Chapter Twenty-Three

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 encrusting 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 organise 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 came, 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 artefacts 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. 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 Chihulyglass that shimmered in bright splashes of colour 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 what 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? It’s 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 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 finely 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 rat 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 armoured 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 acknowledgement 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 for him. Oh, my brave Knight Errant, would you truly come bark 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 swan, 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 acct 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 tools 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 an 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 spat 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 await “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 recognising 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 slipped 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 arid began to climb. As she dial so, a troubling realisation 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 abort 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 groaning 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 came 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 unravelling 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 shot.

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 hint 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 shack. “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 bark 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 wont 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 cap 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, No. It’s 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 apt 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 Lawrence’s 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.