The Poisoned Crown (20 page)

“Is anybody there?”

No answer. The interior was very dark, only a glimmer of light filtering through the front window from a nearby street lamp. Annie flicked the light switch and stepped through the door.

Everything seemed to be as usual, the books snuggled together on the shelves, spine leaning against spine, dreaming of the otherworlds between their covers. Annie always fancied there were more universes here than Nathan’s mind could ever encompass, a portal on every title page, countless voyages, adventures, sagas, endings both happy and sad. She found it strangely reassuring to think of them all coming together in the small secret environment of her little bookstore, a between-world place from which, simply by opening a book, travelers could set out across the multiverse. It made it easier to deal with the concept of Nathan’s dream journeys, knowing that, in a sense, otherworlds were part of her everyday life. She looked around her, saw that nothing was disturbed, started to relax. Noises could be deceptive sometimes, especially at night. It must have been something next door.

She turned back to her living room—her work desk was beside the door, just inside the shop—and there he was.

She didn’t know how she could have failed to see him, by what power or chance the alien presence had escaped her. He was sitting behind the desk, in her swivel chair, apparently at ease, a big, ugly man— so ugly he was almost handsome—in a peeling leather jacket and jeans so worn and faded, they barely had shape or color anymore. His hair was thick and ragged, framing his face like the mane of an animal; under the matted bangs his forehead seemed to be puckered by an old scar. His skin was either pockmarked or merely rough-textured, like granite, his cheekbones were crooked, his shoulders hunched, his deep-set eyes so narrowed she could not see any whites. She knew instantly
he was werefolk—inside her, alarm systems shrieked in warning—yet there was something about him that was unmistakably human, though she couldn’t quite define what it was. She thought afterward that he carried his humanity like a flag of defiance in a losing war.

His eyes widened very slightly as she stared at him, and she saw that as she had suspected they were whiteless, dark as rubies from edge to edge, with pupils like black slits.

For a long moment neither of them said anything at all.

He looked very large, and very strong, and very dangerous. Wild phrases ran through Annie’s head—
Avaunt thee, witch!
or, in this case,
warlock
—
Begone, foul dwimmerlaik
, whatever a dwimmerlaik was— and there was bound to be something appropriate in
Macbeth
, if only she could remember it. But the man just sat there, unmoving, watching her with his demon’s eyes.

In the end, she said: “Do you—do you want to buy a book? Because I’m afraid we’re closed.”

He smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile—it didn’t, for instance, make dimples in his cheeks or friendly lines around his dark red eyes—and it exposed a motley collection of teeth that included one chipped molar and two very sharp canines. But it indicated humor, and humor is a human thing.
Almost the same word
, Annie thought, wondering why she’d never noticed that before.
Humor… human …

“I didn’t come to buy,” he said. “I came to sell.”

His voice, like his eyes, was dark red, with gravelly undertones.

“To sell me a book?” Annie said, surprised, baffled, and intrigued all at once.

Now that they were talking, she wasn’t
quite
so scared.

“Not exactly,” he said. “Books come my way from time to time, but I doubt they would interest you.” He tapped with one finger on the volume lying on the desk. It was a big finger with a nail that jutted like a claw, but what Annie chiefly noticed was that the book—of course— was
Rhoda Rides to Glory.
It would be. She had put it there after Pobjoy had gone, intending to file it somewhere unobtrusive, and hadn’t gotten around to it. The edges of the demon’s smile still lingered.

Annie temporarily forgot her fear in the upsurge of annoyance and embarrassment. How he knew what was in the book—since he hadn’t had time to open it—she couldn’t guess, but obviously he did.

“I sell lots of books,” she said. “Not just ones … like that. I mean, there are none like that really—except the classics …” She wouldn’t go down that route again. “Look around you. Anyhow, if you don’t want to sell me a book, what
are
you selling?” With eyes like that, she thought, it could be anything. A ring of power, a vial of poison, a gor-gon’s head. “I don’t have much money. Even if I want whatever it is— which I probably won’t.”

“It’s information,” he said. “You want it.”

And then she knew. A darkness in the circle … footsteps on the road …

“Who are you?”

“You can call me Kal,” he said.

“Is it your name?”

“Sometimes.” Werefolk, she had learned, were like that. They had a name for every form they took. She wondered what he really looked like. And yet there was that trace element of humanity about him. Laughter—and a capacity for pain …

“Don’t do that!” he snarled. His kind often snarled.

“Do … what?”

“Reach out. Try to …
understand
me. No one does that. I don’t permit it. If you try any more of that insight bollocks, I’ll leave now.”

Demons rarely used human swear words. They had their own, in an assortment of strange languages. Puzzling over it, Annie was about to say he was welcome to leave when she checked herself. He had come to the circle unasked—and he had information.

About Nathan’s father …?

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be nosy, honestly. You came to the circle that night, didn’t you? When Bartlemy left the room. Do you know something about—do you know the answer to—?”

“I knew Grimthorn.” The red gaze shifted, focusing on some point far in the past. “Briefly. He crisped in his skin like a boar on a spit. Well
for him. If he hadn’t, I might have torn his head off—slowly. Your friend the wizard was asking about him—him and other matters. But I prefer to talk to you.”

“You said you were
selling
,” Annie said guardedly, trying to ignore the part about tearing heads off. “I told you, I haven’t much money. Or—or anything that would interest you. Just books.”

“I’ve eaten books,” the demon said conversationally. “When I couldn’t get something better. Betimes, the leather still tastes of the flesh it once clung to. But these are mostly paper—wood pulp—vegetarian stuff. Not on my menu.”

“Everyone needs their greens,” Annie found herself saying.

“So they say in the rhyme.

“I don’t believe there’s any such rhyme,” Annie accused. “You made that up.”

Part of the smile crept back. It was a wolfish smile—the smile of a predator at its prey—but not, Annie hoped, completely evil.

“So will you pay my price?”

“You haven’t told me what it is.”

“It is high,” he said. “But you can afford it—if you choose.”

“What is it?”

“Invite me in.”

“You
are
in,” Annie pointed out.

“I am in the shop. Invite me into your home.”

Ah.
Silence fell again, the silence of comprehension and returning fear. Annie struggled to consider the implications, her thought scurrying around in circles like a rat in a box. She didn’t want to do it—she
really
didn’t want to do it—her home was her haven—but…
If he was going to kill me
, she assured herself,
he’d have done it already. And why give me information if he intends to tear my head off afterward?
Of course,
she was assuming he was a rational being, which wasn’t always the case with humans, let alone werefolk. Instinct warned her to beware of him— but instinct wasn’t always right. Was it?

She said: “This information—how do I know it’s worth it?”

“You don’t. I don’t. Your wizard friend didn’t say why he was asking. There’s only one way to find out.”

Annie thought—hesitated—nibbled her lip. Laid a hand on the doorknob.

And then she remembered to ask the missing question.

“Why? Why d’you want to come in? There’s only me here. My son’ll be back later, only …” Her tone sharpened. “Is it him? Is it him you want?”

“I know nothing of your son.”

“Then—why?”

“Invite me in,” said the demon called Kal. “It’s like the information. You have to invite me in and then—maybe—you’ll find out.”

She looked directly into the ruby-dark eyes. It wasn’t encouraging.

“All right,” she said, opening the door. “Come in.”

He got up, slowly, padded after her into the house. He wore sneakers that sounded like paws on the wood floor. Annie led him into the small living room and indicated a chair.

“A fire,” he said, glancing at the logs smoldering happily in the grate. “I like that. So many houses nowadays don’t have fires. They keep the heat in metal boxes and the light in bubbles of glass. Stupid, when a fire gives you both. Yet they call it progress.” Werefolk are even more prone to nostalgia than mortals; living practically forever, they have a lot to be nostalgic about.

Annie said nothing, merely switching on a lamp—a bubble of glass—giving her a clearer view of his face.

“Who
are
you? I know your name’s Kal, but—are you one of the Old Spirits, like the Hag and the Child?”

“Yes,” he said, “and no. You may have heard of me. My mother was a mortal witch, my father a werespirit. Such lusts are common enough, but should not have issue—only my mother thought she could outwit the Ultimate Laws, and she used spellpower to make the fetus
grow, and bound a stray sprite inside it. She was ill prepared for what she got.”

Annie remembered Cerne’s rage and shame when he spoke of his son, but she knew it would be fatal to show pity.

“I’ve heard of you,” she said.

He looked at her with a sneer on his mouth and a flame brightening his red, red eyes, but she sensed the pain beneath.
You would know the monster by his human side
, Bartlemy had said.

And suddenly she thought she knew why he had wanted to come in.

“I am Kaliban,” he said, “the witch’s demon child. The sword with the twisted blade—an abortion of both nature and werenature. You have invited me into your home. Isn’t it customary, under these circumstances, to offer me a drink?”

“Certainly,” Annie said. “I’ve got whiskey, and vodka, and there’s some cheap wine I was using for cooking, but that’s awful, and—”

“I’ll take whiskey.”

She poured him the whiskey and one for herself, then sat down, facing him, feeling very slightly more comfortable in his company.

“Well?” she said by way of a prompt.

“Well?” he mocked her.

“You said you knew Josevius Grimthorn.”

“So I did. May he burn in hell—only he already has. One of fate’s better decisions. I met him … I forget the year. Too many have gone past. It was when I was still young and couldn’t alter my demon form. So they hunted me, the men who called themselves nobles—not that the peasants were any kinder. They hunted me with arrows, they hunted me with dogs, but I plucked the arrows from my flesh and tore out the throat of the leading hound with my teeth. Then I ran into the woods. They were deeper and thicker then, and the Darkwood down in the valley had a bad name: few went in, fewer still came out. But I had no fear of rumors and tales. The pursuit became tangled in briars and frightened of shadows, but I went on into the valley until I came to the house. It was in a clearing, but the trees clustered close behind it, and Grimthorn stood in the doorway calling me in. I didn’t trust him—I
trusted no one, noble or villein, wizard or werefolk—but my wounds hurt, and I was tired. He invited me in, gave me water to wash my injuries as well as salves and bandages. He broke bread with me. Do you understand?”

Annie nodded. She knew that traditionally a guest who has shared food and drink with his host was sacred.

“We had wine—not much; it must have been drugged. I slept. When I awoke I was shackled hand and foot and half a dozen of my erstwhile hunters were standing beside me, gloating over their captive. Grimthorn was smirking and pocketing gold.” Kal’s mouth twisted at the recollection. “He didn’t smirk for long. He had forgotten my history, if he ever knew it. Iron does not weaken me. And I am …
very
strong. I burst the bands on wrist and ankle and swung the chains that had weighted me so fast the air thrummed. I took two men’s heads off through steel collars with the force of it. The rest fled—they were lightly armed and had no dogs—but it was Grimthorn I followed. He was only a footstep ahead when he entered the chapel, but I could not cross the threshold. The ward-spells sealed it from me. Once inside, he called on powers I had never heard of—powers from beyond the world—and the air split, and the accursed Cup was there, glowing green as decay. I watched from the door, forgotten, and then I slunk away into the night. Grimthorn I did not fear, but the power he summoned …”

“The Devil?” Annie asked.

“Hardly.” Kal laughed. “I have known
him
for a thousand years. This power was something else—I felt it. Something so much greater— something that might have crushed the most potent werespirit as I would crush an ant. It nudged at the fabric of our world like the fist of a god brushing a spider’s web. The darkness cracked like an eggshell— the ground shook. I had always known when to fight, when to run, when to hide. I ran and hid. I sensed Josevius was doomed, and soon. No man could meddle with such power and live.”

“It fits with what we know,” Annie said. “Someone—presumably the Grandir—used spells to send the Grail and the other relics across
the barrier of the worlds. After that Bartlemy says they became unstable and would travel easily between universes. But … what of the other question? Do you remember—Bartlemy asked for a name? The name of—of Nathan’s father?”

“I know nothing of his father,” said the demon. “But I saw the boy Nei-thun, and his mother. That was what I came to tell you.”