Night of Demons - 02 (3 page)

The house itself was far more compact than you would imagine for such large grounds. No grand residence like the others that he’d seen on the main drag. It only qualified, if anything, as a good-sized cottage. It was covered almost entirely in ivy, wearing the stuff like a big fur coat. A tall brick chimney pot protruded from the sharply angled roof.

There were silken drapes with oriental patterns on the leaded windows. And, by the number of lights on in the place, somebody was definitely home.

Cornelius snuck around to the rear. His breathing had sped up a little. The lawn squelched underneath his tread, letting out a musty odor. He skirted past some rosebushes, their petals and leaves beaded with rainwater. Then, rounding the corner of the building, a conservatory came in view.

The glass was lit up very brightly, shining like a diamond. Inside, at the center of the tiled floor, was an antique-looking bureau with a roll-down lid. What a curious place to put such a thing. There was no other furniture except a wicker couch, and a load of plants in big glazed pots with Chinese characters on them.

Standing in front of the bureau was one of the most peculiar figures he had ever seen. A man, in his eighties at the very least. He was painfully thin, his back severely hunched. But he was smartly dressed, entirely in black. His shoes. His shirt—he wore no tie. His dapper suit, which had an overly long jacket. The darkness of the clothing made his lengthy mop of pure white hair all the more striking. It seemed to sprout in every direction before flowing in thick, tangled locks down his back.

The fellow seemed engrossed in something, with his head tucked down. So—reasonably sure that he would not be seen—Cornelius ventured closer.

The man’s face was unusual too. The nose was hooked. The chin was sharply pointed. The eyes seemed sunken, lost in gloom. Cornelius could see, the nearer he got, that the jacket wasn’t merely too long. It was an actual tailcoat.

As he watched, the man reached into the top of the desk, and began fingering something inside it. But the angle was wrong, he couldn’t make out precisely what.

There was a back door to the house, a few yards from him. Cornelius moved across and tried the knob. It turned easily, and that pleased him. Like the front gate, it had not been locked.

His breathing became harsher, and his heartbeat increased. This was promising to be very special fun indeed. He’d not had things so easy in a good long while.

He went into some kind of pantry, stacks of foodstuffs and crockery on the shelves around him. The floor was hard, another tiled one, and he slipped his sneakers off before pressing on. By the time he reached the inner hall, the narrow blade was gleaming in his fist again.

When he reached the staircase, he could see lights on above. But no one seemed to be moving around up there. There was not the tiniest creak or murmur. So—with luck—perhaps the old man lived here on his own.

The artwork on the walls around him looked extremely strange. He studied it warily. It depicted fire-breathing dragons, and even more peculiar beasts. Chimeras, he thought they were called. Griffons, Gorgons, a Hydra. Cornelius felt slightly anxious as he took it in. What sort of twisted mind collected stuff like this? Maybe he had come to the wrong place.

But the rest was regular enough. A cabinet with porcelain figurines neatly lined up on display in it. More plant pots, and an umbrella stand. That made him feel a little easier.

He worked his way through to the back, still getting the strange sensation he was being guided there.

The bright lights of the conservatory filled his vision. The old man’s back, turned to him, was a solitary dark column, like an exclamation mark. The guy was mumbling something, maybe reading from a book. If so, it had to be a foreign one. He didn’t recognize a single word.

Everything seemed to be hurting Cornelius slightly, as it usually did by this point in the proceedings. The intense electric glow, pressing at his eyeballs. And the unfamiliar murmured phrases banging at his ears. His lungs were getting painful, and his ankles ached from his own weight.

He had to stop this. This discomfort and uncertainty. And there was only one way he knew how.

The old coot still hadn’t noticed he was there. And so Cornelius raised the blade a little higher, then continued to creep up on him.

“Partez!”
the old man shouted suddenly.
“N’existez pas!”

Cornelius jerked, then cast his gaze about. Who was he talking to? They were completely alone here. Blackness pressed at the conservatory’s panes, so that they might as well have been in outer space. Only the distant stars were looking down. Except Cornelius knew the word “alone” was not entirely true. The Old Ones were still watching him. Expected certain things of him. And he’d not fail them.

“Un oeil invisible!”
the man chanted.

“An oily”…? What was the old fellow yammering about? He’d met some strange ones in his day, but this guy seemed to be out dancing with the fairies.

Shifting his weight again, he didn’t test his footing carefully enough. His toes came down on a loose section of tile. Which rattled.

Finally, the old man turned around.

This happened occasionally. Cornelius had gotten used to it, and knew what to do. He beamed at the man hugely. And spread his arms to display himself.

You see? Aren’t I beautiful, so close to transformation? Aren’t you glad I came into your home tonight?

But the old man, just like all the others, didn’t seem impressed by that. His gaze darted to the knife instead.

Viewed up close, his face had even more irregularities than could be picked out from outside the windows. One of his irises, the left, was cataractous, milky. The other was a shade of turquoise that Cornelius had never seen in human eyes before tonight. It put him in mind of a cat. There were two large moles on the guy’s cheek. And his eyebrows sprouted like white crabgrass, beetling.

The aged face filled up with startlement at first. But then, to his surprise, it blazed with anger.

And that was when Cornelius saw the man was holding something in his own right hand.

He thought, at first, it was some kind of weapon. But it didn’t seem to be that. It was a rod, for sure. But not large enough to do any harm. About a foot long, and as narrow as a pencil. A pure matte black, like the man’s clothes. So dark it almost seemed to draw the light in very slightly. Except that there was something shining at its upper tip.

What had he been doing with something like that? And more importantly, Cornelius wondered, what was he planning to do with it now?

The man wasn’t reacting in the way that the folk who he dropped in on usually did. There was no apparent fear. He didn’t try to back away. Instead, he simply stood there, almost casually, working the stick between his wizened fingers. And he still looked angry, certainly. But a puzzled air had blended in with that. There was a question in his one good eye.

Then he pursed his lips, and voiced it.

“You are…an outsider?”

His voice crackled like a pile of leaves. But…what exactly did that mean?

The old man looked him up and down.

“You shouldn’t even be here. How on earth did you get in?”

Which was a stupid question. Cornelius felt bored, answering it.

“The back door was open.”

All he got was an offended look, as if he’d just said something genuinely dumb. Or maybe they were talking at cross-purposes, somehow?

“No. I understand which of my doors are locked and unlocked. How did you get into the Landing? How did you get past the curse?”

Past what? This made no sense in the slightest. Maybe the coot was insane, or senile. It would be better for everyone concerned if they got to the business in hand.

Cornelius took another step forward, and announced, “I’m here to teach you Special Fun.”

And those words normally sent people on a fast descending spiral. They’d start begging him. Their eyes would fill with tears. But this fellow simply held his ground. And then, to his surprise, grinned nastily.

“Now I see why you are here. You’re one of the disturbed ones, aren’t you? The destructive ones. Like Saruak. Like Jason Goad. You’re so messed up in here”—he tapped his forehead—“you ignore the voices, and the curse has no effect on you. We have dealt with your kind several times before, my boy. Do you seriously imagine I’m afraid of you?”

This was the first time—ever since he had become the Shadow Man—that anyone had spoken to him in such a way. Cornelius could scarcely believe his ears. A tremor ran through him, mostly indignation. He was the one with the power, the knife. Who did this elderly degenerate think he was?

He reached into a pocket of his baggy sweatpants and produced a roll of duct tape.

“I have to bind you first,” he said. “And gag you. I realize it’s uncomfortable, but I need to have your complete attention.”

The nasty smile remained in place. “Is that so?”

“I won’t lie to you. There’s some actual pain involved after that. But it’s necessary. A means to an end, you see?”

The good eye glinted with sarcasm.

“Yes? And what might that be?”

“The End is coming soon. The End of Days. And to survive it, I must do the Old Ones’ bidding. If I do it properly and well, they will allow me to transform, become a higher being. I’m already most of the way there.”

The fellow simply shrugged.

“As I first suspected, you’re completely crazy. Listen to me carefully, now. It would be far better for you if you left here right away. Nothing good will happen to you otherwise.”

Which left Cornelius’s head reeling with astonishment. What…was the old man planning to fight him off with only that little stick? Or was there something else? He could see no bulge beneath the tailcoat or in any of the pockets. So the fellow didn’t seem to have a gun.

But something happened, the next instant, which utterly astonished him. The old man’s face abruptly glowed, a startling pure white. His massed wrinkles were flensed away by the stark brilliance of it. He suddenly looked forty years younger. His body filled out, and he held himself completely straight.

The cataract had gone too. Both of his eyes glinted with a turquoise sheen. He looked very vital and alive. He bared his teeth and snorted. Then he threw his right hand—the one holding the stick—back across his shoulder, a motion like a coachman drawing back his whip.

And when he brought it cracking down…?

Panic tore into Cornelius. He felt sure he was in danger, though he wasn’t sure exactly how. A startled yelp came from his throat. Then he went rushing at the man, as quickly as he could.

The tip of the rod was shining brighter. Maybe it was a taser of some kind? It began swinging down at him. The figure wielding it looked thoroughly triumphant.

But he wasn’t so smart, really. People always made the same mistake. They looked at him, the doughy mass of body. And they never guessed how fast he really was.

The rod was barely halfway down when Cornelius’s blade reached its target, pushing in through the fabric of the coat and plunging deep into the old man’s body. And Cornelius didn’t stop at that. He turned the blade in its bed of flesh, then dragged it up until a rib bone stopped it.

The transformation was immediate. The old man’s wrinkles all came back. And his expression changed one final time, despair replacing triumph.

Until finally, even that was gone.

The corpse was lying crumpled by his feet, blood spilling out across the floor.

Cornelius felt disappointed. Thoroughly let down, to tell the truth. It had been enjoyable, yes, watching the old man understand that he was beaten, for all of his superior airs. But it had been so very quick. Over and done with in less than a heartbeat. And where was the special fun in that?

It was like expecting a banquet, and winding up with a bag of potato chips instead. Cornelius pressed his eyes shut, feeling beads of sweat run down between them. Then he started to think more clearly.

There were certain things that the Old Ones expected him to do. Certain rituals. He was obliged to carry them out.

He crouched over the figure. Unbuttoned the tailcoat, and then ripped away the black shirt underneath. And, working diligently, he began to carve into the loosely withered flesh.

Once that he was satisfied, Cornelius stood back up and looked around again.

The stick the fellow had been brandishing had rolled away, and was lying against one leg of the antique bureau. He gazed at it. It looked like the blackest thing he’d ever seen, a bottomless strip of shadow on the patterned tile. Except for its tip, which was still subtly gleaming.

Wiping the blade and pocketing it, Cornelius went across. He stooped, examining it more carefully. It was not smooth, as it had first appeared. There were dozens of small symbols carved into its rounded surface, none of which he recognized. They made him feel anxious again. What precisely did they represent?

But symbols could not harm him, surely? So he picked it up.

He almost dropped it immediately. Because, when his chubby fingers touched the rod, he felt a mild charge run through them. The tip gave a shimmering flash.

There was one simple reason that he held on to it, in the end. The stick was so light he could barely feel it. Scarcely heavier than air, in fact. What, in the names of the gods…?

No more pain came. So he held it up to eye level, gazing at it closer. Might it be a pointer? A baton, like a conductor might use?

A…wand? Could it possibly be that?

Cornelius answered to many descriptions, but “cynic” was not one of them. He already believed in magic. How could you explain the Old Ones’ existence otherwise? He knew the world was full of things that science could not possibly account for. But an actual embodiment of sorcery?

Standing back up, he held the rod the way the old man had. And shook it gently. Its tip released a few sparks, and they lingered several seconds before vanishing.

He chortled. Oh, this might be even more fun than the special type he usually had. The real question was figuring out how to make this work.