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“Let’s find out, shall we?”
They headed down to the basement where they found a number of Kickers lounging around the coffeepot. It smelled wonderful, and a few moments ago Ernst would have craved a cup. But the thought of what they might find on the level below had energized him to the point where caffeine would be superfluous.
Thompson turned to him and spoke in a low voice. “Want me to kick them upstairs?”
Ernst’s first instinct was to have him do just that, but he shook his head instead. No use in piquing the curiosity of the rabble.
“That will only draw attention. Proceed as casually as you can.”
“You want to see casual? I’ll show you casual.”
He filled a Styrofoam cup with coffee and then strolled through the basement’s main room. Ernst followed, watching him nod to his followers and slap one or two on the back. They looked up to him. He’d shown them the Kicker Man symbol and awakened them to a brotherhood they hadn’t known they shared. He was “the boss.”
He unlocked the door to the side room. They entered and locked it behind them. Ernst took the lead then, descending to the subcellar. Light from above lit the stairway, but the space below lay in Stygian darkness. Reaching the floor, Ernst felt along the wall, found the light switch, but hesitated. What would he see when the lights went on?
He flipped the switch and the first thing he saw was the Orsa.
“No! Oh, no!” he said, gasping as he hurried forward. “What has happened?”
“What the fuck?” said Thompson behind him.
The Orsa had changed. It looked . . . deflated. Its sides were sunken, caved in; its ends sagged. Its translucence had faded to a dull gray. When he reached it he touched it, and jerked his hand back.
It felt . . . dead. Or if not dead, moribund.
“Hey, where’s Darryl?” Thompson was saying. “Where the fuck is Darryl?”
Panic gripped Ernst. Was Darryl still inside? All was lost if he was. All the years of pla
“Mother?” said a weak voice from somewhere beyond the far end of the Orsa.
Ernst’s heart leaped as he and Thompson hurried around to find Darryl kneeling in a pool of clear fluid.
He looked . . . different.
He still looked like Darryl, but a sick Darryl. His face was white, his eyes sunken into dark recesses; his once shaggy hair was plastered to his scalp and forehead, and his beard looked more scraggly than ever. His blue work shirt and worn jeans were wet and stained and seemed to have shrunken on his frame.
And then, just for an instant he shimmered—like a heat mirage.
“Darryl, you made it!” Thompson said as he placed his coffee cup on the dying, desiccated Orsa. Apparently he’d missed the shimmer. He stepped in front of Ernst and approached the man.
Ernst grabbed his arm. “Don’t get too close.”
“Yeah?” Thompson snatched his arm away. “Why the hell not?”
“Look at him. Look closely.”
“I don’t need to look any closer than I’m looking. He looks like a fucking zombie. What—?”
Darryl shimmered again.
Thompson backed up a quick step. “Oh, shit!”
Ernst realized that Darryl himself wasn’t shimmering, but rather the air around him. Looking closely, Ernst could make out an inch-thick layer of roiling air, outlining him like an aura. It didn’t glow, but seemed rather to writhe as if in agony from contact with him.
“It must be part of the change.”
Thompson looked at him. “Change? What change? He was supposed to be healed.”
“Well, healing involves change, of course. Changing from a diseased state to a—”
“Mother?” Darryl said, looking up at Hank.
“Hey, Darryl. It’s me . . . Hank.”
Darryl gave him a blank stare. “Want mother. Thirsty.”
“Okay.” Thompson grabbed his coffee from atop the Orsa. “Try some of this.”
Ernst gripped his arm again. “Be careful.”
Not that he cared about Thompson per se, but as leader of the Kickers, he was the key to a pool of manpower that might prove useful in the future—perhaps the very near future.
Thompson snarled at him. “Why? What have you done to him? You call this cured? Look at him.”
“Just . . . be careful.” He pointed to the floor in front of Darryl. “Why not simply place it there? If he wants it, he can take it.”
Thompson hesitated, then bent and placed the cup a foot or so in front of him, just outside the puddle. Darryl’s hand trembled violently as he reached for the cup. When his fingers reached it—
—the cup exploded, splattering coffee and shards of Styrofoam in every direction.
“Shit!” Thompson cried, ducking away and almost knocking Ernst over.
Ernst stumbled back, brushing coffee from his white suit. Too late. It was stained. Normally he would be infuriated, but not now. Not at all. This was wonderful.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. He’d succeeded. Darryl was now the Fhi
He glanced at the Orsa. Good thing, too. If it wasn’t dead, it was near dead. They would have no second chance.
Looking more confused than ever, Darryl said, “Thirsty.”
“Then you must drink,” said a fourth voice.
Ernst recognized it immediately. He turned and found himself face-to-face with the One.
5
The knocking startled Jack. No one was supposed to be knocking on his door.
Weezy raised her head and gave him a questioning look from where she was sipping coffee and studying the Compendium. Morning light filled the windows. The air was redolent of microwaving Taylor Ham and cheese.
He stepped to the closet beside the door and pulled the Glock from the top shelf by the katana.
Weezy’s voice held a note of exasperation. “Is that necessary every single time you answer the door?”
“Don’t know,” he told her in his most patient tone. “Can’t know till I see who’s at the door—then I’ll know if it’s necessary.”
Whoever had knocked was either a neighbor or someone who had got past the entrance without buzzing up. He put his eye to the peephole and blinked when he saw a familiar old woman dressed all in black.
“Not necessary,” he told Weezy as he opened the door and allowed Mrs. Clevenger to enter. Her three-legged dog followed.
“Knowing you,” the Lady said, “I thought you would have fewer questions if I looked this way.”
“You thought right,” he said as he replaced the Glock on the closet shelf.
“Your ivy is dying of thirst,” she said as she passed the Shmoo planter.
Jack was sure she hadn’t even glanced that way.
“Good morning,” Weezy said, rising.
“Not so good.” The Lady’s expression was grim. “Something is wrong. Something that doesn’t belong in this world has entered it.”
Jack and Weezy looked at each other and spoke simultaneously.
“The Fhi
The Lady frowned. “You think so?”
Weezy stared. “You don’t know? But you’re attuned to—”
“I’m a product of this sphere and, yes, I am attuned to it. But as I told you, certain doings involving the Otherness are hidden from me.”
“I had a call from the Oculus. She had another Alarm about it. She says the Fhi
“But for what purpose?”
“No one knows,” Weezy said. “I’ve been hunting through the Compendium for days now, but—”
The Lady waved a hand. “Don’t expect to see it in black and white. It is something you will have to piece together yourself, for not even Srem knew the purpose of the Fhi
“The Seven,” Weezy said. “The Compendium mentions them time and again.”
The Lady nodded as she seated herself in the big wingback chair. The dog settled on the floor next to her. The Shmoo planter sat near her elbow.
“Water this now. It suffers.”