wrists, and a beaded cord held back his
long, black hair.  His blunt features were wind-burnt and raw with the
cold, and his dark eyes were flat and empty as they fixed on Ross.

He crossed his arms over his massive chest with the parka folded
between them, but made no move to come closer.

"You are making a mistake," he rumbled.

Ross put aside the book and notepads and straightened slightly.

"Did the Lady send you?"

"What did I tell you, John Ross, about trying to cast off the staff?"

"You told me not to.  Ever."

"Did you not believe me?"

"I believed you."

"Did you fail to realize that when I told you not to cast off the
staff, I meant spiritually as well as physically?"

Ross's mouth and throat went dry.  This was the Lady's response to his
attempt to return the staff at the Fairy Glen.  This was her answer to
his abdication of his responsibilities as a Knight of the Word.  She
had sent O'olish Amaneh to discipline him.  He still remembered the
Indian delivering the staff to him fifteen years earlier, forcing him
to take it against his will.  He remembered the pain when he had
touched the staff for the first time and the magic had bound them as
one, joining them irrevocably and forever.  He was terrified then.  And
now.

"What are you going to do?"  he asked.

O'olish Amaneh studied him expressionlessly.

"What should I do?"

Ross took a deep breath.

"Take back the staff.  Return it to the Lady."

The Indian shook his head.

"I cannot do that.  It is not permitted.  Not while you remain a Knight
of the Word."

Ross leaned forward in the chair and pushed himself to his feet.

Whatever was going to happen, he wanted to be standing for it.  He
reached for the staff and used it to lean upon as he faced the big
man.

"I am no longer a Knight of the Word.  I quit.  I tried to tell the
Lady, but she wouldn't speak to me.  Maybe you can tell her.  I just
can't do it anymore.  The truth is, I don't want to do it."

O'olish Amaneh sighed impatiently.

"Listen closely to me.  When you become a Knight of the Word, you
become one forever.  You cannot stop.

The choice is not yours to make.  You accepted a charge, and the charge
is yours until it is lifted.  That has not been done.  The staff cannot
be returned.  You cannot send it back.  That is the way things are. "

Ross came forward a step, stumbling against a pile of books and
magazines and nearly falling.

"Do you know what happened to me?"  he asked angrily.  At San Sobel?
"

The Indian nodded.

"I know."

"Then why is it so hard for you to understand that I want to quit?  I
don't want to have what happened at San Sobel ever happen again!  I
can't stand for it to happen again!  So I quit, now, forever, and
that's the end of it, and I don't care what the rules are!"

He knew he had crossed some line, but he didn't care.  Even his fear
could not control him.  He hated who and what he had been.  He had met
Stefanie, and there was something special happening there.  For the
first time in years, he was feeling alive again.

The Indian walked right up to him, and Ross flinched in spite of
himself, certain he was about to be struck.  But the big man stopped
before reaching him, and the flinty eyes bore deep into his own.

"Did you think, when you accepted your charge, you would make no
mistakes in carrying it out?  Did you think no innocents would die as a
result of your actions?  Did you think the world would change because
you had agreed to serve, and the strength of your convictions alone
would be enough to save the lives you sought to protect?  Is that what
you thought, John Ross?  Were you so full of pride and arrogance?

Were you such a fool?  "

Ross flushed, but held his tongue.

"Let me tell you something about yourself The Indian's words were as
sharp as knives.

"You are one man serving a cause in which many have given their lives.
You are one man in a long line of men and women, one only, and not so
special that you could ever afford to hope you might make a significant
difference.  But you have done the best you could, and no more was ever
asked.  The war between the Word and the Void is a long and difficult
one, and it has been waged since the beginning of time.  It is in the
nature of all life that it must be waged.  That you were chosen to take
up the Words cause is an honor.  It should be enough that you have been
given a chance to serve.

"But you disgrace yourself and our cause by denigrating its purpose and
abdicating your office.  You shame yourself by choosing to renounce
your calling.  Who do you think you are?  The burden of those
children's deaths is not yours to bear.  Yours is not the hand that
took their lives; yours was not the will that decreed those lives must
be sacrificed.  Such choices and acts belong to a power higher than
your own."

Ross felt the tendons in his neck go taut with his rage.

"Well, it feels as if they are my responsibility, and I'm the one who
has to live with the consequences of their dying because of my efforts
or lack thereof, and blaming it on the Word or fate or whatever is a
whole lot of bullshit!  Don't try to tell me it isn't something I
should think about!  Don't try to tell me that!  I do think about it! 
I think about it every day of my life.  I see the faces of those
children, dying in front of me.  I see their eyes ..."

He wheeled away, tears blurring his vision.  He felt defeated.

"I can't do it anymore, and that's all there is to it.  You can't make
me do it, O'olish Amaneh.  No one can."

He went silent, waiting for whatever was going to happen next, half
believing this was the end for him and not caring if it was.

But the Indian did not move.  He was so still he might have been carved
from stone.

"The consequences of accepting responsibility for the lives of others
are not always pleasant.  But neither are the consequences of
abdicating that same responsibility.  What is certain is that you
cannot pretend to be someone other than who you are.  You made a
choice, John Ross.  Failure and pain are a part of the price of your
choice, but you cannot change that by telling yourself the choice was
not binding.  It was.  It is."

The big man's voice dropped to a whisper.

"By behaving as you do, you present a danger to yourself.  Your
self-deception places you at great risk.  Whatever you believe, you are
a Knight of the Word.  You cannot be otherwise.  The creatures of the
Void know this.  They will come for you.  They will steal your soul
away.  They will make you their own."

Ross shook his head slowly.

"No, they won't.  I won't let them."

"You won't be able to stop it."

Ross met his gaze.

"If they make the attempt, I will resist.  I will resist to the point
of dying, if that's what it takes.  I may no longer be in service to
the Word, but I will never serve the Void.  I will never do that."

O'olish Amaneh looked out the window into the snowcovered landscape,
into the somnolent white.

"The Void wants your magic at its service, and it will do what it takes
to obtain it.  Subverting you will take time and effort and will
require great deception, but it will happen.

You may not even realize it until it is too late.  Think, John Ross. Do
not lie to yourself Ross held out the black staff.

"If you take this from me now, the Void can do nothing.  The solution
is simple."

The Indian made no move.  He kept his gaze directed away, his body
still.

"Others have suffered a loss of faith.  Others have tried to abandon
their charges.  Others like you.  They have been warned.  Some thought
they were strong.  They have all been lost.  One way or the other, they
have been lost."

He looked at Ross, solemn-faced and sad-eyed.

"You will go down the same path if you do not heed me."

They faced each other in silence, eyes locked.  Then O'olish Amaneh
turned without a word and went out the door and was gone, and John Ross
did not see him again.

But he thought about him now, riding the trolley to Pioneer Square,
stepping off onto the platform at Main, and walking back to the offices
of Fresh Start.  He thought about everything Two Bears had told him.
The Indian and Nest had given him essentially the same warning, a
veiled suggestion that the danger he posed by refusing to continue as a
Knight of the Word would not be ignored and that measures would be
taken to bring him back in line.

But did those measures include eliminating him?  Would the Lady really
send someone to kill him?  He thought maybe she would.  After all, five
years ago he had been sent to kill Nest Freemark in the event she
failed to withstand the assault of her demon father.  Why should it be
any different now, with him?  They could not chance losing him to the
Void.  They could not let him become a weapon for their enemy.

Lost in thought, he slowed as he approached the entry to the shelter.

Why did everyone think such a thing could happen?  What could the Void
possibly do to subvert him that he wouldn't recognize and resist?

There was his dream, of course, and the danger that it might somehow
come to pass and he would kill Simon Lawrence.  But the events of that
dream would never happen.  There was no reason for them to happen.  And
in any case, he didn't really believe his dream and the Lady's warning
were connected.

He shook his head stubbornly.  Only one thing bothered him about all
this.  Why had the Lady sent Nest to warn him?  She could just as
easily have sent Ariel.  He would have given the tatterdemalion's
warning the same consideration he was giving Nest's.  Why send the
girl?  The Lady couldn't possibly believe that Nest would have a
greater influence on him than O'olish Amaneh.  No, something else was
going on, something he didn't understand.  His instincts told him so.

He walked into the reception area at Fresh Start, said hello to Delia,
gave Ray Hapgood a perfunctory wave on his way back to the office, and
closed the door behind him.  He sat in his chair with his elbows on his
desk and his chin in his hands, and tried to think it through.

What was he missing?  What was it about Nest's coming to find him that
was so troubling?

He was getting exactly nowhere when Stefanie Winslow walked in.

"You're back," she said.

"How did it go?"

He blinked.

"How did what go?"

She gave him an incredulous look.

"Your lunch with your old flame's daughter.  I assume that's where
you've been."  She took the chair across from him.

"So tell me about it."

He shrugged, uncomfortable with the subject.

"There's nothing to tell.

She was in town and decided to look me up.  I don't know how she even
knew I was here.  I haven't seen or spoken with her in five years.  And
that stuff about her mother is--" "I know, I know.  It was a long time
ago, and her mother is dead.  She told us before you came back."  Stef
brushed back her dark hair and crossed her long legs.

"It must have been quite a shock to see her again."

"Well, it was a surprise, anyway.  But we had a nice talk."

He had never told Stef anything about his past or the people in it,
save for stories about his boyhood when he was growing up in Ohio.  He
had never told her about his service as a Knight of the Word, about the
Lady or Owain Glyndwr or O'olish Amaneh.  She did not know about his
dreams.  She did not know of the war between the Word and the Void or
the part he had played in it.  She did not know of his magic.  As far
as he knew, she had no concept of the feeders.  Having Nest Freemark
appear unexpectedly, come out of a past he had so carefully concealed
from her, was unnerving.  He did not want to tell her about any of
that.  He traced his present life to the moment he had met her, and
everything that went before to another life entirely.

Stef studied his face.

"Simon says she's some kind of world- class runner, that she might even
win a gold medal in the next Olympics.

That's pretty impressive.  "

He nodded noncommittally.

"I gather she's pretty good."

"Is she in town for very long?  Did you think to ask her to have dinner
with us?"

He took a deep breath, wishing she would stop talking about it.

"I

mentioned dinner, but she said she might have other plans.  She said
she would call later.  I don't think she's here for very long.  Maybe
only a day or so.  "

Stef looked at him.

"You seem uneasy about this, John.  Is everything all right?  This girl
hasn't announced that she's your love child or something, has she?"

The words shocked Ross so that he started visibly.  Five years earlier
Nest had indeed thought he was her father, had wished it were so.  He
had wished it were so, too.

He laughed quickly to mask his discomfort.

"No, she didn't come here to tell me that.  Or anything like that."  He
pushed back in his chair, feeling trapped.

"I guess I'm just a little nervous about the speech.

I haven't heard back from Simon on it.  Maybe it wasn't so good.  "

Stef smirked.

"The speech was fine.  He told me so himself Her smile brightened the
whole room.

"Matter of fact, he loved it.  He'll tell you himself when he sees you
again, if the two of you are ever in the office at the same time.  He's
gone again just now.  There's a lot of preparation left for tomorrow
night."

He nodded.

"I suppose so."  He fidgeted with his pens and paper, gathering his
thoughts.

"You know, I don't feel so well.  I think I'm going to go back to the
apartment and lie down for a while.  You think they can get along
without me for an hour or so?"

She reached across and took his hand in her own.

"I think they can get along just fine.  It's me I'm not sure about."

"Then come back with me."

"I thought you were sick."

"I'll get better."

She smirked.

"I'll bet.  Well, you're out of luck.  I have work to do.  I'll see you
later."  She frowned.

"Or maybe not.  I just remembered, I'm supposed to go with Simon to the
KIRO interview, then maybe to some press things after that.  He hasn't
given me the final word yet.  Sorry, sweetie, but duty calls.  Ring me
if you hear from Nest, okay?  I'll try to break free to join you."

She smiled and went out the door, blowing him a kiss.  He stared after
her without moving, then pushed the pens and paper away and got to his
feet.  Might as well follow through on his plan and get out of there,
he decided.  He was already back to thinking about something else Nest
had said--that a demon in Pioneer Square was killing homeless people in
the underground city.  No one would miss them; no one would know.

Except the feeders, of course.  And he didn't see the feeders much
anymore, so he couldn't tell if their current behavior reflected the
demons presence or not.

He stared down at his desk, unseeing.  Sometimes he was tempted to try
out his magic, just for a minute, just to see if he still had the use
of it.  If he did that, he might see the feeders clearly and maybe be
able to determine if there was a demon in their midst.

But he refused to do that.  He had sworn an oath that he wouldn't,
because using magic was integral to acting as a Knight of the Word, and
he had given all that up.

He walked out of his office, down the hall, past Delia and a cluster of
new arrivals huddled about her desk, and through the front door.

The midday sunshine was fading, masked by heavy clouds blown in from
the west on a sharp wind.  The air had turned cold and brittle, and the
light was autumn gray and pale.  He glanced skyward.  A storm was
moving in.  There would be rain by tonight.

His thoughts drifted.

A demon in Pioneer Square.

Someone sent to kill him.

Someone sent to subvert him.

The Word and the Void at play.

He crossed the street and moved past Waterfall Park toward the doorway
to his apartment building.  The waterfall tumbled down over the massive
rocks and filled the walled enclosure with white noise.  The park was
empty, the afternoon shadows falling long and dark over the tables and
chairs, benches and planters, and fountains.  He didn't like how the
emptiness made him feel.  He didn't care for the thoughts it provoked.
It seemed to reflect something inside.

In the shadows pooled among the boulders of the waterfall, something
moved.  The movement was quick and furtive, but unmistakable.
Feeders.

He paused to look more closely, to spy them out, but he could not do
so.  Those days were gone.  He was someone different now.  Something
rough-edged brushed up against his memory--a reluctance, a wistfulness,
a regret.  The past had a way of creeping into the present, and his
attempts at separating the two were still difficult.

Even now.  Even here.

Why had Nest Freemark been sent to him?

For just a moment he experienced an almost overpowering urge to flee.

Just pack his bags, pick up Stefanie, and catch the first bus out of
town.  He stood facing into the park, and the movement in the shadows
seemed to be reaching for him.  He felt trapped in his life and by his
decisions, and he could feel his control over things slipping away.

Then the moment passed.  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, and
he was all right again.  He studied the shadows and saw nothing.  The
park was still and empty.  He felt foolish and slightly embarrassed. He
supposed he was not yet entirely free of the emotional fallout of San
Sobel.  He guessed that's what it was.

That was what he told himself as he turned away from the park and went
down the sidewalk.  That was how he dismissed the matter.

But deep inside, where hunches and instinct kept separate counsel, he
wasn't really sure.


chapter 15

After Two Bears disappeared.  Nest Freemark sat back down on the bench
they had shared and stared out at the bay.  Her thoughts kept returning
to five years ago when she had first met him.  She kept trying to
reconcile what she remembered from then with what she knew from now.

She kept trying to make the parts fit.

"I fought in Vietnam.  I walked and slept with death; I knew her as I
would a lover.  I was young before, Imt afterward I was very old.  I
died in the Nam so many times, I lost count.  But I killed a lot of
men, too.

He had told her that right after he had told her his name.  He had told
her he was a killer.  But nothing else he had told her had made him
seem so.  There had been no hint of violence about him.  He had gone
out of his way to dispel her concerns.

"I am a stranger, a big man, a combat veteran who speaks of terrifying
things.  You should be afraid.  But we are friends, Nest.  Our
friendship was sealed with our handshake.  I will not hurt you.

But he might hurt John Ross.  He might have to, because that was what
he had been sent to do.  She pondered the idea, thinking that in some
strange way they had all changed places from five years ago.  John Ross
was on trial instead of her, and Two Bears might become his
executioner.  Ross now stood in her shoes, and Two Bears stood in
his.

But where did she stand?

She was aware after a while that there were eyes watching her, and she
glanced around cautiously.  The shabby, sad-eyed Native

Americans whom Two Bears had dismissed from their bench were staring at
her from a short distance away.  They huddled together on the grass,
sitting cross-legged, their coats pulled over their shoulders, their
heads hunched close, their dark eyes haunted.  She wondered what they
were thinking.  Maybe they were wondering about her.  Maybe about Two
Bears.  Maybe they just wanted their bench back.

I'm afraid, she had said five years ago to Two Bears.  And he had
replied.  Fear is afire to temper courage and resolve.  Use it so.

She was afraid again, and she wondered if she could use her fear now as
he had taught her to use it then.

Speak my name once more, he had asked her, and she had done so. 
"O'olish Amaneh.  Yes, he had said.  Say it often when I am gone, so that
I will not be forgotten.

Speak my name, he asked her again, just moments ago.  As if by saying
it, she could keep him alive.

The last of his kind, the last of the Sinnissippi, appearing and
disappearing like a ghost.  But his connection to her, while she didn't
pretend to understand it completely, was as settled as concrete.  They
were linked in a way that transcended time and distance, and she felt
her kinship to him so strongly it seemed as if they had been joined
always.  She wondered at its meaning.  She knew now he was a servant of
the Word, just like John Ross.  So he shared with her a knowledge of
the war with the Void, and they were possessed of magic, and they knew
of demons and feeders, and they walked a line between two worlds that
others didn't even know existed.

But there was more.  In some strange way, she knew, they needed each
other.  It was hard to explain, but it was there.  She took strength
from him, but he took something from her, as well.  Something.  Her
brow furrowed.  Something.

She rose and walked to the railing, abandoning the bench.  She stared
out over the bay to the mountains, their jagged peaks cutting across
the horizon.  What was it he took from her?  A hope?  A comfort?  A
companionship?  Something.  It was there, a shape, a form at the back
of her mind, but she could not quite put a name

The afternoon was lengthening.  Already the sun was sliding rapidly
toward the horizon, its light tinting the clouds that masked it in
myriad colors of purple and rose.  It would be dark soon.  She glanced
at her watch.  Four-fifteen.  She wondered what she should do.  She had
already decided to meet John Ross for dinner, to tell him of her
conversation with O'olish Amaneh, to try again to persuade him of the
danger he was in.  But it was too early yet to go back to the hotel and
call him.

She walked out of the park and through the market, ambling along
through the stalls of fruits and vegetables, fish and meats, and
flowers and crafts, pausing now and again to look, to listen to the
itinerant musicians, and to talk with the vendors.  Everyone was
friendly, willing to spend a few minutes with a visitor to the city.

She bought a jar of honey and a fish pin, and she tasted a cup of apple
cider and a slice of fresh melon.  She reached the brass pig that
marked the far end of the market, turned around, and walked back
again.

When she had made the circuit, she went back into the park and looked
around.  The park was almost empty, dappled with shadows and splashed
with light from the street lamps.  Even the Indians had moved on, all
but one who was asleep on the grass, wrapped head to foot in an old
green blanket, long black hair spilling out of the top like silk from
an ear of corn.

Nest looked around.  She kept thinking that Ariel would reappear, but
so far there was no sign of her.  She checked her watch again.  It was
five o'clock.  Maybe she should call Ross.  She had the phone number of
Fresh Start written on a slip of paper in her pocket.  She could
'probably reach him there.  She looked around for a phone and didn't
see one.  But there were several restaurants close at hand, and there
would be phones inside.

Then she heard her name called in an excited whisper.

"Nest!  Come quickly!"

Ariel was right next to her, hovering in the fading light, a pale
shimmer of movement.

"Where have you been?"  she demanded.

The tatterdemalions face brushed against her own, and she could feel
the other's urgency.

"Out looking.  There are sylvans everywhere, and sometimes they can
tell you things.  I went to find the ones who live here.  There are
three in the city, and all of them make their homes in its parks.  One
is east in the Arboretum, one is north in Discovery, and one is west in
Lincoln."

She paused, and then the words exploded out of her in a rush.

"The one in Lincoln," she hissed, 'has seen the demon!  "

Some kids set fire to a homeless man under the viaduct last night,"
Simon Lawrence announced, looking into his tonic and lime as if it were
a crystal ball.

"They doused him with gasoline and lit him up.  Then they sat around
and watched him burn.  That's how the police caught them; they were so
busy watching, they forgot to run."  He shook his head.

"Just when you think some measure of sanity has been restored to the
world, people find a way to prove you wrong."

Andrew Wren sipped at his scotch and water and nodded.

"I thought that sort of thing only happened in New York.  I thought
Seattle was still relatively civilized.  Goes to show."

They were sitting across from each other in easy chairs on the upper
level of the lobby bar in the Westin.  It was five o'clock, and the
hotel was bustling with activity.  Participants from a handful of
conferences the hotel was hosting were streaming in, identified by
plastic badges that announced their company name in abbreviated block
letters, one tag indistinguishable from another.  With the day's
meetings and seminars concluded, drinks and dinner and evening
entertainment were next on the agenda, and the attendees were ready to
rock and roll.  But the corner of the bar in which Simon Lawrence and
Andrew Wren sat was an island of calm.

Wren watched the Wiz check his watch.  He seemed distracted.  He had
seemed so since his arrival, as if other things commanded his attention
and he was just putting in his time here until he could get to them.
They had agreed to meet for drinks after Simon had been detained
earlier in the day at a meeting with the mayor and been unable to keep
their noon appointment.  When he was done here, the Wiz had a TV
interview scheduled.  Maybe that was what he was thinking about.  No
rest for the wicked.  Wren thought sourly, then immediately regretted
it.  He was being perverse because he hadn't found anything bad to
write about Simon Lawrence.  No skeletons had emerged from the closet.
No secrets had revealed themselves.  The anonymous tips had not panned
out.  His instincts had failed him.  He sipped at his drink some
more.

"I appreciate your meeting me, Andrew."  Simon said, smiling now.  He
was dressed in a dark shirt, slacks, and sport coat, and he looked
casually elegant and very much at ease amid the convention suits.

Wren, in his familiar rumpled journalist's garb, looked like something
the cat had dragged in.

"I know I haven't been able to give you as much time as you would like,
but I want to make sure you feel you've been given full access to our
records."

Wren nodded.

"I've got no complaints.  Everyone has been very cooperative.  And you
were right.  I didn't find so much as a decimal point out of place."

The smile widened.

"You sound a tad disappointed.  Does this mean you will be forced to
write something good about us?"

Wren pushed his glasses up on his nose.

"Looks that way.  Damned disappointing to have it end like this.  When
you're an investigative reporter, you like to find something to
investigate.  But you can't win them all."

Simon Lawrence chuckled.

"I've found that to be true."

"Not lately, I'll wager."  Wren cocked an eyebrow expectantly.

"Lately, you've been winning them all.  And you're about to win
another."

The Wiz looked unexpectedly skeptical.

"The shelter?  Oh, that's a victory all right.  It counts for
something.  But I wonder sometimes what it is that I'm winning.  Like
that general, I keep thinking I'm winning battles, but losing the
war."

Wren shrugged.

"Wars are won one battle at a time."

Simon Lawrence hunched forward, his dark eyes intense.  The distracted
look was gone.

"Sometimes.  But some wars can't be won.  Ever.  What if mine against
homelessness is one?"

"You don't believe that."

TheWiz nodded.

"You're right, I don't.  But some do, and they have cogent arguments to
support their position.  A political scientist named Banfield posited
back in the early seventies that the poor are split into two groups.
One is disadvantaged simply because it lacks money.  Give them a jump
start and their middleclass values and work ethic will pull them
through.  But the second group will fail no matter how much money you
give them because they possess a radically present-oriented outlook on
life that attaches no value to work, sacrifice, self-improvement, or
service.  If that's so, if Banfield was right, then the war effort is
doomed.  The problem of homelessness will never be solved."

Wren frowned.

"But your work is with women and children who have been disenfranchised
through circumstances not of their own making.  It's not the same
thing, is it?"

"You can't compartmentalize the problem so easily, Andrew.  There
aren't any conditions of homelessness specifically attributable to
particular groups that would allow us to apply different solutions.  It
doesn't work like that.  Everything is connected.  Domestic violence,
failed marriages, teen pregnancy, poverty, and lack of education are
all a part of the mix.  They all contribute, and ultimately you can't
solve one problem without solving them all.  We fight small battles on
different fronts, but the war is huge.  It sprawls all over the
place."

He leaned back again.

"We treat homelessness on a case-by- case basis, trying to help the
disadvantaged get back on their feet, to reclaim their lives, to begin
anew.  But you have to wonder sometimes how much good we are really
doing.  We shore up people in need, and that's good.

But how much of what we do is actually solving the problem?  "

Wren shrugged.

"Maybe that's best left to somebody else."

Simon Lawrence chuckled.

"Who?  The government?  The church?  The general population?  Do you
see anyone out there addressing the specific causes of homelessness or
domestic violence or failed marriages or teen pregnancy in any
meaningful way?  There are efforts being made to educate people, but
the problem goes way beyond that.  It has to do with the way we live,
with our values and our ethics.  And that's exactly what Banfield wrote
decades ago when he warned us that poverty is a condition that, to a
large extent at least, we cannot alleviate."

They stared at each other across the little table, the din of the room
around them closing in on the momentary silence, filling up the space
like water poured in a glass.  Wren was struck suddenly by the
similarity of their passion for their work.  What they did was so
different, yet the strength of their commitment and belief was much the
same.

"I'm sounding pessimistic again," the Wiz said, making a dismissive
gesture.

"You have to ignore me when I'm like this.  You have to pretend that
it's someone else talking."

Wren drained the last of his drink and sat back.

"Tell me something about yourself, Simon," he asked the other man
suddenly.

Simon Lawrence seemed caught off guard.

"What?"

"Tell me something about yourself.  I came out here for a story, and
the story is supposed to be about you.  So tell me something about
yourself that you haven't told anyone else.  Give me something
interesting to write about."  He paused.

"Tell me about your childhood."

The Wiz shook his head immediately.

"You know better than to ask me about that, Andrew.  I never talk about
myself except in the context of my work.  My personal life isn't
relevant to anything."

Wren laughed.

"Of course it is.  You can't sit there and tell me how you grew up
doesn't have anything to do with how you came to be who you are.
Everything connects in life, Simon.  You just said so yourself.
Homelessness is tied to domestic violence, teen pregnancy, and so
forth.  Same with the events of your life.  They're all tied together.
You can't pretend your childhood is separate from the rest of your
life.  So tell me something.  Come on.  You've disappointed me so far,
but here's a chance to redeem yourself Simon Lawrence seemed to think
about it a moment, staring across the table at the journalist.  There
was a dark, troubled look in his eyes as he shook his head.  "I've got a
friend," he said slowly, reflecting on his choice of words.

"He's the CEO of a big company, an important company, that does some
good work with the disadvantaged.  He travels the same fund-raising
circuits I do, talks to some of the same people.  They ask him
constantly to tell them about his background.

They want to know all about him, want to take something personal away
with them, some piece of who he is.  He won't give it to them.  All
they can have, he tells me, is the part that deals directly with his
work--with the present, the here and now, the cause to which he is
committed.

"I asked him about it once.  I didn't expect him to tell me anything
more than he told anyone else, but he surprised me.  He told me
everything."

The Wiz reached for his empty glass, studied it a moment, and set it
down.  A server drifted over, but he waved her away.  He grew up in a
very poor neighborhood in St.  Louis.  He had a brother and a sister,
both younger.  His parents were poor and not well educated, but they
had a home.  His father had a day job at a factory, and his mother was
a housewife.  They had food on the table and clothes on their backs and
a sense of belonging somewhere.

"Then, when he was maybe seven or eight, the economy went south.  His
father lost his job and couldn't get rehired.  They scraped by as long
as they could, then sold their home and moved to Chicago to find work
there.  Within months, everything fell apart.  There was no work to be
found.  They used up their savings.  The father began to drink and
would sometimes disappear for days.  They drifted from place to place,
often living in shelters.  They started taking welfare, scraping by on
that and the little bit of income the father earned from doing odd
jobs.

They got some help now and then from the churches.

"One day, the father disappeared and didn't come back.  The mother and
children never knew what happened to him.  The police searched for him,
but he never turned up.  The younger brother died in a fall shortly
afterward.  My friend and his little sister stayed with their mother in
a state-subsidized housing project.  There wasn't enough food.  They
ate leftovers scavenged from garbage cans.  They slept on old
mattresses on the floor.  There were gangs and drugs and guns in the
projects.  People died every day in the rooms and hallways and
sidewalks around them."

He paused.

"The mother began to go out into the streets at night.  My friend and
his sister knew what she did, even though she never told them. Finally,
one night, she didn't come home.  Like the father.  After a time, the
state came looking for the children to put them in foster homes.  My
friend and his sister didn't want that.  They preferred to stay on the
streets, thinking they could stay together that way.

"So that was how they lived, homeless and alone.  My friend won't talk
about the specifics except to say it was so terrible that he still
cries when he remembers it.  He lost his sister out there.  She drifted
away with some other homeless kids, and he never saw her again.  When
he was old enough to get work, he did so.  Eventually, he got himself
off the streets and into the schools.  He got himself a life.  But it
took him a lot of hard years."

Simon Lawrence shrugged.

"He had never told this to anyone.  He told it to me to make a point.
What difference did any of this make, he asked me, to what he did now?
If he told this story to the people from whom he sought money--or if he
told the press-what difference would it make?  Would they give him more
money because he'd had a hard life?

Would they give him more money because they felt sorry for him?  Maybe
so.  But he didn't want that.  That was the wrong reason for them to
want to help.  It was the cause he represented that mattered.  He
wanted them to help because of that, not because of who he was and
where he came from.  He did not want to come between the donors and the
cause.

Because if that happened, then he risked the possibility he would
become more important than the cause he represented.  And that, Andrew,
would be a sin.  "

He stood up abruptly, distracted anew.

"I'm sorry, but I've got to run.  You're staying over for the
dedication tomorrow night, aren't you?"

Wren nodded, rising with him.

"Yes, but I'd like to ..."

"Good."  Simon took his hand and gave it a firm shake.

"If the newspaper's paying, try Roy's, here at the hotel, for a good
dinner.

It's first-rate.  I'll see you tomorrow.  "

He was gone at once, striding across the lobby toward the front door,
tall form scything through the crowd with catlike grace and
determination.  Andrew Wren stared after him, and it wasn't until he
was out of sight that it occurred to the journalist that maybe, just
maybe, Simon Lawrence had been talking about himself.

Nest Freemark found a phone booth across from the park and dialed
the number for Fresh Start.  It was after five now, the sun slipped
below the horizon, the last color fading fast in a darkening sky.

Ariel was hovering invisibly against the building walls behind her, and
the streets were filling with traffic from people on their way home
from work.  The park had emptied long ago, and the grassy rise was a
shadowed hump against the skyline.

It was beginning to rain, a slow, chilly misting that clung to Nest's
skin.  On the sound, a bank of fog was beginning to build over the
water.

The lady who answered the phone was not Delia, and she did not know
Nest.  She said John Ross wasn't there and wasn't expected back that
day and she couldn't give out his home number.  Nest told her it was
important she speak to him.  The lady hesitated, then asked her to hold
on a minute.

Nest stared off into the gathering darkness, itching with impatience.

"Nest?  Hi, it's Stefanie Winslow."  The familiar voice sounded rushed
and out of breath.

"John's gone home, and I think he's shut off the phone, because I just
tried to call him a little while ago and I couldn't reach him.  Are you
calling about dinner?"

Nest hesitated.

"Yes.  I don't think I can make it."

"Well, neither can I, but I think maybe John was planning on it.  Will
you be by tomorrow?"

"I think so."  Nest thought furiously.

"Can you give John a message for me?"

"Of course.  I have to go by the apartment for a few minutes.  I could
even have him call you, if you want."

"No, I'm at a pay phone."

"All right.  What should I tell him?"

For just an instant Nest thought about dropping the whole matter, just
hanging up and leaving things the way they were.  She could explain it
all to Ross later.  But she was uncomfortable with not letting him know
there was new reason for him to be concerned about his safety, that
something was about to happen that might change everything.

"Could you just tell him I'm meeting a friend of Pick's over in West
Seattle who might know something about that trouble we were talking
about at lunch?  Tell him Pick's friend might have seen the one we were
looking for."

She paused, waiting.  Stefanie Winslow was silent.

"Have you got that, Stefanie?"  she pressed.

"I know it's a little vague, but he'll know what I'm talking about.  If
I get back in time, I'll call him tonight.

Otherwise, I'll see him tomorrow.  "

"Okay.  Listen, are you all right?  This sounds a little ...
mysterious, I guess.  Do you need some help?"

Nest shook her head at the phone.

"No, everything's fine.  I have to go now.  I'll see you tomorrow.
Thanks for helping."

She hung up the phone and went looking for a taxi.

The demon walked into the lobby of the Westin through a side door,
paused to look around, then moved quickly to the elevators across from
the lobby bar.  It didn't have much time; it had to hurry.  An empty
elevator was waiting, doors open, and the demon rode alone to the sixth
floor.  It stepped off into a deserted hallway, checked the wall
numbers for directions, and turned left.

Seconds later, it stood before Andrew Wren's room.  It listened
carefully for a moment to make certain the room was empty, then slipped
a thin manila envelope under the door.  When Wren returned, he would
find all the evidence he needed to confront the Wiz with the threat of
exposure and a demand for an explanation that the latter would be
unable to provide.  The consequences of that would be inescapable.  By
tomorrow night, the Wiz would be history and John Ross would have taken
his first step toward entering into the service of the Void.

There was only one additional matter to be settled.  Nest Freemark was
a threat to everything.  The demon had sensed her magic when they had
talked earlier that day at Fresh Start.  It was raw and unrealized, but
it was potent.  She could prove dangerous.  Moreover, she had a
tatterdemalion with her, and the tatterdemalion, if given the right
opportunity, could expose the demon.  If that happened, everything
would be ruined.

The demon was not about to allow that.  It didn't know what the girl
and the forest creature were doing here, if they had been sent by the
Word or come on their own, but it was time to be rid of them.

The demon turned and walked to the exit sign above the stairs and
descended the six flights to the lobby.  No one saw it leave.

In the parking garage, it claimed its car and headed for West
Seattle.


chapter 16

The night was cool and dark.  As Nest Freemark rode through the city,
rain misted on the windshield of the taxi, smearing the glass, blurring
the garish neon landscape beyond.  The taxi passed back down First
Avenue in front of the Alexis Hotel, then climbed a ramp to the
viaduct.  Suspended above the waterfront, with the piers and ferries
and colored lights spread out below and the orange cranes lifting
skyward overhead, the taxi wheeled onto the lower tier of the
expressway and sped south.

It had taken longer to find transportation than Nest had expected.  She
couldn't find anything in the market area, so she had walked down to a
small hotel called the Inn at the Market, situated just above the Pike
Place Market sign, and had the doorman call for her.  Ariel had
disappeared again.  How the tatterdemalion would reach their
destination was anybody's guess, but since she had gotten there once
already, Nest guessed she would manage this time, too.

The canopy of the northbound viaduct lowered and leveled to join with
the southbound, and Nest was back out in the rain again.  The taxi
eased around slower cars, its tires making a soft, steady hiss on the
damp pavement.  Nest watched the cranes and loading docks appear and
fade on her right, prehistoric creatures in the gloom.  The driver was
a motionless shape in front of her.  Neither of them spoke.  Brightly
lit billboards whizzed by, advertisements for beer, restaurants, sports
events, and clothing.  She read them swiftly and forgot them even
quicker, her thoughts tightly focused on what lay ahead.

The taxi took the off-ramp onto the West Seattle Bridge, and headed
west.  Nest settled back in the seat, thinking.  Ariel had found a
sylvan in one of the parks who had seen the demon a few months ago and
gotten a good look at it.  More important, at least from Ariel's point
of view, was the story behind that sighting.  She wouldn't elaborate
when Nest asked for details.  She wanted the sylvan to tell the
story.

She wanted Nest to hear for herself.

The freeway took a long, sweeping turn up a hill past a sign announcing
their arrival in West Seattle.  Residential lights shone through the
rain.  Fog cloaked the wooded landscape, clinging in thick patches to
the heavy boughs of the conifers.  Nest peered into the deepening gloom
as the city dropped away behind her.  They crested the hill and passed
through a small section of shops and fast-food outlets.  Then there
were only residences and streetlights, and the city disappeared
entirely.

The taxi wound its way steadily down the far side of the hill, took a
couple of wide turns, then straightened out along a broad, straight,
well-lit roadway.  Ahead, she could see the dark wall of her
destination.  Lincoln Park was south of West Seattle proper, bordering
Puget Sound just above the Vashon Island Ferry terminal.  She found it
on the map while she was riding in the taxi, checking its location,
situating herself so that she wouldn't become turned around.  When she
was satisfied that she knew where she was, she stuck the map back in
her pocket.

The taxi passed a park sign, then pulled into an empty parking area
fronting a thick mass of trees.  Nest could just make out the flat,
earthen threshold of a trailhead next to it.  There was no one in
sight.  Within the trees, nothing moved.

She paid the driver and asked him where she could call a taxi to get
back into the city.  The driver told her there was a pay phone at the
gas station they had passed just up the road.  He gave her a business
card with the phone number of his company.

She stepped out into the mist and gloom, pulling up the hood of her
windbreaker as the taxi drove away.  Standing alone at the edge of the
park, she glanced around uncertainly.  For the first time that night,
she began to have doubts.

Then Ariel was next to her, appearing out of nowhere.

"This way.  Nest!

Follow me!  "

The silken white image floated onto the (railhead, and Nest Freemark
dutifully followed.  They entered the wall of trees, and within seconds
the parking lot and its lights disappeared behind them.  Nests eyes
adjusted slowly to this new level of darkness.  There were no lights
here, but the low ceiling of clouds reflected the lights of the city
and its homes to provide a pale, ambient glow.  Nest could pick out the
shapes of the massive conifers--cedar, spruce, and fir--interspersed
with broad-leaved madrona.  Thick patches of thimble-berry and salal
flanked the pathway, and fern fronds drooped in feathery clusters.

Rain carpeted the grass and leaves in crystal shards, and mist worked
its way through the branches and trunks of the trees in snakelike
tendrils.  The park was silent and empty-feeling.  It could have been
Sinnissippi Park on a cold, wet fall night, except that the limbs of
the northwest conifers, unlike their deciduous midwest cousins, were
still thick with needles and did not lift bare, skeletal limbs against
the sky.

The trail branched ahead, but Ariel chose the way without hesitation,
her slender childish body wraithlike in the gloom.  Nest glanced right
and left at every turn, her senses pricked for movement and sound, wary
of this dark, misty place.  The uneasiness she had felt earlier was
still with her.  At times like these, she wished she had Wraith to
protect her.  The big ghost wolf had been a reassuring presence.  She
did not think often of him these days, not since he had disappeared.

She was surprised to discover now that she missed him.

The trail climbed and she went with it, working her way through heavy
old growth, fallen limbs, and patches of thick scrub.  Clearings opened
every so often to either side, filled with dull, gray light reflected
off the heavy clouds.  The rain continued to mist softly, a wetness
that settled on her face and hands and left the air tasting of damp
earth and wood.  Now and again, her shoes slipped on patches of mud and
leaves, causing her to lose her balance.  Each time, she righted
herself and continued, keeping Ariel in sight ahead of her.

They topped a rise, and Nest could just make out the black, choppy
surface of Puget Sound through the trees.  They were atop a bluff that
dropped away precipitously beyond a low rail fence.  The trail they
followed branched yet again, following the edge of the cliff both ways
along the fence into the darkness.

Ariel turned left and led Nest to a small clearing with a rain- soaked
wooden bench that looked out over the sound.

"Here," she said, stopping.

Nest drew even with her and looked around doubtfully.

"What happens now?"

Ariel was insistent.

"We wait."

The minutes ticked by as they stood in the chilly darkness, listened to
the rain falling softly through the trees, and watched the mist float
in and out of the damp, shiny trunks in shifting forms.  Wind rustled
the topmost branches in sudden gusts that showered them with water. Out
on the sound, ferry boats and container ships steamed by, their lights
steady and bright against the black waters.

Nest hugged herself with her arms and dug the toe of her shoe into the
wet earth, growing impatient.

Then a familiar shadow flitted across the darkness, appearing abruptly
from out of the woods.  It swept down to the bench in a long glide and
settled on the back rest, folding into itself.  It was an owl, and on
its back rode a sylvan, twiggy legs and arms entwined within the
feathers of the great bird's neck.

The sylvan jumped off the owl with a quick, nimble movement, slid down
the back rest, and stood facing her on the bench seat.  She peered
through the gloom in an effort to make out his features.  He was
younger than Pick, his wooden face not so lined, his beard not so
mossy, and his limbs not so gnarled.  He wore a bit of vine strapped
about his waist, and from the vine dangled a small tube.

"You Nest?"  he asked perfunctorily.

She nodded, coming forward several steps, closing the distance between
them to six feet.

"I'm Boot, and this is Audrey.  " The sylvan indicated the owl.  It was
a breed with which she was not familiar, something a little larger and
lighter colored than the barn owls she was used to.

"We're the guardians of this park."

"Pleased to meet you," she said.

"You grew up in a park like this, I understand.  You're friends with
another sylvan."

"His name is Pick."

"You can do magic, too.  That's unusual for a human.  What sort of
magic can you do?"

Nest hesitated.

"I'm not sure I can do any magic.  I haven't used it for a while.  I
have some problems with it.  It hurts me to use it sometimes."

Ariel came forward, a delicate white presence in the night, dark eyes
shirting from one to the other.

"Tell her about the demon, Boot," she whispered anxiously.

The sylvan nodded.

"Don't rush me.  There's plenty of time to do that.

All night, if we need it, and we don't.  Where demons are concerned,
you don't want to rush things.  You want to step carefully.  You want
to watch where you go.  "

Tell her;" The sylvan harrumphed irritably.  Nest thought of Pick.
Apparently sylvans became curmudgeons at a young age.

Audrey ruffled her feathers against a rush of wind and damp, and
resettled herself on the bench back, luminous round eyes fixing on
Nest.  Boot folded his skinny arms and muttered inaudibly into his
beard and gave every appearance of refusing to say another word.

"I have a friend who is in danger from this demon," Nest announced
impulsively, not wanting to lose him to a mood swing.

"Whatever you can tell me might help save his life."

Boot stared at her.  All right.  No reason not to, I guess.  You've
come a long way, haven't you?  Well, then.  "

The arms unlocked and dropped to his sides.

"The demon came to this park about three months ago.  I'd never seen it
before.  I'd seen others from time to time, but they were always
passing through on their way to somewhere else, and they were cloaked
in their human guise and had been for a long time.  But this one came
deliberately.  This one came with a purpose.  It was night, midsummer,
and it walked into the park just after sunset and came up to the cliffs
and waited in the trees where the paths don't go.  It was hiding,
waiting for something.  I was patrolling the park on Audrey and saw it
from the air.  I knew what it was right away.  So Audrey and I circled
back behind it, keeping to the high limbs, and found a place to
watch."

"What did it look like?"  Nest asked quickly.

"I'm getting to that, if you please," the sylvan informed in a
no-nonsense tone of voice.

"Don't rush me."  He cleared his throat.

"It was a man.  He was tall and thin, rather different looking--dark
hair and small features.  He wore a long coat, no hat.  I got a good
look at him through the scope."  He held up the tube tied to his
waist.

"Spyglass.  Lets me see everything.  Anyway, he stood there in the
shadows for a long time.  Maybe an hour or more.  The park emptied
out.

It was a bright, moonlit night, so I could see what happened next very
clearly.  "

He paused meaningfully.

"Another demon appeared.  It crawled up the cliff face from somewhere
below, from the shoreline.  I don't know where it came from before
that.  This one was huge, barely recognizable as human, its disguise
sort of thrown together.  It was thick-limbed and hunched over and all
hairy and twisted.  It looked more like an animal than a human, but a
human is what it was trying to play at being, sure enough.

"So the first demon steps out from its hiding place to talk to the
second.  I have good ears, so I could hear them.

"What are you doing here?"  the first one asks.

"I've come to kill him," says the second.

"You can't kill him, he's mine, he belongs to me, and I want him
alive," says the first.

"It doesn't matter what you want.  He's too dangerous to be allowed to
live, and besides, I want to taste his magic.  I want to make it my
own," says the second.

"Then they begin shrieking at each other, making threatening gestures,
calling each other names."  Boot shook his leafy head.

"Well, you can imagine.  I'm watching all this and wondering what in
the world is going on.  Two demons fighting over a human!  I'd never
heard of such a thing!  Why would they do that when there's a whole
world full of them, and more than a few ready, willing, and eager to be
made victims?"

The sylvan came forward to the very edge of the bench, head inclined
conspiratorially.

"So then the first demon says, " You have no right to interfere in
this.  The Knight belongs to me.  His magic and his life are mine.  "
Well, now I know what they're talking about.  They're quarreling over a
Knight of the Word.  For some reason, they seem to think there's one
out there waiting to be claimed!  I've heard of this happening. 
Rarely, but now and then.  But I don't know about this Knight.  I don't
know much of anything that happens outside the park, so I'm a little
surprised to hear about this.  I pay close attention."

Boot glanced around at the darkness as if someone else might be
listening.

"So this is what happens next.  The second demon pushes the first and
says, " I was sent to make certain of him.  I tracked him before you,
in other cities and other towns.  You stole him from me.  I want him
back.  " The first demon backs away.

"Don't be stupid!  You don't have a chance with him!  I'm the one who
can turn him!  I can make him one of us!  I have already started to do
so!"

"But the second demon isn't listening.  Its hair is bristling and its
eyes are narrowed and hard.  I can feel Audrey trembling next to me,
her talons digging into the limb from which we watch.

"He has made you weak and foolish.  You think like the humans you
pretend to be," says the second demon, advancing again on the first.

"You are not strong enough to do what is needed.  I must do it for you.
I must kill him myself."

"Then the second demon pushes the first demon hard and sends it
sprawling into the brush."

Nest felt the skin on the back of her neck crawl with the idea of two
demons fighting over possession of John Ross.  She should have taken
the time to find him and bring him with her.  He should be listening to
this.  If he were, he would be hard-pressed to argue that he wasn't in
any real danger.

Boot nodded, as if reading her mind.

"It was a bad moment.

The first demon gets back to his feet and says, "All right, he's yours.
Take him.  I don't care anymore."  The second demon grunts and sneers
at the first, then turns and moves off down the path.  The first demon
waits until the second is out of sight, then starts to undress.

It takes off its coat and the clothes underneath.  Then it begins to
transform into something else.  It happens quickly.  I have heard of
creatures like this, but I have never seen one--a changeling, a special
kind of demon, able to shift from one form to another in moments where
it takes the others days or even weeks to assume a new disguise.  "

The sylvan took a deep breath.

"It becomes a four-legged creature, a monster, a predator like nothing
I've ever seen.  It has these huge jaws and this massive neck and
shoulders.  A hellhound.  A raver.  It lopes off into the brush after
the second demon.  Audrey and I take to the air and follow, watching.
The changeling catches up to the second demon in seconds.  It doesn't
hesitate.  It attacks instantly, charging out of the brush.  It knocks
the second demon to the ground despite its size and holds it there with
its body weight.  It tears the bigger demon's head from its shoulders,
then rips its body down the middle and fastens on the dark thing inside
that is its soul.  There is a horrible shriek, and the second demon
thrashes and goes limp.  It begins to dissolve.  It turns to ash and
blows away in the summers night breeze.

"The first demon says--growls, actually, and I can hear it even from
atop the trees where Audrey and I watch it begin to change again" --He
belongs to me, he is mine.  " Rain gusted suddenly through the trees,
blown on a fresh wind, and Nest started as the cold droplets blew into
her face.  The weather was worsening, the mist turning to a steady
downpour.  Nest tried to make sense of what the sylvan was telling her,
why it was that the first demon would be so desperate to protect its
interest in John Ross, to keep him alive so that he could be subverted.
Something in the back of her mind nudged at her, a memory of something
that had happened before, but she could not quite manage to identify
it.

Ariel floated past her in the dark, her childlike form looking frail
and exposed against the rush of wind and rain.

"Is that all?"

she asked Boot.

"Is that the end of the story?"

"Not quite," replied the sylvan, dark eyes bright.

"Like I said, the demon begins to change again, but--it's the strangest
thing-this time it changes into ..."

Something huge tore through the woods.  Thick masses of brush shivered
suddenly, shedding water and scattering shadows.  Boot wheeled toward
the movement in frightened recognition, his voice faltering and his
dark eyes blinking in shock.  Ariel gasped sharply and screamed at
Nest.

Then the brush exploded in a shower of branches and leaves, and a
massive black shape hurtled out of the night.

On the advice of Simon Lawrence, Andrew Wren enjoyed a leisurely
dinner at Roy's, topping it off with the chocolate souffle because
everyone around him seemed to be doing the same.  He was not
disappointed.  Then he went back out into the lobby for a nightcap.  He
drank a glass of port and engaged in conversation with a
computer-software salesman from California who was in town to do a
little business with Microsoft, picking up a few new tidbits of
information on Bill Gates in the process (he never knew what was going
to prove useful in his business).  So it was nearing nine o'clock when
he went up to his room to turn in.

He saw the manila envelope as soon as he opened the door, a pale square
packet lying on the dark carpet.  Wary of strange deliveries and having
known more than one investigative journalist who had been the recipient
of a letter bomb, he switched on the light and knelt to examine it.
After a careful check, and noting how thin it was, he decided it was
safe and picked it up.  No writing on it anywhere.  He carried it over
to the small table by the window and set it down.  Then he walked to
the closet and hung his coat, turned on a few more lights, called the
message service to retrieve a call that had come in over the dinner
hour from his editor, and finally went back to the table, sat down in
the straight-backed chair tucked under it, and picked up the envelope
once more.

He knew what it was before he opened it.  His intuition told him in a
loud, clear voice.  It was the material he had been looking for on
Simon Lawrence.  It was the evidence he had come to find.  Maybe it was
from his mysterious source.  Maybe it was from someone else.  Whoever
it was from, it was either going to propel the stalled investigation of
the Wiz to a new level or it was going to end it once and for all.

Wren separated the flap from the envelope and slipped out the sheaf of
papers nestled inside.  He set the envelope aside and began to read. It
took him a long time because the material consisted mostly of
photocopies of bank accounts, transfer slips, records of deposits and
withdrawals, and ledger pages, and it was difficult to follow.

Besides, he didn't want to jump to conclusions.  After a while, he
loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves.  His glasses slid down his
nose, and his face assumed an intense, professorial look that
accompanied deep thought.  His burly body slouched heavily in the
hard-backed chair, but he paid no attention to his discomfort.

Outside, on the rain-slicked streets below, a stream of traffic crawled
by, and every so often someone would forget what city they were in and
honk their horn in irritation.

When he was done reading, he picked up the phone and called down for a
bottle of scotch, a bottle of Evian, and some ice.  He was treating
himself, but he was fortifying himself as well.  He knew what he had
here, but it was going to take him half the night to sort it out.  He
wanted everything in order when he went to see Simon Lawrence in the
morning.  He wanted it all clear in his own head as well as on paper,
so that he could analyze quickly any explanations that the Wiz chose to
give.  Not that he was likely to give any, if Wren was reading this
right.  Not that he was likely to want ever to see Andrew Wren again.

Because what someone had uncovered was evidence of a systematic
siphoning of funds from the accounts of Fresh Start and Pass/ Go an
elaborate and intricate series of transfers from accounts set up to
receive charitable donations that dispersed them to other accounts
within the corporations, applied them to payments of charges that
didn't actually exist, and eventually deposited them in non corporate
accounts.  The corporate books he had reviewed yesterday, and which
presumably the corporate auditors reviewed as well, disguised the
transfers in various ways, none of which could be uncovered readily in
the absence of a comprehensive audit, the kind you didn't usually get
unless the IRS came calling.

That hadn't happened as yet, and there was no reason to think it would
happen anytime soon.  The embezzling had been going on for less than a
year, and from what Andrew Wren could tell, it involved only two
people.

Or maybe only one.

Wren paused, rethinking the matter.  Two, if they were both
participating.  One, if the second was being used as a front.  Wren
couldn't tell which from the photocopies alone.  It would require an
analysis of the signatures on the deposits and withdrawals.  It would
require an extensive investigation.

He shook his head.  The photocopies showed the stolen funds being
deposited into the private accounts of two people.  One was Simon
Lawrence.  But why would the Wiz steal from his own foundation?

Stranger things had happened, sure.  But Simon Lawrence was so
committed to his work, and his work had brought him nationwide
recognition.  If all he wanted out of this was more money, he could
quit tomorrow and go to work as a CEO for any number of corporations.

The thefts were recent.  Why would the Wiz decide now, after achieving
so much, to start stealing from his company?  The thefts were clever,
but they weren't perfect.  Sooner or later, someone would find out what
was happening in any event, and the Wiz would be exposed.  He had to
know that.

Wren poured two fingers of scotch into a glass of ice and sipped at it
thoughtfully.  The alcohol burned pleasantly as it slipped down his
throat.  Something wasn't right about this.  The Wiz wouldn't steal
from himself without a very strong reason, and then he would steal more
than this because he had to know he wouldn't be able to get away with
it for very long, so he had to make his killing early.

Wren stared out the window into the night.  It was more likely the
second man was the one doing all the stealing, and he had siphoned some
of the funds into Simon's account so that if he were discovered, he
could always claim he was just a flunky acting on orders.  The public
outcry would pass right over him and settle directly on the Wiz, a
high-profile figure just ripe for lynching.

Andrew Wren nodded slowly.  Yes, that made better sense.  The second
man was doing all the real stealing, and the Wiz was guilty merely of
bad judgment in hiring him.  That was what he believed.  That was what
his instincts told him was the truth.  Of course, he would write the
article based on the facts and let the chips fall where they may,
because that was his job.  So it might be the end of Simon Lawrence in
any event.  In the wake of a scandal like this, the Wiz would be
hard-pressed to escape the fallout.

He sighed.  Sometimes he hated being right so often, having those
infallible instincts that prodded him on and on until he uncovered the
harsh truth of things.  Of course, it hadn't been so difficult this
time.  He wondered who his source was.  It had to be someone inside the
organization, someone who resented Simon and wanted to see him brought
down.

Or possibly, he acknowledged with a lifting of his glass and a small
sip of the scotch, someone who wanted to see John Ross brought down as
well.


chapter 17

Nest Freemark sprang aside at the sound of Ariel's warning, skidding
headfirst across a slick of mud and dead needles as the dark shape
hurtled past.  In a rain-streaked blur she watched it catapult into
Boot and Audrey.  The sylvan was back astride the owl, and the owl was
lifting away into the night.  Both disappeared in a shower of blood and
feathers and bits of wood, there one second and gone the next.  The
dark shape went right through them, bearing them away like a strong
wind, the force of its momentum carrying it back into the night.

"Demon!"  Ariel was screaming as she fled.

"Demon!  Demon!"

Nest scrambled to her feet and began to run after the tatterdemalion.

She had no idea where she was going, only that she had to get away.

She tore down the dirt path that paralleled the cliffs, tennis shoes
slipping and sliding on the muddied track.  She was nearly blind in the
darkness and ram, and she was riddled with fear.  Boot and Audrey were
gone, dead in one terrible second, and the image of them exploding
apart burned in the air before her as she ran, raw and terrible.

"Faster, Nest!"  Ariel cried frantically.

Nest could hear the demon behind her, pursuing them.  She could hear
the wet sound of its paws on the muddy path over the steady thrum of
the rain.  What sort of creature had it made itself into?  She had only
caught a glimpse, and she had never seen anything like it before.  Her
heart pounded in her chest, and her breath was fiery in her throat. She
was deep in the woods and there was nowhere to hide, but if she didn't
reach a place of safety in the next few seconds, the demon would have
her.

Her eyes flicked left and right, and a new well of fear opened
within.

Running with her were dozens of feeders, come out of nowhere in the
rainy gloom, faceless squat shapes keeping pace as they darted through
the trees, eyes filled with excitement and anticipation.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw the demon closing fast, its black
shape stretched out low to the ground and hurtling forward.  A surge of
adrenaline propelled her ahead, and for a few seconds she managed to
increase her speed enough to put a little more distance between them.
But then the beast was closing on her again, and she could see the
gleam of its teeth and eyes in the misty gloom.

Ahead and to her left, there were only more trees and darkness.  To her
right, beyond the low rail fence, the cliff fell away into a void.

There were lights from houses and streets, but they were distant
pinpricks through the woods, still far, far away.

She knew she was not going to escape.  She was fit and strong;

she was a world-class distance runner.  But the thing pursuing her was
too much for any human.  She faltered slightly, preparing to turn and
fight.  The demon burst out of the night, a silent black predator,
gathering itself to strike.  She saw it clearly, revealed for just an
instant in a patch of gray light, some sort of monstrous hyena, all
neck and blunt muzzle, with huge jaws and rows of teeth.  She swerved
through the trees and out again, scattering feeders everywhere, trying
to throw the demon off, but it was quick and agile, and it followed her
easily.

"Nest, no!"  she heard Ariel scream a final time, turning.

The demon caught up to her at a wide spot where the trail took a slow
bend to the left, away from the cliff.  She looked back and saw that it
was right on top of her.  She watched it gather itself, preparing to
bear her struggling and helpless to the ground.  Her fear enveloped her
like a death shroud, choking off her breath, suffocating her.

Something wild and fierce blossomed inside her in response, and for
just an instant she thought it was her magic, trying to break free. But
her mind was frozen by the demon's closeness, by the gleam of its
yellow eyes and the certainty of what was going to happen next, and she
could not find a way to help it.

Feeders streamed through the trees, leaping wildly, shadows with eyes,
gathered for the kill.

But as the demon lunged for Nest, rising up against the night, Ariel
threw herself into its path, a white blur against the dark, and
collapsed around its head like a child's bedsheet.  Demon and
tatterdemalion went down in a tangled heap, rolling over and over on
the muddied earth.  Nest backed away, staring in horror at the
thrashing dark knot.  In seconds all that remained of Ariel was a
silken white shroud that clung tenaciously to the momentarily blinded
demon.

Then even that was gone, and the demon was clawing its way back to its
feet, snarling in fury.

Nest, momentarily transfixed by the struggle taking place before her,
wheeled to flee once more.  But she had lost her sense of direction
entirely, forgetting the bend in the trail and the low rail fence at
her back.  She took one quick stride and toppled right over the
fence.

She was up again instantly, thrashing at the heavy brush, trying to
escape its clinging embrace.  Then the ground disappeared beneath her
feet, and she was falling head over heels down a rainslicked slope.

She groped futilely for something to hang on to, skidding and sliding
along slick bare earth and through long grass, careening off bushes and
exposed tree roots, the darkness whirling about her in a kaleidoscope
of distant lights and falling rain.  Her stomach lurched with each
sudden change of direction, and she tucked in her arms and legs and
covered her head with her hands, waiting for something to slow her.

When she hit the base of the precipice, the breath was knocked from her
lungs and her head was left spinning.  She lay where she was for an
instant, listening to the sound of the rain.  Then she was back on her
feet and running, dazed and battered, but otherwise unhurt.  A wide,
grassy embankment stretched along the base of the cliffs, fronting the
dark, choppy waters of Puget

Sound, and a concrete path paralleled the waters edge.  She wheeled
left down the path, heading for the lights of the residences that lay
closest.

Already she could hear the sounds of the demon's pursuit.  It was
coming down the cliff face after her, scrambling through the brush and
grasses, branches and roots snapping as it tore through them.  She
gritted her teeth against her fear and rage.  Feeders ran at her side,
an unshakable presence.  Her windbreaker was muddied and torn, pieces
of it flapping wildly against her body.  If she could reach the houses
outside the park, she would have a chance.  Her lungs burned as she
forced herself to run faster.  Again she thought to turn and face the
thing that chased her, to summon up the magic that had protected her so
often before.  But she had no way of knowing if she still had the use
of it, and no time to find out.

Her feet splashed loudly through the rain that puddled on the concrete,
spraying surface water everywhere.  Her clothing was soaked through,
and her curly hair was plastered to her head.  She could no longer see
or hear the demon, but she knew it was back there.  She thought of
Ariel, and tears filled her eyes.  Dead because of her.  All of
them--Boot, Audrey, and Ariel--dead because of her.  She ran faster,
sweeping past grassy picnic areas with tables and iron cookers, swing
sets and benches, and a small pavilion with a wooden roof and a
concrete floor.  To her right, the sound lapped against the shoreline,
driven by the wind.  The world about her was a vast, empty, rain-swept
void.

She wished desperately that Wraith was there.  Wraith would protect
her.  Wraith would be a match for the demon.  A part of her, deep
inside, shrieked defiantly that he was still there and would come if
she summoned him.  She almost thought to do so, to wheel back and call
for him, to bring him to her side once more.  But Wraith was gone,
disappeared over a year ago, and there was no reason to think he would
come to her now, after so long.

She cast aside the last of her futile wishes for what couldn't be, and
concentrated on gaining the safety of the city streets.  She could see
the residences clearly now, bulky shapes hunkered down against the
misty gloom, lights a blurry yellow through rain-streaked windows.  She
could see cars moving on the street further south, distant still, but
recognizable.

She risked a quick glance over her shoulder.  In the darkness, beyond
the feeders trailing after her, the demon's larger shape was visible.

The concrete path rose ahead of her, leading out of the park's lower
regions.  She swept up the rise without slowing, ignoring the hot, raw
feeling in her lungs and the cramping in her stomach.  She was not
going to give up.  She was not going to die.  She gained the summit of
the rise, broke through the empty parking lot, and was on the street.

She crossed in a gust of wind and rain that blew sideways at her,
making for the houses on the other side.  The park was a black mass
behind her, an impenetrable wall of darkness, the jagged tips of the
ancient trees piercing the skyline.  The street was momentarily empty
of cars; she would find no help there.  The feeders stayed with her,
keeping pace easily, yellow eyes gleaming in the night.  She ignored
them, concentrating on the houses ahead.  Several were dark or poorly
lit, and there was no sign of life.  She passed them by.  Please, she
prayed silently, let someone be home!  Out of the corner of her eye,
she saw movement behind her at the head of the pathway leading out of
the park.  The demon was coming.

There was a brightly lit picture window in a brick cottage that lay
ahead, and she could see a man reading a newspaper in an easy chair.

She crossed the lawn in a rush, leaped onto the cement steps, and tried
to wrench open the screen door.  It was locked.  She pounded on it
wildly, looking over her shoulder as she did.  The demon was in the
middle of the street, its massive body stretched out as it ran, coming
straight for her.  All around her the feeders leaped and scrambled
anxiously.  She hissed at them and pounded on the door again.

The heavy inner door opened and the man stood there, staring at her
through the screen with a mix of irritation and surprise that quickly
changed to shock when he got a better look.

"Please, let me in," she begged, trying to keep her voice even, to keep
the fear out of it.  She could see herself reflected in his glasses,

disheveled, muddied, scraped, and bruised.

"Good Lord, young lady!"  he exclaimed, wide-eyed.  He was an older
man, white-haired and slightly stooped.  He peered at her doubtfully.

"What happened to you?"

He was still talking to her through the screen.  She felt her
desperation threaten to overwhelm her, felt the demons breath on her
neck, its claws and teeth on her body.

"An accident!"  she gasped.

"I

need to call for help!  Please.  "

He unfastened the latch now, finally, and the moment he began to crack
the door, she wrenched it open and rushed inside, ignoring his startled
surprise as she pushed him aside, slamming the screen door, then the
inner door, and locking them both.

The man stared at her.

"Young lady, what in the world ..."

"There's something chasing me ..."  she began.

The demon slammed into the screen door from the other side with such
force that it tore it off entirely.  Then it hammered into the inner
door, once, twice, and the hinges began to loosen.

"What in Gods name?"  gasped the older man as he stumbled backward in
fright.

"Get out of here!"  she shouted, racing past him for the back of the
house.

"Call the police!"

The demon was hammering into the door, pounding at it in fury.  It
meant to have her, and it didn't care what stood in its way.  She raced
down a hall into a kitchen, where an older woman stood washing dishes
at a sink.  The woman looked up in surprise, blinked, and stared at her
with the same look of shock as the man.

"Get out of the house now!"  Nest screamed at her.

Sorry, sorry, sorry!  she apologized silently as she raced out the back
door into the night.

Rain and wind beat at her.  The storm was growing worse.  She glanced
left and right into the darkness, then broke across the backyard,
heading north once more.  If she could reach the service station the
taxi driver had told her about, she could call for help there.  Porch
lights came on in a few of the houses around her.  She could no longer
hear the sound of the demon trying to break down the door of the house
she had abandoned.  That meant it knew she was gone and was coming for
her again.

She crossed through several backyards before coming to a fence.  She
would have to climb it or go back out front.  Rain and sweat streaked
her forehead and spilled into her eyes.  Her strength was ebbing.  She
wheeled left along the fence and raced for the street once more.

When she broke into the open, she was alone but for one or two feeders;
the rest had fallen away.  There was no sign of the demon.  She felt a
moment of elation, then saw a flicker of movement behind her.

In a panic, she raced toward the street.  A car swept out of the
darkness, its tires throwing up spray, and she ran for it, waving her
arms and yelling.  But the car never slowed, and a moment later she was
alone again.  In the fading sweep of the car's headlights, she caught a
momentary glimpse of the demon charging toward her.  She turned back to
the houses, searching.  There was a two-story with a glassed-in porch
and lights in almost every window.  She made for that one.  Cars lined
the curbing in front.  A party was in progress.  She felt a hot rush of
satisfaction.  This time she would find the help she needed.

She raced up the steps and yanked on the handle of the porch door.  The
door opened easily, and she was inside in the blink of an eye.  She
slammed the door behind her, threw the lock, rushed to the front door,
and began to pound.  Inside, she could hear the sound of laughter and
music.  She pounded harder.

The door opened.  A young woman dressed in a sweater and jeans stood
there, holding a drink in her hand and staring in disbelief.

"Please let me in!"  Nest began once more.

"There's someone after me, and I need to call--" A storm window flew
apart in an explosion of jagged shards as the demon crashed onto the
porch and slammed into the front wall of the house, snarling and
snapping at the air with its massive jaws and hooked teeth.  The young
woman screamed in terror, and Nest shoved her back inside the house,
followed her in, slammed the door shut, and threw the bolt lock.  The
young woman went down in a heap and lay there, sobbing.  They were in a
hallway leading to a series of rooms, the nearest of which was filled
with other young people who stared out at them in surprise.  Laughter
and light conversation gave way to exclamations.  Nest went past them
down the hall in a rush.  Behind her, the demon was tearing at the
door, stripping away the wooden facade as if it were cardboard.

Party-goers spilled out into the entry to help the young woman back to
her feet, some calling after Nest, some staring wide-eyed toward the
sounds coming from outside the door.

"Don't open it!"  Nest shouted back at them.  Not that anyone was that
stupid, she thought in a sudden moment of giddiness.

At the end of the hallway lay the kitchen.  Inside, she found a phone
and dialed 911.  Maybe the old couple down the block had already done
so, but maybe not.  She told the operator there was a forcible entry in
progress at a house just north of Lincoln Park.  She said there was
screaming.  She gave the phone number of the house and then hung up.

That ought to bring someone.

There was a new sound of glass breaking, this time from somewhere at
the side of the house.  The demon was trying to get in another way. She
leaned against the kitchen counter, listening to the sounds, staring
into space.  If she remained where she was, she was risking the safety
of the people in the house.  If she went out again, she was risking her
own safety.  She closed her eyes and tried to think.  She was so
tired.

But she was alive, too, and that was more than she could say about Boot
and Audrey and Ariel.  She pushed away from the counter and went
through a laundry room to a back door.  The demon was still trying to
break in from the other side of the house.  She could hear the
party-goers shouting and screaming, crowding down the hallway, trying
to get away from the intruder.  She could hear the phone begin to
ring.

She yanked open the door and fled once more into the night.

She was running through a tall hedge into a neighbor's backyard when
she heard the boom of a gun.  Maybe the shooter would get lucky.  You
couldn't kill a demon with a gun, but you could destroy its current
guise and force it to take time to re-form.  If that happened, it would
be done chasing after her.

But she knew she couldn't count on that.  She couldn't count on
anything except that the demon would keep coming.  She crossed through
several more backyards, then caught sight of something that might save
her.  A transit bus was just pulling to a stop down the street.  She
broke from between the houses and raced for it, yelling at the top of
her lungs, waving her arms wildly.  She saw the bus driver turn and
look at her.  The look was a familiar one by now.  She didn't care. She
raced around the front of the bus and through the open door.

"Hey, what's going on?"  the driver demanded as she dug frantically
into her pockets for some change.

"Just close the door and start driving," she ordered, glancing quickly
over her shoulder.

Whatever he saw on her face convinced him not to argue.  He closed the
doors and put the bus in gear.  The bus swung away from the curb and
into the street, rain beating against its wide front windows.

She had just begun to make her way down the aisle when something heavy
crashed into the doors, causing the metal to buckle and the glass to
splinter.  There were only three other passengers on the bus, and all
three froze, eyes bright with shock and fear.  The driver cursed and
stepped on the gas.  Nest wheeled back toward the damaged doors,
hanging on the metal bar of a seat back for support, searching the
darkness beyond.

A huge, wolfish shadow was running next to the bus, eyes gleaming
brightly in the night.

Then a police car crested the hill in front of them, coming fast,
lights flashing.  It swept past without slowing, searchlight cutting
through the rainy dark.

The shadow disappeared.

Nest exhaled slowly and slipped into the seat beside her, heart
pounding in her chest.  When she looked down at her hands, she saw that
they were shaking.

The ride back into the city was a blur.  Once she determined that the
bus was going in the right direction, she quit paying attention. People
got on and off, but she didn't look at their faces.

She stared out the window into the darkness, thinking.

It took a long time for the fear to subside, and when it did she was
filled with cold rage.  Three lives had been snuffed out quicker than a
candle's flame, and no one but she even knew about it and no one but
she cared.  Boot, Audrey and Ariel--a sylvan, an owl, and a
tatterdemalion.  Creatures of the forest, of magic and imagination.

Humans didn't even know they existed.  What difference did their loss
make to anything?  The unfairness of it burned inside her.  She
struggled for a time with the possibility that she was to blame for
what had happened, that she had brought the demon down on them.  But
there was no reason to believe this was so, and her guilt stemmed
mostly from the fact they were dead and she was alive.  But barely
alive, she kept reminding herself.  Alive, because she had been
fortunate enough to step off a cliff and survive the fall.  Alive,
because she had evaded a handful of serious attempts by a monster to
rip her to shreds.

She blinked in the sudden glare of a passing truck's headlights.  How
had the demon found out about her meeting?  There was a question that
screamed for an answer.  She stared harder at the darkness and tried to
reason it through.  The demon might have followed her.  But to do so,
it must have been following her all day.  Was that possible?  Could it
have done so without Ariel or Two Bears knowing?  Without her feeling
something, a twinge of warning initiated by her dormant magic? Maybe.

The magic wasn't so dependable anymore.  But if the demon hadn't been
following her, then it must have intercepted her message to John
Ross.

It must have been listening in when she called.  Or learned something
from Stefanie Winslow or from John himself.

She gritted her teeth at the idea that she had been caught so unaware,
so vulnerable, and that she had run--run!  --rather than stand and
fight.  She hated what had happened, and she was not pleased with how
she had behaved.  It didn't matter that she could explain it away by
telling herself what she had done had kept her alive and that she had
reacted on instinct.  She had fled and not stood her ground, while
three other lives had been taken, and no amount of rationalization
could change how that made her feel.

As she rode through the darkness and the rain, struggling with the rush
of emotions churning inside, she was reminded of how she had felt at
Cass Minter's funeral.  She had stood there during the graveside
services on a beautiful, sun-filled day trying to make herself believe
that her best and oldest friend was gone.  It hadn't seemed possible.

Not Cass, who was only eighteen and had lived so little of her life.

Nest had stood there and tried to will her friend alive again, furious
at having had her taken away so unexpectedly and abruptly and
pointlessly.  She had stood in a rage as the minister read from his
Bible in a soft, comforting voice, trying in vain to make sense of the
arbitrary nature of one young woman's life and death.

She felt like that now, thinking back on the events in Lincoln Park.

She had been in Seattle for less than twenty-four hours.  She had come
with simple expectations and a single purpose to fulfill.  But it had
all gotten much more complicated than anything she might have imagined.
It had become rife with madness.

She watched the lights and the buildings of the downtown rise out of
the darkness, sitting sodden, muddied, and exhausted in her seat.  West
Seattle fell away behind her, disappearing into the dark, and her rage
faded with her fear, and both were replaced by an immense sadness.  She
began to cry.  She cried softly, soundlessly, and no one around her
appeared to notice.  She wanted to go home again.  She wanted none of
this ever to have happened.  A huge, empty well opened inside, echoing
with the sounds of voices she would never hear again.  Some came from
Lincoln Park and the present.  Some came from Hopewell and the past.

She felt abandoned and alone.  She could not find a center for the
downward spiral in which she was caught.

She left the bus at a downtown stop and walked through the mostly empty
streets of the city to her hotel.  She wondered vaguely if the demon
might be tracking her still, but she no longer cared.  She almost hoped
it was, that it would come for her again and she would have another
chance to face it.  It was a perverse wish, unreasonable and foolish.
Yet it made her feel better.  It gave her renewed strength.  It told
her she was still whole.

But no one approached her or even tried to speak to her.  She reached
the hotel and went into the lobby and up to her room, locking the door
behind her, throwing the deadbolt and fastening the chain.  She
stripped off her ruined clothes, showered, and climbed into bed.

There, in the warm enfolding dark, just before she fell asleep, with
images of Ariel and Boot and Audrey spinning in a wash of streetlight
shining brightly through her bedroom window, she made herself a promise
that she would see this matter through to the end.


WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 31


chapter 18

When Stefanie Winslow woke him at midnight, John Ross was so deeply
asleep that for a few seconds he didn't know where he was.  The bedside
clock flashed the time at him, so he knew that much, but his brain was
fuzzy and muddled and he could not seem to focus.

"John, wake up!"

He blinked and tried to answer, but his mouth was filled with cotton,
his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth, and there was a buzzing
in his ears.  He blinked in response to her words, recognizing her
voice, hearing the urgency in it.  She was shaking him, and the room
swam as he tried to push himself up on one elbow.

He felt as if he were drugged.

"John, there's something wrong!"

His memory returned through a haze of confusion and sluggishness.  He
was in his bedroom--their bedroom.  He had come back there after his
lunch with Nest, to think things over, to be alone.  He had thought
about her warning, about the possibility of a demons presence, about
the danger that might pose to him.  The afternoon had passed away into
evening, the weather outside slowly deteriorating, sunshine fading to
clouds as the rain moved in.  Stef had come in from work, stopping off
to deliver a message from Nest and to see how he was.  She had made him
pasta and tea and gone out again.  That was the last he remembered.

He blinked anew, struggling with his blurred vision in the darkness,
with the refusal of his body to respond to the commands from his brain.
Stefanie bent over him, trying to pull him upright.

The message from Nest..

That she was going to West Seattle for a meeting with a sylvan.  That
the sylvan had seen the demon she was looking for.  That this was her
chance to prove to him her warning was valid.  Her words were coded,
but unmistakable.  Stef had asked him if he knew what they meant, and
he had, but couldn't tell her, so he had been forced to concoct an
explanation.

The message had been very upsetting.  He didn't like the idea of Nest
wandering around the city looking for a demon.  If there actually was
one and it found out what she was doing, it would try to stop her.  She
was resourceful and her magic gave her a measure of protection against
creatures of the Void, but she was no match for a demon.

But when he had started to go after her, Stef had quickly intervened.

She had felt his forehead and advised him he had a fever.  When he
insisted he was going anyway, she had insisted with equal fervor that
at least he would have something to eat first, and she had made him the
pasta.  Then she had left for her press conference with Simon,
promising to be home soon, and he had moved to the sofa to finish his
tea, closed his eyes for just a moment, and .  And woken now.

Except that he had a vague memory of Simon Lawrence being there, too,
coming in through the door right after Stef had gone, saying something
he couldn't remember ..

He rubbed his eyes angrily and forced his body into a sitting position
on the side of the bed, Stef helping to guide him into position.

"John, damn it, you have to wake up!"  she hissed almost angrily,
shaking him.

His head drooped, heavy and unresponsive.  What in the world was wrong
with him?

He slept like this often these days, ever since the dreams had stopped
and he had ceased to be a Knight of the Word.  He had given up his
charge and his responsibilities and his search, and the dreams had
faded and sleep had returned.  But his sleep had turned hard and quick;
it frequently felt as if he were awake again almost immediately.  There
was no sense of having rested, of slumbering as he once had.  He was
gone and then he was back again, but there had been no journey.  Stef
marvelled at the soundness of his sleep, commenting more than once on
how peaceful he seemed, how deeply at rest.  But he felt no peace or
rest on waking, and save for the few times he had dreamed of the old
man and the burning of the city, he had no memory of having slept at
all.

"What's wrong?"  he managed to ask finally, his head lifting.

She bent close, a black shape in the room's darkness.  Streetlight
silhouetted her against the curtained window.

"I think there's a fire at Fresh Start."

His mind was still clouded, and her words rolled through its jumbled
landscape like thick syrup.

"A fire?"

"Will you just get up!"  she shouted in frustration.

"I don't want to call it in unless I'm sure!  I called over to the
night manager and no one answered!  John, I need you!"

He lurched to his feet, an effort that left him dizzy and weak.  It was
as if all the strength had been drained from his body.  He was like a
child.  She helped him over to the window, and he peered out into the
rainy darkness.

"There," she said, pointing, 'at the back of the building, in the
basement windows.  "

Slowly his vision focused on the dark, squarish bulk of the shelter.

At first he didn't see anything.  Then he caught a flicker of something
bright and angry against a pane of glass, low, at ground level.  He
waited a moment, saw it again.  Flames.

He braced himself on the windowsill and tried to shake the cobwebs from
his mind.

"Call 911.  Tell them to get here right away."  He squinted against the
gloom, peering down the empty streets of Pioneer Square.

"Why hasn't the fire alarm gone off?"

She was on the phone behind him, lost in the dark.

"That's what I wondered.  That's why I didn't call it in right away.
You'd think if there was a fire, the alarm ... Hello?  This is
Stefanie

Winslow at 2701 Second Avenue.  I want to report a fire at Fresh
Start.

Yes, I can see it from where I'm standing .  "

She went on, giving her report to the dispatcher.  John Ross moved away
from the window to find his clothes.  He tried a light switch and
couldn't get it to work, gave up, and dressed in the dark.  He was
still weak, still not functioning as he should, but the rush of
adrenaline he had experienced on realizing what was happening had given
him a start on his recovery.  He pulled on jeans, shirt, and walking
shoes, not bothering with socks or underwear, anxious to get moving.
There should be someone on duty at the center.  Whoever it was should
have detected the smoke--should have answered the phone, too, when Stef
called over to see what was wrong.

She was hanging up the phone behind him and heading for the door.

"I've got to get over there, John!"  she called back to him as she
swept out into the living room.

"Stef, wait!"

"Catch up to me as quick as you can!  I'll wake as many people as I can
find and try to get them out!"

The door slammed behind her.  Cursing softly, he finished tying the
laces of his shoes, stumbled through the darkness to the front closet,
pulled on his all-weather coat, grabbed the black walking stick, and
followed her out.

He didn't waste time on the elevator, which was notoriously slow,
heading instead for the stairs, taking them as quickly as he could
manage with his bad leg, hearing her footsteps fading ahead of him
followed by the closing of the stairway door below.  His mind was
clearer now, and his body was beginning to come around as well.  He
limped down the stairs in a swift shamble, using the walking stick and
the railing for support, and he was into the entryway and out the front
door in moments.

Rain beat down in torrents, and the streetlights were murky and diffuse
in the storm-swept gloom.  Second Avenue was deserted and eerily quiet.
Where were the fire engines?  He left the sidewalk and crossed through
the downpour, head lowered against gusts of wind that blew the rain
into his face with such force that he could barely make out where he
was going.

Ahead, he watched Stefanie's dark figure pause at the front door of the
shelter, pounding at it, then fumbling with her keys to release the
lock.  The building was dark, save for a glimmer of night-lights in the
upper dormitories and front lobby.  Inside, everything was silent and
still.

Then the front door was open and Stef was inside, disappearing into the
gloom.  As he drew nearer, he saw rolling gray smoke leaking from the
basement windows and the front entry, escaping the building to mix with
the mist and rain outside.  His chest tightened with fear.  In an old
building like this, a fire would spread quickly.  He shouted after
Stefanie, trying to warn her, but his words were blown away on the
wind.

He reached the front door, still open from Stef's entry, and rushed
inside.  The interior was murky with smoke, and he could barely see
well enough to make his way across the lobby to the hallway and the
offices beyond.  The stairway door to the upper floors was open, and he
could hear shouts and cries from above.  He coughed violently, covered
his mouth with his wet sleeve, and tried to find some sign of the night
manager.  He couldn't remember who had the duty this week, but whoever
it was, was nowhere to be found.  He searched the length of the hallway
and all the offices without success.

The basement door was closed.  Smoke leaked from its seams, and it was
hot to the touch.  He ignored his instincts and wrenched it open.

Clouds of smoke billowed forth, borne on a wave of searing heat.  He
shouted down the stairs, but there was no response.  He started down,
but the heat and smoke drove him back.  He could see the flames
spreading along the walls, climbing to the higher floors.  Wooden
tables, filing bins and cabinets, records and charts, and even the
stairway were burning.

He slammed the door shut again, backing away.

There were footsteps on the stairway behind him, the women and children
coming down from the upper floors.  He limped over to meet them so that
he could direct them to the front door.  They appeared out of the
gloom, dim shapes against the haze of smoke.  They stumbled down in
ones and twos, coughing and crying and cursing in equal measure, the
children clinging to their mothers, the mothers clinging back, the
women without children helping both, the whole bunch wrapped in robes
and coats and even sheets.  The smoke was growing thicker and the heat
increasing.  He shouted at them to hurry, urging them on.  He tried to
count heads, to determine how many had come out so he could know how
many were still inside.  But he couldn't remember the number in
residence, and he didn't know how many might have been admitted that
afternoon after he left.  Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty- three--they
were filing past him in larger groups now, bumping up against one
another in their haste to get out.

Thirty-five, thirty-six.  There had to be at least ninety, probably
more like a hundred.

He peered through the haze, feeling the heat grow about him, seeing red
flickers from down the hallway at the back of the building.  The fire
was climbing through the air vents.

There was still no sign of Stef.

Sirens screamed up to the front doorway, and firefighters clad in
flame-retardant gear rushed inside in a knot.  Ross was down on one
knee now, coughing violently, eyes burning with the smoke, head
spinning.  They reached out for him and pulled him to his feet.  He was
too weak to resist, barely able to keep hold of his staff.

Hoses were being dragged through the doorway, and he could hear the
sound of glass being broken.

"Who else is in here?"  he heard someone ask.

He shook his head.

"More women and children ... upstairs.  Stef is up there ... helping
them."  He retched violently and doubled over.

"A

night manager .  somewhere.  "

They hauled him outside into the cool, rainy night, propped him against
the side of an ambulance, and gave him oxygen.  He gulped it down
greedily, his eyes gradually beginning to clear, his sight to return.
Knots of women and children huddled all around him, shivering in the
cold night air.

His gaze settled on Fresh Start.  Flames were climbing the exterior of
the walls, shooting out of the second- and third-story windows.

Stef!

He lurched to his feet and tried to push his way back inside, but hands
closed tightly on his arms and shoulders and pulled him back again.

"You can't do that, sir," a voice informed him quickly.

"Get back now, please."

Windows exploded, showering the street with shards of glass.

"But she's still in there!"  he gasped frantically, trying to make them
understand, fighting to break free.

More women and children were being hustled out, escorted by
firefighters.  A hook and ladder truck had rolled into position, and
the extension was being run up toward the roof.  Police cars had
arrived to protect the firefighters and control traffic, and there were
flashing lights everywhere.  At the fringe of the action, a crowd was
gathering to watch from behind cordoned lines.  The mix of rain and
hydrant water had turned the streets to rivers.

Still struggling, Ross was moved back to the makeshift shelter,
overpowered by the combined weight of his protectors.  Fear and anger
swept through him in a red haze, and he felt himself losing control.

Stefl He had to go back in for Stef!

And then she appeared, stumbling out the smoke-filled doorway of the
shelter, a small child clutched in her arms.  Firefighters clustered
around her, taking charge of the child, moving both of them away from
the blaze, the building behind them bright with flames.

Ross broke free of the restraining hands and went to her.  She
collapsed into his arms, and they sank to the rain-soaked pavement.

"Stef, he murmured in relief, hugging her tightly.

"It's all right, John," she whispered, nodding into his shoulder,
firefighters rushing past them in dark knots, hoses trailing after like
snakes.

"It's all right."

resh Start burned for another hour before the fire was extinguished.

The blaze did not spread to the nearby buildings, but was contained.

The shelter was a total loss.  All of the women and children housed in
the building were safely evacuated, in large part because of Stef's
quick action in getting to them before the blaze spread to the sleeping
rooms.

Only the night manager did not escape.  His ruined body was found in
the basement, lying near the charred filing cabinets and records
bins.

It took only a short time to make a tentative identification.  It was a
man, not a woman, and Ray Hapgood had been on duty and was unaccounted
for.

It was three in the morning when Ross and Stef reentered their
apartment and closed the door softly behind them.  They stood holding
each other in the darkness for a long time, breathing into each others
shoulders in the silence, saying nothing.  Ross could not stop thinking
about Ray.

"How could this have happened?"  he whispered finally, his voice still
tight with shock.

Stef shook her head and said nothing.

"What was Ray doing there?"  he pressed, lifting his head away from her
shoulder to look at her.

"It wasn't his duty.  He was supposed to go out to his sister's in
Kent.  He told me so."

Her fingers tightened on his arms.

"Let it go, John."

A stubborn determination infused him.

"I don't want to let it go.  Who had the duty tonight?  Who?"

She lifted her head slightly and he could see the angry welts and
bruises on her face.

"Simon makes up the list, John.  Ask him."

"I'm asking you.  Who had the duty?"

She blinked back the tears that suddenly filled her eyes.  You did.

But when you went home sick.  Ray offered to fill in.  "

He stared at her in disbelief.  He had the duty?  He couldn't remember
it.  Why hadn't he known?  Even before he was sick, why hadn't he
known?

It should have been posted.  It must have been.  He was certain he had
looked at the list.  So why didn't he remember seeing his name?

He felt worn and defeated.  He stood in the dark holding Stef and
looking into her eyes, and for the first time in a long time he was
uncertain about everything.

"Did you see my name?"

"John..."

"Did you, Stef?"

She nodded.

"Yes."  She touched his face.

"This isn't your fault, John.

Just because you weren't there and Ray was doesn't mean its your fault."

He nodded because that was what she expected him to do, but he was
thinking that it felt like it was his fault, just as it had felt like
it was his fault at San Sobel.  Any failure of responsibility or
neglect of duty belonged to him, and nothing could change that.  He
closed his eyes against what he was feeling.  Ray Hapgood had been his
friend, his good friend, and he had let him die.

"John, listen to me."  Stef was speaking again, her face close to his,
her body pressing against him in the darkness.

"I don't know why this happened.  I don't know how it happened.  No one
does.  Not yet.  So don't go jumping to conclusions.  Don't be
shouldering the blame until you know the facts.  I'm sorry Ray is dead.
But you didn't kill him.  And if it had to be someone, I would rather
it was him than you."

He opened his eyes, surprised by her vehemence.

"Stef:

She shook her head emphatically.

"I'm sorry, but that's how I feel:

She kissed him hard, and he kissed her back and held her tightly
against him.

"I just can't believe he's gone: he whispered, his hand stroking her
slender back.

"I know:

They held each other for a long moment, and then she led him to the
bedroom.  They undressed in the dark and crawled into the bed and held
each other again in the cool of the sheets.  The streets beyond their
window were silent and empty.  All the fire trucks, police cars,
ambulances, and bystanders were gone.  The rain had faded away, and the
air was damp and cold in the wake of its passing.  Ross hugged Stef's
smooth body against his own and listened to the soft, velvet sound of
her breathing.

"I could have lost you tonight: he whispered.

She nodded.

"But you didn't:

"I was scared I had: He took a long, slow breath and let it out.

"When you were inside, bringing out the last of those children, and I
saw the flames climbing the walls, I thought for sure I had:

"No, John: she whispered, kissing him gently, over and over, you won't
lose me ever.  I promise.  No matter what, you won't lose me:

The dream comes swiftly, a familiar acquaintance He wishes now he had
never made.  He stands once more on the hillside south of Seattle,
watching as the city burns, as the hordes of the Void swarm through the
collapsed defenses and begin their ritual of killing and destruction.
He sees the battle taking place on the high bridge where a last. 
futile defense has been mounted.  He sees the steel and glass towers
swallowed inflames.  He sees the bright waters of the bay and sound
turn red in the reflected glare.

He finds he is cold and indifferent to what he witnesses.  He is
attached in a way he cannot explain, but seems perfectly normal in his
dream, as if he has been this way a long time.  He is himself and at
the same time he is someone else entirely.  He pauses to examine this
phenomenon and decides he has changed dramatically from when he was a
Knight of the Word.  He is a Knight no longer, but he remembers when he
was.  Oddly, his memories are tinged with a wistfulness he can't quite
escape.

Before him, Seattle burns.  By nightfall, it will have ceased to
exist.

Like his old life.  Like the person he once was.

There are people huddled about him, and they glance at him fearfully
when they think he is not looking.  They are right to fear him.  He
holds over them the power of life and death.  They are his captives.

They are his to do with as he chooses, and they are anxious to discover
what he had planned for them.  The exercise of such power is a curious
feeling because it both attracts and repels him.  He wonders in a vague
sort of way how he got to this point in his life.

From the long, dark span of the high bridge, bodies tumble into an
abyss of smoke and fire like rag dolls.  Their screams cannot be
heard.

The old man approaches, as he has approached each time in the dream,
and points his bony finger at Ross and whispers in his hoarse, ruined
voice, I know you.

Get away from me, Ross orders in disgust and dismay, not wanting to
hear the words he will speak.

I know you, the old man repeats, undeterred, the bright light of his
madness shining in his strange, milky eyes.  You are the one who killed
him.  I was there.

Ross stands his ground because he cannot afford to turn away.  His
captives are watching listening, waiting for his response.  They will
measure his strength accordingly.  The old man sways as if he were a
reed caught in a stiff wind, stick-thin and ragged, his mind
unbalanced, his laughter filled with echoes of his shattered life.

Get away from me, Ross says once more.

The Wizard of Oz!  You killed him!  I remember your face!  I saw you!

There, in the glass palace, in the shadow of the Tin Woodman, in the
Emerald City, on All Hallows' Eve You killed the Wizard of Oz. You
killed him!  You!

The words fade and die, and the old man begins to cry softly.  Oh, God,
it was the end of everything!

Ross shakes his head.  It is a familiar litany by now.  He has heard it
before, and he turns away in curt dismissal.  It is all in the past,
and the past no longer matters to him.

But the old man presses closer, insistent.  I saw you.  I watched you
do it.  I could not understand.  He was your friend.  There was no
reason!

There was a reason, he thinks to himself, though he cannot remember it
now.

But, the young woman!  The old man is on his knees, his head hanging
doglike between his slumped shoulders.  What reason did you have for
killing her?

Ross starts, shaken now.  What young woman?

Couldn't you have spared her?  She was just trying to help.  She seemed
to know you .  Ross screams in fury and shoves the old man away.  The
old man tumbles backward into the mud, gasping in shock.  Shut up! Ross
screams at him, furious, dismayed, because now he remembers this, as
well, another part of the past he had thought buried, a truth he had
left behind in the debris of his conversion .  Shut up, shut up, shut
up!

The old man tries to crawl away, but he has crossed a line he should
not have, and Ross cannot forgive him his trespass.  He strides to
where the old man cringes, already anticipating the punishment he will
deliver, and he lifts the heavy black staff and brings it down like a
hammer ..

Ross jerked upright in the darkness of his bedroom, eyes snapping
open, body rigid, awash in terror.  His breath came in quick, ragged
gulps, and he could hear the pounding of his heart in his ears.  Stef
lay sleeping next to him, unaware of his torment.  The bedside clock
read five-thirty.  He could hear a soft patter against the window
glass.  Outside, it was raining again.

He held himself motionless beneath the sheet, staring at nothing,
remembering.  The dream had been real.  The memories were his.  He
squeezed his eyes shut in dismay.  He knew who the young woman was.  He
knew who it must be.

And for the first time since the dream had come to him, he was afraid
it might really happen.


chapter 19

When the phone rang, Nest was buried beneath her blankets where it was
pitch-black, and she was certain it was still the middle of the
night.

She let the phone ring a few times, her mind and body warm and lazy
with sleep.  Then memories of last nights horror at Lincoln Park
flooded through her, and she crawled from under the covers into
shockingly bright daylight.

Squinting uncertainly against the glare, she picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Nest, its me.  Are you all right?"

John Ross.  She recognized his voice.  But what an odd question. Unless
he knew what had happened to her in the park, of course, but she didn't
know how he could.  She hadn't spoken to anyone afterward. She'd come
back and fallen asleep almost immediately.

"I'm fine," she answered, her mouth and throat dry and cottony.  What
time was it?  She glanced at the bedside clock.  It was almost noon. She
had forgotten to set the alarm and slept more than ten hours.

"Did I wake you?"  he asked quickly.

"I'm sorry if I did, but we have to talk."

She nodded into the phone.

"It's okay.  I didn't mean to sleep this late."  She could feel the
pain begin even as she spoke the words.  Her entire body was throbbing,
an ache building steadily from a low whine to a sharp scream.

"Where are you?"

"Downstairs, in the lobby."  He paused.

"I called earlier and there was no answer.  I was afraid something had
happened to you, so I decided to come over.  Can you come down?"

She took a deep breath, still working at waking up.

"In about a half hour.  Can you wait?"

"Yes."  He hesitated a long time.

"I've been thinking.  Maybe you were right about some of the things we
talked about.  Maybe I was wrong."

She blinked in surprise.

"I'll be down as quick as I can."

She returned the receiver to its cradle and rolled onto her back.

Whatever had happened to him must have been every bit as significant as
what had happened to her.  She didn't know for sure that he was ready
to concede the point, but it sounded as if he might be.  She stared at
the sunlight pooling on the floor in a golden rectangle in front of the
tall window.  Not only had she forgotten to set the alarm, she hadn't
even bothered to close the drapes.  She looked out at the sliver of
blue sky visible through the walls of the surrounding buildings.  Last
nights storm had given way to better weather, it seemed.

She rolled slowly out of the big bed, her joints and muscles groaning
in protest.  Every part of her body ached from last nights encounter,
and when she looked down at herself, she found bruises the size of
Frisbees on her ribs and thighs, and scratches on her hands and arms
that were caked with dried blood.  She could hardly wait to see what
her face looked like.  She glanced at the bloodstreaked sheets and
pillow cases and grimaced.  She was grateful she wouldn't have to
explain all this to the day maids when they came around to clean up.

She went into the bathroom and showered.  She was reminded by the heap
of damp towels and washcloths that she had showered just last night,
but she needed to perform the ritual again to prepare for her encounter
with John Ross.  Last night seemed far away, and the deaths of Ariel,
Boot, and Audrey more distant in time than they actually were.  At
first, as she stood beneath the stream of hot water, they didn't even
seem real to her, as if she had dreamed them, as if they were imagined.
But as the details recalled themselves, the images sharpened and
solidified, and by the time she was pulling on her jeans and an NU
sweatshirt, she was surprised to find she was crying.

She picked up the dirty clothes, stuffed them into a laundry bag, and
shoved the bag into her suitcase.  Her windbreaker was in tatters, so
she dropped it into the wastebasket.  She would have to buy a new one
before she went outside.  She paused, wondering exactly where she was
going out to.  She had taken the room for two nights, and her plane
ticket home was for four-thirty that afternoon.  Was she really
leaving?  Was her part in all of this over?  She remembered her promise
to herself the night before that she would see things through to the
end.  She had made that promise for Ariel and Audrey and Boot, but for
herself, as well.

She looked around the room.  Well, what she would do next depended on
what John Ross had to say.

The long, dark, feral shape of the demon chasing her through the park
flashed unexpectedly in the back of her mind.  She hugged herself and
set her jaw determinedly.  She was done with running out of fear and a
lack of preparation.  She would be ready if the demon came at her
again.  She would find a way to deal with it.

But it was John Ross who needed strengthening.  It was Ross the demon
was really after, not her.  She was just a distraction, an annoyance, a
threat to its plans for him.  Once Ross was subverted, it wouldn't
matter what she did.

She went out the door and rode the elevator down to the lobby.  Ross
was sitting in a chair across from her when she stepped out, and he
came to his feet immediately, leaning heavily on the walking stick.

"Good morning," he said as she came up to him.  She saw the shock in
his expression as he got a closer look at her face.

"Good morning," she replied.  She gave him a wry smile.

"The rest of me looks just as bad, in case you're wondering."

He looked distraught.

"I was.  Did this happen at Lincoln Park?  I got your message from Stef
"I'll tell you everything over breakfast.  Or lunch, if you prefer.  I'm
starving.  I haven't eaten since yesterday about this same time.  Come
on."

She led him into the dining room and asked for a table near the back
wall, some distance apart from those that were occupied.  They sat down
facing each other and accepted menus from the waitress.  Nest studied
hers momentarily and put it aside.

"You said somethings happened," she prodded, studying his face.

He nodded.

"Fresh Start burned down last night.  Ray Hapgood was killed.  They
made a positive identification this morning."  His voice sounded stiff
and uncomfortable.

"Ray was working the night shift for me, it turns out.  I didn't know
this.  I didn't even know I was scheduled to work it this week.  I
don't know why I didn't know, but that's the least of what's bothering
me." He shook his head.

"Ray was a good friend.  I'm having a lot of trouble with that."

"When did this happen?"  she asked right away.

"What time, I mean?"

"Sometime after midnight.  I was asleep.  Stef woke me, got me up to
take a look out the window, to make sure of what she was seeing.  We
called 911, then rushed over to wake the people in the building.  Stef
went all the way to the top floor.  She got everyone out but Ray."

Nest barely listened to him as he filled in the details, her mind
occupied with working out the logistics of the demon's movements
between Lincoln Park and Pioneer Square.  It couldn't have been both
places at once if the events happened concurrently, but there was an
obvious gap in time between when it was chasing her and when it would
have set the fire.  It would have had to rush right back after she had
escaped, but it could have done so.

But why would it bother setting fire to Fresh Start?  What reason could
it possibly have for doing that?

"I know what you're thinking," he said suddenly.

"I've been thinking it, too.  But the fire marshall's office says the
fire started because of frayed or faulty wiring in the furnace system.
It wasn't arson."

"You mean, they don't have any evidence it was arson," she said.

He studied her carefully.

"All right.  I don't believe it was an accident either.  But why would
a demon set fire to Fresh Start?"

Same question she was asking herself.  She shook her head.  The
waitress returned to take their order and left again.  Nest tried to
think the matter through, to discover what it was she had missed,
because her instincts told her she had missed something.

"You said on the phone you'd been thinking about what I told you," she
said finally.

"You said that maybe you were wrong.  What made you change your mind?
It wasn't just the fire, was it?  It must have been something else."
She paused.

"You said you came over because you thought maybe something had
happened to me.  Why did you think that?"

He looked decidedly uncomfortable, but there was a hard determination
reflected in his eyes.

"Do you remember the dream I told you about?"

"I remember you didn't exactly tell me about it at all."

He nodded.

"I didn't think it was necessary then.  I do now."

She studied him silently, considering what this meant.  It couldn't be
good.

"All right," she said.

"Tell me."

Her face was so battered and scraped that it was all he could do to
keep his voice steady.  He could not help feeling responsible, as if by
having had last night's dream he had set in motion the events
prophesied for today.  He wanted to know what had happened to her, but
he knew she would not tell him until she was satisfied he was
reconsidering his position on the Lady's warning.  He felt a sense of
desperation grip him as he began his narrative, a growing fear that he
could not accomplish what he had come here to do.

"I've been having this dream for several months," he began.

"It's always the same dream, and it's the only dream I ever have.
That's never happened to me before.  For a long time after I stopped
being a Knight of the Word, there were no dreams--not of the sort I
used to have, just snippets of the sort everyone has.  So when I began
having this dream, I was surprised.  It was the same dream,

but it changed a little every time, showing me a little bit more of
what was to happen.

"The dream goes like this.  I'm standing on a hill south of Seattle
watching the city burn.  Like all the old dreams I had as a Knight of
the Word, it takes place in the future.  The Void has besieged the city
and taken it.  There is a battle going on.  I am not a Knight of the
Word in this dream, and I am not involved in the fighting.  But I am
standing there with captives all around me, and in the dreams of late,
I am their captor.  I don't understand why this is, but I am.

"Then an old man approaches, and he accuses me of killing someone long
ago.  He says he was there, that he saw me do it.  He says I killed
Simon Lawrence, the Wizard of Oz, in Seattle, on Halloween.  He says I
killed him at the art museum.  He doesn't say it exactly that way.  He
says it happened in the Emerald City, in the glass palace, in the
shadow of the Tin Woodman.  But I know what he means.  The art museum
is mostly glass and outside there is a piece of sculpture called
Hammering Man, a metal giant pounding his hammer on a plate.  There's
no mistaking what he means.  Besides, in the dream I can remember it
happening, too.  I can't remember the details--maybe because I don't
know them.  But I know he is telling the truth."

He stopped talking as the waitress arrived with their food.  When she
departed, he bent forward to continue.

"I didn't learn this all at once.  It was revealed in pieces.  But I
put the pieces together.  I knew what the dream was telling me.  But I
didn't believe it.  There is no reason for me to kill Simon Lawrence. I
respect and admire him.  I want to work for him as long as he'll let
me.  Why would I ever even consider killing him?  When you asked me
yesterday about the dream, I didn't see any point in going into it.

Whether or not I was a Knight of the Word, I wouldn't let the events of
the dream ever happen.  To tell you the truth, I was afraid that the
dream was a tactic by the Word to bring me back into line, to scare me
into changing my mind about serving.  I even considered the possibility
that it was the work of the Void.  It didn't matter.  I wasn't going to
allow it to affect me.  "

She was wolfing down her club sandwich as he talked, but her eyes were
fixed on him.  He glanced down at his own food, which he had not
touched.  He took a sip of his iced tea.

"Last night, after the fire, I had the dream again."  He shook his
head.

"I don't know why.  I never do.  The dreams just come.  It was the same
dream, with the same troubling aspects.  But this time there was a new
wrinkle.  The old man reminded me of something else.  He said that I
had killed another person at the same time as I killed Simon
Lawrence.

He said it was a young woman, someone I knew.  "

She stopped eating and stared at him.

"I know," he said quietly.

"I

felt the same way.  The shock woke me.  I was awake after that until it
was light, thinking.  I don't believe it could ever happen.  I don't
think I would let it.  " His voice thickened.

"But in the dream, it had, so I can't discount the possibility that I
might be wrong.  I also remember what I was sent to do in Hopewell five
years ago.  If I was prepared for it to happen once ..."

He trailed off, his hands knotting before him, his eyes shifting
away.

"I've gambled as much as I dare to with this business.  I don't know if
there's a demon out there or not.  I don't know if the Void is setting
a trap for me.  I don't know what's going on.  But whatever it is, I
don't want you involved.  At least not any further than you already
are.  I want you to get on a plane right now and get out of here.  Get
far away, so far away you can't possibly be a part of whatever happens
next.  "

She nodded slowly.  And what happens to you?  "

He shook his head.

"I don't know yet.  I have to figure that out.  But I can tell you one
thing.  I'm not so sure anymore I'm not in danger."

She finished the last of her sandwich and wiped her mouth carefully,
wincing as she brushed one of the deeper cuts on her chin.

"Good for you," she said.  There was neither approval nor condemnation
in her voice.  Her gaze was steady.

"But you don't know the half of it.  Let me tell you the rest."

She was shaken by the revelations of his dream and more than a little
frightened and angered by the idea that she might be his target once
again, but she kept it all hidden.  She could not afford to let her
feelings interfere with her purpose in coming to him in the first
place.  She could stew about the ramifications of his having had such a
dream later, but for now she must concentrate on convincing him he
needed to do something to protect himself.

"I watched three forest creatures die last night," she began.

"One of them was Ariel, one was a sylvan named Boot, and the third was
an owl named Audrey.  A demon killed them, a demon that is attempting
to claim your soul, John.  Ariel, Audrey, and Boot died trying to stop
that from happening.  So please pay close attention to what I have to
say."

She told him everything that had happened.  She started with Ariel's
appearance in the market, summoning her to West Seattle and Lincoln
Park, where Boot and Audrey lived.  Boot had seen the demon and had a
story to tell.  She called to let him know what she was doing, perhaps
to persuade him to come, as well.  But she couldn't reach him, so she
left a message with Stef that she believed only he would understand.

She took a taxi to the park and went in.  At the rim of the cliffs
overlooking Puget Sound and the park embankment, the sylvan and the owl
appeared.

She related Boot's tale, repeating the conversation that had taken
place between the two demons as accurately as she could remember it,
then telling of how the first demon had killed the second to protect
its claim on Ross.  Boot was about to tell her more, she finished, when
the attack occurred that snuffed out Boot's and Audrey's lives and led
to the chase along the heights that ended up costing Ariel her life, as
well.

"I went over the cliff by mistake or I would be dead, too," she
finished.

"I fell all the way to the base of the embankment, but I didn't break
anything.  I got up and ran out of the park with the demon still
chasing me.  There were houses where I thought I could get help.

Twice I managed to get inside and twice the demon broke down doors and
windows to get at me.  I was lucky, John.  It almost had me several
times.  In the end, I managed to get on a bus just ahead of it.  Even
then, it slammed into the bus doors with such force that the glass
broke and the metal bent.  It was in such a frenzy it didn't seem to
care what it had to do.  If the police hadn't arrived, I think it would
have kept coming.  It has to be really worried about me to go to such
efforts.  Maybe it thinks I know something.  Maybe I do, but the truth
is I haven't figured out what it is yet.  "

She watched the skin grow taut across his face and his eyes lose their
focus, as if he was looking at something beyond her.

"I wanted to come after you, and then something happened and I
couldn't," he said softly.

She waited.  His eyes came back to her.

"The demon has to be someone I know, doesn't it?"

She nodded.

"I guess so.  Someone you know well, for that matter.

Someone at Fresh Start, if you want my further opinion.  When Ariel
appeared to me after our lunch, she said I should stay away from you,
that you were lost, that there was demon stink all over you.  She said
it was all over Fresh Start, as well.  I was there earlier, and I was
physically sick while I was inside the building.  It might have been
demon stink or it might have been the demon itself.  This is all new to
me.  But it isn't idle speculation anymore.  Its real.  Something is
after you.  "

He didn't say anything for a moment, thinking it through.

"Who was at Fresh Start yesterday morning when you were there?"

She shook her head.

"I can't be sure.  Stef, Simon Lawrence, Ray Hapgood, Carole someone,
Delia Jenkins, some others.  There were a lot of people.  I don't think
we can pin it down that way."

"You're right, it's too hard.  How about the park?  How did the demon
manage to track you there? It must have followed you.."

"Or intercepted my message," she finished.

"I already thought of that.

Who besides Stef and yourself would have known where I was going?  "

He hesitated.

"I don't know.  Stef took the message at Fresh Start and gave it to me.
I don't think she would have told anyone else, but she might have."

Nest took a deep breath, not liking what she was about to say.

"So the demon might be Stef The look John Ross gave her was
unreadable.

"That isn't possible," he said quietly.

She didn't say anything.

Ross looked around, took in the nearby diners.

"Lets continue this somewhere else."

She charged the bill to her room, and they went out into the lobby.

There was a small library bar on the other side and no one inside.

They went in and took a table at the back on the upper level.  The
bartender, who was working the bar alone, came up and took their order
for two iced cappuccinos and left.  Surrounded by shelves of books and
a cloud of suspicion and doubt, they faced each other anew.

"She saved all those people last night," Ross insisted.

"She risked her life.  Nest.  A demon wouldn't do that."

"A demon would do anything that suited its purpose."

"It isn't possible," he said again.

"This demon is a changeling.  A very adept changeling."

Ross shook his head.

"I would know.  I could be fooled, but not that completely."

She wasn't going to change his mind.  Besides, she wanted to believe
him.

"So the demon found out where I was going and what I was doing some
other way.  What way would that be?"

Ross rubbed his lean jaw with one hand and shook his head slowly.

"I

don't know.  None of this makes much sense.  There's something not
right about all of it.  If the Void wanted to turn me, why wouldn't it
take a more direct approach?  Just suppose for a moment the dream comes
to pass, and I do kill Simon Lawrence.  That would be a terrible thing,
but it wouldn't persuade me to begin serving the Void.  It would
probably do just the opposite.  "

Nest looked at him doubtfully.

"But the Lady said it begins with a single misstep.  You don't change
all at once.  You change gradually."

They stared at each other some more, neither speaking.  Nest thought
suddenly of Two Bears, and the reason he was in Seattle.  Perhaps she
should tell Ross.  But what would that accomplish?  How would it help
him at this point?

His green eyes were intense.

"Remember when I said earlier I wanted to come after you, but something
happened and I couldn't?

There was something wrong with me yesterday after I left you.  I went
back to the apartment and practically passed out.  Stef stopped off
just long enough to give me your message.  Then I seem to recall Simon
being there, too.  That's the last thing I remember before waking up at
midnight.  It's been bothering me.  I don't even remember going to
bed.

I just remember sitting in the living room, thinking it was odd that
Simon was there, then waking up in bed when Stef shook me.  "

He hesitated.

"I was pretty well out of it.  Maybe there was someone else there, too.
Maybe I said something about your message, and I can't remember."

He was looking for help from her, but she had none to give.  He waited
a moment, then leaned forward.

"When are you scheduled to fly back to Chicago?"

"Today, at four-thirty."

He nodded.

"Good.  Get on that plane and get out of here.  We have to do something
to disrupt the flow of things, something to sidetrack this dream.
Getting you out of here is the first step.  I'll nose around a little
and see what I can learn.  Maybe I can uncover something.  If I cant,
I'll leave, too.  I've got a few days coming.  I'll just take them.  If
neither of us is here, the events in the dream won't happen."

She studied him.

"You'll leave before dark, before tonight's celebration?"

His lips compressed tightly.

"I won't go anywhere near the Seattle Art Museum.  I'll stay far
away."

She was thinking about the promise she had made to herself to see
things through to the end.  But if she insisted on staying, he would
stay, too.  She couldn't allow that.  And if they both left, then the
matter was ended--for the moment, at least.  If Ross accepted he was in
danger, that there was a demon out there working to subvert him, he
would be on his guard.  That ought to be enough.  She had delivered the
Lady's message, and that was all she was expected to do.

All right; she said.  TO go;

"Now?"

"As soon as I can pack my bag and check out.  I'll catch a taxi to the
airport.  You won't have to worry about me anymore."

He exhaled slowly.

"Fair enough."

"Just promise me you won't forget to keep worrying about yourself.

This isn't going to end until you find out who the demon is.  "

"I know," he said.

And it wouldn't end then either, and they both knew it.  It wouldn't
end, because even if he unmasked this demon, there would be another,
and another, until one of them succeeded in destroying him.  It
wouldn't end until he either found a way to give back the staff or
agreed to resume his life as a Knight of the Word.  It was not a choice
that would be easily resolved, and neither one of them wanted to
examine it too closely.

"Will you call me in Hopewell and at least leave a message?"  she asked
him in the ensuing silence.

"Yes:

She sighed.

"I hate leaving this business unfinished: She saw the sudden look of
concern in his eyes.

"But I'll keep my bargain, John.

Don't worry:

"That's just the trouble.  I do:

She stood up.

"I'd better go.  Good-bye, John.  Be careful:

He rose, as well, and she walked around to embrace him, kissing his
cheek.  The gesture was stiff and awkward and uncertain.

"Good-bye, Nest: he said.

She stepped back.

"I'll tell you something: she said.

"I don't know that saying good-bye feels any better this time than it
did the last.

I'm still not sure about you:

His smile was bitter and sad, and he suddenly looked older than his
years.

"I know, Nest.  I'm sorry about that.  Thanks for coming.  It means a
lot that you did:

She turned and walked out of the bar, crossed the lobby to the
elevators, and did not look back.


chapter 20

Andrew Wren woke early that same morning despite the fact he had been
up very late tracing the transfers of funds from the corporate accounts
of Fresh Start and Pass/ Go to the private accounts of Simon Lawrence
and John Ross.  It was well after midnight by the time he completed his
work and satisfied himself he knew exactly how all the withdrawals and
deposits had been made and the routes through which various funds had
traveled.  He was exhausted by then, but a little bit of sleep did
wonders for him when he was hot on the trail, and he felt energized and
ready to go once more shortly after first light.

Nevertheless, he took his time.  He had calls to make and faxes to
send.  He wanted to check on balances and signatures.  He wanted to
make very sure of what he had before he started writing anything.  So
he showered and shaved at a leisurely pace, thinking things through yet
again, formulating his plans for the day.

It wasn't until he went downstairs for breakfast and was engaged in
perusing Wednesday's New York Times that he overheard a conversation at
an adjoining table and learned Fresh Start had burned down during the
night.

At first he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing, and he paused
in his reading to listen more closely as the conversation revealed the
details.  The building was a total loss.  There was only one fatality,
an employee.  Arson wasn't thought to be the cause.  Simon Lawrence
would be holding a press conference on the future of the program at two
o'clock that afternoon.

Andrew Wren finished his breakfast and bought a copy of the
Post-Intelligencer, Seattle's morning paper.  There were pictures and a
short piece on the fire on the front page, but it had happened too late
for an in-depth story.

Wren walked back to his room with the papers and sat down at his work
desk with his yellow pad and notes and the packet of documentation on
the illegal funds transfers spread out before him.  He tried to decide
if the fire had anything to do with what he was investigating, but it
was too early to make that call.  If it wasn't arson, then it wasn't
relevant.  If it was arson, then it might be.  He stared out the
window, deciding what to do next.  It was only nine- fifteen.

He made up his mind quickly, the way he always did when he was closing
in on something.  He sent his faxes to the home office and to various
specialists he worked with from time to time, requesting the
information he needed, then began calling all the banks at which
personal accounts had been opened in the names of Simon Lawrence and
John Ross for the deposit of Fresh Start and Pass/ Go funds.  He used a
time-tested technique, claiming to be in accounting at one or the other
of the nonprofit corporations, giving the account number and the
balance he had before him, and asking to verify the amounts.  From
there he went on to gather other information, building on the initial
rapport he had established with whoever was on the other end of the
line to complete his investigation.  It was practically second nature
to him by now.  He knew all the buttons to push and all the tricks and
ploys.

He was done by a little after ten-thirty.  He called the number at
Pass/ Go and asked for StefanieWinslow.  When she came on the line, he
told her he was coming over to see the Wiz.  She advised him that Simon
wouldn't be available until late in the day, if then.  He assured her
he understood, he had heard about the fire and knew what Simon must be
going through, but he needed only a few minutes and it was imperative
they meet immediately.  He added it involved the matter they had
discussed yesterday, and he was sure Simon would want to see him.

She put him on hold.  When she came back on, she said he could come
right over.

Andrew Wren put down the phone, pulled on his rumpled jacket with the
patches on the elbows, picked up his briefcase, and went out the door,
humming softly.

Ten minutes later, he was climbing out of a taxi in front of Pass/ Go

The educational center was situated right next door to Fresh Start, but
separated by a narrow alleyway.  Before last night, the two buildings
had looked substantially the same--1940s brick buildings of six stories
facing on Second Avenue with long glass windows, recessed entries with
double wooden doors, and no signs.  But Pass/ Go had survived the fire
where Fresh Start had not.  Fresh Start was a burned-out, blackened
shell surrounded by barricades and yellow tape, its roof and floors
sagging or collapsed, its windows blown out by the heat, and its
fixtures and furnishings in rums.

As he stood staring at the still-smoking wreck, Stefanie Winslow came
out the front door of Pass/ Go

"Good morning, Mr.  Wren," she said cheerfully, her smile dazzling, her
hand extended.

As he offered his own hand in response, he was shocked to see the marks
on her arms and face.

"Good heavens, Ms.  Winslow!  What happened to you?"

She gave a small shrug.

"I was involved in getting people out last night, and I picked up a few
bumps and bruises along the way.  It's nothing that won't heal.  How
are you?"

"Fine."  He was somewhat nonplussed by her attitude.

"You seem very cheerful given the circumstances, if you don't mind my
saying so."

She laughed.

"Well, that's my job, Mr.  Wren.  I'm supposed to put a good face on
things, my own notwithstanding.  We lost the building, but all the
clients got out.  That doesn't help much when I think about Ray, but
it's the best I can do."

She filled him in on the details of Ray Hapgood's death and the efforts
of the fire department to save the building.  Ross had been present
when it took place, but he had been sleeping earlier and she'd had to
wake him to help her, so it didn't look like he was involved in any
way.  Wren listened without seeming overly interested, taking careful
mental notes for later.

"The building was fully insured," she finished, 'so we'll be able to
rebuild.  In the meantime, we've been given the use of a warehouse
several blocks away that can be brought up to code pretty easily for
our purposes and will serve as a temporary shelter during the
rebuilding.  We've been given a number of donations already to help
tide us over and there should be more coming in.  Things could be much
worse.  "

Wren smiled.

"Well, I'm very glad to hear that, Ms.  Winslow."

"Stefanie, please."  She touched his arm.

"Ms.  Winslow sounds vaguely authoritarian."

Wren nodded agreeably.

"Do you suppose I could see Mr.  Lawrence now for those few minutes you
promised me?  Before he becomes too tied up with other things?  I know
he has a news conference scheduled for two o'clock."

"Now would be fine, Mr.  Wren."  She took his arm as she might an old
friend's.

"Come with me.  We've got him hidden in the back:

They went inside through a lobby decorated with brightly colored
posters and children's drawings, past a reception desk, and down a hall
with doors opening into classrooms and offices.  Through tall glass
windows.  Wren could see a grassy play area filled with toys and
playground equipment shoe horned between the surrounding buildings.

"The nursery, kitchen facilities, dining rooms, Special Ed, and more
classrooms are upstairs: Stefanie informed him, waving to one of the
teachers as she passed by an open door.

"Life goes on:

Simon Lawrence had set up shop in a tiny office at the very back of the
building.  He sat at an old wooden desk surrounded by cartons of
supplies and forms, his angular frame hunched forward over a mound of
papers, files, notepads, and pens and pencils.  He was on the phone
talking, but he motioned Wren through the open door and into a folding
chair identical to the one he was occupying.

Stefanie Winslow waved good-bye and went out the door, closing it
softly behind her.

The Wiz finished his conversation and hung up.

"I hope this isn't bad news, Andrew," he said, smiling wearily.

"I've had just about all the bad news I can handle for the moment."

"So I gather.  " Wren glanced around at the boxes and bare walls.

"Quite a comedown from your last digs."

Simon snorted derisively.

"Doesn't mean a thing compared to the cost to Fresh Start.  It will
take a minimum of three to four weeks to get the warehouse converted
and the program up and running again.  How many women and children will
we lose in that time, I wonder?"

"You'll do the best you can.  Sometimes that has to be enough."

Simon leaned back.  His handsome face looked worn and haggard, but his
eyes were bright and sharp as they fixed on the reporter.

"Okay, Andrew, what's this all about?  Lay it out on the table and get
it over with."

Andrew Wren nodded, reached into his briefcase, took out the copies he
had made of the documents with which he had been provided and placed
them on the desk in front of the Wiz.  Simon picked them up and began
scanning them, quickly at first, then more slowly.  His face lost some
color, and his jaw tightened.  Halfway through his perusal, he looked
up.

Are these for real?  " he asked carefully.

"Have you verified they exist?"

Wren nodded.

"Every last one."

The Wiz went back to his examination, finishing quickly.  He shook his
head.

"I know what I'm seeing, but I can't believe it."  His eyes fixed on
Wren.

"I don't know anything about this.  Not about the accounts or any of
the transfers.  I'd give you an explanation if I could, but I can't.
I'm stunned."

Andrew Wren sat waiting, saying nothing.

The Wiz leaned back again in his folding chair and set the papers on
the desk.

"I haven't taken a cent from either program that wasn't approved in
advance.  Not one.  The accounts with my name on them aren't really
mine.  I don't know who opened them or who made the transfers, but they
aren't mine.  I can't believe John Ross would do something like this,
either.  He's never given me any reason to think he would."

Wren nodded, keeping silent.

"If I were going to steal money from the corporations, I would either
steal a lot more or do a better job of it.  This kind of petty theft is
ridiculous, Andrew.  Have you checked the signatures to see if they
match mine or John's?"

Wren scratched his chin thoughtfully.

"I'm having it done professionally.  I should know something later
today."

"Who brought all this to you?"  TheWiz indicated the incriminating
papers with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Wren gave a small shrug.

"You know I can't tell you that."

Simon Lawrence shook his head in dismay.

"Well, they say these things come in threes.  Last night I lost a good
friend and half of five years' hard work.  Today I find I'm about to
lose my reputation.  I wonder what comes next?"

He rose from the desk and.  paced to the door and back again, then
turned to face Wren.

"I'm betting that when you check the signatures, you won't find a
match."

"Quite possibly not.  But that doesn't mean you aren't involved,
Simon.

You could have had someone else act for you.  "

"John Ross?"

"Ross, or even a third person."

"Why would I do this?"

"I don't know.  Maybe you were desperate.  Desperate people do
desperate things.  I've given up trying to figure out the reasons
behind why people do the things they do.  I've got all I can handle
just uncovering the truth of what's been done."

The Wiz sat down again, his eyes smoldering.

"I've spent five years building this program, Andrew.  I've given
everything I have to make it work.  If you report this, it will all go
down the tubes."

"I know that," Wren acknowledged softly.

"Even if there's nothing to connect me directly, even if an inquiry
clears me of any wrongdoing, the program will never be the same.  I'll
quit in order to remove any lingering doubts about the possibility of
impropriety, or I'll stay and fight and live with the suspicion that
something is still going on, but either way Fresh Start and Pass/ Go
will always be remembered for this scandal and not for the good they've
accomplished."

Andrew Wren sighed.  I think maybe you're overstating your case a bit,
Simon.  "

The Wiz shook his head.

"No, I'm not.  You know why?  Because the whole effort is held together
by the slenderest of threads.  Helping the homeless isn't a program
that attracts support naturally.  It isn't a program people flock to
just because they believe in aiding the homeless.  What happens to the
homeless is a low priority in most people's lives.  It isn't a
glamorous cause.  It isn't a compelling cause.  It's balanced right on
the edge of people's consciousness, and it could topple from view with
just a nudge.  It took me years to bring it to people's attention and
make it a cause they would choose to support over all the others.  But
it can lose that same support in the blink of an eye."

He sighed.

"I know you're just doing your job, Andrew," he said after a moment.

"I wouldn't ask you to do anything less.  But be thorough, please.  Be
sure about this before you act.  An awful lot rides on what you decide
to do."

Andrew Wren folded his hands in his lap and looked down at them.

"I

appreciate what's at stake better than you think, Simon.  That's why I
came to talk with you first.  I wanted to hear what you had to say.  As
far as making any decisions, I have a lot more work to do first.  I
won't be rushing into anything.  "

He rose and held out his hand. "I'm sorry about this.  As I told you
earlier, I admire the work you've done here.  I'd hate to think it
would suffer for any reason.  "

Simon Lawrence took his hand and shook it firmly.

"Thank you for coming to me about this.  I'll do what I can to look
into it from this end.  Whatever I find, I'll pass along."

Andrew Wren opened the door and walked back down the hall to the
reception area.  There was no sign of Stefanie Winslow,

who was probably out working on preparations for the press ;

conference.  He paused as he neared the front door, then turned back.  The young woman working the intake desk looked up as he
approached, smiling.

"Can I help you?" "I was wondering," he said, returning the smile,
'if you know where I could find John Ross.  "


chapter 21

It was nearing two o'clock by the time Nest packed her bag, checked out
of the Alexis, and caught a taxi to the airport.  She rode south down
I-5 past Boeing Field on one side and lines of stalled traffic heading
north on the other.  She stared out the window, watching the city
recede into the distance, wrestling with the feeling that her
connection with John Ross was fading with it.

She was riddled with doubt and plagued by a sense of uneasiness she
could not explain.

She had done everything she had come to do and a little more.  She had
found John Ross, she had given him the Lady's warning, she had
persuaded him he was in danger, and she had extracted his solemn
promise he would take whatever steps were necessary to protect himself.
She kept telling herself there was really nothing else she could
do--nothing else, in fact, that she could justify--but none of the monolog seemed to help.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Ariel and Audrey and
Boot were still dead and some part of the guilt for that was still
hers.  Maybe it had something to do with her discomfort at having done
so little to help them.  She knew she was dissatisfied with the idea of
leaving the demon who had killed them loose in the city of Seattle.

But what was she supposed to do?  Track it down and exact revenge?  How
would she do that and what difference would it make now?  It wouldn't
bring back the forest creatures.  It wouldn't make things whole or
right in any meaningful way.  Maybe it would give her a measure of
satisfaction, but she wasn't even sure of that.

Mostly, she decided, she was bothered by the prospect of leaving behind
so many loose ends.  She was a runner, a competitor, and she was used
to seeing things through to the finish, not giving up halfway.

And that's what her leaving felt like.

For a time she managed to put it aside and think about what waited at
the other end of her flight.  Northwestern University, with classes
first thing in the morning, three days of homework waiting to be made
up, and her lapsed training regimen.  Her grandparents' home, now hers,
and the papers sitting on the kitchen counter, which would permit its
sale.  Pick, with his incessant questions about her commitment to
Sinnissippi Park.  Robert, waiting patiently for a phone call or letter
telling him everything was all right.

As she would wait for a phone call or a letter from John Ross telling
her the same thing.

Or would she never hear another word?

The taxi took the airport exit, wound its way along a series of
approaches, and pulled onto the ticketing ramp.  She looked over at the
big airplanes parked at the boarding gates and contemplated the idea of
flyng home.  It didn't seem real to her.  It didn't seem like something
that was going to happen.

She got out at the United terminal, paid the driver, and walked inside.
She checked in at the ticketing counter and received her boarding pass
and gate assignment.  She decided to keep her bag with her because it
was not very big and she did not want the hassle of trying to retrieve
it through baggage claim at O'Hare.  She walked toward the shops and
gate ramps, remembering suddenly, incongruously, she still hadn't
replaced her windbreaker.  She had thrown on her sweatshirt, but that
wasn't going to provide her with enough warmth when she had to go
outside in Chicago.

She glanced around, then walked into a Northwest Passage Outdoor Shop,
a clothing store that sold mostly logo products.  After rooting around
in the parkas for a while, she found a lightweight down jacket she
could live with, carried it up to the register, and paid for it with
her charge card.

As she carried it out of the store, under her arm, she found herself
wondering if the dead children's memories that had helped make up Ariel
would be used to make another tatterdemalion or if they would be blown
about by the wind forever.  What happened to tatterdemalions when their
lives ended?  Little more than scraps of magic and memories to begin
with, did they ever come together again in a new life?  Pick had never
said.

She moved to a seating area facing a security check and sat down.  She
was back to thinking about John Ross.  Something was very wrong.  She
didn't know what it was, but she knew it was there.  She was trying to
pretend everything was fine, but it wasn't.  On the surface maybe, but
not down deep, beneath the comfortable illusion she was trying to
embrace.  She held up her anxiety for examination, and it glared back
at her defiantly.

What was it she was missing?

What was it she needed to do in order to make the discomfort go away?

She began to examine the John Ross situation once again.  She went
through all of its aspects, stopping abruptly when she came to his
dream.  The Lady had warned Nest about the dream, that it would come to
pass in a few short days, and that to the extent Ross was a part of the
events it prophesied, he risked becoming ensnared by the Void.  The
dream foretold that Ross would kill Simon Lawrence, the Wizard of Oz.

It also foretold that he would kill her.  But it hadn't done that until
last night.

Because until these past few days, she hadn't been a part of his
present life at all, had she?

She stared at the lighted window of a newsstand across the way,
thinking.  John Ross had told her about his dreams five years
earlier.

His dreams of the future were fluid, because the future was fluid and
could be changed by what happened in the present.  It was what he was
expected to accomplish as a Knight of the Word.  It was his mission.

Change those events that will hasten a decline in civilization and the
fall of mankind.  Change a few events, only a few, and the balance of
magic can be maintained and the Void kept at bay.

What if, in this instance, the Lady was playing at the same game?  What
if the Lady had sent Nest to John Ross strictly for the purpose of
introducing a new element into the events of his dream?  Ross would
listen to Nest, the Lady had told her through Ariel.  Her words would
carry a weight that the words of others could not.  But it hadn't
worked out that way, had it?  It wasn't what she'd said to Ross that
had made a difference.  It was what had happened to her in the park. It
was the way in which her presence had affected the demon that, in turn,
had affected him.  Like dominos toppling into one another.  Could that
have been the Lady's purpose in sending her to Ross all along?

Nest took a slow, deep breath and let it out again.  It wasn't so
strange to imagine there were games being played with human lives.  It
had happened before, and it had happened to her.  Pick had warned her
the Word never revealed everything, and what appeared to be true
frequently was not.  He had warned her to be careful.

That triggered an unpleasant thought.  Perhaps the Lady knew Nest's
presence would affect John Rosss dream, would change it to include her,
jolting Ross out of his complacent certainty he was not at risk.

If so, it meant the Word was using her as bait.

When John Ross left Nest, he didn't go back to Pass/ Go or to his
apartment.  He walked down First Avenue to a Starbucks instead, stepped
inside, bought a double-tall latte, took it outside to a bench in
Occidental Park, and sat down.  The day was still sunny and bright, the
cool snap of autumn just a whisper on the back of the breezes blowing
off the sound.  Ross sipped at his latte thoughtfully, warmed his hands
on the container, and watched people walk by.

He kept thinking he would have a revelation regarding the demon's
identity.  He was certain that if he thought about the puzzle hard
enough, if he looked at it in just the right way, he would figure it
out.  There were only a handful of possibilities, after all.  A lot of
people worked at Fresh Start and Pass/ Go but only a few were close to
him.  And once you eliminated Ray Hapgood and Stef and certainly Simon,
there weren't many candidates left.

But each time he considered a likely suspect, some incongruity or
contradictory piece of evidence would intervene to demonstrate he was
on the wrong track.  The fact remained that no one seemed to be the
right choice.  His confusion was compounded by his complete failure to
understand what his dream about killing Simon Lawrence had to do with
anything.  The demons subterfuge was so labyrinthine he could not
unravel it.

He finished the latte and crumpled the empty container.  He was running
out of ideas and choices.  He would have to keep his promise to Nest
and subtract himself from the equation.

Dumping the latte container in a trash can, he began walking back to
his apartment.  He wouldn't even bother going in to work.  He would
just pack an overnight bag, call Stef, have her meet him, and walk down
to the ferry terminal.  Maybe they would go up to Victoria for a few
days.

Stay at the Empress.  Have high tea.  Visit the Buchart Gardens.
Pretend they were real people.

He was almost to the front door of his apartment building when he heard
his name called.  He turned to watch a heavyset, rumpled man come up
the sidewalk to greet him.

"Mr.  Ross?"  the man inquired, as if to make sure.

Ross nodded, leaning on his walking stick, trying to place the other's
face.

"We haven't met," the newcomer said, and extended his hand.

"I'm Andrew Wren, from The New York Times!

The investigative reporter, Ross thought warily.  He took the proffered
hand and shook it.

"How do you do, Mr.  Wren?"

The professional face beamed behind rimless glasses.

"The people at Pass/ Go thought I might find you here.  I came by
earlier, but you were out.  I wonder if I could speak with you a
moment?"

Ross hesitated.  This was probably about Simon.  He didn't want to talk
to Wren, particularly just then, but he was afraid that if he refused
it would look bad for the Wiz.

"This wont take long, " Wren assured him.

"We could sit at one of those tables in the little park right around
the corner, if you wish."

They walked back to the entrance to Waterfall Park and took seats at a
table on the upper level where the sound of the falls wasn't quite so
deafening.  Ross glanced across the street at the offices of Pass/ Go
wondering if anyone had seen him.  No, he amended wordlessly, not if
anyone had seen him.  If the demon had seen him.

He grimaced at his own paranoia.

"What can I do for you, Mr.  Wren?"

Andrew Wren fumbled with his briefcase.  "I'm doing a piece on Simon
Lawrence, Mr.  Ross.  Last night, someone dropped off some documents at
my hotel room," He extracted a sheaf of papers from the case and handed
them across the table. "I'd like you to take a look."

Ross took the packet, set it before him, and began to thumb through the
pages.  Bank accounts, he saw.  Transfers of funds, withdrawals and
deposits.  He frowned.  The withdrawals were from Fresh Start and Pass/
Go The deposits were into accounts under Simon Lawrence's name.

And under his.

He glanced up at Andrew Wren in surprise.  Wren's soft face was
expressionless.  Ross went back to the documents.  He worked his way
through, then looked up again.

"Is this some sort of joke?"

Wren shook his head solemnly.

"I'm afraid not, Mr.  Ross.  At least not the sort anyone is laughing
at.  Particularly Simon Lawrence."

"You've shown these to Simon?"

"I have."

"What did he say?"

"He says he's never seen them."

Ross pushed the packet back across the table at Wren.

"Well, neither have I. I don't know anything about these accounts other
than the fact they're not mine.  What's going on here?"

Andrew Wren shrugged.

"It would appear you and Simon Lawrence have been siphoning funds from
the charitable corporations you work for.

Have you?  "

John Ross was so angry he could barely contain himself "No, Mr.  Wren,
I have not.  Nor has Simon Lawrence, I'm willing to bet.

Those signatures are forgeries, every last one of them.  Mine looks
pretty good, but I know I didn't sign for any of those transfers.

Someone is playing a game, Mr.  Wren .  "

The minute he said it, he knew.  The answer was there in ten- foot-high
neon lights behind his eyes, flashing.

"Do you have any idea who that someone might be, Mr.  Ross?"  Andrew
Wren asked quietly, folding his hands over the documents, his eyes
bright and inquisitive.

Ross stared at him, his mind racing.  Of course, he did.  It was the
demon.  The demon was responsible.  But, why?

He shook his head.

"Offhand, I'd say whoever provided you with the information, Mr.
Wren."

The other man nodded thoughtfully.

"I've considered that."

"Someone who doesn't like Simon Lawrence."

"Or you."

Ross nodded.

"Perhaps.  But I'd say Simon is the more likely target."

He paused.

"But you've thought this through already, haven't you?

That's what an investigative reporter does.  You've already considered
all the possibilities.  Maybe you've even made up your mind.  "

Wren grimaced.

"No, Mr.  Ross, I haven't done that.  It's too early for making up
one's mind about this mess.  I have tried to consider the
possibilities.  One of those possibilities relies on your analysis that
theWiz is the primary target.  But for that to be true, it must also be
true that someone is setting him up.  That requires a motive.  You seem
to have a rather good one.  If you were looking for a way to protect
yourself in the event your own theft was discovered, salting an account
or two in Simon Lawrences name might just do the trick."

Ross thought it through.

"Oh, I get it.  I steal a little for me, a little for him, then claim
it was all his idea if I get caught.  That gets me a reduced sentence,
maybe even immunity."

"It's happened before."

"You know something, Mr.  Wren?"  Ross looked off at the waterfall for
a minute, then back again.  His eyes were hard and filled with a rage
he could no longer disguise.

"I'm just about as mad as I've ever been in my life.  I love my work
with Fresh Start.  I would never do anything to jeopardize that.  Nor
would I do anything to jeopardize a program I strongly believe in and
support.  I've never stolen a penny in my life.  Frankly, I don't care
much about money.

I've never had it, and I've never missed it.  Nothing's happened to
change that.  "

He rose, stiff-legged and seething.

"So you go right ahead and do what you have to do.  But let me tell you
something.  If you don't find out who's behind this, I will.  That's a
promise, Mr.  Wren.  I will:

"Mr.  Ross?"  Andrew Wren stood up with him.

"Could you just give me another minute?  Mr.  Ross?"

But John Ross was already walking away.

Bait.

Nest Freemark considered the implications of the word as calmly as she
could, which wasn't easy to do.  The thought that she had been
dispatched to Seattle to find John Ross, not with any expectation she
could influence him by virtue of well-reasoned argument, but solely for
the purpose of influencing his dreams and forcing him to rethink his
position at the same time she was being put at risk was almost more
than she could bear.

She fumed for a moment, then wondered how the Lady could know how her
presence would affect things.  Could she know the dream would be
changed in a way that would make Ross reconsider?  If the Lady knew
what the dream was, it wasn't such a long shot she knew how to change
it.

Nest put her face in her hands and closed her eyes.  She was jousting
with shadows.  She was just guessing.

She left behind the dream and its implications and went back to what
she knew.  There was a demon.  The demon was in Seattle.  The demon was
after Ross.  The demon was someone he knew, probably well.  The demon
was determined to claim him--so determined it had been willing to
attack and kill another demon who challenged it for possession of his
soul.

So far, so good.  Nest nodded into her hands.  What else?

The demon had recognized Nest and decided she was a threat.  But not
enough of a threat to do anything about her until after she had gone to
Lincoln Park to speak with Boot.  Boot was going to tell her something
when the demon attacked, something about the demon changing again, only
not in the same way.

She backed off, knowing all she could do with that approach was to
speculate, that the answers she needed had to be reached from another
direction.

She glanced at her watch.  Three-thirty.  Her plane would begin
boarding around four.  She looked down at her bag, glanced over at the
security check and the people lined up to go through the metal
detector, and went back to thinking.

The demon had been present when she had gone to Fresh Start to find
John Ross.  Her magic, into whatever form it had evolved, had reacted
to the demon and made Nest physically sick.  The demon had tracked her
or followed her or intercepted her message and found her later at
Lincoln Park.  Which?  It had killed Boot, Audrey, and Ariel, and had
tried to kill her.  And then it had gone back to the city and set fire
to Fresh Start.  Why?

Her head hurt.  Nothing fit.  She walked down the concourse with her
bag to an SBC stand and ordered a decaf cappuccino.  Then she found a
different seat and thought about the demon some more.

What was she missing?

Stay away from him, Ariel had warned her of John Ross.  He has demon
stink all over him.  He is already lost.

Seemed right to her, given his refusal to accept the possibility he was
in danger, that he might be fooling himself about his vulnerability.
But John Ross genuinely seemed to believe that he was a different
person, no longer a Knight of the Word, no longer a keeper of the
magic.  He was shattered by San Sobel, and now he was in love with
Stefanie Winslow and committed to the work of Simon Lawrence, and his
life was all new.

Like her own was new, she thought suddenly.  She had left the past
behind as well, back in the park of the Sinnissippi, back with the
passing of Gran and Old Bob, back with the end of her childhood.

She thought suddenly of her mother.  There was no reason for it, but
all of a sudden she was thinking about how much she missed not having
her there while she was growing up.  Gran and Old Bob had done the best
they could, which was pretty good, but the gap in her life that her
mother's death had left wasn't something anyone could fill.  She
wondered if that was how John Ross had felt before Stef had come into
his life.  He had wandered alone for more than ten years in service to
the Word, living with his terrible dreams of the future and the
responsibility they forced on him in the present.  It was so hard to be
without someone who loved you.  Everyone was affected by the absence of
love.  Even her father, who was a demon.  The words froze in
mid-sentence, crystallized in her mind, and hung there like shards of
ice.  She had been trying to think of something earlier, something that
spoke to the issue of the demon's behavior with Ross, something from
her past.  Now she knew what it was.  It was her fathers behavior
toward Gran, years ago.

It was the same.  It was exactly the same.

In a moments time, everything came together, all the loose ends, all
the answers she had been unable to locate, all the missing clues.  She
felt her breath catch in her throat as she thought it through, trying
it out, seeing if it fit.

She knew who the demon was.

She knew why John Ross could not escape it.

A wave of heat rushed through her.  Maybe she had been wrong about the
Lady after all.  Maybe the Lady knew Nest would see what Ross could
not.

But was there still time enough to save him?

She was on her feet, her bag flung over one shoulder, running for the
exit and the taxi stand.


chapter 22

John Ross went up to his apartment and stood at the window looking down
at the ruins of Fresh Start, fuming.  A crew from the fire marshall's
office was picking its way carefully through the debris, searching for
clues.  He scanned the busy streets for Andrew Wren, but the reporter
was nowhere to be seen.

Why was the demon working so hard to discredit him?  What did it hope
to gain?

Where the Wiz was concerned, the answer was obvious.  The demon hoped
that by discrediting Simon, it would derail the progress of his
programs.  If enough doubt was cast and suspicion raised as to the
integrity of the work being done at Fresh Start and Pass/ Go donors
would pull back, political and celebrity sponsors would disappear, and
support from the public would shift to another cause.  Worse, it would
reflect on programs assisting the homeless all across the country.  It
was typical demon mischief, a sowing of discontent that, given enough
time and space, would reap anarchy.

The more difficult question was why the demon had chosen to paint him
with the same brush.  What was the point?  Was this phony theft charge
supposed to send him into a tailspin that would lead to an alliance
with the Void?  Given that the demon intended to subvert him and claim
his magic, this business of manipulating bank accounts and transfers
seemed an odd way to go about it.

He chewed his lip thoughtfully.  It might explain the fire, though.

Burning down Fresh Start at the same time Simon Lawrence was being
discredited would only add to the confusion.

If the plan was to bring down Simon and put an end to his programs, an
attack from more than one front made sense.

He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets angrily.  He wanted to walk
right over to Pass/ Go and deal with his suspicions.  But he knew there
wasn't really anything he could do.  Andrew Wren was still in the
middle of his investigation.  He was checking signatures and
interviewing bank personnel.  Maybe the signatures wouldn't match.

Certainly the bank people wouldn't remember seeing either him or
Simon.

Except, he remembered suddenly, the demon was a changeling and could
have disguised itself as either of them.

He turned away from the window and stared at the interior of the
apartment in frustration.  The best thing he could do was to follow
through on his promise to Nest and get out of town.  Do that, put a
little distance between himself and whatever machinations the demon was
engaged in, and take a fresh look at things in a few days.

Don't take any chances with the events of the dream.

He glanced at his watch.  It was already approaching four o'clock, and
the festivities at the Seattle Art Museum were scheduled to begin at
six sharp.

Dropping into his favorite wing chair, he dialed Pass/ Go and asked for
Stefanie.  Told that she was in a meeting, he left a message for her to
call him.

He went into the bedroom, pulled his duffel bag out of the closet, and
began to pack.  It didn't take long.  There wasn't much packing to do
for this sort of trip, and he didn't have much to choose from in any
case.  It gave him pause when he realized how little he owned.  The
truth was, he had never stopped living as if he were just passing
through and might be catching the morning bus to some other place.

He was reading a magazine when the door burst open and Stefanie stalked
into the room and threw a dump of papers into his lap.

"Explain this, John!"  she demanded coldly, standing rigid with fury
before him.

He looked down at the papers, already knowing what they were.

Photocopies of the bank transfers Andrew Wren had shown him earlier.

He looked up again.

"I don't know anything about these accounts.  They aren't mine."

"Your signature is all over them!"

He met her gaze squarely.

"Stef, I didn't steal a penny.  That's not my signature.  Those aren't
my accounts.  I told the same thing to Andrew Wren when he asked me
about it an hour ago.  I wouldn't do anything like this."

She stared at him silently, searching his face.

"Stef, I wouldn't."

All the anger drained away, and she bent down to kiss him.

"I know.  I told Simon the same thing.  I just wanted to hear you say
it."

She put her hands on his shoulders and ran them down his arms, her
tousled black hair falling over her battered face.  Then she knelt
before him, her eyes lifting to find his.  "I'm sorry.  This hasn't been
a good day.  "

You don't know the half of it, he thought to himself.

"I was thinking we might go away for a few days, let things sort
themselves out."

She smiled up at him sadly.

"A few days, a few weeks, a few months, we can take as much time as we
want.  Were out of a job."

He felt his throat tighten.

"What?"

"Simon fired you.  When I objected and he wouldn't change his mind, I
quit."  She shrugged.

He shook his head in disbelief.

"Why would Simon fire me without giving me a chance to explain?"

"He's cutting his losses, John.  It's the smart thing to do."  Her dark
eyes studied him.

"He's frightened.  He's angry.  A lot of bad things are happening all
at once, and he has to do something to contain the damage.  If word of
this leaks to the mayors office or the local press, it's all over for
Simon."

"So his solution is to fire me?"

"That's what I asked him."  She brushed her hair aside, her mouth tight
and angry.  Then she stood up and walked across the room and threw
herself on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

"There's nothing back yet on the transfer signatures, and no one he's
talked to at the banks involved remembers anything about who opened the
accounts.  But when Wren suggested the possibility that you were trying
to set Simon up, Simon bought into it.  He thinks you're responsible,
and he wants to distance himself from you right now before you become a
liability he can't explain."

She looked over at him.

"There's more.  He claims he came by last night after I left.  He
claims he found you drunk and irrational, and you threatened him.  I
told him that wasn't possible, that you weren't drinking.  I told him
you were sick and half asleep when I left you, so maybe he
misinterpreted what he heard.  He refused to listen."  She exhaled
sharply, her bitterness evident.

"He fired you, just like that.  So I quit, too."

Ross was staring at the space between them, stunned.  First the
business of the demon hunting him, then Andrew Wren's accusations, and
now this.  He felt as if he was caught in some sort of diabolical
whirlpool that was sucking him under where he couldn't breathe.

"This isn't like Simon, John," Stef was saying.

"This isn't like him at all.  He hasn't been the same lately.  I don't
know what the problem is, but its almost as if he's someone else
completely."

Ross was thinking the same thing.  A glimmer of suspicion had surfaced
inside, hot and fierce.  It couldn't be, he was thinking.  Not Simon.

Not the Wiz.

Stef crossed her long legs and stared down the length of her body at
her feet.

"I don't understand what he's thinking anymore."

Ross looked at her.

"How did his TV interview go last night?"  he asked casually.

She pursed her lips.

"It didn't.  He canceled it.  I didn't even find out until I showed up
and no one was there.  That's when I came back here and found you
collapsed on the couch.  I hauled you off to bed and read my book in
the living room until around midnight when I woke you about the
fire."

His suspicion burned inside like an inferno.

"You know that message you got over the phone from Nest Freemark?  The
one about meeting her in West Seattle?  Did you mention it to anyone
else?

Or could anyone else have overheard?  "

Stefanie sat up slowly, puzzled.

"I don't know.  Why?"

"Just think about it.  It might be important."

She was silent a moment.

"Well, Simon knew, I guess.  He was there talking with me when I took
Nest's call.  He asked me afterward what it was about, and I said it
was from Nest and she wanted you to meet her in Lincoln Park.  He
laughed, said it was an odd place to meet someone.

I said it had something to do with a friend of somebody named Pick. "

Ross felt the blood drain from his face.

Stef sat up slowly, her brow furrowing with concern.

"John, what's going on?"

He shook his head.  Simon Lawrence knew about the meeting with Nest. If
he was the demon, he had time and opportunity to get over there,
intercept her at her meeting with the forest creatures, and still get
back to set the fire at Fresh Start.

He almost laughed out loud.  No, this was ridiculous!

But the idea had taken root.  Who was in a better position than Simon
Lawrence to sabotage the work of Fresh Start and Pass/ Go Simon was the
whole program.  If he came under suspicion, if he was forced to quit,
if--just suppose now--he disappeared at a crucial juncture in the
investigation, everything would go down the drain.  There would be
national coverage.  Every homeless program in the country would be
adversely affected.

"John?"  Stef was on her feet.  She looked frightened.

He smiled.

"It's all right, I'm just thinking.  Would you mind getting me a root
beer from the fridge?"

She nodded, smiling back at him uncertainly.  He waited until she was
out of the room, then resumed his deliberation.  Simon Lawrence as the
demon--it made a certain amount of sense.  Simon could ruin his own
programs.  He could sabotage homeless programs nationwide by wrecking
his own.  And he was in a great position to wreck Ross's life, as
well.

He could implicate him in the theft of corporate funds, terminate his
job, maybe even have him sent to prison.  If the demon intended to turn
him to the Void's service, it would be a perfect place to begin.

It might even cost him his relationship with Stef.

His head throbbed fiercely.  One misstep was all it took, the Lady had
cautioned.  One misstep that led to another.  He considered the
possibility that the demon might take that step for him.  It wasn't too
difficult to imagine.

But Simon Lawrence?  He still couldn't bring himself to accept that the
Wiz was a demon.

Stefanie reentered the room.  He came to his feet, facing her.

"Stef, I can't go away just yet.  I have to do something first.  I have
to see Simon."

She sighed.

"John, no."

He took hold of her arms and held her gently, but firmly, in place.

"I

can call him up right now or I can just go over.  It wont take but a
moment.  "

She shook her head, her eyes angry.

"It won't do you any good, John.

He's made up his mind.  I already argued your case for you, |; and it
didn't change anything.  "

He studied her face, thinking she was right, that it was pointless.

"I

have to try," he insisted anyway.

"I have to make the attempt myself.

I'll be right back.  "

She grabbed his arm as he started to turn away.

"John, he's not even there.  He's already gone down to the art museum
to help put things in place for tonight's benefit.  He's doing
interviews and ... Look, forget this.  Let it go.  Give me five minutes
to pack a bag and were out of here.  We'll deal with it when we get
back, okay?"

But he was already committed.  He could not just walk away, not even
for three or four days.  He had to know the truth about Simon.  He had
no idea how he was going to find it out, but he could at least speak
with him face-to-face and see how he responded.

Then a very strange thought occurred to him.  What if the dream about
killing the Wizard of Oz wasn't a warning at all?  What if it were an
admonition?  Perhaps he had been mistaken about the purpose of the
dream, and he was having it not because he was supposed to avoid the
Wiz, but because he was supposed to go after him.  His dreams of the
future had been windows into mistakes that had been made in the present
and might yet be corrected.  He had assumed this was the case here. But
he was no longer a Knight of the Word, and it was possible this dream,
the only dream he was having anymore, the one he had experienced so
often, was meant to work in a different way.

Maybe he was supposed to kill Simon Lawrence because Simon was a
demon.

It was a stretch, by any measure, and he had no way of knowing if it
were so.  But if Simon was a demon, it would give new meaning to his
dream.  It would lend it a purpose and a reason for being that had been
missing before.

Stefanie was still holding the root beer.  He looked down at it and
shook his head.

"I've changed my mind.  I don't want it after all:

She put her free hand on his arm.

"John ..;

"Stef, I'm going down to the art museum to find Simon.  I wont be
long.

I just want to ask him why he didn't wait a little longer.  I just want
to hear him tell me why he won't give me the benefit of the doubt.  "

She set the can of root beer down on the table.

"John, don't do this."

"What can it hurt?"

"Your pride, for one thing."  She was seething.  Her exquisite features
were calm and settled, but her eyes were angry.

"You don't have anything to prove to Simon Lawrence, certainly not
anything more than he should have to prove to you.  Those are his
signatures on those bank accounts, too.  Why isn't it just as likely
he's to blame?"

Ross put his finger to her lips.

"Because he's the Wiz, and I'm not."

She shook her head vehemently, her anger edging closer to a breakout.

"I don't care who he is.  You don't have to prove anything."

"I just want to talk with him."

She didn't say anything for a moment, studying him with a mix of
resignation and dismay, as if realizing all the arguments in the world
had been suddenly rendered useless.

"I'm not going to change your mind on this, am I?"

He smiled, trying to take the edge off the moment.

"No, but I love you for trying.  Go pack your bag.  Wait for me.  I'll
be back inside of an hour, and then we'll go."

He kissed her mouth, then walked over to the front closet and pulled on
his greatcoat.  She was still standing there, staring after him, as he
went out the door.

Nest Freemark rode back into the city from the airport in impatient
silence, staring out at the sun as it dropped westward toward the
Olympics.  It was already growing dark, the days shortened down to a
little more than eight hours, the nights lengthening in response to the
coming of the winter solstice.  Shadows crept and pooled all across the
wooded slopes of the city's hills, swallowing up the last of the
light.

She had thought to call ahead, to reach Ross by telephone, but what she
had to say would be better coming from her in person.  He might believe
her then.  She might stand a chance of convincing him.

She exhaled wearily, peering out at the descending dark.  This was
going to be a much harder task than the one the Lady had given her.

The taxi rolled onto the off-ramp at Seneca and down to Pioneer Square.
The districts turn-of-the-century lamps were already lit, the shadows
of the city's tall buildings stretching dark fingers to gather in
dwindling slivers of daylight.  The taxi pulled up at the curb beside
the burned-out hulk of Fresh Start, and she paid the driver and jumped
out, bag in hand.  The taxi drove away, and she stood there, gathering
her thoughts.  She realized how cold it had gotten, a brisk wind
whipping out of the northwest down Second Avenue's broad corridor, and
she slipped hurriedly into her new jacket.

She turned and looked across the intersection at Waterfall

Park and the apartment building where John Ross lived with
StefanieWinslow.  The wind buffeted her gangly form as she stood there
and tried to decide what she should do.

Finally, she picked up her bag and turned the corner to walk up Main
Street to Pass/ Go She entered the reception area and glanced around.

Except for the lady working the intake desk, the room was empty.

She moved over to the desk, taking several deep breaths to slow the
pounding of her heart, masking her trepidation and urgency with a
smile.

"Is John Ross here?"  she asked.

The woman at the desk shook her head without looking up.  She seemed
anxious to stick with her paperwork.

"He didn't come in today.  Can I help you?"

"My name is Nest Freemark.  I'm a friend.  I need to speak with him
right away.  It's rather urgent.  Can you give him a call for me at his
apartment?  Or would you let me have his number?"

The woman smiled in a way that let Nest know right off the bat she
wasn't about to do either.

"I'm sorry, but our policy is--" "Well, look who's back!  " Delia
Jenkins strolled into the room, smiling like this was the best thing
that had happened all day.

"I thought you was flying home, Nest Freemark.  What're you doing, back
in my kitchen?"

She saw Nest's face, and the smile faded away.

"Good gracious, look at you!  If I didn't know better, I'd say you'd
been in a cat fight with StefWinslow!  She looks just the same!"

Nest flinched as if she had been struck.

"I'm sorry to barge in like this, but something's come up and I really
need to find John."

"Lord, if this isn't a day for finding John!  Everyone wants to find
John!  You'd think he'd won the lottery or something.  He hasn't, has
he?

"Cause if he has, I want to be sure and get my share.  Marilyn, let me
use the phone there, sweetie."

Delia moved the woman at the intake desk out of the picture with an
easy exercise of authority that didn't leave much room for doubt as to
who was boss.  She picked up the receiver, punched in a number, and
waited, listening.  After a long time, she set the receiver down.

"John's been home all day, far as I know.  He's stayed clear of here,
and I don't expect him in.  Stefanie's gone, too.  Left here a short
time ago.  There's no answer at the apartment, so maybe they're out
together somewhere."

Nest nodded, her mind racing over the possibilities.  Had they left
town?  Had John Ross done as he promised?  She didn't think so.  She
didn't think there was a prayer of that happening.  He would still be
in the city. "Is Mr.  Lawrence here?"  she asked quickly.

"Oh, no, he's gone, too," Delia answered, surrendering her seat to
Marilyn once more.  She came around the desk and put her finger to the
side of her cheek.

"You know.  Nest--oh, I do love that name!  Nest!

Anyway, Nest, John might be down at the art museum, helping set up for
tonight.  That's where Simons gone, so maybe John's gone there, too."

Nest was already starting for the door, shouldering her bag.

"Thanks, Delia.  Maybe you're right,"

"You want me to call and ask?"

"No, that's okay, I'll just go down.  If John shows up here or calls
in, tell him I'm looking for him and it's really important."

"Okay."  Delia made a face.

"Here, where are you going with that bag?

You don't want to be carrying that all over the place.  You leave it
with me, I'll keep it safe.  "

Nest came back and handed her bag to the big woman.

"Thanks again.

I'll see you.  "

She raced across the lobby, thinking, I'm wins to be too late, I'm not
going to be in time!

"Slow down, for goodness sake, this ain't the fifty-yard dash!"  Delia
called after her, but she was already out the door.

AndrewWren spent the remainder of the afternoon following
investigative roadways that all turned into dead ends.  He was not
discouraged, though.  Investigative reporting required patience and
bulldog determination, and he had an abundance of both.  If the
research took until Christmas, that was all right with him.

What wasn't all right was the way his instincts were acting.  He
trusted his instincts, and up until this morning they had been doing
just fine.  They had told him the anonymous reports of wrongdoing at
Fresh Start were worth following up.  They had told him the transfer
records that had been slipped under his door were the real thing.

But what they were telling him now, barely eighteen hours later, was
that something about all this was screwy.

For one thing, even though he had proof of the funds transfers from the
corporate accounts of Fresh Start and Pass/ Go to the private accounts
of Simon Lawrence and John Ross, he couldn't find a pattern that made
any sense.  The withdrawals and deposits were regular, but the amounts
transferred were too low given the amounts that might have been
transferred from the money on hand.  Sure, you wouldn't take too much,
because you didn't want to draw attention.  But you wouldn't take too
little either, and in several cases it appeared this was exactly what
theWiz and Mr.  Ross had done.

Then there was the matter of identifying the thieves.  No one at any of
the various banks could remember ever seeing either Mr.  Lawrence or
Mr.  Ross make a deposit.  But some of the deposits had been made in
person, not by mail.  Andrew Wren had been circumspect in making his
inquiries, cloaking them in a series of charades designed to deflect
the real reason for his interest.  But not one teller or officer who
had conducted the personal transactions could remember ever seeing
either man come in.

But it was in the area of his personal contact with the two men he was
investigating that his instincts were really acting up, telling him
that the two men didn't do it.  When someone was guilty of something,
he could almost always tell.  His instincts lit up like a scoreboard
after a home run, and he just knew.  But even after bracing both Simon
and John Ross on the matter, his instincts refused to celebrate.  Maybe
they just weren't registering the truth of things this time out, but he
didn't like it that they weren't flashing even a little.

Well, tomorrow was another day, and tonight was the gala event at the
Seattle Art Museum, and he was anxious to see if he might learn
something there.  It wasn't an unrealistic expectation, given the
circumstances.  He would have another shot at both the Wiz and Ross,
since both were expected to attend.  He would have a good chance to
talk with their friends and maybe even one or two of their enemies.

One could always hope.

He reached the Westin just after five and rode up to his room in an
otherwise empty elevator.  He unlocked his door, slipped out of his
rumpled jacket, and went into the bathroom to wash his face and hands
and brush his teeth.  When he came out again, he located his
invitation, dropped it on top of his jacket, and poured himself a short
glass of scotch from what remained of last nights bottle.

Then he sat down next to the phone and called Marty at the lab in New
York.  He let it ring.  It was three hours later there, but Marty often
worked late when there was no one around to interrupt.  Besides, he
knew Wren was anxious for a quick report.

On the seventh ring, Marty picked up.

"Lab Works."

"Hello, Marty?  It's Andrew.  How are you coming?"

"I'm done."

Wren straightened.  He'd sent Marty the transfer records by fax for
signature comparison late that morning, marked "Urgent' in bold
letters, but he hadn't really expected anything for another day.

Andrew?  You there?  " Marty sounded impatient.

"I'm here.  What did you find?  "

"They don't match.  Good forgeries, very close to the real thing, but
phony.  In some cases the signatures were just tracings.  Good enough
to pass at first glance, but nothing that would stand up in court. 
These boys are being had."

Andrew Wren stared into space.

"Damn," he muttered.

Marty chuckled.

"I thought you'd like that.  But hang on a second, there's more.  I
checked the forgeries against all the other signatures you
sent--friends, acquaintances, fellow workers, so on and so forth."

He paused meaningfully.

"Yeah, so?"  Wren prodded.

"So while there isn't a match there either, there is a singular
characteristic in one other person's writing style that suggests you
might have a new suspect.  Again, not enough to stand up in court, but
enough to make me sit up and take notice.  It only appears on the
signatures copied freehand, not on the ones traced, which is good
because it's their freehand writing we're interested in."

Wren took a long drink of his scotch.

"Enough with the buildup, Marty.

Whose signature is it?  "


chapter 23

John Ross stepped out of the bus tunnel onto Third Avenue, walked right
to University Street, and started down the steep hill.  The evening air
was brittle and sharp, tinged with a hint of early frost, and he pulled
the collar of his coat closer about his neck.  He moved slowly along
the sidewalk, his gaze lowered to its surface, conscious of a slippery
glaze en crusting the cement, relying on his staff for support.

Still bound to my past, he thought darkly.  Crippled by it.  Unable to
escape what I was.

He tried to organize his thoughts as he passed close by the imposing
glass lobby of the symphony hall, brilliant light spilling out across
the promenade and planting areas to where he walked. But his mind
would not settle.  The possibilities of what he might discover when
he confronted Simon Lawrence did not lend themselves readily to
resolution.  He wanted to be wrong about Simon.  But a dark whisper at
the back of his mind told him he was not and ; warned him he must be
careful.

At the next intersection, he paused, waiting for the light to change,
and allowed himself his first close look at his destination.  The high,
curved walls of the Seattle Art Museum loomed ahead, filling the entire
south end of the block between Second and First.  The Robert
Venturi-designed building had a fortresslike look to it from this
angle, all the windows that faced on First hidden, the massive sections
of exposed limestone confronting him Jagged, rough, and forbidding.  In
the shadowy street light, the softening contours and sculpting were
invisible, and there was only a sense of weight and mass.

He crossed with the light and began his descent of a connecting set of
terraces and steps that followed the slope of the hill down to the
museum's primary entrance.  He limped uneasily, warily, seeing movement
and shadows everywhere, seeing ghosts.  He peered into the brightly lit
interior, where service people were bustling about in preparation for
the night's festivities.  He could see a scattering of tables on the
broad platform of the mezzanine outside the little cafe, and more on
the main floor of the entry.  Stacks of trays and plates were being set
out along with bottles of wine and champagne, chests of ice, napkins,
silver, and crystal.  The waiters and waitresses were dressed in
skeleton suits, their painted bones shimmering with silver
incandescence.  One or two had already donned their skull masks.  It
gave the proceedings an eerie look: no guests had arrived yet, but the
dead were making ready.

Ahead, the Hammering Man rose fifty feet into the night, stark and
angular against the skyline of Elliott Bay and the mountains.  A
massive, flat steel cutout painted black, it was the creation of
Jonathan Borofsky, who had intended it to reflect the working nature of
the city.  A hammer held in the left hand rose and fell in rhythmic
motion, giving the illusion of pounding and shaping a bar that was held
firmly in the right.  The head was lowered in concentration to monitor
the work being done, the body muscular and powerful as it bent to its
endless task, Ross stopped at the sculpture's base and looked up at it.
An image of the dream that had haunted him these past six months
clouded his vision, the old man accusing him anew of slaying the Wizard
of Oz, in the glass palace of the Emerald City, where the Tin Woodman
kept watch.  He had recognized the references instantly, known them to
be the museum and the Hammering Man.  He had sworn to stay away, to do
anything required to keep the dream from becoming reality.  Yet here he
was, as if in perverse disregard of all he had promised himself,
because now there was reason to believe the dream was meant to
happen.

He stood rooted in place then, thinking desperately.  If he entered the
museum, he was accepting he might not be meant to foil the dream, but
to facilitate it.  Such logic flew in the teeth of everything he had
learned while he was a Knight of the Word, and yet he knew the past was
not always an accurate measurement for the present and what had once
been reliable might no longer be so.  If he turned around now and
walked away, he would not have to find out.  But he would be left with
unanswered questions about the demon who sought to destroy him and
about Simon Lawrence, and he would have no peace.

He held the staff before him and stared into its rune-scrolled
length.

He gripped it in frustration, as if to break it asunder, giving way to
an inner core of rage and heat that sought to drag the recalcitrant
magic from its hiding place.  But no magic appeared, and he was forced
to consider anew that perhaps it was forever gone.  As he had often
wished, he reminded himself bitterly.  As he had often prayed.

Cars moved past him on the streets in a steady line of headlights,
rush-hour traffic heading home.  Horns honked, more in celebration than
in irritation.  It was Halloween, and everyone was feeling good.  Some
passersby wore masks and costumes, waving their hands and yelling,
holding up plastic weapons and icons against the night.  Ross gave them
a momentary glance, then faced the museum anew.  The magic of the staff
was a crutch he did not require.  He would not have to do more than ask
Simon why.  There need not be a confrontation, a struggle, or a
death.

The dream need not come about.  It was the truth he was seeking, and he
thought it would make itself known quickly when he had Simon Lawrence
before him.

But still he hesitated, torn in two directions, caught between choices
that could change his life inalterably, Then he took a deep breath,
hefted the staff, set the butt end firmly on the ground, and walked
into the museum.

It was loud and cavernous in the lobby, where the servers were
scurrying about in final preparation.  He stood in the doorway,
glancing about for an indication of where to go.  Ahead and to his left
was a reception desk, the museum shop, and doors opening into an
auditorium where the announcement of the dedication of city land for a
new building for Fresh Start would be made.  To his right, the Grand
Stairway climbed through a Ming dynasty marble statuary of rams,
camels, and guardians past the mezzanine to the upper floors.

The prominent, distinctive arches draped from the ceiling were spaced
at regular intervals so that Ross could imagine how the inside of the
whale must have looked to Jonah.  Where the rough-edged exterior was
formed of limestone, sandstone, and terra-cotta, the softer interior
was comprised of polished floors of terrazzo set in cement and of walls
of red oak.  Ross had visited the museum only once during the time he
had lived in Seattle.  He admired the architectural accomplishments,
but still preferred the green, open spaces of the parks.

One of the security guards walked up to him and asked to see his
invitation.  Staying calm when he felt anything but, he said he had
forgotten it, but he was employed at Fresh Start and was on the guest
list.  The guard asked for identification, which Ross produced.  The
guard seemed satisfied.  Ross asked him if he had seen Simon Lawrence,
but the guard said he had been working the door and hadn't seen anyone
who might have entered another way.

Ross thanked him and walked past, eyes scanning the lobby, then the
upper levels.  There was no sign of Simon.  He was feeling edgy again,
thinking Stef had been right, he shouldn't have come, he should have
let it go.

One of the servers came up to him with a mask.

"Everyone gets a mask at this party," she enthused, handing him his.

"Do you want me to take your coat?"

Ross declined her offer, not expecting to stay beyond talking with
Simon, and then, because she seemed to expect it, he slipped on the
mask.  It was a black nylon sheath that covered the upper half of his
face.  It made him feel vaguely sinister amid the skeleton suits and
Halloween trimmings.

He looked around some more without success for Simon and was about to
move on to the reception desk when a security guard from the upper
mezzanine area came down the steps toward him, waving to catch his
attention.

"Mr.  Ross?"  he asked.  When Ross nodded, the guard said.

"Mr.  Lawrence is waiting for you on the second floor in the Special
Exhibition Hall.

He said to go on up.  "

Ross caught himself staring at the guard in surprise, but then thanked
him quickly and moved away.  Simon was waiting for him?  He began to
climb the Grand Stairway without even considering the elevator, the
broad steps leading up from the brightness of the lobby and mezzanine
to the more shadowy rooms of the display halls above.  He ascended at a
steady pace through the rams and camels, through the civilian and
military guardians, their eyes blank and staring, their expressions
fixed, sculptures warding artifacts and treasures of the dead.  Servers
bustled by, skeleton costumes rippling, masks in place.  He glanced at
his watch.  The evening's events were scheduled to begin in less than
thirty minutes.

At the top of the stairs, he stopped and looked around.  i Below, the
Grand Stairway stretched downward in a smooth flow | of steps, arches,
and glass windows to the array of finger foods, drinks, and serving
people.  Ahead, the hallway wound back on itself up a short flight of
stairs to the exhibition rooms.  Simon Lawrence was nowhere to be
seen.

A ripple of apprehension ran down his spine.  What was Simon doing up
here?

He climbed the short flight of stairs and walked down the hallway into
the exhibition rooms.  The lights were dim, the red oak walls draped
with shadows.  There was a display of Chihuly glass that shimmered in
bright splashes of color beneath directional lighting.  Fire reds,
sun-bright yellows, ocean blues, and deep purples lent a festive air to
the semidark.  Ross walked on, passing other exhibits in other areas,
searching.  The sound of his footfalls echoed eerily.

Then abruptly, shockingly, Simon Lawrence stepped out from behind a
display directly to one side and said, "Why are you here, John?"

Ross started in spite of himself, then took a quick breath to steady
the rapid beating of his heart and faced the other man squarely.

"I

came to ask you if what Stef told me was true.  "

Simon smiled.  He was dressed in a simple black tuxedo that made him
look taller and broader than Ross knew him to be and lent him an air of
smooth confidence.

"Which part, John?  That I fired you for stealing money from the
project?  That I chose to do it without talking to you first?  That I
did it to distance myself from you?"  He paused.

"The answer is yes to all."

John stared at him in disbelief.  Somehow, he hadn't expected Simon to
find it so easy to say it to his face.

"Why?"  he managed, shaking his head slowly.

"I haven't done anything, Simon.  I didn't steal that money."

Simon Lawrence moved out of the shadows and came right up to Ross,
stopping so close to him that Ross could see the silvery glitter of his
eyes.

"I know that," Simon said softly.

"I did."

Ross blinked.

"Simon, why--" The other man interrupted smoothly, dismissing the
question with a wave of his hand.

"You know why, John."

John Ross felt the ground shift under his feet, as if the stone had
turned to quicksand and was about to swallow him up.  In that instant
of confusion and dismay, Simon Lawrence snatched away his staff,
wrenching it from his grasp with a sudden, vicious twist, then stepped
back swiftly out of reach, leaving Ross tottering on his bad leg.

"I set fire to Fresh Start as well, John," Simon went on smoothly,
cradling the staff beneath one arm.

"I killed Ray Hapgood.  Everything you think I might have done, I
probably did.  I did it to destroy the programs, to undermine the Simon
Lawrence legend, the mystique of the Wiz, which, after all, I created
in the first place.  I did it to further the aims I really serve and
not those I have championed as a part of my disguise.  But you guessed
as much already, or you wouldn't be here."

Ross was fighting to keep from attempting to rush Simon-or the thing
that pretended at being Simon.  An attack would only result in Ross
falling on his face.  He had to hope the other might come close enough
to be grappled with, might make a mistake born of overconfidence.

"You fooled us all," he said softly.

"But especially me.  I never guessed what you really were."

The demon laughed.

"I hired you in the first place, John, because I knew whit you were and
I was certain I could make good use of you.  A Knight of the Word
fallen from grace, an exile by choice, but still in possession of a
valuable magic.  The opportunity was too good to pass up.  Besides, it
was time to abandon this charade, to put an end to Simon Lawrence and
his good works.  It was time to move on to something else.  All I had
to do was to destroy the persona I had created by discrediting him. You
were the perfect scapegoat.  So willing, John, to be seduced.  So I
used you, and now you will take the blame, I will resign in disgrace,
and the programs will fail.  If it works as I intend, it will have a
ripple effect on homeless programs all over the country.  Loss of trust
is a powerful incentive for closing up pocketbooks and shutting off
funds."

The demon smiled.

"Was that what you wanted to hear, John?  I haven't disappointed you,
have I?"

It took the staff from beneath its arms and flung it into the space
behind, where it skidded across the stone floor and clattered into the
wall.  Then it reached out and took Ross by his shirt front and dragged
him forward.  Ross fought to escape, but the demon was too strong for
him and backhanded him across the face.  The blow snapped Ross's head
back, and a bright flash of pain left him blinded and stunned.  The
demon lifted Ross and held him suspended above the floor.  Ross blinked
to clear his vision, then watched as the demon lifted its free hand.

The hand began to transform, changing from something human to something
decidedly not.  Claws and bristling hair appeared.  The demon glanced
at its handiwork speculatively, then raked the claws across Ross's
midsection-They tore through coat and shirt, shredding the flesh
beneath, bringing bright welts of blood.

The demon threw John Ross down, sending him sprawling back onto the
floor.

"You really are pathetic, John," it advised conversationally, walking
to where he lay gasping for breath and bleeding.

"Look at you.

You can't even defend yourself.  I was prepared to offer you a place in
service to the Void, but what would be the point?  Without your staff,
you're nothing.  Even with the staff, I doubt you could do much. You've
lost your magic, haven't you?  Its all dried up and blown away. There's
nothing left.  "

The demon reached down, picked Ross up and slashed him a second time,
this time down one shoulder.  It struck Ross across the face again,
dropping him as it might a thing so foul it could not bear to hold him
longer.  Ross collapsed in a heap, fighting to stay conscious.

"You're not worth any more of my time, John," the demon sneered softly,
standing over him once more.

"I could kill you, but you're worth more to me alive.  I've still use
for you in destroying Simon Lawrence and his fine works.  I've still
plans for you."

It bent down, leaning close, and whispered, "But if I see you again
this night, I will kill you where I find you.  Don't test me on this,
John.  Get out of here and don't come back."

Then it rose, pushed Ross down with its foot, held him pinned
helplessly against the floor as it studied him, then turned and walked
away.

For a long time Ross lay where the demon had left him, a black wave
of nausea and pain threatening to overwhelm him with every breath he
took.  He lay on his back, staring up at a ceiling enveloped in layers
of deep shadows.  He might have given in to the despair and shame that
swept through him if he were any other man, if he had not once been a
Knight of the Word.  But the seeds of his identity ran deeper than he
would have thought possible, and amid the darker feelings wound an iron
cord of determination that would have required him to die first.

After a while, he was strong enough to roll onto his side and sit up.

Dizziness threatened to flatten him anew, but he lowered his head
between his legs, braced himself with his hands, and waited for the
feeling to pass.  When it did, he lurched to his knees, dropped back to
his hands, and began to crawl.  Streaks of blood from his wounds marked
his slow passage, and shards of fire traced the deep furrows the
demon's claws had left on his body.  The hallway and exhibit areas were
silent and empty of life, and he worked his solitary way across the
polished stone with only the sound of his breathing for company.

He had been a fool, he told himself over and over again.  He had
misjudged badly, been overconfident of what he could accomplish when he
would have been better served by being more cautious.  He should have
listened to Stef.  He should have trusted his instincts.  He should
have remembered the lessons of his time in service to the Word.

Twice he slipped in pools of his own excretions and went down.  His
arms and hands were wet from blood and sweat, and every movement he
made trying to cross the museum floor racked his body with pain.

Damn you, Simon, he swore silently, resolutely, a litany meant to
empower.  Damn you to hell When he reached the staff, he rose again to
his knees and wiped his bloodstained palms on his pants.  Then he took
the staff firmly in his hands and levered himself back to his feet.

He stood there for a moment, swaying unsteadily.  When the dizziness
passed, he moved to an empty bench in the center of the hall, seated
himself, slipped off the greatcoat, then the tattered shirt, and used
the shirt to bind his ribs and chest in a mostly successful effort to
slow the flow of his blood.  He sat staring into space after that,
trying to gather his strength.  He didn't think anything was broken,
but he had lost a lot of blood.  He could not continue without help,
and the only help he could count on now would have to come from
within.

Hard-eyed and ashen-faced, he leaned forward on the bench, wrapped in
the tatters of his shirt, his upper torso mostly bare and red-streaked
with his blood.  He straightened with an effort and tightened his grip
on the staff, his abandoned choices swirling around him like wraiths,
his decision of what he must do fully embraced.  He no longer cared
about consequences or dreams.  He could barely bring himself to think
on the future beyond this night.  What he knew was that he had been
driven to his knees by something so foul and repulsive he could not
bear another day of life if he did not bring an end to it.

So he called forth the magic of the staff, called it with a certainty
that surprised him, called it with full acceptance of what it meant to
do so.  He renounced himself and what he had become.  He renounced his
stand of the past year and took up anew the mantle he had shed.  He
declared himself a Knight of the Word, begged for the right to become
so once more, if only for this single night, if only for this solitary
purpose.  He armored himself in his vow to become the thing he had
tried so hard to disclaim, accepting as truth the admonitions of Owain
Glyndwr and O'olish Amaneh.  He bowed in acknowledgment to the cautions
of the Lady as delivered by Nest Freemark and her friends, giving
himself over once more to the promises he had made fifteen years
earlier when he had taken up the cause of the Word and entered into His
service.

Even then, the magic did not come at once, for it lay deep within the
staff, waiting for the call to be right, for the prayer to be
sincere.

He could sense it, poised and heedful, but recalcitrant.  He strained
to reach it, to make it feel his need, to draw it to him as he would a
reluctant child.  His eyes were closed and his brow furrowed in
concentration, and the pain that racked his body became a white-hot
fury at the core of his heart.

Suddenly, abruptly, the Lady was before him, there in the darkness of
his mind, white-gowned and ephemeral, her hands reaching far him.  Oh,
my brave Knight Errant, would you truly come hack to me?  Would you
serve me as you once did, without reservation or guilt, without doubt
or fear?  Would you be mine as you were?  Her words filtered like the
slow meandering of a forest stream through rocks and mud banks, soft
and rippling.  He cried at the sound of her voice, the tears filling
his lids and leaking down his bloodied face I would.  I will. Always.

Forever.

Then she was gone, and the magic of the staff stirred and gathered and
came forth in a swift, steady river, climbing out of the polished black
walnut into his arms and body, filling him with its healing power.

Silver light enfolded the Knight of the Word with bright radiance, and
he was alive anew.

And dead to what once he had hoped so strongly he might be.

John Ross lifted his head in recognition, feeling the power of the
magic flow through him, rising out of the staff, anxious to serve.  He
let it strengthen him as nothing else could, not caring what it might
cost him.  For the cost was not his to measure.  It would be measured
in his dreams, when they returned.  It would be measured in the time he
would spend unprotected in the future he had sworn to prevent and, as a
Knight of the Word once more, must now return to.

But before that happened, he vowed, climbing to his feet as the damage
to his body was swept aside by the sustaining magic, he would find
Simon Lawrence, demon of the Void.

And he would destroy him.

Nest Freemark arrived at the museum with the first crush of invited
guests, and it took her a while just to get through the door.  When she
was asked for her invitation and failed to produce it, she was told in
no uncertain terms that if her name wasn't on the guest list, she
couldn't come in.  She tried to explain how important this was, that
she needed to find John Ross or Simon Lawrence, but the security guards
weren't interested.  People behind her were getting impatient with the
delay, and she might have been thwarted altogether if she hadn't caught
sight of Carole Price and called her over.  Carole greeted Nest
effusively and told the security guards to let her through.

"Nest, what are you doing here?"  the other woman asked, steering her
to an open spot amid the knots of masked guests and skeleton-costumed
servers.

"I thought you'd gone back to Illinois."

"I postponed my flight," she replied, keeping her explanation
purposefully vague.

"Is John here?"

"John Ross?"  A waiter came up to them with a tray filled with
champagne glasses, and Carole motioned him away.

"No, I haven't seen him yet."

"How about Mr.  Lawrence?"

"Oh, yes, Simon's here somewhere.  I saw him just a little while
ago."

Her brow furrowed slightly.

"You heard about the fire, didn't you.

Nest?  "

Nest nodded.

"I'm sorry about Mr.  Hapgood."  There was an awkward silence as she
tried to think of something else to say.

"I know John was very upset about it."

Carole Price nodded.

"We all were.  Look, why don't you go on and see if you can find him, I
haven't seen him down here, but maybe he's up on the mezzanine.  And
I'll tell Simon you're here.  He'll want to say hello."

"Thanks."  Nest glanced around doubtfully.  The lobby was filling up
quickly with guests, and everyone was wearing a mask.  It made
recognizing people difficult.

"If you see John," she said carefully, 'tell him I'm here.  Tell him
it's important that I speak with him right away.  "

Carole nodded, a hint of confusion in her blue eyes, and Nest moved
away before she could ask any questions.

A passing server handed her one of the black nylon masks, and she
supped it on.  All around her, people were drinking champagne.  Their
talk and laughter was deafening in the cavernous space.  Eyes scanning
the crowd, she moved toward the wide staircase with the massive stone
figures warding its various levels and began to climb.  As she did so,
a troubling realization came to her.  She had forgotten about the
dream, the one that had haunted Ross for months, the one in which the
old man accused him of killing the Wizard of Oz--and perhaps of killing
her as well.  She had been thinking so hard about Ross and the demon
and what she suspected about both that it had slipped her mind.

It was supposed to happen here, in the Seattle Art Museum, on this
night.  He had wanted her far away from this place, so it could never
happen.  He had wanted himself far away as well.  But she suspected
events and demon schemes were at work conspiring to thwart his
wishes.

Simon Lawrence was already here.  She was here.  If he wasn't already,
soon John Ross would be here too.

She reached the mezzanine and glanced around anew.  She did not see
Ross.  She felt a growing desperation at her inability to locate him.

The longer he remained ignorant of what she suspected, the greater the
risk his dream would come to pass.  But all she could do was to keep
looking.  She walked over to a security guard and asked if he had seen
John Ross.  He told her he didn't even know who Ross was.  Frustrated
with his response, she asked if he'd seen Simon Lawrence.  The guard
said no, but asked her to wait and walked over to speak with a second
guard.  After a moment he came back and told her the second guard had
sent a man upstairs not long ago to talk with Mr.  Lawrence--a man who
walked with a limp and carried a walking stick.

Stunned by her blind good luck, she thanked him and moved quickly to
the stairway.  She had never even thought to ask if a man with a
walking staff and a limp had come in.  Stupid, stupid!  She tore off
the nylon mask and went up the stairs in a rush, wondering what Simon
and Ross were doing up there, wondering if somehow she was already too
late.  There was still too much she didn't know, too much about the
circumstances surrounding the events portended in Ross's dream that was
hidden from her.  There was a tangle of threads in this matter that
needed careful unraveling before it ensnared 'them all.

She reached the second-floor landing and wheeled left to where a dozen
steps rose to a dimly lit corridor and the exhibition rooms beyond.

She was halfway up this second set of stairs when she drew up short.

John Ross walked out of the shadows, a luminous, terrifying apparition.
His clothes were torn and bloodied, and his tattered coat billowed out
from his half-naked body like a cape.  The black, rune-scrolled staff
that was the source of his magic shimmered with silver light, and the
radiance it emitted ran all about him like electricity.  His strong,
sharply angled face was hard-set and drawn, and his green eyes were
fierce with determination and rage.

When he saw her, he faltered slightly, and with recognition came a hint
of fear and shock.

"Nest!"  he hissed.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"John, what happened?"  When he shook his head, unwilling to answer,
she wasted no further time on the matter.

"John, I had to come back," she said quickly.

"I took a chance I might find you here.  I have to talk with you."

He shook his head in horror, seeing something that was hidden from her,
some truth too terrible to accept.

"Get out of here.  Nest!  I told you to get away!  I warned you about
the dream!"

"But that's why I'm here."  She tried to get closer, but he held up one
hand as if to ward himself against her.

"John, you have to forget about the dream.  The dream was a lie."

"It was the truth!"  he shouted back at her.

"The dream was the truth!

The dream is meant to happen!  But some of it can still be changed,
enough so that you won't be hurt!  But you have to get out of here! You
have to leave now!  "

She brushed back her curly hair, trying to understand what he was
saying.

"No, the dream doesn't have to happen.  Don't you remember?

You're supposed to prevent the dream!  "

He came forward a step, wild-eyed and shining with silver light, the
magic a living thing as it raced up and down his body and across his
limbs.

"You don't understand!"  he hissed at her in fury.

"I'm supposed to make it happen!"

There were footsteps and voices on the Grand Stairway, and Nest turned
in surprise.  She heard Simon Lawrence speaking, and she rushed to
where she could see him climbing out of the brightly lit mezzanine
toward the second-floor shadows.

She wheeled back to find John Ross striding toward her.

"Get out of the way, Nest."

She stared at him, appalled at what she saw in his eyes and heard in
his voice.

"No, John, wait."

The footsteps stopped momentarily, the voices still audible.  Nest
could hear Simon Lawrence distinctly, calling to someone below.  A
woman.  Carole Price?  Nest went back toward Ross, holding out her
hands pleadingly.

"John, it isn't him!"

His laugh was brittle.

"I saw him.  Nest!  He did this to me, moments ago, up there!"  He
gestured back in the direction from which he had come.

"He told me everything, admitted it!  Then he attacked me!  He's the
demon, Nest!  He's the one who stalked you in the park, the one who
destroyed Ariel and Audrey and Boot!  He's the one who set fire to
Fresh Start!  He's the one who killed Ray Hapgood!"

He slammed the butt end of his black staff against the stone floor, and
white fire ran up its length like a rocket, searing the dark.

"This dream isn't like the others.  Nest!  Its a prophecy!"  His voice
was ragged and uneven, choked with anger.

"It's a revelation meant to put things right!  It's a window into a
truth I was trying wrongly, foolishly to ignore!  I have to act on it!
I have to make it happen!"

She held up her hands to slow his advance.

"No, John, listen to me!"

The footsteps were approaching again, the voices growing stronger.  She
could hear Simon joking with someone, could hear muffled responses,
sudden laughter, the clink of glasses.  Ross was staring past her, the
staff's magic gathering about his knotted hands, growing brighter as he
waited for Simon to come into view so that he could unleash it.

"Step aside.  Nest," he said softly.

In desperation she backed away from him, but slowly and with measured
steps, so he did not advance immediately, but stood watching to see
what she intended.  She backed until the sweep of the stairway came
into view, then wheeled on the knot of people approaching.  Simon
Lawrence was foremost, smiling, at ease, exchanging remarks with Carole
Price and three weathered, worn- looking men who looked to have seen
hard times and few respites.  They had not seen her yet, and she did
not wait for them to do so.  She acted on instinct and out of need.

She called on her own magic, on the magic she had been born with but
had forsworn since the death of Gran.  She called on it without knowing
whether it would come, but with certainty that it must.  She drew Simon
Lawrences gaze to her own, just a glimpse and no more, just enough to
bind them for an instant, then used the magic to buckle his legs and
drop him nerveless and limp upon the stairs.

She stepped quickly from view as his companions gathered around him,
kneeling to see what had happened.  It surprised her how quickly she
was able to regain her use of a skill she had not tested for so long.

But calling on it had an unexpected side effect.  It had awakened
something else inside of her, something much larger and more dangerous.
She felt it stir and then rise, growing large and ferocious, and for a
terrifying moment she felt as if it might get away from her
completely.

Then she recovered herself, all in an instant, and turned back to face
Ross.  He hadn't moved.  He was standing where she had left him, a
puzzled look on his face.  He had seen something that had escaped her,
and whatever it was, it had left him confused and momentarily
distracted.

She did not wait for him to recover.  She went to him immediately,
crossed the open space between them and came right up to where he
stood, aswirl in his magic, enfolded by the staff's power, the rage and
fierce determination returning to his eyes as he recovered his
purpose.

"No, John," she said again, quickly, firmly, taking hold of his arms,
ignoring the feel of the magic as it played across her skin.  She was
not afraid.  There was no place for her fear in what he required of
her.  Her eyes met his and she held him bound.

"You've been tricked, John.  We've all been tricked."

"Nest," he whispered, but there was no force behind the speaking of her
name, only a vague sort of plea.

"I know," she replied softly, meaning it without understanding how
exactly, knowing mostly that he needed to feel it was true.

"But it isn't him, John.  It isn't Simon.  He isn't the demon."

And then she told him who was.


chapter 24

So now, with his memory of the dream that had started it all fading
like autumn color, John Ross began to cross the shadowed cobblestone
expanse of Occidental Park in Pioneer Square, his topcoat pulled close
about his battered, bloodied torso, a wraith come down out of Purgatory
to find the demon who had sentenced him to Hell.  The night air was
cold and sharp with the smell of winter's coming, and he breathed in
the icy scents.  Wooden totems loomed overhead as he passed beneath
their watchful, fierce gaze, and the homeless who scurried to get out
of his way cast apprehensive glances over their shoulders, wary of the
silver glow that emanated in a faint sheen from the long black staff
that supported him.  On the hard surface of the cobblestones, the butt
end of the staff clicked softly to mark his progress, and a sudden rush
of wind blew debris in a ragged scuttle from his path.  The feeders who
had gathered at his return trailed silently in his wake, eyes watchful,
movements quick and furtive.  He could sense their anticipation and
their hunger for what lay ahead.

He was a Knight of the Word once more, now and forever, bound by the
pledge he had given in persuading the magic to return to him.  He was
become anew what he had sought so hard to escape, and in his
recognition and acceptance of the futility of his efforts he found a
kind of solace.  It was the home he had looked for and not found in his
other life.  It was the reality of his existence he had sought to
deny.

In his renunciation of the Word, he had lost his way, been deceived,
and very nearly given himself over to a fate that even on brief
reflection made his skin crawl.

But all that was past.  All of who he had been and sought to be in
these last twelve months was past.  His life, the only life he would
ever have now, he supposed, was given back to him, and he must find a
way to atone for casting it aside so recklessly.

Even if it meant giving it up again as payment for the cost of setting
things right.

Street lamps burned with fierce bright centers through the Halloween
gloom.  All masks were off, all secrets revealed, the trickery
finished. By dawn, there would be an accounting and a retribution and
perhaps his own death.  It would depend on how much of himself he had
rescued, how much of the warrior he had been he could summon anew.

He looked ahead to the lights of his apartment, and beyond to the
smoking ruins of Fresh Start and the mostly darkened bulk of Pass/ Go

The buildings lined the corridor of Main Street, safe- holds hiding the
secrets of the people within.  Ross experienced a sense of futility in
thinking of the disguises that obscured the truths in human existence.
It was so easy to become lost in the smug certainty, that what happened
to others really mattered very little to you.  It was so easy to ignore
the ties that bound humanity on its collective journey in search of
grace.

A solitary car passed down the broad corridor of Second Avenue and
disappeared.  In the distance rose voices and music, laughter and
shouts, the sounds of celebration on All Hallows' Eve.  For those
people, at least, the dark side of witchery and demons was only a
myth.

He passed Waterfall Park, the rush of the waterfall a muffled whoosh in
the dark confines of the park's walls, the courtyard a vaguely defined
spiderweb of wrought-iron tables, chairs, and trellises amid the
blockier forms of the stone fountains and sculptures.  He turned on
hearing his name called, looking back the way he had come.  Nest
Freemark was running toward him, her unzipped parka flying out behind
her, her curly hair jouncing about her round, flushed face.  Feeders
melted away into the darkness at her approach, into the rocks of the
park, into the tangle of tables and chairs, but she seemed heedless of
them.  She came up to Ross in a rush and stood panting before him, eyes
quickly searching his own.

"I came to help," she said.

He smiled at her earnest expression, at the determination he found in
her young voice.

"No, Nest," he told her quietly.

"But I want to.  I need to."

He had left her behind at the museum when he had departed.  She had
gone down the stairs to intercept Simon Lawrence and his companions, to
delay them long enough for Ross to slip out a side door so he wouldn't
be seen.  Even so, in leaving another way besides the main entrance he
set off an alarm that brought security guards from the lower level.  As
he crossed the street toward a dark alleyway, he watched them stumble
unaccountably in their efforts to navigate the Grand Stairway, Nest
studying them intently from her position beside a recovering Simon.

"For Ariel," she said firmly.

"For Boot and Audrey."

He felt a rush of hot shame and anger, the revelations she had provided
burning through him in a fresh wave of shock and disbelief.

But truth has a way of making itself known even to the most skeptical,
and he had stripped away the blinders that had kept him deceived and
was empowered by his new knowledge and the determination it
generated.

"For myself, John," she finished.

But she had not seen herself as he had, back at the museum, in the
shadowy confines of the Exhibition Hall, where the two of them had come
face-to-face in a confrontation that might have led to the horrific
fulfillment of his dream.  She did not realize yet what she had
revealed to him that even she did not know, of the way her magic had
evolved, of the secret she now held inside.  Powerful forces were at
work in Nest Freemark that would change her life yet again.  He should
tell her, of course.  But he could not bring himself to do so now, when
the secrets of his own life weighed so heavily on his mind and demanded
their own resolution.

He stepped closer to her and put his hands on her shoulders.

"I am a Knight of the Word, Nest.  I am what I was always meant to be,
and I owe much of that to you.  But I cannot claim the right to serve
if I do not resolve first the reason I lost my way.  I have to do
that.

And I have to do it alone.  This is personal to me, so close to the
bone that to settle it in any other way would leave me hollowed out.

Do you see?  "

She studied his face a long time.

"But you're hurt.  You've lost a lot of blood."

He took his hands away from her shoulders and settled them on the
polished length of his staff "The magic will give me the strength I
need for this."

She shook her head.

"I don't like it.  Its too dangerous."

He looked at her, thinking it odd that someone so young should speak to
him of what was too dangerous.  But then the dangers in her own life
had been, on balance, no less than his.

"Wait for me here, Nest," he told her.

"Keep watch.  If I don't come out, at least one other person will know
the truth."

He didn't wait for her response but wheeled away quickly and went down
the sidewalk to the corner, turned left along Second, and walked to the
apartment entrance.  Feeders reappeared in droves, creeping over the
walls of Waterfall Park, coming up from the gutters and out of the
alleyways between the buildings.  They materialized in such numbers
that he experienced an unexpected chill.  Their yellow eyes were fixed
on him, empty of everything but their hunger.  So many, he mused.  He
could feel the weight of their expectations in the way they pressed
forward to be close to him, and he knew they understood with primal
instinct what was at stake.

He entered the foyer, using his key, walked to the elevator, and took
it up to the sixth floor.  The feeders did not follow.  He imagined
them scaling the outside wall, climbing steadily, relentlessly closer
to the windows of his apartment.  He envisioned an enormous tidal wave
washing toward a sleeping town.

He exited the elevator and moved to his apartment door, used his key
again, and entered.

The apartment was shadowy and silent, with only a single lamp burning
at one end of the old couch.  Stefanie sat reading in the halo of its
light, her exquisite face lifting to greet him, her strange, smoky eyes
filling with shock as he closed the door and came into the light.

"John, what happened?"  she whispered, rising quickly.

He put out his hand, a defensive gesture, and shook his head.

"Don't get up, Stef.  Just stay where you are, please."  He leaned
heavily on his staff, studying her perplexed face, the way she brushed
back her dark hair, cool and reserved, watchful.

"Simon Lawrence isn't dead," he said quietly.

He saw a flicker of something dark in her eyes, but her face never
changed.

"What do you mean?  Why would he be dead?  What are you talking about,
John?"

He shrugged.

"It's simple.  I went to the museum to speak with him.  He was waiting
for me.  He admitted everything--firing me without giving me a hearing,
stealing the money himself, working to destroy Fresh Start, all of it.
Then he attacked me.  He overpowered me, threw me down, and walked
away.  When he left, I went after him.  I wanted to kill him.  I would
have, too, except for Nest Freemark.  She came back from the airport to
warn me.  It wasn't Simon Lawrence I was looking for at all, she said."
He paused, watching her carefully.

"It was you."

She shook her head slowly, a strange little smile playing over her
lips.

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

He nodded indulgently.  She was so beautiful, but everything about her
was a lie.

"The fact of the matter is, I was ready to believe everything you
wanted me to believe.  That Simon Lawrence was the demon.  That he was
responsible for all the bad things happening.  That he was intent on
ruining my life, on using me, on breaking me down.  I had convinced
myself.  Then, when you tricked me into coming upstairs at the museum,
when you disguised yourself as Simon and attacked me, humiliated me,
taunted me, and cast me aside as if I were worthless, I was primed and
ready to kill him the moment I found him again.  And I would have
killed him, too, if not for Nest."

"John--"

"She told me it was you, Stef, and after I got past the initial shock
that such a thing could possibly be, that I could have been fooled so
completely, that I could have been so stupid, I began to realize what
had happened.  You were so clever, Stef.  You used me right from the
beginning.  You let me approach you in Boston, played me like a fish on
a line, and then reeled me in.  I was hooked.  I loved you.  You made
yourself so desirable and so accessible I couldn't help myself.  I
wanted to believe you were the beginning, the cornerstone, of a new
life.  I was through being a Knight of the Word; I wanted something
else.  You understood what that something was better than I did, and
you gave it to me.  You gave me the promise of a life with you.

"But you know, what really made it all work was that I couldn't imagine
it wasn't real.  Why would it be anything else?  Why wouldn't you be
exactly who you said you were?  When Nest first suggested you might be
the demon, I dismissed the idea out of hand.  It made no sense.  If you
were the demon, why wouldn't you just kill me and be done with it?  Of
what possible use was I alive?  A former Knight of the Word, an exile,
a wanderer--I was just further proof you had made the right choice a
long time ago when you embraced the Void."

She wasn't saying anything.  She was just sitting there, listening
attentively, waiting to see if he had really worked it out.  He could
tell it just by looking at her, by the way she was studying him.  It
infuriated him; it made him feel ashamed for the way he had allowed
himself to be used.

"Nest figured it out, though," he continued.

"She explained it to me.

She said you saw me in the same way her father had seen her
grandmother, when her grandmother was a young girl.  Her father was
drawn to her grandmothers magic, and you were drawn to mine.  But
demons need to possess humans, to take control of them in order to make
the magic their own, and sometimes they mistake this need to possess
for love.  Their desire for the magic confuses them.  I think maybe
that's what happened to you.  "

"John--" " No.  Don't say a word to me.  Just listen.  " His fingers
knotted about his staff more tightly.

"The fact remains, I was no good to you dead.  Because if I was dead
you couldn't make use of the magic trapped inside the staff.  And you
wanted that magic badly, didn't you?  But to get it, you had to do two
things.  You had to find a way to persuade me to recover it from the
dark place to which I had consigned it and then to use it in a way that
would make me dependent on you.  If I could be tricked into killing
Simon Lawrence, if I could be made to use the magic in such a terribly
wrong way, then I would share something in common with you, wouldn't I?
I would have taken the first step down the path you had chosen for me.
I was halfway there, wasn't I?  I was already very nearly what you
wanted me to be.  You'd worked long and hard to break me down, to give
me the identity you wanted.  Only this one last thing remained."

He shook his head in amazement.

"You killed that demon in Lincoln Park to protect your investment.
Because it wanted me dead, so it could claim victory over a Knight of
the Word.  But you wanted me alive for something much grander.  You
wanted me for the magic I might place at your command."

She stared at him, her perfect features composed, still not moving.

"I

love you, John.  Nothing you've said changes that.  "

"You love me, Stef?  Enough that you might teach me to feed on homeless
children, like you've been feeding on them?"  He spit out the words as
if they were tinged with poison.

"Enough that you might let me help you hunt them down in the tunnels
beneath the city and kill them?"

Her temper flared.

"The homeless are of no use.  No one cares what happens to them.  They
serve no real purpose.  You know that."

"Do I?"  He fought down his disgust.

"Is that why you killed Ariel and Boot and Audrey?  Because they didn't
serve any real purpose either?  Is that why you tried to kill Nest?
That didn't work out so well, did it?

But you were quick to cover up, I'll give you that.  Burning down Fresh
Start, that was a nice touch.  I assumed at first that you burned it
down just to undermine its programs.  But you did it to hide the truth
about what happened in Lincoln Park.  You marked yourself up pretty
good going after Nest, smashing down doors and hurtling through
windows.  You couldn't hide that kind of damage.

So you killed two birds with one stone.  You'd drugged me earlier so I
wouldn't be able to meet Nest.  When you woke me, after you'd set fire
to Fresh Start, you did so in the dark so I couldn't see your face, and
while I was still barely coherent, you ran on ahead on the pretext of
waking the women and children sleeping on the upper floors on the
building, thereby providing yourself with a perfect excuse for the cuts
and bruises on your face and hands.  "

His laugh was brittle.

"Its funny, but Nest figured that out, too.

When she came looking for me, she stopped by Pass/ Go and Delia told
her she looked just like you.  Nest got the connection immediately. She
knew what it meant.  "

She leaned forward.

"John, will you listen ...?"

But he was all done listening, and he pushed relentlessly on.

"So you set me up with this story about Simon firing me, and you
quitting, and how strangely he's been acting, and how every time
something bad happens, he's among the missing, and I'm just like a
loaded gun ready to go off.  I take the bus down to the museum, which
you know I'll do, and it takes me a while because I don't walk very
well with my bad leg, and you catch a cab, and there you are, waiting,
disguised as Simon, ready to point me in the right direction."

He was so angry now he could barely contain himself, but his voice
stayed cool and detached.

"I really hate you, Stef.  I hate you so much I cant find the words to
express it!"

She studied him a moment, her perfect features composed in thoughtful
consideration, and then she shook her head at him.

"You don't hate me, John.  You love me.  You always will."

His shock at hearing her say it left him momentarily speechless.  He
had not expected her to be so perceptive.  She was right, of course. He
loved her desperately, even now, even knowing what she was.

"You aren't as honest with yourself as you think," she continued
calmly, her dark eyes locking on his own.

"You don't want any of this to be so, but even knowing it is, you can't
get around how you feel.  Is that so bad?  If you want me, I'm still
yours.

I still want you, John.  I still love you.  Think about what you're
doing.  If you give me up, you become the thing you fought so hard to
escape being.  You become a Knight of the Word again.  You give up
everything you've found this past year with me.  You go back to being
solitary and lonely and rootless.  You become like the homeless you've
spent so much time trying to help.  "

She rose, a smooth, lazy motion, and he tensed in response, remembering
how strong she was, what she was capable of doing.  But she didn't try
to approach him.

"With me, you have everything that's made you happy these past twelve
months.  I can be all the things I've been to you from the beginning.
Are you worried you might see me another way?  Don't be.  You never
will.  I'll be for you just what you want.

I've made you happy.  You can't pretend I haven't.  "

He smiled at her, suddenly sad beyond anything he had ever known.

"You're right," he acknowledged softly, and all the rage seemed to
dissipate.

"You have made me happy.  But none of it was real, was it, Stef?  It
was all a sham.  I don't think I want to go back to that."

"Do you think other people live any differently than we do?"  she
pressed.  She took a step away from the couch, then another, moving out
of the circle of lamplight, edging into the shadows beyond.  Ross
watched, saying nothing.

"Everyone keeps secrets.  No one reveals everything.  Even to a lover."
He winced at the words, but she didn't seem to notice.  She brushed
back her hair, seemingly distracted by something behind him.  He kept
his eyes on her.

"We can do the same," she said.

"You won't ever find anyone else who feels about you the way I do."

The irony of that last statement must have escaped her entirely, he
thought.

"How you feel about me is rooted mostly in the ways you hope to use me,
Stef He was moving with her now, a step and then two, a slow circling
dance, a positioning for advantage.

"You can make your own choices about everything, John,"

she said.

"I won't interfere.  Just let me do the same.  That's all I require."

His laugh was brittle.

"Is that all it would take to make you happy, Stef?  For me to ignore
what you are?  For me to let you go on feeding on humans?  For me to
pretend I don't care that you won't ever stop trying to turn the Word's
magic to uses it was never intended for?"

She was shaking her head violently in denial.

"Just forget about the past?  Forget about Boot and Audrey and Ariel
and Ray Hapgood and several dozen homeless people?  Forget about
everything that's gone before?  Would that do the trick?"

He saw a glimmer of something dark and wicked come into her eyes.  He
took a step toward her.

"You crossed the line a long time ago, and its way too late for you to
come back.  More to the point, I don't intend to let you try."

She was silhouetted against the bay window that looked down on
Waterfall Park, her slender body gone suddenly still.  Outside, feeders
were pressed against the glass, yellow eyes gleaming.

There was a subtle shift in her features.

"Maybe you can't stop me, John."

He straightened, clasping the staff in both hands, the magic racing up
and down its length in slender silver threads.

Her smile was faint and tinged with regret.

"Maybe you never could."

In a single, fluid motion she dropped into a crouch, wheeled away, and
catapulted herself through the plate glass of the window behind her.

Before he could even think to try to stop her, she had dropped from
sight and was gone.

Nest Freemark was standing on the sidewalk outside Waterfall Park
when the apartment window exploded as if struck by a sledgehammer,
raining shards of glass into the night and sending feeders scattering
into the shadows like rats.  She turned toward the sound, her first
thoughts of John Ross, but the dark thing that plummeted through the
gloom was screaming in another voice entirely.  Nest stood frozen in
place, watching as it began to twist and re-form in midair, as if its
flesh and bones were malleable.

It had been human at first, but now it was something else entirely.  It
struck the jumble of rocks midpoint on the waterfall, bounced away, and
tumbled into the catchment.

Nest raced for the narrow park entrance, her heartbeat quick and
hurried and anxious.  She burst through the un gated opening as the
dark thing climbed free of the trough, a two-legged horror that was
already losing what remained of its human identity, dropping down on
all fours and shape-shifting into something more primal.  Its legs
thinned and lengthened and turned crooked, its torso thickened from
haunches to chest, and its head grew elongated and broad-muzzled.

Stefanie Winslow, she thought in horror.  The demon.  Re-formed into
something that most closely resembled a | monstrous hyena, the demon
shook itself as if to be rid of the last of the disguise that had
confined it and lifted its blunt snout toward the heights from which it
had fallen.  Feeders leaped and scrambled about it in a frenzy, like
shadows flowing over one another, eyes bright against the dark.  The
demon snarled at them, snapped at the air through which they passed,
and started to turn away.

Then it caught sight of Nest and wheeled quickly back again.  Even in
the scattered light of the street lamps, Nest could see the hard
glitter of its eyes fix on her.  She could see the hate in them.  The
big head lowered, the muzzle parted, and rows of hooked teeth came into
view.  A low-pitched, ugly snarl rose from its throat.  Maybe it
intended to finish what it had started in Lincoln Park.  Maybe it was
just reacting on instinct.  Nest held her ground.  She felt her magic
gather and knot in her chest.  She had fled from this monster once;

this time she would stand and face it.  The demon, it seemed, had made
up its mind as well.  It could have turned away from her, could have
scaled the park fence and escaped without forcing a confrontation.  But
it never wavered in its approach.

In a scrabbling of claws on stone and with a bone-chilling howl, it
attacked.  Feeders converged in its wake, leaping and darting through
the shadows in a wave of yellow eyes.  Nest had only a moment to react,
and she did so.  She locked eyes with the demon and threw out the magic
she had been born with, her legacy from the Freemark women, thinking to
stun it, to throw it off stride, to cause it to falter.  She need only
delay it long enough for John Ross to reach her.  He would be coming;
the demon was clearly in flight from him.  A few moments was all she
needed, and her magic would give her that.  She had used it on Simon
Lawrence and the security guards at the museum not two hours earlier.
It was an old and familiar companion, and she could feel its presence
stir deep inside even before she called it forth.

Even so, she wasn't prepared for what happened next.

The magic she had called upon did not respond.

Another magic did.

It came from the same place as the magic she had been born to, from
inside, where her soul resided in a conjoining of heart and mind and
body.  It exploded out of her in a rush of dark energy, taking its own
distinctive form, unleashed by instincts that demanded she survive at
any cost.  Its power was raw and terrifying, and she could not control
it.  It did not release from her as she had expected, but swept her
along, borne within its storm-racked center, and it was as if she were
caught inside a whirlwind.

She was seeing the demon now through darker, more primitive eyes, and
she realized suddenly, shockingly, that those eyes belonged to
Wraith.

She was trapped inside the ghost wolf.  She had become a part of him.

Then she was hurtling into the demon, with no time left to think.

Claws and teeth ripped and tore, and snarls filled the air, and she was
fighting the demon as if become Wraith, herself grown massive through
the shoulders and torso, rough-coated with fur, gimlet-eyed and
lupine.

Back against the rocks she drove the demon, steeped in the ghost wolf's
strength and swift reactions.  The demon twisted and fought,
intertwined so closely with her she could feel the bunching of its
muscles and hear the hissing of its breath.  The demon tried to gain a
grip on her throat, failed, and leaped away.  She gave pursuit, a red
veil of hot rage and killing need blinding her to everything else. They
rolled and tumbled through the wroughtiron furniture, against the maze
of rocks and fountains, and she no longer thought to wonder what was
happening or why, but only to gain an advantage over a foe she knew she
must destroy.

Perhaps she would have succeeded.  Perhaps she would have prevailed.

But then she heard her name called.  A sharp cry, it was filled with
despair and anguish.

John Ross had reached her at last.

White fire lashed the air in front of her, turning her aside.  But the
fire was not meant for her.  It struck the demon full on, a rope of
searing flame, and threw it backward to land in a bristling heap.  She
caught sight of Ross now, standing just inside the park entrance, his
legs braced, the black staff bright with magic.  Again the fire lanced
from the Knight of the Word into the demon, catching it as it tried to
twist away, knocking it down once more.  Ross advanced, his face all
planes and sharp edges, etched deep with shadows and grim
determination.

The demon fought back.  It counterattacked with a stunning burst of
speed and fury, snapping at the scorched night air.  But the Word's
magic hammered into it over and over, knocking it back, flinging it
away.  Ross closed the distance between himself and his adversary,
ignoring Nest, his concentration centered on the demon.  The demon
wailed suddenly, as if become human again, a cry so desperate and
affecting that Nest cringed.  Ross screamed in response, perhaps to
fight against the feelings the cry generated somewhere back in the dark
closets of his heart, perhaps simply in fury.  He went to where the
demon lay broken and writhing, a thing barely recognizable by now.

It was trying to change again, to become something else--perhaps the
thing Ross had loved so much.  But Ross would not allow it.  The black
staff came down, and the magic surged forth, splitting the demon
asunder, ripping it from neck to knee.

Feeders swarmed over it, rending and digging hungrily.  The winged
black thing that formed its twisted soul tried to break free from the
carnage, but Ross was waiting.  With a single sweep of his staff, he
sent it spinning into the darkness, a tiny, flaming comet trailing fire
and fading life.

What remained of the demon collapsed on itself and scattered in the
wind.  Even when the last of its ashes had blown away, John Ross stayed
where he was, silhouetted against the shimmer of the waterfall, staring
down at the dark smear that marked its passing.


NOVEMBER 1


chapter 25

It was a little after ten-thirty the following morning when Andrew Wren
walked into the offices of Pass/ Go announced himself to the
receptionist, and was told Simon Lawrence would see him.  He thanked
her, advised her that he knew the way, and started back.  He proceeded
down the hall past the classrooms and offices, contemplating a collage
of children's finger paintings that decorated one section of a
sun-splashed wall.  He was dressed in his corduroy jacket with the
patches at the elbows and had worn a scarf and gloves against the
November chill.  He carried his old leather briefcase in one hand and a
newsboy cap in the other.  His cherubic face was unshaved, and his hair
was uncombed.  He had overslept and been forced to forgo the niceties
of personal grooming and had simply pulled on his clothes and headed
out.  As a result, he looked not altogether different from some of the
men standing in the soup line at Union Gospel Mission up the street.

Rumpled and baggy, he shuffled through the doorway of the Wiz's cramped
office and gave a brief wave of his hand.

"Got any coffee, Simon?"

Simon Lawrence was immersed in paperwork, but he gestured wordlessly
toward a chair stacked with books, then picked up the phone to call out
to the front desk to fill Wren's order and one of his own.

Wren cleared the chair he had been offered and sat down heavily.

"I

watched you perform for the assembled last night with something
approaching awe.  Meeting all those people, shaking hands, answering
questions, offering prognostications, being pleasant.  To tell you the
truth, I don't know how you do it.  I couldn't possibly keep up the
kind of pace you do and stay sane." "Well, I don't do it every
night, Andrew.  " Simon stretched and leaned back in his chair.  He
gave Wren a suspicious look.

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but what brings you by this time?"

Wren managed to look put upon.

"I wanted to see how you were, for one thing.  No more episodes, I
hope?"

The other man spread his hands.

"I still don't know what happened.  One moment I was standing there on
the stairs, talking with Carole and those workers from Union Gospel,
and the next I was down on the floor.

I just seemed to lose all my strength.  I'm scheduled to see a doctor
about it this afternoon, but I don't think it's anything more than
stress and a lack of sleep.  "

Wren nodded.

"I wouldn't be surprised.  Anyway, I also wanted to congratulate you on
last night.  It was a huge success, as you know.

The gift of the land from the city, the offer of additional funding,
the pledges of support from virtually every quarter.  You should be
very pleased about that.  "

Simon Lawrence sighed, arching one eyebrow.  About that, yes, I'm very
pleased.  It helps take the edge off a few of the less pleasant aspects
of the day's events.  "

"Hmmm," Wren murmured solemnly.

"Speaking of which, have you seen her today?"

Simon didn't have to ask who he was referring to.

"No, and I don't think I'm going to.  Not today or any other.  I went
by her apartment early this morning, thinking I might surprise her with
the news, but she was gone.  Her clothes, luggage, personal effects,
everything.  The door to the apartment was wide open, so I had no
trouble getting in.

At first I thought something might have happened to her.  A chair had
been thrown through the living room window.  It was lying down in the
park with pieces of glass all over the place.  But, nothing else in
the apartment seemed disturbed.  There was no sign of any kind of
violence having occurred.  I called the police anyway.  "

Wren studied him thoughtfully.

"Do you think she suspected we were onto her?"

Simon shook his head.

"I don't see how.  You and I were the only ones who knew the lab
results--and I didn't know until after the dedication, when you told
me."  He paused, reflecting.

"I tell you, Andrew, I'd never have guessed it was her.  Not in a
million years.

Stefanie Winslow.  I still can't believe it.  "

"Well, the handwriting analysis of the signatures on the deposit slips
were pretty conclusive."  Wren paused.

"Why do you think she did it, Simon?"

Simon Lawrence shrugged.

"I can't begin to answer that question.

You'll have to ask her, if she ever resurfaces from wherever she's gone
to ground.  "

"Maybe John Ross can tell us something."

Simon pursed his lips sourly.

"He's gone, too.  He left this.  It was on my desk when I came into
work this morning, tucked into an envelope."

He reached into his desk and produced a single sheet of white paper
with a handwritten note.  He handed it to Wren, who pushed up his
glasses on the bridge of his nose and began to read.

Dear Simon,

I regret that I am unable to deliver this in person, but by the time
you read it I will already be Far away.  Please do not think badly of
me for not staying.  I am not responsible for the thefts that occurred
at Fresh Start Stefanie Winslow is.  I wish I could tell you why.  As
it is, I feel that even though all the money will be returned, my
continued involvement with your programs will simply complicate
matters.  I will not forget the cause you have championed so
successfully and will endeavor in some small way to carry on your work
wherever I go.

I am enclosing a letter authorising transfer back to Fresh Start of all
funds improperly deposited to my accounts.

John

Wren looked up speculatively.

"Well, well."

The coffee arrived, delivered by a young volunteer, and the two men
accepted the cups and sat sipping at the hot brew in the silence that
followed the intern's departure.

"I think he was as fooled as the rest of us," the Wiz said finally.

Wren nodded.

"Could be.  Anyway, there's no one left who can tell us now, is
there?"

Simon put down his coffee cup and sighed.

"If you want to have dinner tonight, I can try to fill you in on the
details of this mess so you can keep your article for the Times as
accurate as possible."

Wren smiled, relinquished his own cup, and rose to his feet.

"I can't do that, Simon.  I'm flying out this afternoon, back to the
Big Apple.

Besides, the articles already written.  I finished it at two this
morning or something like that.  "

The Wiz looked confused.

"But what about..."

Wren held up one chubby hand, assuming his most professional look.

"Did you get all the money transferred back to Fresh Start out of
Ross's accounts?"

Simon nodded.

"And your own?"

Simon nodded again.

"First thing this morning."

"Then its a story with a happy ending, and I think we ought to leave it
at that.  No one wants to read about a theft of charitable funds where
the money is recovered and the thief is a nobody.  It doesn't sell
papers.  The real story here is about a man whose vision and hard work
have produced a small miracle--the opening of a city's stone heart and
padlocked purse in support of a cause that might not gain a single
politician a single vote in the next election.  Besides, what point is
there in writing about something that would serve no other purpose than
to muddy up such beautiful, pristine waters?"

Andrew Wren picked up his briefcase and donned his cloth cap.

"Someday, I'll be back for the story of your life.  The real story, the
one you won't talk about just yet.  Meantime, go back to work on what
matters.  Just remember, for the record, you owe me one, Simon."

Then he walked out the door, leaving the Wizard of Oz staring after him
in bemused wonder.

Nest Freemark spent the first day of November traveling.  After
spending another night at the Alexis, she caught a midmorning flight to
Chicago, which arrived shortly before four in the afternoon.  She had
debated returning to Northwestern for the one remaining day of the
school week and quickly abandoned the idea.  She was tired, jittery,
and haunted by the events of the past few days, and not fit company for
herself, let alone anyone else.  Her studies and her training would
have to wait.

Instead, she chartered a car to pick her up at the airport and drive
her to Hopewell.  What she needed most, she decided, was to just go
home.

She slept most of the way there, on the airplane and in the car, curled
up in the warmth of her parka, drifting in and out of a light, uneasy
sleep that mixed dreams with memories, so that by the time her journey
was over, with daylight gone and darkness returned, with Seattle behind
her and Hopewell at hand, they seemed very much the same.

Nest, as a part of Wraith, as a part of a magic different from anything
she knew, returned slowly to herself on the empty walkway in Waterfall
Park.  She felt the magic withdraw and her vision change.  She felt
Wraith slip silently away on the night breeze.  She stood swaying in
the wake of his departure, feeling as if she had returned from a long
journey.  She drew in deep gulps of air, the cold burning down into her
lungs, sending a rush of adrenaline through her body and sharp-edged
clarity to her dizzied head.

Oh, my God, my God!  she whispered soundlessly, and she hugged herself
against the first onslaught of willful despair.

John Ross turned from the demon's remains and limped to her side.  He
reached for her, drew her into the cradle of his arms, and held her
close.  Nest, it's all right, he whispered into her hair, stroking it
softly, comfortingly.  It's all over.  It's finished.

Did you see?  Did you see what happened?  She gasped, broke down, and
could not finish.

He nodded quickly.  I know.  I saw it begin at the museum.  It didn't
happen there, but I saw that it could.  Wraith is inside you, Nest.

You said he just walked into you and was gone, that last time you saw
him.  It's like Pick said.  Magic doesn't just cease to exist.  It
takes another form.  It becomes something else.  Don't you see?  Wraith
has become a part of you.

She was shaking now, enraged and despairing.  But I don't want him
inside me!  He's got nothing to do with me!  He belongs to my father!

Her head jerked up violently.  John, what if my father's come back to
claim me?  What if Wraith is some part of him trying to reach out to me
still!

No, no, he said at once, holding her away from him, bracing her
shoulders with his strong hands.  He released the black staff, and it
clattered to the concrete.  His eyes held her own.  Listen to me,
Nest.

Wraith wasn't your father's.  He was never that.  He saved you from
your father, remember?  Cran made him over with her own magic to
protect you.  He was yours.  He belonged to you.

The lean, weathered face bent close.  Perhaps he's only done what he
was supposed to do.  When you became of age and strong enough to look
after yourself, perhaps his job as your protector was finished.  Where
does magic go when it has served its purpose and not been fully
expended?  It goes hack to its owner.  To serve as needed.

So maybe, he whispered, Wraith has just come home.

She spent every waking moment of her journey back to Hopewell wrestling
with that concept.  Wraith had come home.  To her.  To become part of
her.  The idea was terrifying.  It left her grappling with the prospect
that at any moment she might jump out of her skin.  Literally.

It made her feel as if she was a character out of Alien, waiting for
that repulsive little head to thrust out of her stomach, all teeth and
blood.

But the image was wrongly conceived, and after a while it diminished
and faded, giving way to a more practical concern.  How could she
control this newfound magic?  It didn't seem as if she had done much of
a job so far.  What was to prevent it from reappearing again without
warning, from jeopardizing her in ways she couldn't even begin to
imagine?

Then she realized this image was wrongheaded, as well, that

Wraith's magic had lived inside her for a long time before it had
surfaced.  What had triggered its appearance last night was the
presence of other magic, first the magic of John Ross and then the
magic of the demon.  She remembered how strangely she had felt that
first day at Fresh Start, then later that night in Lincoln Park, both
times when she was in close proximity to the demon.  She hadn't
understood that it was Wraith's magic, threatening to break free.  But
in each instance, his magic was simply responding to the perceived
threat another magic offered.

Realizing that gave her some comfort, but she still struggled with the
idea that the big ghost wolf was locked inside her--not just as magic,
but as the creature in which the magic had been lodged.  Why did it
still exist in that form?

It wasn't until she was almost home, the lights of the first cluster of
outlying residences breaking through the evening darkness, that she
decided she might still be misreading things.  In the absence of
direction, magic took the form with which it was most familiar.  It
didn't act independently of its user.  Pick had taught her that a long
time ago, when he was instructing her on the care of the park.  If
Wraith had still been whole, still her shadow protector, he would have
come to her defense instinctively.  It was not strange to think that
bereft of form and independent existence, his magic would still do
so.

After all, the magic had been given to her in the first place, hadn't
it?  And in making its unexpected appearance, absent any direction from
her, was it surprising it would assume the same form it had occupied
for so many years?

What was harder for her to reconcile, she discovered, was that in
seeking its release it had required her to become one with it.

She rode through the streets of Hopewell, slumped in the darkness of
the car's rear seat, curled into the cushions like a rag doll, looking
out at the night.  She would be a long time coming to terms with this,
she knew.

She found herself wondering, somewhat perversely, if the Lady had known
about Wraith in sending her to John Ross.  She wondered if she had been
sent with the expectation that in aiding Ross she would discover this
new truth about herself.  It was not inconceivable.  Any contact with a
strong magic would have released Wraith from his safe hold inside her.
Knowledge of his continued existence was something Nest would have had
to come to grips with sooner or later.  The Lady might have believed it
was better she do so now.

As they passed the Menards and the Farm and Fleet, she gave the driver
directions to her house.  She sat contemplating the tangled threads of
her life, of what was known and what was not, until the car turned into
her driveway and parked.  She climbed out, retrieved her bag, signed
the driver's receipt, said good-bye, and walked into the house.

It was dark and silent inside, but the smells and shadows of the
hallways and rooms were familiar and welcome.  She turned on some
lights, dropped her bags in the living room, and walked back to the
kitchen to fix herself a sandwich from a jar of peanut butter and last
week's bread.

She sat eating at the kitchen table, where Gran had spent most of her
time in her last years, and she thought of John Ross.  She wondered
where he was.  She wondered how much success he was having at coming to
terms with the truths in his life.  He had not said much when they
parted.  He thanked her, standing there in the shadowy confines of
Waterfall Park, his breath billowing out in smoky clouds as the cold
deepened.  He would never forget what she had done for him.  He hoped
she could forgive him for what he had done to her, five years
earlier.

She said there was nothing to forgive.  She told him she was sorry
about Stefanie.  She told him she knew a little of how he must feel. He
smiled at that.  If anyone did, it was she, he agreed.

Did he feel trapped by being what he was?  What was it like to be a
Knight of the Word and realize your life could never change?

She had not told him of Two Bears.  Of the reason O'olish Amaneh had
come to Seattle for Halloween.  Of the terrible responsibility the last
of the Sinnissippi bore for having given him the Word's magic.

She finished the sandwich and a glass of milk and carried her dishes to
the sink.  The contracts for the sale of the house still sat on the
kitchen counter.  She glanced down at them, picked them up, and carried
them to the table.  She sat down again and read them through carefully.
In the hallway, the grandfather clock ticked steadily.  When she was
finished reading, she set the contracts down in front of her and stared
off into space.

What we have in life that we can count our own is who we are and where
we come from, she thought absently.  For better or worse, that's what
we have to sustain us in our endeavors, to buttress us in our darker
moments, and to remind us of our identity.  Without those things, we
are adrift.

Her gaze shifted to the darkness outside the kitchen window.  John Ross
must feel that way now.  He must feel that way every day of his life.

It was what he gave up when he became a Knight of the Word.  It was
what he lost when he discovered the truth about Stefanie Winslow.

She listened to the silence that back dropped the ticking of the
clock.

After a long time, she picked up the real estate contracts, walked to
the garbage can, and dropped them in.

Moving to the phone, she dialed Robert at Stanford.  She listened to
four rings, and then his voice mail picked up.

At the beep, she said, "Hey, Robert, its me."  She was still looking
out the window into the dark.

"I just wanted to let you know that I'm home again.  Call me.  Bye."

She hung up, stood looking around her at the house for a moment, then
walked back down the hallway, pulled on her parka, and went out into
the cold, crisp autumn night to find Pick.

It was just after four in the morning when John Ross woke from his
dream.  He lay staring into the empty blackness of his room for a long
time, his breathing and his heartbeat slowing as he came back to
himself On the street outside his open window, he could hear a truck
rumble by.

It was the first dream he had experienced since he had resumed being a
Knight of the Word.  As always, it was a dream of the future that would
come to pass if he failed to change things in the present.  But it felt
new because it was his first such dream in a long time.

Except for the dream of the old man and the Wizard of Oz, of course,
but he did not think he would be having that dream anymore. He
closed his eyes momentarily to gather his thoughts, to let | the
tension and.  the fury of this night's dream ease.  In the dream, he had been stripped of his magic, as he knew he would be, because he had
chosen to expend his magic in the present, and when he made that
choice, the price was always the same: For the span of one night's
sleep, there was no magic to protect him in the future.  He often
wondered how long the loss of magic lasted in real time.  He could not
tell, for he was given only a glimpse of what was to be before he came
awake.  If he used the magic often enough in the present, he sometimes
wondered, would he at some point lose the use of it completely in the
future?

His eyes opened, and he exhaled slowly.

In his dream, he had run through woods at the edge of a nameless
town.

He had a vague sense of being hunted by his enemies, of being tracked
like an animal.  He had a sense of being at extreme risk, bereft of any
real protection, exposed to attack from all quarters without being able
to offer a defense, at a loss as to where he might go to gain safety.
He moved swiftly through the darkened trees, using stealth and silence
to aid him in his flight.  He tried to make himself one with the
landscape in which he sought to hide.  He burrowed into the earth along
ditches and ravines, crawled through brush and long grasses, and edged
from trunk to trunk, pressing himself so closely to the terrain he
traversed that he could feel and smell its detritus on his skin.

There was a river, and he swam it.  There were cornfields, and he crept
down their rows as if navigating a maze that, if misread, would trap
him for all time.

He did not see or hear his pursuers, but he knew they were back
there.

They would always be back there.

When he awoke in the present, he was still running to stay alive in the
future.

He rose now and picked up the black staff from where it lay beside the
bed.  He limped over to the window, leaning heavily on the staff, and
stood for a time looking down at the street.  He was in Portland.  He
had come down on the train early this morning and spent the day walking
the riverfront and the streets of the city.  When he was so tired he
could no longer stay awake, he had taken this room.

Thoughts of Stefanie Winslow crowded suddenly into the forefront of his
mind.  He let them push forward, unhindered.  Less painful now than
yesterday, they would be less painful still tomorrow.  It was odd, but
he still thought of her as human, maybe because it made thinking of her
at all more bearable.  Memories of a year's time spent with someone you
loved couldn't be expunged all at once.  The memories, he found, were
bittersweet and haunting.  They marked a rite of passage he could not
ignore.  If not for Stefanie, he would have no sense of what his life
might have been were he not a Knight of the Word.  And in an odd sort
of way, he was better off for knowing.  It gave him perspective on the
worth of what he was doing by revealing what he had given up.

He studied the empty street as if it held answers he could not
otherwise find.  He might have been a decent sort of man in an ordinary
life.  He might have done well over the years working with Simon
Lawrence on the programs at Fresh Start and Pass/ Go He might have made
a difference in the lives of other people.

But never the kind of difference he would make as a Knight of the
Word.

His eyes drifted from empty doorway to empty doorway, through shadows
and lights.  He had been wrong in thinking that successes alone were
the measure of his worth in the Word's service.  He had been wrong in
fleeing his mistakes as if they marked him a failure.  It was not as
simple as that.  All men and women experienced successes and failures,
and their tally at death was not necessarily determinative of one's
worth in life.  This was true, as well, for a Knight of the Word.  It
was trying that mattered more.  It was the giving of effort and heart
that lent value.  It was the making of sacrifices.  Ray Hapgood had
said it best.  Someone has to take responsibility.  Someone has to be
there.

That was the real reason he was a Knight of the Word.

Such a hard lesson, in retrospect, but Stefanie Winslow had taught him
well the price for not understanding it.

He thought back to last night.  When he left Nest, he had gone back up
to the apartment to write Simon a short note of explanation and a
letter of authorization for transfer of the misplaced funds.  He had
packed his duffel bag, then packed Stefanie's suitcases, removing
everything of a personal nature from the apartment.  Tossing the wooden
desk chair out the window to provide an explanation for the glass
breakage had been an afterthought.  He had taken the note and
authorization, put them in an envelope, and carried them over to Pass/
Go

Then he had gone down to the train station with his duffel and
Stefanie's bags in hand to wait for the six-ten commuter.  When he
reached Portland, he disembarked and dumped Stefamie's bags in a Dumpster
not a block away from the station.

He turned away from the window and looked around the little room.  He
wondered how Nest Freemark was doing.  She had come to Seattle to help
him, to give him a chance he might not otherwise have gotten, and it
had cost her a great deal.  He was sorry for that, but he did not think
it his fault.  The Lady had sent her, knowing to some extent the likely
result.  The Lady had placed her in a dangerous situation, knowing she
would be forced to use her magic and would discover the truth about
Wraith.  It would have happened at another time in another place if not
here.  And it had saved his life.  It did not make him feel better
knowing this.  But recognizing truths seldom achieved that result
anyway.

He thought about how much alike they were, both of them gifted with
magic that dominated their lives, both of them pressed into service by
an entity they would never fully understand or perhaps ever satisfy.

They were outsiders in a world that lacked any real comprehension of
their service, and they would struggle on mostly alone and largely
unappreciated until their lives were ended.

There was one glaring difference, of course.  In his case, the choice
to be what he was had been his.  In hers, it had not.

He went into the bathroom, showered and shaved, and came out again and
dressed in the light of the bedside lamp.  When he was finished, he
packed his duffel bag.  He went downstairs to the lobby, dropped his
key on the desk, and walked out.

Sunrise was brightening the eastern sky, a faint, soft glow against the
departing night.  The day was just beginning.  By nightfall, John Ross
would be in another town, looking to make a change in the way the world
was going.  His dreams would begin to tell him again what he could do
that would make a difference.

It wasn't the worst sort of way to live one's life.  In his case, he
concluded hopefully, perhaps it was the best.

