The Nimble Man (A Novel of the Menagerie) by Thomas E. Sniegoski Christopher Golden Page B
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all cursing, wondering what the hell was going on. Caleb and Gage
had just stepped back inside with a small pistol in an evidence bag. One of
them stooped and tried to stop the stray as it ran out the door, but he was too
slow, too clumsy.
The cat darted into an alley, past a Dumpster, then along
other streets until it came once again to Rue Dauphine. As it passed beneath
the shading branches of a tree that grew up from the sidewalk, the cat
disappeared and was replaced by Clay Smith once more. He had no bullet wound. Not
even a tear in his crisply clean navy blue T-shirt.
He cut through to Bourbon Street and fell in amidst the
swirl of tourists, the loud shouts of hucksters, the jazz band playing "When
the Saints Go Marching In" on the corner. Clay hated Bourbon Street, hated
the cheap, carnival atmosphere of it, but he had walked that street at least
once every day since he had come to live here. It was alive and vibrant and
filled with color and at least for a handful of minutes it could make him
forget the things he could not remember.
As he passed by a restaurant that was serving breakfast he
heard people hushing one another inside. There was something urgent about their
manner and so he ducked his head into the restaurant and saw that everyone
waiting for tables had stopped to watch the newscaster on the television above
the bar.
The visual cut away to a scene of the New York skyline.
Blood was raining from the sky.
Though the subway tunnel was abandoned, the roar of nearby
trains thundered throughout the underground. The air was dry and chalky and
there on a platform unused for decades, Doyle felt the shimmer of magic, as
though their every breath disrupted cobwebs of time. This was a sensation he
had felt recently, in the foyer of the brownstone where Yvette Darnall and her
fellow mediums had died to keep Sweetblood's secret. This place had been frozen
in time, had been hidden away from untrained eyes.
Until now.
"Doyle! Why don't you get what we came for?" Eve
snapped.
His gray brows knitted together as he turned to glare at
her. Her jacket was torn: the demon's claws had ripped through suede and cotton
at her shoulder and blood was seeping into the fabric. The thing towered above
her on the platform, its footfalls cracking the tile floor with every step. Even
as Doyle glanced at Eve, the thing Sweetblood had set here to guard his hiding
place bent once more and lunged for her. Distracted in that moment by her ire
at Doyle, Eve could not avoid its ridiculously long arms and the demon snatched
her by the throat, one of the sharp protrusions on its arm cutting a gash in
her face that flayed her cheek to the bone.
She snarled in pain, latched onto its wrist with both hands,
swung her legs up and braced them against its body, and then used that leverage
to break its arm. The grinding snap of bone echoed across the platform. Eve
dropped to the tile and rolled away from the guardian, then turned to glare at
him.
"What the fuck are you just standing there for?"
Doyle smoothed his coat. His own wardrobe had thus far
suffered only the veil of dust that hung in the air and covered every surface.
"Merely wondering if you might be bleeding less if you
concentrated on what you were doing rather than policing my own actions."
He raised an eyebrow as the demon raced at her again,
roaring, cradling its shattered arm. Then he turned away, leaving her to the
battle. Eve's face would heal, as it always had. All of her wounds would
disappear. That was the gift and curse of her immortality. In comparison, his
own extended life was merely a parlor trick.
Since the moment they had left Yvette Darnall's brownstone
he had been trying to sense the power of Sweetblood. When they had entered
Grand Central Station he had known they were on the right track. Had anyone but
Sweetblood cast the glamour that hid the guardian's true nature, Doyle would
have seen right through it. Not that it mattered now. The trail had led
had just stepped back inside with a small pistol in an evidence bag. One of
them stooped and tried to stop the stray as it ran out the door, but he was too
slow, too clumsy.
The cat darted into an alley, past a Dumpster, then along
other streets until it came once again to Rue Dauphine. As it passed beneath
the shading branches of a tree that grew up from the sidewalk, the cat
disappeared and was replaced by Clay Smith once more. He had no bullet wound. Not
even a tear in his crisply clean navy blue T-shirt.
He cut through to Bourbon Street and fell in amidst the
swirl of tourists, the loud shouts of hucksters, the jazz band playing "When
the Saints Go Marching In" on the corner. Clay hated Bourbon Street, hated
the cheap, carnival atmosphere of it, but he had walked that street at least
once every day since he had come to live here. It was alive and vibrant and
filled with color and at least for a handful of minutes it could make him
forget the things he could not remember.
As he passed by a restaurant that was serving breakfast he
heard people hushing one another inside. There was something urgent about their
manner and so he ducked his head into the restaurant and saw that everyone
waiting for tables had stopped to watch the newscaster on the television above
the bar.
The visual cut away to a scene of the New York skyline.
Blood was raining from the sky.
Though the subway tunnel was abandoned, the roar of nearby
trains thundered throughout the underground. The air was dry and chalky and
there on a platform unused for decades, Doyle felt the shimmer of magic, as
though their every breath disrupted cobwebs of time. This was a sensation he
had felt recently, in the foyer of the brownstone where Yvette Darnall and her
fellow mediums had died to keep Sweetblood's secret. This place had been frozen
in time, had been hidden away from untrained eyes.
Until now.
"Doyle! Why don't you get what we came for?" Eve
snapped.
His gray brows knitted together as he turned to glare at
her. Her jacket was torn: the demon's claws had ripped through suede and cotton
at her shoulder and blood was seeping into the fabric. The thing towered above
her on the platform, its footfalls cracking the tile floor with every step. Even
as Doyle glanced at Eve, the thing Sweetblood had set here to guard his hiding
place bent once more and lunged for her. Distracted in that moment by her ire
at Doyle, Eve could not avoid its ridiculously long arms and the demon snatched
her by the throat, one of the sharp protrusions on its arm cutting a gash in
her face that flayed her cheek to the bone.
She snarled in pain, latched onto its wrist with both hands,
swung her legs up and braced them against its body, and then used that leverage
to break its arm. The grinding snap of bone echoed across the platform. Eve
dropped to the tile and rolled away from the guardian, then turned to glare at
him.
"What the fuck are you just standing there for?"
Doyle smoothed his coat. His own wardrobe had thus far
suffered only the veil of dust that hung in the air and covered every surface.
"Merely wondering if you might be bleeding less if you
concentrated on what you were doing rather than policing my own actions."
He raised an eyebrow as the demon raced at her again,
roaring, cradling its shattered arm. Then he turned away, leaving her to the
battle. Eve's face would heal, as it always had. All of her wounds would
disappear. That was the gift and curse of her immortality. In comparison, his
own extended life was merely a parlor trick.
Since the moment they had left Yvette Darnall's brownstone
he had been trying to sense the power of Sweetblood. When they had entered
Grand Central Station he had known they were on the right track. Had anyone but
Sweetblood cast the glamour that hid the guardian's true nature, Doyle would
have seen right through it. Not that it mattered now. The trail had led
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