was the only emotion either of them felt that was not clouded with insanity.
The twins entered the room with proud smiles upon their gaunt faces. They had done precisely what had been asked of them, as always. As she had many times before, Morrigan congratulated herself on the decision she had made to free them from their imprisonment in Finvarra's citadel. She could not have found dogs more loyal.
The children wailed in terror, beating at their captors. Morrigan motioned for Fenris and Dagris to approach. The twins stepped forward, each of them holding out their terrified package. The babes were young, a boy and girl each no more than four years of age. Perfect, Morrigan thought, reaching out with a single claw to prick each of the children's mottled cheeks, drawing beads of blood. The babes screeched all the louder, and she brought the taste of them to her mouth.
'Yes,' she said, satisfied with what she had sampled in the blood. 'They should do nicely.'
Morrigan smiled, her pleasure gradually returning. She had been impatient. Attempting to breach the chrysalis with only her own power had been vain and self-indulgent. Now, though, her hopes and dreams were only a blood ritual away.
'Do you have any sour cream?' the twisted little man with the strangely pointed ears asked her, even as he helped himself, yanking open the refrigerator to peruse its contents.
Julia Ferrick couldn't bring herself to answer. It was as if she were trapped in some bizarre fever dream, aimlessly walking around familiar dreamscape locations as the horrors continued to unfold. The odd, dwarfish man was but the latest addition to an equally strange cast of characters that had taken up residence in her home. Sitting at the marble-topped kitchen island, she gazed toward the window above the sink and saw the thick red fog swirl ominously about outside. The usual view of the trees in her backyard was completely obscured by the bizarre weather that had supposedly engulfed the city and its suburbs, at least that was what her visitors told her.
'You got some old milk in here… Christ, it's got the Lindbergh baby on the carton!' Squire turned toward her, wide-eyed. Then he gave her a terrifying smile, something out of Grimm's Fairy Tales. 'Just kiddin'. Heh. But seriously, the sour cream gives it that little bit of extra somethin',' the man… she thought he was a man
… said as he pulled himself out of her refrigerator, arms filled with ingredients.
Julia went over to the oven and opened the cabinet above it. She pulled down a bag of Oreos and set it on the cooktop, then fished behind a jar of peanut butter to grab an unopened box of Winston Lights. Her fingers quivered as they retrieved the cigarettes. Then, quickly, she dug through a drawer for matches. It was her emergency pack. Her fallback, held for a time when it wouldn't matter anymore what Danny's reaction would be to her smoking again. She imagined it stenciled with the words In Case of Apocalypse, Tear Plastic.
There were no matches so she turned on one of the gas stove's burners and bent, shaking, to light the cigarette. The first intake of carcinogens was harsh relief. Her fingers stopped quivering. She gnawed her lower lip, then took another puff before blowing out a plume of smoke. Her back was to Squire.
'Feel better now? You needed a smoke, huh? I know the feeling. Not that I smoke but… Oh, hey, Oreos!'
When Julia spun to look at him again, Squire had already picked up the bag of Oreos and was helping himself. The package crinkled as he drew out a pair of cookies and popped them in his mouth like they were dog biscuits. She expected him to throw back his head and gulp them down, but instead he stared at her and then spoke up once more, talking with his mouth full.
'So. Sour cream?'
'What?' Julia asked him. 'The sour cream… for what?'
Squire rolled his eyes, snatching another Oreo from the pack and then going back to the open fridge. He retrieved a couple of items from within and then closed the door with a bump from his hip. 'For the omelets we're making for the hungry troops? Remember?'
She smiled nervously. 'Right. Sorry.' Eyes darting away, she took another long drag on the cigarette, no longer caring if the house smelled like smoke. She leaned back to look through the doorway into the living room, where the others had gathered. 'My head is spinning.'
'That's all right,' Squire said, returning to the refrigerator. He yanked open the door again and helped himself to some eggs. 'Gotta admit, this business has even got me seeing stars, and that's sayin' somethin'.'
He asked her for a large frying pan from the rack that hung over the kitchen's center island. She doubted that he could have reached it even with the added help of a stepping stool. Julia retrieved it for him.
'Best thing to do is keep your head and keep thinkin' the good thoughts.' He looked at her as he doused the pan with no-stick cooking spray. 'That's what I do, and it hasn't failed me yet, except for that business with the Beast of Gevaudan. That shit was just bad news from the start.'
He rattled on a bit more and she nodded her head and smiled politely, but deep inside she could feel it building, the urge to scream and throw them all out of her house, her son included. If at the very moment she had been given the choice to crawl back inside her mother's womb, Julia Ferrick would have done so without so much as a second thought. She felt as though there was an electric current passing through her seat and into her body.
She found herself gnawing on the nail of her left index finger, even as she tapped the ash from her cigarette into the stainless steel sink. Great. She'd given into temptation, and now she had two habits to kick instead of one. But, God, the cigarette was a comfort. Just holding helped to steady her.
Squire was using a whisk to beat the eggs inside a bowl, humming busily to himself, seemingly content to ignore the fact that the world was falling apart all around them.
'That's quality,' Danny said as he came into the kitchen.
Julia thought for a moment about trying to hide her cigarette, but it was too late. He looked disappointed for a moment and then just sighed. She gave him a small shrug. What could she say? In a situation like this, the kid should understand. She thought about putting it out, but he'd already seen her anyway, and she needed that cigarette.
Averting her eyes from his gaze, she took another drag and let the smoke trail from her mouth. Then she did her best to smile. She put on a brave face for her son — and he would always be her son, no matter if she had given birth to him or not, no matter if he was even human. The tiny black horns that had burst through his skin and now protruded, just above his temples, made her shudder, but she did her best to hide her revulsion.
'What's up, kid?' she asked him.
'I wanted to know more about this Doyle guy. Dude took an interest in me, but how does he know all the stuff he knows? I asked Eve what his story was, but she said to ask Squire.' Danny focused on the ugly little man and Julia was grateful he wasn't going to fight her about her smoking. 'Says you've worked for him the longest.'
Squire abandoned his cooking for a moment to snatch a few Oreos from the package. He popped one into his mouth and went back to whisking eggs. 'You want the short version or the long version?'
Danny sat on the edge of the table and crossed his arms. 'Let's start with the CliffsNotes. Mom says I have a short attention span.'
'Mr. Doyle. The boss. A.K.A. Arthur Conan Doyle. Learned a bunch of magick. Tries to keep the nasty shit from bothering normal people. End of story.'
'Come on. There's got to be more to it than that.'
Squire shrugged. 'Lots more. But you wanted the short version.'
'Hold on,' Julia said. 'Just… just hold on.' The cigarette dangled from her fingers, nearly forgotten. Her brows knitted as she stared at Squire. 'Arthur Conan Doyle. His parents gave him the same name as the creator of Sherlock Holmes?'
Danny shot them a confused look, his Converse Chucks squeaking on the linoleum. 'What, you mean that cartoon? Sherlock Holmes in the Thirtysomething Century?'
Squire snorted, but it wasn't derisive. Danny amused him. 'Kid. Sherlock Holmes is one of the greatest fictional creations ever. People around the world know who he is. Like Mickey Mouse and Superman. He was created in the 1800s.'
Then the leather-skinned, ugly little creature turned on a burner and started to heat a pan in which to cook omelets. He didn't even look up as he responded to Julia's question. 'And, no, the boss ain't named after Sir Arthur. He's the real deal. The one and only. You see the way he dresses? He's not old-fashioned. He's just real old school.'
