Wizard of the Pigeons Page 25

  His own burden was all he could carry, and his mission was clear in his mind. If other evil walked in Seattle, that was no affair of his. Someone else would have to handle it. He was already doing as much as he could―

  The alley loomed on his right, blacker than the night itself.

  It was a deadend alley, walled up so that it offered no light or escape at the far end. Entering it was a one-way journey to the pit. Coldness emanated from it. He kept his eyes down and straight, watching the sidewalk in front of him. He walked soundlessly past the mouth of the alley and continued walking.

  The grayness wriggled inside him, chuckling. He clenched his arms tighter around it.

  “Oh. please!”

  The cry, whimpered with no hope of clemency, halted him.

  The stalker had found his prey and was upon her. The grayness giggled inside him, rejoicing in wickedness and the turmoil in Wizard’s soul. If it was no affair of his, why did he Know that the plea was directed to him?

  “Ah!” A soft little sound, beyond terror or pain. He knew it well. Once, in a small hot black place, he had made that sound, not once, but many times. Death was better than the uttering of such a sound. He had to turn to it.

  The alley was black, the grayness inside him a cold, heavy thing be must guard. He stepped with care, straining all his senses. Soft, ugly sounds were coming from a far black end.

  With no wanting, he felt the knife. It was hot and keen, and its razor edge was being scraped slowly up and down his throat, paring away layers of skin that left exposed new cells stinging.

  It had not drawn blood yet. It made a paralyzing whispering against his skin that left him powerless to think of anything else, not even the fingers that prodded and probed in a parody of tenderness.

  It was too real. It froze Wizard for a long instant, until he realized it was a Knowing. This was happening, but not to him. To someone who lay amid the trash at the end of the alley, knowing that to scream was to die, and that to keep silent was to die more slowly. The magic had come back to him, but he could not rejoice in it. What it was showing him was too great an atrocity. “If this be Knowing, I would rather walk in ignorance,” he muttered soundlessly. And Knew it was not the first time he had made that decision. But this time the magic ignored his wishes and pressed the Knowing into his brain, if he touched the man, the knife would kill her. He must draw the attack to himself.

  “Stand up!” he barked. “Drop the knife and put your hands above your head.”

  He didn’t expect obedience and he wasn’t disappointed. But the man was quicker than Wizard expected a man interrupted in such a game to be. He turned, rose, and attacked in one motion. Wizard made the perfect counter, a kick that would take his attacker in the chest and keep his knife at a distance. It would have stopped the man dead, if Wizard had been wearing pants.

  The robe was cut full and loose, but not loose enough to allow for the full swing of the kick. It snapped tight, jerking the balance from Wizard’s other leg. He staggered sideways and the hungry knife went slipping past his ear. He caught himself and spun to face it, but the knife was already before him, weaving a song of blood as it hovered before his face.

  Like a steel hummingbird, it moved faster than his eyes could follow. Feet planted, hands loose and ready, Wizard shifted and wove before it. The magic limned it for him, setting it glowing with a toadstool light in the blackness of the alley. He saw nothing of the one who held it and commanded the dance.

  The mind behind the blade trusted its cutting edge implicitly. There would be no kicks, no sudden jabs of fist to spoil the perfection of the knife’s killing skill. Wizard’s eyes followed the blade as hands hung loose and ready, slightly away from his body. He tried to remember there was a man behind the blade, but the magic forced his attention back to the steel edge.

  He struggled with it and then, with relief, let go. The knife, then. Counter to all his embedded training, he would fight the knife and not the man behind it. He relaxed and felt the tingling of power run over his limbs and up his spine.

  From hand to hand the knife leapt nimbly in its wriggling, gliding dance. Wizard himself moved with it, in a swaying counterpoint that kept all parts of his body just beyond the knife’s leap. The knife, the knife! Why was the magic focused on the knife? Was he supposed to grab the damned thing? He imagined a sudden successful clutch, and the fingers slipping silently from his hand. No. That couldn’t be it. Silence but for two men panting, the soft scuff of wet socks against the pavement, and the far whimpering of the one who huddled at the end of the alley. The knife flickered and flashed, burning before his eyes. He reached and felt for it with the magic.

  This knife was a Ruana, a fine old blade shamed by this new owner. Its tempered steel haft was enclosed on both sides by bone grips. It was balanced, it was boned, it was a joyous tool perverted to butchery. It fit the killer’s hand like an extension of his body. He sensed the man’s twisted soul pulsing in the blade.

  So he froze it.

  Swifter than any kick of leg, than any twitch of muscle could ever be, as swift as the flicker of a thought, the Knowing came to Wizard and he used it. As simple as snuffing a candle flame with a pinch. He reached and froze it, the metal cooling past imaginable temperatures and then exploding into icy shards in the killer’s grip. The man screamed aloud, clutching at his wrist with his other hand and squeezing it, trying to hold out the pain invading his body. He doubled over with the agony of it, holding the mangled hand out away from his body as if he were bowing and offering it to Wizard.

  Wizard stepped back from his glimpse of that familiar face.

  The killer bolted past him, grunting with the pain of every jolting step. Wizard smiled and followed him. The man heard his shadowing steps and moaned in terror. He staggered on, pain dazing him, the terrible warmth of his own blood soaking him as he tottered. When he fell, there was the awful shape of the man from his nightmares, the man cloaked and robed with the night sky itself. The stars and crescent moons glittered balefully, but the man’s face was shadowed into blackness by the broad brim of his hat. He did not find the bent tip of that hat amusing. It pointed at him like an accusing finger. And when Wizard spoke, his eyes glittered like two chunks of blue glacier ice. He whispered.

  “If ever thou takest up a knife in thy hands again, be it even for so innocent a thing as the buttering of bread, the metal of the knife shall find revulsion in my touch, and break again into a thousand splinters. But those splinters will pierce thy eyes and my heart. Go now. Remember I have granted thee mercy this time, but justice will be mine the next time.”

  He nodded, he wept, and in agonized fear he thanked the man who had maimed him, groveling away from his feet.

  Wizard stood, watching him go. Power swelled in him, pulsing through his veins. This was a better way, so much a better way.

  In the instant he had frozen the knife, he had seen the killer’s maggoty little soul. He would take up a knife again; not tonight, or even this month. But when the hunger became too much for him, he would take up the knife and perish by it, even as Wizard had foretold. He had wielded his power fearlessly and permanently. No knife would tolerate his touch.

  He felt more than satisfaction as he watched the staggering figure retreat. Exultation. The wheel of his existence had rotated a half turn, carrying Wizard from the bottom to the top.

  The magic was back, in such strength as he had never known.

  He who had been the prey was the hunter; from being at the mercy of circumstances he had risen to be the controller. He had found his strength and his dreams would fall into his hands.

  So heady was this feeling he could not keep the smile from his lips. Suddenly he had it all: the magic, Cassie, and the strength to conquer his enemy.

  He turned his strength inward, found the lurking gray inside himself, and squeezed it to a thing of infinite smallness. So simple once one knew how and was not afraid. Was this what Cassie had been trying to tell him? Pick up your weapons, indeed! H
ad even she guessed at the new strength of his magic?

  Like a butterfly pumping fluid into his wet wings, he stretched to feel the limits of his power and laughed aloud.

  The gasp of a quickly drawn breath recalled him to himself.

  A small shame nibbled at the edge of his conscience. So enraptured had he been by his vanquishing of the killer that he had forgotten the victim.

  “Come out now,” he called softly to her, peering into the darkness of the alley. “You’re safe now.”

  There was no answer. Concern that she had been hurt more than he suspected creased his brow. He stepped quickly back to the place where the killer had crouched over her. “Where are you?” he called again, and spun as she broke cover behind him. He caught a fleeting glimpse of her under the streetlamp as she ran, her torn clothing clutched around her bruised body.

  “Wait! I won’t hurt you!” he called after her and started to follow, only to stumble over leather straps. He nearly fell.

  Reaching down, he untangled her shoulder bag from about his stockinged feet. Her purse, torn from her grip by her attacker and forgotten in her panic. He heard the jingle of keys, felt the lump of wallet inside it. She’d need it. He tucked it under his arm and ran after her.

  By the time he reached the mouth of the alley and looked around, she had already turned a corner and was out of sight.

  He stood still, perplexed, flinching at the thought of her fleeing through the dark streets with no way to get home, not even a quarter for the phone. Who else might target her as a victim?

  Then he chuckled at his own foolishness. Could he forget so soon? He reached after her. There. The scent of her fear was as distinctive as perfume in the cold air. He ran lightly after her, his robe and cloak rippling soundlessly behind him.

  Terror had spurred her, and she had fled like a rabbit, turning as corners presented themselves to throw off her pursuer. Wizard felt a touch of pity for her. She couldn’t know as yet that he meant her no harm. Yet her pathetic efforts to elude him had a touch of humor he could not deny. It was like a toddler trying to hide from the night things by putting a pillow over his head. In his night, in his city, no one could evade him. For two blocks she eluded him with the winged feet of fear. He caught full sight of her at last and called to her. “Wait!”

  With a smothered shriek, she was off again. He paused and took a breath in exasperation. The damp front of his robe clung to him annoyingly. With an impatient shake of his head, he dried it and chased the chill from his body. He stooped to pull up his socks, then wished them dried and water repellent. All was as he ordered it. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He supposed he had grown long accustomed to discomfort and inconvenience. Now, where had the girl gone? He closed his eyes and groped after her. He was getting better at this with every passing instant. He located her easily this time, running through an alley some block and a half distant and weeping as she ran. No need to pursue her. He could now predict, even guide her course. It would be child’s play to cut her off. He lifted his long robe and ran lightly down the sidewalk to his planned interception point, chuckling soundlessly as he ran.

  He appeared in the mouth of the alley before her, leaping out silently with outstretched arms to catch her. She screeched in horror, pursued beyond sanity. She stopped so swiftly she fell to her knees. Without trying to rise, she jerked herself around and scrambled away from him on all fours. The alley was cluttered with garbage cans and dumpsters. An inordinate amount of plain junk was scattered about, as if the contents of a room had been thrown down from above. She scuttled and hid from his eyes but he could see her. He didn’t mean to laugh; she was so scared, when all he meant her was good. But it was too ridiculous a situation; no doubt when she realized she had been fleeing her benefactor she, too, would see the humor.

  And he was tired of the pursuit. Poor little fool; best for her if she were captured and it was over.

  He waved his hand, and the other end of the alley closed before her. The wall he had called up glowed with a fungus light, and dark shapes coalesced beyond its translucence. She snatched herself back from it, breathing in little moaning pants.

  She fell and cowered upon the paving stones, huddled in on herself.

  “Come here, now,” he ordered her in a kindly voice.

  She only whimpered.

  “No harm will come to you if you do as I say. Come to me.”

  She rolled herself into a tighter ball. He frowned at her stubbornness. He began to pick his way through the junk and clutter, then halted. It would be better for her to come out and face her fears, he decided abruptly. For her own good.

  Having been driven himself, he well knew how to drive.

  With a gesture he freed a sinuous gray shadow from the wall of light. It oozed toward her like a monstrous slug, elongating itself to surround her and force her to its master. She screamed at its touch and staggered up and forward a step before she collapsed again. Wizard shook his head. She had so little stamina. Was this the woman he had risked his life for? Idly he held his creature in check to see if she would rally. She didn’t.

  Very well, then. He would have to go to her. He banished the creature back to the wall and began clambering over junk to the woman. But as he stooped over the cringing woman, he realized his creature had not returned to the wall as he had commanded it. Instead, the wall had come to it. It pushed even closer.

  He gasped in recognition.

  Mir laughed in acknowledgment and surged forward to join him over their prize.

  He wavered then, in a moment as long as his life. Kinship and camaraderie and the electrical excitement of being the conqueror seethed within the wall. Come forward to join Mir and be no longer alone. Nagging doubts would vanish, and he would know, not peace, but headlong decisiveness and life burned to the socket. At last they had found one another. His long exile was over.

  Revulsion, sudden as an explosion, rushed over him. He threw his strength against it, every strand of power be had discovered and tested this night. He flung it up before gray Mir in a restraining web and rushed forward to lift the woman with his human hands. She staggered up and leaned against him, unable to stand. He could not bring himself to look into that tortured face. A rush of shame burned him as he pushed her purse into her nerveless hands. She took it, seeming scarcely aware of what she did. Tottering free of him, she pulled ineffectually at her torn clothes, trying with feeble hands to hide her nakedness from the November wind.

  Grayness lunged for her. Wizard pressed it back, feeling the far snapping of restraints as small bits of his magic gave way before it. It laughed like the wind booming through tattered sails, and the world swayed beneath Wizard’s feet. Impossibly, the magic he had woven to hold it back was falling in on him, like a net dropping onto a tiger. The chase had stirred its appetite; it would have both of them this night. Wizard squeezed his eyes to slits and threw the last of his power up before it.

  The great mass of power he had so shortly wielded had been thrown back against him. What was his own small magic against that omnipotence? He could not win. It knew it. It leaned into him, enjoying the slow crumbling of his defenses.

  “Run!” he gasped to the woman, but she only stared at him, blank-eyed. When his strength failed, she would be helpless before the grayness. His demon would rend her.

  He reached to the silver tassels at his throat. His fingers were stiff claws that ripped them free of their knot. One-handed, he swirled the cloak free of his shoulders and over her. He felt a part of his strength go with it, a peeling away like a layer of skin. The woman stood up within the cloak, finding the presence of mind to clutch it around her chilled body.

  “Run!” he commanded her again, and this time she seemed to hear him. Enough sanity returned to her face that her fear was rational. She saw Wizard with his hand upraised before the gray shape in the gathering mist. Her wide eyes smote him, echoing of Cassie’s. She turned and ran away. He was glad.

  Cheated of its second victim, Mir fell on
him with the weight of the earth itself. Real, Cassie had said. She was right. A talon or tooth or blade penetrated Wizard’s guard, slashing at him. Blood welled along his ribs. The cloak would have protected him, he realized vainly, and let the thought run away unconsidered. He tried to focus his own powers to a jabbing point, but it was like trying to roll a quilt into a spear. It could buffer the attacks of the grayness, but it could not prevent them, and it was no weapon. Mir surrounded him, its pressure building. His eardrums pressed in against his brain. He felt the leap of blood from his nose, felt his lungs squashing up high in his chest. He went as small and hard as a nut in its grasp.

  For a second he felt relief. Then the trick failed him. The pressure mounted again; he had nowhere left to flee. He could not close his eyes, had no breath left to scream.

  A softness that smelled like ginger and vanilla settled over him, forcing Mir back and offering respite. He took a breath, opened bloodshot eyes.

  Mir loomed over them both. Cassie was wrapped in his cloak, her black hair spilling down her back and gleaming like polished ebony. One of Wizard’s hands clutched at the crumpled front of his stained robe; his hat with its crooked point was sliding down over one of his ears. Her hand was on his shoulder, joining them. He drew a breath, and with it Knew that Cassie’s power was strained to its limits, was screaming with the load of the grayness against it. Even together, they were not enough.

  She had come on a fool’s errand, to go down with him. It was just as hopeless, but slower. He wished be had the breath to tell her so.

  “Hold on!” she shouted, and her voice reached him from across a vast dark plain. “They’re coming. Night makes it hard for them.”

  He gave his head a minuscule shake, taking no meaning from her words. But he took the last reserve of his power, the small bit he had not known he was saving, the piece that meant he expected to live, and flung it into the face of the grayness.

  Mir laughed with triumph.

  And screamed with sudden pain.