Oh, my God, my God. she whispered soundlessly, and she hugged herself
against the first onslaught of wistful despair.
John Ross turned from the demon's remains and limped to her side. He
reached for her, drew her into the cradle of his arms, and held her close. Nest, it's alright, he whispered into her hair, stroking it softly, comfortingly. It's all over. It's finished.
'Did you see? Did you see what happened.' She gasped, broke down, and could not finish.
He nodded quickly. 'I know. I saw it begin at the museum. It didn't happen there, but I saw that it could. Wraith is inside you, Nest. You said he just walked into you and was done, that last time you saw him. It's like Pick said. Magic doesn't just cease to exist. It takes another form. It becomes something else. Don't you see? Wraith bas become a part of you.'
She was shaking now, enraged and despairing. But I don't want him inside me.' He's got nothing to do with me! He belongs to my father! Her head jerked up violently. John, what if my father's come back to claim me.' What if Wraith is some part of him trying to reach out to me still!'
No. no, he said at once, holding her away from him., bracing her shoulders
with his strong hands. He released the black staff, and it clattered to the concrete.
His eyes held her own. 'listen to me, Nest. Wraith wasn't your father's. He was
never that. He saved you from your father, remember? Gran made him over - with
her own magic to protect you. He was yours. He belonged to you.
The lean, weathered face bent close. Perhaps he's only done what be was
supposed to do. When you became of age and strong enough to look after yourself,
perhaps his job as your protector was finished' Where does magic go when it has
served its purpose and not been fully expended' It goes back to its owner. To serve as needed.'
'So maybe, he whispered, Wraith has just come home.'
She spent every waking moment of her journey back to Hopewell wrestling with that concept. Wraith had come home. To her. To become part of her. The idea was terrifying. It left her grappling with the prospect that at any moment she might jump out of her skin. Literally. It made her feel as if she was a character out of Alien, waiting for that repulsive little head to thrust out of her stomach, all teeth and blood.
But the image was wrongly conceived, and after a while it diminished and faded, giving way to a more practical concern. How could she control this new found magic? It didn't seem as if she had done much of a job so far. What was to prevent it from reappearing again without warning, from jeopardising her in ways she couldn't even begin to imagine?
Then she realised this image was wrongheaded, as well, that Wraith's magic had lived inside her for a long time before it had surfaced. What had triggered its appearance last night was the presence of other magic, first the magic of John Ross and then the magic of the demon. She remembered how strangely she had felt that first day at Fresh Start, then later that night in Lincoln Park, both times when she was in close proximity to the demon. She hadn't understood that it was Wraith's magic, threatening to break free. But in each instance, his magic was simply responding to the perceived threat another magic offered.
Realising that gave her some comfort, but she still struggled with the idea that the big ghost wolf was locked inside her–not just as magic, but as the creature in which the magic had been lodged. Why did it still exist in that form?
It wasn't until she was almost home, the lights of the first cluster of outlying residences breaking through the evening darkness, that she decided she might still be misreading things. In the absence of direction, magic took the form with which it was most familiar. It didn't act independently of its user. Pick had taught her that a long time ago, when he was instructing her on the care of the park. If Wraith had still been whole, still her shadow protector, he would have come to her defence instinctively. It was not strange to think that bereft of form and independent existence, his magic would still do so. After all, the magic had been given to her in the first place, hadn't it? And in making its unexpected appearance, absent any direction from her, was it surprising it would assume the same form it had occupied for so many years?
What was harder for her to reconcile, she discovered, was that in seeking its release it had required her to become one with it.
She rode through the streets of Hopewell, slumped in the darkness of the car's rear seat, curled into the cushions like a rag doll, looking out at the night. She would be a long time coming to terms with this, she knew.
She found herself wondering, somewhat perversely, if the Lady had known about Wraith in sending her to John Ross. She wondered if she had been sent with the expectation that in aiding Ross she would discover this new truth about herself. It was not inconceivable. Any contact with a strong magic would have released Wraith from his safehold inside her. Knowledge of his continued existence was something Nest would have had to come to grips with sooner or later. The Lady might have believed it was better she do so now.
As they passed the Menards and the Farm and Fleet, she gave the driver directions to her house. She sat contemplating the tangled threads of her life, of what was known and what was not, until the car turned into her driveway and parked. She climbed out, retrieved her bag, signed the driver's receipt, said good–bye, and walked into the house.
It was dark and silent inside, but the smells and shadows of the hallways and rooms were familiar and welcome. She turned on some lights, dropped her bags in the living room, and walked back to the kitchen to fix herself a sandwich from a jar of peanut butter and last week's bread.
She sat eating at the kitchen table, where Gran had spent most of her time in her last years, and she thought of John Ross. She wondered where he was. She wondered how much success he was having at coming to terms with the truths in his life. He had not said much when they parted. He thanked her, standing there in the shadowy confines of Waterfall Park, his breath billowing out in smoky clouds as the cold deepened. He would never forget what she had done for him. He hoped she could forgive him for what he had done to her, five years earlier. She said there was nothing to forgive. She told him she was sorry about Stefanie. She told him she knew a little of how he must feel. He smiled at that. If anyone did, it was she, he agreed.
Did he feel trapped by being what he was? What was it like to be a Knight of the Word and realise your life could never change?
She had not told him of Two Bears. Of the reason O'olish Amaneh had come to Seattle for Halloween. Of the terrible responsibility the last of the Sinnissippi bore for having given him the Word's magic.
She finished the sandwich and a glass of milk and carried her dishes to the sink. The contracts for the sale of the house still sat on the kitchen counter. She glanced down at them, picked them up, and carried them to the table. She sat down again and read them through carefully. In the hallway, the grandfather clack ticked steadily. When she was finished reading, she set the contracts down in front of her and stared off into space.
What we have in life that we can count our own is who we are and where we come from, she thought absently. For better or worse, that's what we have to sustain us in our endeavours, to buttress us in our darker moments, and to remind us of our identity. Without those things, we are adrift.
Her gaze shifted to the darkness outside the kitchen window. John Ross must feel that way now. He must feel that way even. day of his life. It was what he gave up when he became a Knight of the Word. It was what he lost when he discovered the truth about Stefanie Winslow.