The Gathering Dark Part 9

"Greenwich Village. New York City," he told her.

Her mouth dropped open in astonishment and she gazed about her. Tears began to streak her filthy face and she shuddered. Then she turned to him again, almost violently. "When?" she demanded.

When he told her the date and the year, she covered her mouth and could not speak for twenty or thirty seconds. Peter waited patiently, and when a small moan escaped her, he touched her shoulder gently.

"It's over now, though. It's done. Is there someone you can call?"

She bit her lip and then slowly nodded. Peter slipped his phone out of his pocket and handed it to her. For a long moment she only stared at it and then she began to dial. It took three calls before she reached someone, and when she did, there was a great deal of sobbing, during which he turned back toward the restaurant for the first time.

The patio was crowded with patrons and wait staff who stood and stared at the bizarre tableau he and this woman created. They had given up any pretense of not being interested and were openly gawking now. All save Carter and Kymberly, who had apparently paid the bill and were now making their way out of the patio-the proper way, rather than over the shrubs.

His friends hurried toward him. The look on Carter's face was one of great concern, but there was something almost beatific about Kymberly's expression.

"That was extraordinary, Peter," she said.

"Yes. Extraordinary, true," Carter agreed. But then he took Peter by the arm and leaned in toward him. "What did you just do? What happened here? Who is this woman?"

Peter glanced at Kym and then back to her husband. He sighed slowly. "I don't know who she is. She was possessed by a demon. I . . . helped. I get the impression she's been . . . lost . . . for a long time. I'm letting her use my phone to try to find someone to come and get her, to take care of her."

They were staring at him. Then Kymberly shook her head slowly.

"You told us about your past, about the Shadows and your magick. But it's all been so prevalent in the news this last decade that I supposed we never imagined you were telling the truth."

"You thought I was lying?" Peter asked, taken aback.

"Not lying, precisely," Carter replied. He p.r.o.nounced "precisely" as pre-zeiss-li pre-zeiss-li. "We thought perhaps you needed to spin such wild tales as inspiration for your paintings."

Kymberly seemed almost embarra.s.sed. "I suppose it was too much for us to believe that you lived what you were painting. We'd heard of Peter Octavian . . . of you. But it seemed like a perfect marketing tool."

"A tool," Peter repeated.

His gaze ticked back and forth between his friends but he did not know what to say. He supposed he should not have been surprised, and maybe in his heart he was not. Human beings spent a great deal of effort trying to put order upon the chaos of the world in their own minds, to make sense of things. As such, they often refused to believe in anything that did not fit their ordered image of the universe right up until the time when denial was no longer an option.

But he was disappointed in them, and he felt it keenly.

"We . . . we saw that thing that you pulled out of her," Kymberly was saying. "And then the green flame that came from your hands. I never would have believed it if I had not seen it."

Peter smiled sadly. "No. I suppose most people wouldn't."

He had no idea how this was going to change his relationship with the Stroms, but he was in no mood to discuss it with them now. There were people in the world who knew precisely who and what he was, but all of them were so far away. He felt very alone suddenly.

"Excuse me?"

Peter turned to find the grimy woman holding his phone out to him. He reached and took it from her, fighting the urge to clean it before slipping it back into his pocket, not wanting to embarra.s.s her.

"Did you reach someone?" he asked.

She nodded, wiping at her face, her tears leaving swaths of clean white skin. "My brother. He lives up in Katonah. Still, thank G.o.d." For a moment she paused to catch her breath, perhaps to prevent another jag of crying. "He's on his way down to get me. Do you think they'll just let me stay right here until he arrives."

Peter's eyes narrowed and he turned to search the crowd on the patio for the manager. "I'll make sure of it," he said.

When he looked back at the woman, there was the flicker of a smile on her face. "I'd kiss you, but I don't want to get you dirty."

"I don't think I'd mind very much," Peter told her.

"Oh, I couldn't!" she said, looking down at her clothes.

"Another time, then."

Despite all the horror she had experienced-all that she was experiencing even in that moment as she tried to put together how much of her life had been torn away, how long she had wandered under the sinister control of some infernal intelligence-the woman grinned broadly. It lasted just a moment, that full-wattage smile, but Peter thought it was a hopeful sign that she would be able to come out of this with most of her self intact.

It took a lot of effort to convince the Stroms to go on about the business of their day and leave him there at The Hovel with the woman-whose name turned out to be Janelle King-but eventually Carter admitted he had another appointment and he and Kymberly reluctantly departed. Peter was relieved when they were gone. He needed some time to himself.

Though he wasn't foolish enough to try to convince management at The Hovel to let Ms. King into the restaurant dressed as she was, they were kind enough to allow the woman to sit there while he made a run to the deli two doors down, just to get some food into her. A short while later, her brother arrived to pick her up. Their reunion was heartbreaking.

Peter started for home without waiting for them to even get into the brother's car. He wanted to be home, to put some Mozart on the sound system and brew a pot of tea and sketch the face of Janelle King. He often sketched in addition to his paintings, but his pencil sketches were not for public display. He often painted moments and places from his past, but for the most part, he avoided depicting people in his paintings.

The faces he saved for his sketches, and the sketches he kept. They were just for him, those faces.

To help him remember.

In the time she had spent sitting on the curb in front of Peter's apartment on West Fourth Street, Nikki had made up her mind half a dozen times to leave. It had been more than an hour and she felt ridiculous just sitting here waiting like some junior high girl hoping for a glimpse of her crush. But every time she opened her mouth to put voice to her desire to depart, words failed her. She couldn't do it to Keomany.

After her showcase the night before last, Nikki had beckoned her old friend backstage. During the time they had known one another- when both of them lived in New York-the two young women had both felt lost, searching for something they couldn't even name. That kinship had created a bond between them, though they had not really kept in touch.

But as soon as Keomany had begun to tell her story, silent tears slipping down her face, Nikki had reached out to embrace her. Her friend had shaken in her arms, as though something inside her had shattered into a thousand pieces.

Now-thirty-six hours later and all the way on the other side of the continent-they sat side by side on that curb and Nikki reached out and slid her arm around Keomany.

"How are you holding up?" she asked.

Keomany smiled wanly. "I feel like shouting. I wish he'd get back."

"Me too."

Then Keomany winced as a thought struck her. "G.o.d, Nik, what if he's not even around? What if he's out of town?"

Nikki had thought of this already. If Peter didn't show up by nightfall, they'd have to rethink their plan.

"I have some other friends we could talk to," Nikki told her.

Keomany nodded. "I know. I know and that's . . . thank G.o.d for you. I didn't know who else to come to." Her voice quavered but she kept it together. Whatever had shattered inside Keomany they had managed to put it back together, but she was still fragile.

Nikki didn't blame her. She had been through a lot herself, but she had never had to do it alone. Nikki ma.s.saged Keomany's shoulder. "You did the right thing."

But Keomany was looking past her, up along West Fourth Street. A hopeful spark shone in her eyes. "Is that him?"

Nikki followed her friend's gaze, and she saw him.

"Peter," she whispered under her breath.

In her mind she had played this scene out a hundred ways, and in each of them she had hung coolly back and remained aloof, let him fumble with his words, making certain he knew that she could live without him. But as she saw him walking down the street in blue jeans and a crisp white b.u.t.ton-down shirt, Nikki felt herself rising from the curb almost as though she were being pulled toward him by some outside force.

A laugh escaped her lips as she took several steps toward him. His expression was a million miles away, but that was nothing new for him. She saw that he had gotten a bit gray-prematurely, if you went by his biological age-but otherwise he looked just as she remembered him, that ragged cut hair, that strong chin. Peter had come within twenty feet of her before he at last lifted his gaze. His eyes widened as he saw her.

"Nikki?" he asked, as though he thought her a mirage.

"Hey, stranger," she said, and for a trio of heartbeats, she managed that aloofness she had planned for so long.

Then that familiar, almost goofy grin lit up his face and she could not help herself. She crossed the twenty feet between them in a run and collided with him with such force that Peter had to take two steps back to keep them both from falling. He wrapped his arms around her and she pressed her face against him and they both laughed and just held one another.

Then Nikki pushed away from him and tapped his chest as she narrowed her eyes. "Why didn't you ever try to get in touch with me?"

Peter looked stricken. "You told me not to."

Nikki shook her head. "f.u.c.king men." Emotion welled up inside her but she would not let herself cry. She bit her lip lightly and then glared at him again. "In all the time you've been alive, you haven't learned better than that?"

Stop it, she told herself. Stop telling him the truth. It's only going to hurt more after. Stop telling him the truth. It's only going to hurt more after.

But she didn't care. It didn't matter. Neither did Kyle. He was a sweet guy, but she had never stopped being in love with this guy, the man right in front of her.

Peter stared at her, the depth of his melancholy visible in his eyes. "Nikki, I just wanted to respect your wishes. I wasn't very good company and you wanted to get back out in the world, and-"

"And I wanted you to come with me!" she shouted, loud enough that it echoed off the buildings up and down the quiet street. "You can paint anywhere!"

But that last part she had already said to him, many times. She sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't come here to rehash old conversations."

Peter looked down at the ground, then past her to where Keomany stood on the sidewalk in front of his apartment. At length his gaze returned to Nikki. And all of a sudden she realized something-deep down in his eyes, she saw a glint of the edge that had drawn her to him in the first place. Hope fluttered inside her.

"You have no idea what it means to me, seeing you today. I needed something . . . I don't know, a sign, I guess. I think maybe you're it," Peter told her. "I was feeling a little lost."

Nikki reached up to touch his face. "We all feel that way sometimes. Sometimes most most of the time. What's wrong? Can I help?" of the time. What's wrong? Can I help?"

Once again he took her in his arms but this time there was more tenderness to it, and a kind of relief. It gave her a comfort she had nearly forgotten, just to be held by him.

"I never tried to find you because I didn't think I was the same person anymore. I was afraid that if I followed you-"

Nikki shushed him and Peter stopped talking. She hugged him more tightly, and when she spoke, she did not look up to meet his eyes.

"How could you be the same?" she asked, searching his eyes. "You went through a lot of changes, Peter. In the course of a couple of years you lost almost everyone you cared about. I'm not even going to talk about what you went through before that."

She pushed him back now and looked up at him, smiling at the absurdity of it all. "You were f.u.c.king depressed, you a.s.shole. Anybody would be. Maybe that's why you're such an amazing painter; all great artists are depressed. But I know the old you's in there somewhere, I can see him in your eyes, and I need him now.

"I need you you now. now.

"There's something awful happening up north, something terrible and unnatural. Human or shadow, artist or sorcerer, we both know that what you are at heart-what you'll always be-is a warrior. When you tried to give up that part of you . . . that's what got you so lost, Peter.

"Now it's time to change that.

"Time to go to war again."

The train rolled south toward Bordeaux, traversing beautiful French countryside that Kuromaku never tired of admiring, no matter how many times he made the journey over the years. On this particular trip, however, as he gazed out the window of the private, first-cla.s.s compartment that had been reserved for him, his mind was not on the scenery.

After the horror that had unfolded upon the steps of Sacre-Coeur he had begun to make certain gentle inquiries into similar occurrences-incursions, as he thought of them, of demons upon the human world. Kuromaku had been aware that the frequency of such incursions was on the rise, but even the most cursory examination of available data, even a basic search of the Internet, revealed a spike in the number of incursions that was startling.

And deeply troubling.

Once upon a time there had been a force in place to combat such things-a cruel and corrupt organization drunk on its own power-but that force had been eliminated. After years in which the resistance of humanity to their presence had been severely weakened, the evidence suggested that the creatures of shadow, the demons and other monsters, had at last begun to realize that there was no one left with the power to oppose them should they come en ma.s.se en ma.s.se.

Fortunately, the various breeds of h.e.l.lsp.a.w.n hated one another and so the likelihood was small that such creatures of chaos would ever manufacture enough order to organize a sizable incursion. Still, the frequency with which shadows were breaching the human world was far too great and Kuromaku knew something had to be done to combat it.

"Where are you?" a soft voice asked.

It took a moment for the words to reach him, lost as he was in his thoughts. Then he turned in his seat and looked at Sophie, who sat opposite him in the private compartment. She wore a sleeveless, pale blue dress that clung wonderfully to her slim form, and her hair was tied back with a ribbon that matched the dress. Her golden hair shone in the sun that streamed in through the train window, but despite her youth there were tiny lines around her eyes as she studied him with a sad sort of curiosity.

"I'm sorry," Kuromaku replied. "There's a crisis brewing. It's getting under my skin. Once we reach Bordeaux, there are people I must notify. After that, I'll be better able to focus."

She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, and the top of her dress gaped open indecently. Kuromaku politely averted his eyes. It was not that he did not want to see what might be seen, only that he did not want to come by such a sight dishonorably.

"I feel like I'm running away," Sophie said, her voice low, and she sat back again.

Kuromaku frowned and searched her eyes for a connection. "You are not running. You are accepting my invitation, that is all."

She smiled softly, nodding slightly. "All right. I suppose I just regret that it isn't under different circ.u.mstances. I'm glad to get away, and I am looking forward to spending this time-"

With you, she had been about to say. But Kuromaku understood why she had let the words remain unsaid. They were only just beginning to explore whatever spark this was between them. He knew that she was anxious and wished he could explain to her that it was natural for her to feel that way. She was young and he very, very old. Sophie was human and Kuromaku had not been that for a very, very long time.

A part of him was surprised that she had agreed to his suggestion that she return to Bordeaux with him, after what she had seen him do. After what she had seen him become. Most women, no matter how adventurous they thought themselves, would have locked themselves up in their rooms and changed their telephone numbers. It had happened before.

Now he focused his gaze upon hers and smiled. "You really are a remarkable woman. I'm not sure you realize that. A rare creature."

The sun was still upon her face but he thought the glow from within her then was even more brilliant. "How is it you always know just what to say? And from you it doesn't sound like bulls.h.i.t, when if another man said it, I might just laugh?"

"Because I would never say it if it wasn't true," he told her, with utter sincerity.

Sophie regarded him carefully a moment, something else going on behind her eyes that Kuromaku could not decipher.

"My father respected you more than any other client he ever had," she said, her voice low. "I've had a crush on you since I was twelve years old."

All thoughts of demons were obliterated from his mind. Kuromaku looked at Sophie, her pet.i.te body beneath that light summer dress and her eyes searching his for some vital bit of information, and he could think of nothing else.

"Apparently I don't always know just what to say, because I have no idea how to properly respond to that," he confessed, smiling playfully.

Sophie lowered her chin so that when she gazed at him now, looking up at him, there was an incredible seductiveness about her glance. And yet he did not think it was purposeful.

"You spend too much time thinking about what's proper," she told him, then let her gaze drop to the floor. "I have to ask you something."

"Please do."