Then she turned in desperation to find John Ross.
John Ross had seen the feeders at the same moment as Nest. But unlike the girl, Ross knew what was happening. Only the demon’s coming could have caused so many feeders to gather—the demon’s coming coupled with his own, he amended, which now, in hindsight, seemed painfully ill advised. He should not have done this, come into this holy place, given in to his own desperate need to ease in some small measure the loneliness that consumed his life. He should have rejected Robert Freemark’s offer and remained in his hotel room. He should not have been influenced by the attraction he had felt for this church while on his way to Josie’s. He should have done what he knew was best for everyone and stayed away.
He willed himself to remain calm, not to give away what he was feeling, not to do anything to startle those around him. His staff was propped against the seat beside him, and his first impulse was to seize it and ready himself for battle. But he could not find his enemy, could not identify him even though he knew he was there, hiding in plain sight.
An elderly lady several seats away glanced at him and smiled. He realized he had stopped singing. He forced himself to smile back, to begin singing anew, first reaching down for the staff, planting it squarely before him, and leaning on it as if he were suddenly in need of its support.
It was then that he glanced across the heads of the congregation and saw Nest Freemark looking at him. He met her gaze squarely, letting her know he understood what she was seeing and that he was seeing it, too. He saw the fear and horror in her eyes, saw how deep it tunneled, and he understood far better than she what it was that motivated it. He fixed her with his gaze and slowly shook his head. Do nothing, he was warning her. Stay where you are. Keep your head.
He saw in her eyes that she understood. He saw as well that she did not know if she could do what he was asking. He thought to go to her, but there was no way to do that without drawing attention to himself. The hymn was finished, and the congregation was sitting down again. He cast a quick eye over the assemblage on the off chance he might find the demon. The minister was giving the Scripture lesson. The feeders crawled over the dais at his feet, dark shadows that made the scarlet carpet of the sanctuary appear as if it had been stained by ink. The minister finished the Scripture reading and went on to give the church announcements. John Ross felt his skin turn hot as he sat nailed in place in the pew, unable to act. I should not be here, he kept thinking. I should leave now.
The choir rose to sing, and John Ross looked back at Nest Freemark. Nest was sitting right on the edge of her seat beside her grandfather, her face pale and drawn, her body rigid. Her eyes were shifting right and left, following the movements of the feeders closest to her. Several were almost on top of her, slithering between the legs of the parishioners like snakes. One drew itself right up in front of her, as if taunting her, as if daring her to do something about it. Ross saw the desperation mirrored in her face. She was on the verge of panic, ready to bolt. He knew he had to do something. The choir finished, and the congregation rose to join the minister in a responsive prayer.
When that happened, something caused Nest Freemark to glance suddenly toward the back of the sanctuary, and Ross saw her expression mirror her shock.
Then he saw it, too.
Wraith stood in the doorway, thick fur bristling, tiger-striped face lowered, ears laid back, green eyes narrowed and glittering. He was so massive that he filled the entire opening, a monstrous apparition stalking out of the gloom. His big head swung left and right with slow deliberation, and his muzzle drew back, revealing all of his considerable teeth. He made no sound as he stood there, surveying the unwary assemblage, but his intent was unmistakable. Nest’s fear had drawn him, summoned him to a place he had never been, brought him out of the deep woods and into this unfamiliar setting. His deliberate stare was filled with hunger.
Nest felt her stomach lurch. No, Wraith, no, go away, go away! Feeders scattered everywhere, crawling under pews, skittering down the aisles, and climbing the wood-paneled walls, their dark forms bleeding into the shadows. Their scrambling was so frantic that it stirred the air in the chamber, and among the congregation several heads lifted in surprise.
Wraith took a moment to consider his options, then started forward in that familiar, stiff-legged walk.
Nest was out of her seat and striding up the aisle to intercept him instantly. She did not stop to think about what she was doing. She did not stop to consider that she had never even thought to approach him before, that she had no idea whether she could control him. She did not say anything to her grandfather as she wheeled out of the pew; she did not even look at him. All she could think about was what would happen if Wraith managed to get hold of one of the feeders—here, in her church, among her family and friends and neighbors. She did not know what it would do to the fabric that separated the human and nonhuman worlds, and she did not want to find out.
The responsive reading concluded, and the congregation reseated itself. Heads turned to look at her as she closed on Wraith—on the ghost wolf they could not see—but she ignored them. Wraith seemed to grow even larger as she approached him, and his predatory gaze fixed on her. She felt small and vulnerable in his presence, a fragile bit of life that he could snuff out with barely a thought. But still she came on, fixed of purpose, steeled by her determination to turn him back.
And as she reached him, as it seemed she must come right up against him, right onto the tips of those gleaming teeth and that bristling fur, he simply faded away and was gone.
She continued without slowing through the space he had occupied, eyes closing against the rush of cold that washed over her, until she passed through the doorway and into the hall beyond. She stood there shaking, taking deep breaths to steady herself, leaning against the Christian-literature table, out of sight of those gathered within.
She jumped as a hand touched her shoulder. “Nest?”
John Ross was standing next to her, leaning on his black, rune-scrolled staff, his pale green eyes intense. He must have followed her out, she realized, and done so quickly.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “Did you see?”
He glanced about the deserted hall as if someone might be listening. Within the sanctuary, Reverend Emery was beginning his sermon, “Whither Thou Goest.”
“I saw,” he answered. He bent close. “What was that creature? How does it know you?”
She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “That was Wraith.” She shook her head, refusing to offer any further explanation. “Where did all these feeders come from? What’s happening?”
Ross shifted uneasily. “I think the demon is here. I think that’s what’s drawing them.”
“Here? Why?”
Ross shook his head. “Because of me.” He looked suddenly tired. “I don’t know. I’m only guessing.”
She felt a deep cold settle in the pit of her stomach. “What should we do?”
“Go back inside. Stay with your grandfather. I’ll wait out here until after the service. Maybe the demon will show himself. Maybe I’ll catch sight of him.” His green eyes fixed on her.
She nodded uncertainly. “I have to go to the bathroom first. I’ll be right back.”
She hurried off down the hall to the Christian Education wing, Reverend Emery’s deep, compelling voice trailing after her, floating over the hush of the congregation. She did not feel very good; her stomach was rolling and her head pounding. She glanced through the open doors into the cavernous gloom of the sanctuary; the feeders had disappeared. She frowned in surprise, then shook her head and went on. It didn’t matter why they were gone, she told herself, only that they were. Her footsteps echoed softly on the wooden floor as she crossed the lower foyer. She pushed through the doors leading into the reception room, feeling worn and harried. Mrs. Browning, who had been her fifth-grade teacher, was arranging cups and napkins on several long tables in preparation for the fellowship to
be held after the service. The bathrooms lay beyond. Nest slipped past Mrs. Browning without being noticed, went into the kitchen, and disappeared into the women’s bathroom.
When she came out, a man was standing there, surveying rows of cookies and cakes arranged on serving trays. He looked up expectantly as she entered.
“Ah, there you are,” he greeted, smiling. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” she replied automatically, and then stopped in surprise. It was the maintenance man who had spoken with her the previous day when she had wandered through the park after working on the injured tree. She recognized his strange, pale eyes. He was wearing a suit now, rather than his working clothes, but she was certain it was the same man.
“Not feeling so good?” he asked.
She shook her head.
He nodded. “Well, that’s too bad. You don’t want to miss out on all these treats. Missing out on the sermon is one thing, but missing out on these cookies and brownies and cakes? No, sir!”
She started past him.
“Say, you know,” he said suddenly, stepping in front of her, blocking her way, “there’s a little something I want to share with you. A private fellowship, you might say. It’s this. I remember when sermons meant something. It’s been a while, but the old-time evangelists had a way of communicating that made you sit up and take notice. Now there’s the televangelists with their high-profile ministries, their colleges and their retreats, but they don’t talk about what matters. None of them do. Because they’re afraid. You know why? Because what matters is how the world will end.”
Nest stared at him, openmouthed.
“Sure, that’s what really matters. Because we might all be here to see it happen, you know. There’s every reason to think so. Just take a look around you. What do you see? The seeds of destruction, that’s what.” A comfortable smile creased his bland features. “But you know something? The destruction of the world isn’t going to happen in the way people think. Nope. It isn’t going to happen in a flood or a fire. It isn’t going to happen all at once, brought about by some unexpected catastrophe. It won’t be any one thing you can point to. That’s not how it works. The Bible had it wrong. It will happen because of a lot of little things, an accumulation of seemingly insignificant events. Like dominoes tipped over, one against the other—that’s how it will happen. One thing here, another there, next thing you know it all comes tumbling down.” He paused. “Of course, someone has to topple that first domino. It all has to start with someone, doesn’t it? Tell me. Does any of this sound familiar to you?”
Nest stood speechless before him, her mind screaming at her to run, her body paralyzed.
“Sure it does,” he continued, inclining his head conspiratorially. His strange eyes narrowed, burning with a fire she could not bear to look upon. “Tell you something else. The destruction of the world depends on the willingness of the people in it to harm each other in any way necessary to achieve their own ends and to further their own causes. And we got that part down pat, don’t we? We know how to hurt each other and how to think up whatever excuses we need to justify it. We’re victims and executioners both. We’re just like those dominoes I mentioned, arranged in a line, ready to tip. All of us. Even you.”
“No,” she whispered.
His smile had turned chilly. “You think you know yourself pretty well, don’t you? But you don’t. Not yet.”
She took a step backward, trying to gauge whether or not she could reach the door before he grabbed her. As she did so, the door swung inward, and Mrs. Browning pushed through.
“Oh, hello, Nest,” she greeted. “How are you, dear?” She seemed surprised to see the man standing there, but she smiled at him cheerfully and moved to pick up another tray of brownies.
As she did so, the man said to Nest, “No, I’m afraid you don’t know yourself at all.”
He gestured swiftly toward Mrs. Browning, who gasped as if she had been struck by a fist. She dropped the tray of brownies and clutched at her chest, sinking toward the floor. Her eyes went wide in horror, and her mouth gaped open. Nest cried out and started toward her, but the man with the strange eyes intervened, moving swiftly to block her way. Nest cringed from him, riddled with fear. He held her gaze, making sure she understood how helpless she was.
Mrs. Browning was on her knees, her head lowered, her face white, her throat working rapidly as she tried to swallow. Blood spurted from her nose and mouth. Nest’s scream froze in her throat, locked away by the man’s hard eyes.
Then Mrs. Browning slid forward onto her face and lay still, her eyes open and staring.
The man turned to Nest and cocked one eyebrow quizzically. “You see what I mean? There wasn’t a thing you could do, was there?” Then he laughed. “Maybe I won’t stay for the fellowship after all. Like I said, church isn’t what it used to be. Ministers are all just voices in the wind, and congregations are just marking time.” He walked to the back door, stopped with his hand on the knob, and glanced over his shoulder at her. “Be good.”
He opened the door and closed it softly behind him. Nest stood alone in the kitchen, looking down at Mrs. Browning, waiting for the shaking to stop.
CHAPTER 18
When she could make herself do so, Nest left the kitchen and walked back through the reception room. She was still shaking, the image of Mrs. Browning’s final moments burned into her mind. She found one of the ushers and told him to call for an ambulance right away. Then she continued on. She found John Ross standing in the deserted narthex outside the sanctuary. She drew him down the long corridor to where they could not be seen or heard and related what had happened. Was it the demon? He nodded solemnly, asked if she was all right, and did not look or sound nearly as surprised as she thought he should. After all, if the demon had come looking for him, and that was what had drawn all those feeders into the church, what was it doing talking to her, threatening her, and making an object lesson of poor Mrs. Browning? Why was it talking to her about people destroying themselves, parroting in part, at least, much of what she had heard from Two Bears? What in the world was going on?
“What did the demon want with me?” she blurted out.
“I don’t know,” John Ross answered, giving her a steady, reassuring look, and she knew at once that he was lying.
But Reverend Emery had finished his sermon and the congregation had risen to sing the closing hymn, so her chance to ask anything further came and went. Ross sent her back inside to be with her grandfather, telling her they would talk later. She did as she was told, dissatisfied with his evasiveness, suspicious of his motives, but thinking at the same time she must tread carefully if she was to learn the truth of things. She slipped back down the aisle and into the pew beside her grandfather, giving him a rueful smile as the voices of the congregation rose all around her. She was starting the third verse of the hymn when it struck her that the demon might be trying to get to John Ross through her, and that was why he had cornered her in the church kitchen. That, in turn, would explain why Ross claimed he didn’t know what was going on. It made sense if he was her father, she thought. It made perfect sense.
Mrs. Browning had been taken away by the time the fellowship began, but all the talk was of her sudden, unexpected demise. Nest thought she would be able to speak further with John Ross, but she could not manage to get him alone. First there was her grandfather, greeting Ross in a solemn, subdued voice, telling him how sorry he was that he had been introduced to the church under such tragic circumstances, pleased nevertheless that Ross had come to the worship service, reminding him of the afternoon’s picnic and eliciting his promise that he would be there. Then there was Reverend Emery, greeting Ross with a sad face, a firm handshake, and a cautious inquiry into his needs while visiting in Hopewell. Then there was Robert Heppler, who latched on to Nest with such persistence that she finally told him they were breathing the same air and to back off. Robert seemed convinced she was suffering from some hidden malady, and while he was not enti
rely mistaken, he was annoying enough in his determination to uncover the source of her discontent that she wouldn’t have told him the truth if her life had depended on it.
When she finally managed to get free of Robert and all the parishioners who stopped to remark on how awful it was about Mrs. Browning and to inquire after Gran’s health, John Ross was gone.
She rode home with her grandfather in a dark mood, staring out the window at nothing, mulling over the events of the past few days and particularly the past few hours, struggling to untangle the web of confusion and contradiction that surrounded her. When her grandfather asked why she had run out of the sanctuary, she told him that she had felt sick and gone to the bathroom. When he asked if she was all right now, she said she was still upset about Mrs. Browning and didn’t want to talk about it. It was close enough to the truth that he left her alone. She was getting good at making people believe things that weren’t true, but she had an unpleasant feeling that she was nowhere near as good as John Ross.
He knew something about her that he was keeping to himself, she thought darkly. He knew something important, and it had much to do with his coming to Hopewell. It was tied to the demon and tied to her mother. It was at the heart of everything that was happening, and she was determined to find out what it was.