Because in all that colorless formless desert, something was alive. Many things. What I had at first perceived as monstrous shadows, as clouds or mountains or fog, were not shadows at all. They were the monstrous things themselves. Huge, at least twice man-high and skeletally thin, with the outlines of ribs and thorax and skull gleaming in the silvery light.
But they were not skeletons, or cadavers. They were not even remotely human. They were immense arthropods, like praying mantids or walkingsticks or leaf insects. Many-jointed, silvery grey as the scar they danced across, their long, jointed legs trailing behind them like matches spilling from a box. They had huge round eyes, smooth and curved as glass, with a tiny black spot marking the pupil. Some of them had wings that retracted when they struck the ground. They filled the black sky of the world beyond the door, a vast horde growing nearer and nearer. I saw a blurred flutter as one fell to earth and then exploded into the air again, wings beating furiously as it propelled itself toward us. Above its twitching mandibles its eyes glittered like steel bearings.
“Balthazar! Balthazar, no—”
Magda Kurtz’s scream was silenced as, with a single thrust, her captors pushed her through the door. I struggled in Angelica’s arms, then pulled free.
For a final instant I glimpsed Magda Kurtz. She was on the other side of the door now, and she staggered as though blinded, arms flailing, before falling to the ground. Grey dust puffed up around her knees. I heard pebbles rattling against the wooden portal, wind buffeting the wall behind us. The air pouring from the doorway was so cold my teeth chattered. The smell of gasoline choked me. I could no longer feel Angelica’s hands clasping mine. I could no longer see anything, except what lay beyond the door.
Above Magda Kurtz hovered an immense black shape. Its dangling limbs moved slowly up and down, its huge witless eyes were fixed on what lay beneath it. For perhaps a minute it hung there, wings beating in silent rhythm. Then without warning it dropped to the ground. A cloud of glittering dust rose as it extended one long, jointed leg like the metal shank of a tripod.
In its shadow crouched Magda Kurtz. She looked impossibly small, a doll-woman or the spindly figure from a cave painting. She drew her arm up to shield her face and turned to look back at the doorway. But I could tell by her blank expression and gaping mouth, by the way her head weaved back and forth, that she could no longer see the door or what lay beyond it, that our world had closed upon her forever. The last thing I heard was her scream, a rising wail sliced off as the door slammed shut.
“Jesus Fucking Christ!”
Before Angelica could grab me I was gone, stumbling out into the main passage. From behind me came shouts; then Angelica’s desperate voice.
“Sweeney, no!—the stairs—!”
She pointed and I sprinted down the hall to where that horrible back stairway yawned. Behind me footsteps clattered like hooves; I heard Professor Warnick’s deceptively calm voice echoing through the darkness.
“Kids, it’s some students, that’s all—”
Then Angelica’s scream.
“No!—let go of me—Swee-nee!—”
I whirled. Francis Connelly had her by the wrist. He twisted it as he pulled her toward him and Balthazar watched impassively.
“Let go, you bastard, let me go—”
I could hear Angelica panting, could see the dark welts where he gripped her cruelly. An arm’s length from them, Professor Warnick crouched against the wall like a goblin fearing sunlight. And then Francis began to drag Angelica toward the alcove where they had taken Magda Kurtz.
“NO!” Angelica shouted, scratching at his face.
“God damn it, you stupid—”
Francis’s voice broke off as I darted toward him. I grabbed Angelica, then, with all my strength, kicked him in the shin. A satisfying instant when I felt my boot’s worn metal toe smash into bone. With an anguished howl Francis collapsed onto the rug.
“Oh dear,” murmured Balthazar Warnick.
“Come on!” I gasped, and pulled the half-sobbing Angelica after me.
Around us all was a blur of scarlet and black and gold. I thought I heard voices, the muted sound of vast wings. Then we were at the end of the corridor. Below us the staircase unfurled. From behind us came the rattle of bone, a shrieking wind rank with the smell of gasoline and burning leaves. I couldn’t think, couldn’t move…
“Sweeney, go!”
Angelica shoved me. I grabbed the railing and lunged down, two and three and five steps at a time. When I saw the floor only a few feet below I clambered over the banister and jumped. Then I bolted, toward a screen door gaping open onto the night. Beyond it lay the comforting yellow glow of the campus crimelights, a few half-shadowed figures gathered atop the Mound. When I reached the door I slammed my fists against the screen and, gasping, looked around for my friend.
“Angelica?”
She stood at the foot of the stairs, her hair wild, her breast heaving as she steadied herself against the rail. Her dress was torn, so that I could see her skin dead white against black lace and satin. In one hand she brandished a high-heeled shoe like a club. She was staring up to where the others gazed down: Francis, white-faced with rage; Professor Warnick, tight-lipped, his gaze steady as he stared back at her disheveled hair and blazing green eyes. She looked like a wolf brought to bay, like a maenad unrepentant on the mountaintop. No longer frightened but nearly incandescent with rage: if you held a match to her she would burst into flame.
“Angelica,” I whispered.
Around her neck the silver crescent was glowing. Not with any reflected light but with a hard cold brilliance, brighter than any star I had ever seen, so bright that I had to shield my eyes. As I stared Angelica’s hand crept to her throat, until it touched the edge of the pendant. Light streamed around her fingers in spectral rays, blue and white and silver. Her expression changed from fury to wonder as Professor Warnick’s voice rang out, clear and bitter as gin.
“She has the lunula.”
“The lunula?” shouted Francis. “How did she—”
With a cry Angelica turned and fled. An instant later she flung herself at me and together we stumbled outside. Professor Warnick’s soft voice drifted down behind us.
“It’s too late, Francis.”
I looked back to see the two men trapped in the banister’s curve as in an embrace. Francis looked sick with fury, but Professor Warnick’s expression was subdued, almost tranquil—except for his eyes, which were the deep burning blue of the winter sky showing through a storm. A hungry, almost expectant, expression, but also somewhat dazed, like a fierce well-fed dog that has had its supper snatched away.
“Swee-ney!”
Angelica’s nails dug into my arm. With a very slight, ironic smile, Balthazar Warnick waggled his finger at me scoldingly. Then I lost sight of him. Angelica and I were running, running down the hillside, stones flying up around us and branches slashing at our cheeks. There was the sound of distant traffic and sulfurous light everywhere, light and drunken laughter and people crying out as we raced like mad things away from Garvey House.
CHAPTER 8
Twilight at the Orphic Lodge