Stones Unturned (31 page)

The workers are nowhere to be found. None of the Empire State Building's ghosts are here. They have all fled.

From him.

Graves stops where he is and fights against the pull of the soulstream. He turns to wade against the current. He must return to the world of flesh and blood and discuss all of this with Clay, but already he knows where that conversation will lead. In the back of his mind, he has known all along. The mystery only grows deeper and deeper. In their search they have found no answers, only more questions. There is only one place that their investigation can lead them now.

To Florence, Italy.

The scene of the crime.

Conan Doyle leaned his head back in the leather chair, puffing upon his bent Briar pipe and letting the rich, slightly sweet smoke of the fine English tobacco fill his lungs. He had to think, and smoking a bowl allowed him the special focus he needed.

As he expected, Julia Ferrick was the first to break his concentration. She shifted in her seat, sighing with exasperation, hoping that one of the others in the sitting room would meet her eye and thus be inspired to action as well. But the others remained silent, knowing what Conan Doyle required.

"Are we just going to sit here?" she finally blurted out, uncrossing her legs and then crossing them again. She folded her arms defiantly across her chest and waited for a response to her challenge.

The others said nothing, choosing to let Conan Doyle answer the woman's inquiry. He let the smoke escape from his lungs, forming a grayish cloud around his head.

"We're not just sitting, Julia," he began, nibbling on the end of his pipe. "I'm thinking, and there is an enormous difference between the two."

She started to wiggle her foot, like an angry cat swishing its tail. Conan Doyle knew she was upset, and rightfully so. The situation had progressed from bad to worse.

At sunup, Eve, Squire, and the shuck had returned from their hunt with the most disturbing news. His worst fears had become a reality when they explained that Danny had indeed been with Baalphegor, and that the boy had been in the presence of the demon traveler when the murder of an innocent had occurred.

"There's something you're not telling me," Julia blurted out, her foot moving so quickly that it was nearly a blur. "You know something, all of you."

Squire sighed, slipping down into the sofa, but he said nothing. It wasn't his place.

Conan Doyle was not sure if Eve would have held her tongue, and was glad that she and the shuck had retired for the daylight hours. There was a way in which he wanted the information to be revealed to Julia, and he was not at all sure Eve was capable of the delicacy required.

He could feel Ceridwen's eyes upon him and glanced in her direction, falling deeply into the depths of her gaze. Everything that she wished to communicate at that moment was there in her look. The Princess of Faerie didn't have to speak a word.

They could hide it no longer. Julia had to know what was happening.

"You're correct," Conan Doyle said, turning his gaze to the upset woman. "We do know more, but have kept it from you not out of malice, but as a way to shield you from the severity of the situation."

She leaned forward in her chair, planting both feet on the floor. "Tell me," she commanded. "What's happening with my son?"

"Try to remain calm, Julia," Conan Doyle cautioned.

"Don't patronize me!" she shouted, jumping to her feet. "Tell me what you know about my son this instant, or . . . or I'm going to the police."

Squire placed a hand over his face and leaned his head back on the sofa. "That'd be good," he muttered. "They deal with the demonic every day."

Ceridwen left her chair to calm the woman. The gentle, soothing aroma of lavender filled the room.

"Please, Julia," she said. "Your anger is misdirected. We want nothing more than to help Danny survive."

The woman leaned upon Ceridwen, distraught. "Tell me," she said quietly.

Conan Doyle refilled his pipe. "You know what Danny is . . . what his true origins are."

The woman listened intently, Ceridwen's arm still around her for support. Putting a wooden match to the fresh bowl, Conan Doyle puffed to ignite the tobacco.

"His father — his demon sire — has managed to cross into this plane of existence, it chills me to say." He shook out the match and placed it in a bronze ashtray. "He has made contact with his . . . with Daniel. I believe Danny has something the demon wants."

Julia raised a weak hand to cover her mouth as though to stop herself from screaming. Her eyes were wide with anguish, and the strength went out of her. She stumbled backward, fumbling for her chair. Ceridwen helped her to sit, remaining by her, just in case she was needed.

"What? What could Danny possibly have that this . . .
thing
might want?"

Conan Doyle leaned forward, steepling his fingers, gazing into her eyes and trying to lend her strength. There was no easy way to tell her what came next. "There were three murders on Beacon Street yesterday. A woman, her son, and her son's nurse. After examining the boy's remains, I've determined that he was a changeling as well, and that he and Danny shared the same sire."

Julia's face paled. "He killed his other son?"

The pipe stem scraped gently against Doyle's front teeth. "The boy had been incapacitated in some way, hence the need for a nurse. The demon took what it needed, and then disposed of him. In fire."

"And this demon," she said softly, reaching into her pocket for a Kleenex. She wiped at her eyes, taking a deep breath before returning her attention to Doyle. "This demon has taken my son?"

"Possibly. But you must understand that there is another possibility. Danny may have gone with the demon willingly."

She seemed taken aback. "Willingly? Why would he do that?"

Conan Doyle hesitated. He wished there were a way to save Julia Ferrick from the truth, or to keep at least the worst of it from her. But if she was to help them save her son, she needed and deserved to know everything.

"Despite your feelings for him, Danny is not your true son. You know this, Julia. What you do not know is that the demon changeling child that you raised was put in this dimension to collect the precious life energies of the human experience. There are many different breeds of demons. Hundreds, at the least. This breed are known as collectors."

Julia frowned. "What the hell does that mean?"

Reluctantly, he explained it all to her, the process by which the demon changelings were altered and exchanged for a human child, and the way they absorbed human experience and emotion. He told her about the growth that would be on Danny's chest, now, and what the demon would want him for.

The tears flowed freely down Julia's face. She wiped at them and her running nose. "So the demon . . . he wants to, to
eat
this thing?"

Conan Doyle nodded. "More or less. The energies stored within this growth are quite potent. In the hands of an experienced magic user, it could prove remarkably powerful."

Julia got up from her chair and went to the window, looking out onto the tranquil, fenced-in park in the center of Louisburg Square.

"Why hasn't he tried to escape?" she asked, turning around slowly to face Doyle. "If he came to you — could you help him?"

Conan Doyle looked at Squire, who reclined on the couch, his hand still covering his face.

"I don't think he wants our help," the hobgoblin said, taking his hand away and sitting up. "When Eve and I found them, it looked like they may have just killed an old woman." He paused a moment and then let go with the awful truth. "And we had interrupted their meal."

Julia Ferrick paled. In moments, she seemed to age a decade. Conan Doyle felt for the woman. To be involved in matters such as these when not fully indoctrinated in the ways of the weird, and to love so completely a creature already damned . . . he could only imagine the gamut of emotions she was likely experiencing. If anything could salvage Danny's burgeoning humanity, it would be his mother's love.

She seemed to steel herself, standing taller, taking a deep breath as she wiped at her nose and eyes.

"So that's it then," she said.

"What is, Julia?"

"You'll hunt him down, Danny and his . . . father, or whatever the hell you want to call him. You'll hunt him down and kill them both, right? It's what you do — track down threats to the world and destroy them?"

She was trying to be brave, so matter-of-fact, as if she had known this was coming all along.

"There is still a chance that he might be saved," Conan Doyle explained.

A glimmer of hope ignited in her eyes. He was amazed by the bond that existed between this woman and the demon she had raised as her child. He wondered how often she thought about her real son, the human baby taken by the demon, and how often she felt a bit of hatred toward the unwitting monster left behind in his place. Conan Doyle shivered inwardly, not wanting to dwell upon that child's probable fate. He had a great deal of respect for the way Julia had dedicated herself to Danny, had loved him, regardless of what he was.

"The growth," Conan Doyle said, pointing to the center of his chest with the stem of his pipe. "If removed, will cost Danny any chance of retaining his humanity. The metamorphosis into a full-blooded demon will begin almost immediately."

As if in a trance, Julia crossed the room, a sliver of hope urging her on. "But if the demon doesn't take it . . ."

"Eventually the energies, his humanity, will be reabsorbed into his system, halting his swing to the demonic. But you have to remember, that is likely why Baalphegor has come, to reclaim what he believes rightly belongs to him."

"Baalphegor?" she asked. "You know its name?"

"Let's just say that I've encountered his evil before, and I am frightfully aware what he is capable of," Conan Doyle said, images of the years he fought in the Twilight Wars and the unspeakable evil he encountered flooding his memories.

Evil as virulent as the most contagious of viruses.

"You must know that there's a chance Danny has already chosen his fate, that the demonic nature that is his legacy has asserted itself, and any hint of the boy you raised as your own is gone."

She nodded slowly, and he returned the gesture.

"Very good then," Conan Doyle said, setting his pipe down. He quickly glanced at his watch. "It'll be dusk soon, Eve and Shuck will be rising." He leaned toward Squire. "I want you to go out into the city again," he told the hobgoblin. "But this time I want Ceridwen to accompany you."

Conan Doyle looked over to his lover. He removed a glass vial filled with gray ash from his shirt pocket. "I'll give you this sample of the murdered boy's remains, a collector's remains. I suspect it could provide the edge we've been searching for in tracking Baalphegor and Danny."

Ceridwen rose gracefully from her seat. "And you, my love?" she asked, taking the vial from him. "How will you be spending your time?"

"The fact that Baalphegor was able to cross over to this plane with little difficulty concerns me," Conan Doyle said. "I believe a conversation with the Sentinel is in order."

Squire headed for the door. "I take it you'll be using Ochoa to try and make the connection?"

"He is the current liaison."

"Yeah," Squire said. "Good luck with that. Might want to think about stoppin' at a Dunkin' Donuts for some coffee. I don't think that guy's been sober since they tossed his ass out of the Vatican."

Ceridwen kissed Doyle lightly, her long lashes like the touch of a butterfly's wings on his cheek, before she followed Squire from the room.

Conan Doyle picked up his pipe, intending to return it to his study. Julia still stood by her chair, looking lost.

"I want to help," she said. "I can't go home — I need to do something."

"I'm sorry I wasn't clear," he replied. "I need you to accompany me, Julia. There's no telling when we will catch up with Danny, but I have no doubt that we could not save him without you. Without your love for your son."

Benjamin Ochoa lived in Roslindale, a rough greater Boston neighborhood at least a twenty-five minute ride from downtown during rush hour.

They took Julia's car.

"Who is this guy?" Julia asked, dropping her car keys into the small leather bag she carried over her shoulder. It had taken six rides around the block to find a parking space, and they still had nearly a block to walk to the man's house. "Squire said something about the Vatican?"

Conan Doyle turned up his collar against the wind and smoothed his graying mustache. "Benjamin Ochoa was a Catholic priest before he was excommunicated for his dealings in the paranormal. In fact, he was the Vatican's top researcher on the supernatural, revealing to them things that they would rather not know."

"What kinds of things?" she asked, as they walked through the quiet, blue-collar neighborhood.

"Ochoa discovered that this plane of existence is but one in a multitude of others, and that these other realms are populated by all manner of creatures, many of whom do not recognize the power of the Vatican's god."

"And let me guess," Julia chimed in. "The Pope and his boys didn't care for the idea of other worlds and branded Ochoa a heretic, tossing him out on his ass."

Conan Doyle stopped before an ordinary looking Dutch Colonial and double-checked the number — 357. It was painted a deep shade of cranberry, with white trim. There was even a Thanksgiving decoration — a turkey in a Pilgrims' hat — attached to the door.

"Not too far from the truth," he replied as he started up the short walkway to the front door. "Father Ochoa was touched by the worlds he was attempting to communicate with, and it changed him — tainted him. He became a sort of mouthpiece for the denizens of these places, an ambassador, if you will, and the Vatican did not care for what they had to say. They quietly excommunicated him, bought him this house, and keep a close eye on his activities."

Standing on the stoop, Conan Doyle rang the illuminated doorbell, faint electronic chimes sounding within the house.