Chapter 35 #2
Ten steps away, she stopped and whirled back.
Nigel had turned, facing the crowding shadows.
His sword, point-up, scintillated oddly before he swung it down and away, the hilt turning in his hand—an easy, natural move, as if saluting his opponents and assuring himself of the weapon’s free play all at once.
His other hand cleared the sidearm on his left hip, metal glinting dully, and Cass realized she didn’t even know how much ammo he had left.
She took a deep breath, but before her voice would work something moved at the far end of the bridge.
A scarecrow-shadow hopped awkwardly from darkness into muffled starglow, moving with weird uncoordinated grace.
Clots of motion boiled behind it, full of pale glints—those white, noseless things with blue eyes, both the four-armed and the bigger two-armed type, she thought, and her throat was so dry the thought of falling into a river was almost pleasant by comparison.
Then the scarecrow spoke.
“Faaaaaather…” A booming whisper, echoed by a high chilling tinkle of laughter from the noseless bogeys, the bigger ones carrying oddly slim, pale toothpick-spears.
Other noisome, eerie shadows were the hulking dogs with weird jewel-crusted collars, plus slightly smaller canine shapes with the seaweed lines of rubbery tentacles rising from their backs.
Skitters of arachnoid horrors with big bulbous deadshine eyes darted back and forth, testing the edge of the cliff.
Larger, even more horrible shapes loomed behind them. “Faaaather, I’ve foooooound you.”
“A little sloppy, since I sensed your pursuit.” Nigel didn’t move, dark head slightly cocked, sword held aslant, gun pointing down and to the side, finger locked outside the trigger guard. “But otherwise top marks, my Elder.”
What the hell?
Cass tried to even out her lungs’ heaving. It follows the breath, that’s what all the literature says. Trille’s smile, oddly boyish as he brought up another piece of research, another possible use for her weird talents, another bit of weird occult gossip.
Strangely, the bogeys were hanging back, watching. Maybe enjoying the show? The scarecrow tested the bridge with one booted toe, retreated slightly. It moved oddly, jerky, a puppet fighting its strings, and when it spoke again the voice was terrifyingly familiar. “I… can’t… hold…”
Oh, God. It’s Ed.
As soon as the realization hit, his shape snapped into recognizability like the bridge had.
He was gaunt, unshaven, rags hanging on a wasted frame—even worse than when he’d first shown up—and the bluish gleams were his eyes, covered lid to lid with that strange wet foxfire instead of only bearing pinpricks.
“Yes, you can,” Nigel said, his tone at once pitiless and strangely gentle. “You have fought him for years, my Son, and you can do so now. Tell me, what do you fear?”
What kind of question is that? Cass peered at the shapes behind Ed, hoping none of them would make a rush onto the bridge. She had to do something, but what?
It’s instinctive, Nigel kept saying. And that other word, burnout.
Well, it was either that or getting eaten by bogeys. A helluva choice, but really, a foregone conclusion.
“Fear…” Ed shuddered, galvanic twitches running from crown to soles.
His spine arched, and the creatures behind him set up a racket.
High fluting screams, nasty clicks, skitterings, grinding noises, a cacophony of nightmare, and through the latticed sounds the crazy gibbering voice of the big kahuna echoed, trembling on the edge of intelligibility.
If that thing managed to speak through these many throats, what would it say?
Come on, Cass. Do something. You’ve hurt bogeys before, you can hurt ’em now.
Mental muscles were like physical ones, and she had a bad case of the sprains.
The space inside her head where that funny warm golden-rainbow cavelight lived—and she’d never really thought about it before, since it felt so entirely natural—was raw, torn and bruised.
The bridge quivered like a live thing under paper-thin sneaker soles, her hair lifting on a soft caress of moving, oddly chilly air that held no relief.
“What do you fear?” Nigel repeated. His finger was on the trigger now, and something in the set of his shoulders expressed readiness. “You can fight him, Edward. There is a way to save your soul.”
Cass flinched, a pinch on an old, deep scar. What would it be like to have the big kahuna inside your skull? Ed had no doubt put up a good fight, but clearly he wasn’t himself.
If he was, maybe he could do something. That would give them better odds, right? Of course, they’d all three probably die—but maybe Ed and Nigel would both prefer that to being used by a crazy prehistoric god-thing.
Christ knows I would.
Ed screamed, a long violated howl, and collapsed.
The creatures surged onto the bridge—first the hulking dogs the noseless things had let loose, trailing leashes snapping like whips as they lunged.
After them came a rolling tide of the smaller tentacled canines, champing their teeth, nasty foam spraying in gobbets, and the spiders were scuttling in as well, hissing as their mandibles clicked.
The bigger blue-eyed things screeched; Cass’s heart gave a huge terrified squeeze as the bogeys looming in deeper shadow oozed forward, spatters of starlight striping damp, steaming hides.
Oh, fuck this noise. She spread her arms, and surprisingly she did know what to do, instinctive inner grasp moving swift and sure.
One mental hand traveled along what felt like a broad smooth highway at nearly lightspeed, arrowing for Nigel’s back and sticking fast, as if her fingers had slid under his jacket, grabbing a fistful of T-shirt.
The other stretched, grasping in the darkness for something she sensed yet could not quite see, and she realized it was Ed when he screamed again, the cry lost in a surfroar of hideous noise.
Somehow she knew his voice; her grasp found the thing it sought, and she found herself settling back on her heels as if playing tug-of-war with a very large, extremely angry wildcat.
Holy shit, I’ve got him, I know I’ve got him, I can bring him back—
Then the Mad God noticed her grip on his traitorous Son, and howled in volcanic fury.