“Who are you? I mean, sure, go ahead and call the police. But we’ve probably only got about five minutes before . . . or less, actually—”
He stopped talking and, using his gloved left hand, suddenly drew a very large revolver from the tie-dyed woven yak-hair shoulder bag he wore on his right side. At the same time the woman heard something behind her, something coming up the stairs, something that did not sound like normal footsteps, and she turned as a bug the size of a small horse burst into the room and the young man stepped past her and fired three times boom! boom! boom! into the creature’s thorax, sending spurts of black blood and fragments of chitin across the white Aubusson carpet and still it kept coming, its multi-segmented back legs scrabbling and its hooked forelimbs snapping, almost reaching the man’s legs until he fired again, three more shots, and the huge, ugly bug flipped over onto its back and spun about in frenzied death throes.
As the deafening echoes of the gunshots faded, the woman realized she was screaming, and stopped, since it wasn’t helping.
“What . . . was that?”
“Pediculus humanus capitis. A louse,” replied the young man, who was reloading his revolver, hitching up his waistcoat to take rounds from a canvas bullet belt. “Made bigger, obviously. We really have to go. Name’s Merlin, by the bye.”
“Like Merlin the magician?”
“Like Merlin the wizard. And you are?”
“Susan,” said Susan automatically. She stared at the still-twitching giant louse on the carpet, then at the pile of reddish dust on the lounge, contained by the pale blue robe. The monogram “FT” was uppermost, as if pointing out who the dust used to be.
“What the hell is going on?”
“Can’t explain here,” said Merlin, who had gone to the window and was lifting the sash.
“Why not?” asked Susan.
“Because we’ll both be dead if we stay. Come on.”
He went out through the window.
Susan looked at the phone, and thought about calling the police. But after a single second more of careful but lightning-fast thought, she followed him.
Chapter Two
A left-handed bookseller I did spy
In a wood one darkling day
I durst not ask their business, why
Best not to know, I do say
THE WINDOW OPENED ABOVE THE ROOF OF THE CONSERVATORY, which ran from the back of the house to the fence. Beyond that lay the dark mass of Highgate Wood. Merlin was walking out along the steel ridgeline of the conservatory, Cuban-heeled boots notwithstanding. The flat ridge was no wider than his hand, with long sloping panes of glass on either side. But he acted as if they were of no account, though if he fell he’d smash through them and be cut to pieces.
Susan hesitated and looked back. The monstrous bug was still writhing, but there was something else happening now. A dark fog was flowing up the stairs. It looked like thick black smoke, but it moved very slowly and she couldn’t smell burning. Whatever it was, she instinctively knew it was wrong, something inimical. She shivered suddenly, bent down, and crawled out onto the ridge of the conservatory, moving swiftly on hands and knees.
“There’s a weird black fog coming up the stairs,” she panted as she reached the end. Merlin was standing in front of her, but as she spoke he jumped, clear across to a branch from an ancient oak that overhung the garden fence.
“How can you do that in those heels?” gasped Susan.
“Practice,” said Merlin. He held on to a higher branch with his right hand and extended his left. “Jump.”
Susan looked behind her. The extraordinarily dense, dark fog was already coiling out the window. It didn’t move like normal fog at all; in fact, one broad tendril was coiling out towards her specifically. Reaching for her. . . .
She jumped. Merlin leaned out to her but Susan didn’t need help, landing close to the trunk and immediately steadying herself by wrapping her arms around it.
“Down,” said Merlin, climbing quickly. “Fast!”
Susan followed him, jumping the last five feet, her Docs splattering hard into the leaf mulch and mud. It had been raining most of the day, though it had eased off at nightfall. Now, past midnight, it was simply clammy.
The wood was very dark. All the light was behind them, spilling out of the houses and streetlights onto Lanchester Road.
The black fog was streaming over the conservatory, flowing down the panes on either side of the ridge. Spreading and extending, blending into the night once it moved outside the fall of light from the houses and street.
“What is that?”
“More to explain later,” said Merlin. “Follow me. We have to get to the old straight track.”
He led off, almost jogging, zigzagging between trees. Susan followed, hands up to ward off snapping-back branches and saplings. She couldn’t see anything clearly. Merlin was a dark shape ahead; she had to trust he could see where he was going and try to stay right behind.
A few minutes later she almost ran into Merlin’s back as he came out onto a path. He hesitated for a moment, looking left and right and then up at the cloudy sky, and the very few visible stars.
“This way! Come on!”
He was running now. Susan followed as best she could, fighting the feeling that they would both run into something and really hurt themselves, balanced against the feeling that something even worse would happen if they didn’t outpace the black fog that she was sure still followed, flowing faster in the darkness, tendrils reaching out to either side, looking for her. . . .
Merlin stopped.
“We’re on it,” he said. “We can walk slowly now. Stay close, stay on the path.”
“I can’t even see the path!” gasped Susan.
“Keep right behind me,” said Merlin. He was walking slowly. The sky was lighter above, here, and there was more open space about the path, the trees not crowding so close.
Susan looked behind her, eyes wide as they’d go, trying to see. The
