Word & Void 02 - A Knight of the Word (28 page)

She watched the lights and the buildings of the downtown rise out of the darkness, sitting sodden, muddied, and exhausted in her seat. West Seattle fell away behind her, disappearing into the dark, and her rage faded with her fear, and both were replaced by an immense sadness. She began to cry. She cried softly, soundlessly, and no one around her appeared to notice. She wanted to go home again. She wanted none of this ever to have happened. A huge, empty well opened inside, echoing with the sounds of voices she would never hear again. Some came from Lincoln Park and the present. Some came from Hopewell and the past. She felt abandoned and alone. She could not find a center for the downward spiral in which she was caught.

She left the bus at a downtown stop and walked through the mostly empty streets of the city to her hotel. She wondered vaguely if the demon might be tracking her still, but she no longer cared. She almost hoped it was, that it would come for her again and she would have another chance to face it. It was a perverse wish, unreasonable and foolish. Yet it made her feel better. It gave her renewed strength. It told her she was still whole.

But no one approached her or even tried to speak to her. She reached the hotel and went into the lobby and up to her room, locking the door behind her, throwing the deadbolt and fastening the chain. She stripped off her ruined clothes, showered, and climbed into bed.

There, in the warm enfolding dark, just before she fell asleep, with images of Arid and Boot and Audrey spinning in a wash of streetlight shining brightly through her bedroom window, she made herself a promise that she would see this matter through to the end.

W
hen Stefanie Winslow woke him at midnight, John Ross was so deeply asleep that for a few seconds he didn’t know where he was. The bedside clock flashed the time at him, so he knew that much, but his brain was fuzzy and muddled and he could not seem to focus.

“John, wake up!”

He blinked and tried to answer, but his mouth was filled with cotton, his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth, and there was a buzzing in his ears. He blinked in response to her words, recognizing her voice, hearing the urgency in it. She was shaking him, and the room swam as he tried to push himself up on one elbow.

He felt as if he were drugged.

“John, there’s something wrong!”

His memory returned through a haze of confusion and sluggishness. He was in his bedroom—their bedroom. He had come back there after his lunch with Nest, to think things over, to be alone. He had thought about her warning, about the possibility of a demon’s presence, about the danger that might pose to him. The afternoon had passed away into evening, the weather outside slowly deteriorating, sunshine fading to clouds as the rain moved in. Stef had come in from work, stopping off to deliver a message from Nest and to see how he was. She had made him pasta and tea and gone out again. That was the last he remembered.

He blinked anew, struggling with his blurred vision in the darkness, with the refusal of his body to, respond to the commands from his brain. Stefanie bent over him, trying to pull him upright.

The message from Nest …

That she was going to West Seattle for a meeting with a sylvan. That the sylvan had seen the demon she was looking for. That this was her chance to prove to him her warning was valid. Her words were coded, but unmistakable. Stef had asked him if he knew what they meant, and he had, but couldn’t tell her, so he had been forced to concoct an explanation.

The message had been very upsetting. He didn’t like the idea of Nest wandering around the city looking for a demon. if there actually was one and it found out what she was doing, it would try to stop her. She was resourceful and her magic gave her a measure of protection against creatures of the Void, but she was no match for a demon.

But when he had started to go after her, Stef had quickly intervened. She had felt his forehead and advised him he had a fever. When he insisted he was going anyway, she had insisted with equal fervor that at least he would have something to eat first, and she had made him the pasta. Then she had left for her press conference with Simon, promising to be home soon, and he had moved to the sofa to finish his tea, closed his eyes for just a moment, and …

And woken now.

Except that he had a vague memory of Simon Lawrence being there, too, coming in through the door right after Stef had gone, saying something … he couldn’t remember …

He rubbed his eyes angrily and forced his body into a sitting position on the side of the bed, Stef helping to guide him into position.

“John, damn it, you have to wake up!” she hissed almost angrily, shaking him.

His head drooped, heavy and unresponsive. What in the world was wrong with him’?

He slept like this often these days, ever since the dreams had stopped and he had ceased to be a Knight of the Word. He had given up his charge and his responsibilities and his search, and the dreams had faded and sleep had returned. But his sleep had turned hard and quick; it frequently felt as if he were awake again almost immediately. There was no sense of having rested, of slumbering as he once had. He was gone and then he was back again, but there had been no journey. Stef marveled at the soundness of his sleep, commenting more than once on how peaceful he seemed, how deeply at rest. But he felt no peace or rest on waking, and save for the few times he had dreamed of the old man and the burning of the city, he had no memory of having slept at all.

“What’s wrong?” he managed to ask finally, his head lifting.

She bent close, a black shape in the room’s darkness. Streetlight silhouetted her against the curtained window. “I think there’s a fire at Fresh Start.”

His mind was still clouded, and her words rolled through its jumbled landscape like thick syrup. “A fire?”

“Will you just get up!” she shouted in frustration. “I don’t want to call it in unless I’m sure! I called over to the night manager and no one answered! John, I need you!”

He lurched to his feet, an effort that left him dizzy and weak. It was as if all the strength had been drained from his body. He was like a child. She helped him over to the window, and he peered out into the rainy darkness.

“There,” she said, pointing, “at the back of the building, in the basement windows.”

Slowly his vision focused on the dark, squarish bulk of the shelter. At first he didn’t see anything. Then he caught a flicker of something bright and angry against a pane of glass, low, at ground level. He waited a moment, saw it again. Flames.

He braced himself on the windowsill and tried to shake the cobwebs from his mind. “Call 911. Tell them to get here right away.” He squinted against the gloom, peering down the empty streets of Pioneer Square. “Why hasn’t the fire alarm gone off?”

She was on the phone behind him, lost in the dark. “That’s what I wondered. That’s why I didn’t call it in right away. You’d think if there was a fire, the alarm … Hello? This is Stefanie Winslow at 2701 Second Avenue. I want to report a fire at Fresh Start. Yes, I can see it from where I’m standing …”

She went on, giving her report to the dispatcher. John Ross moved away from the window to find his clothes. He tried a light switch and couldn’t get it to work, gave up, and dressed in the dark. He was still weak, still not functioning as he should, but the rush of adrenaline he had experienced on realizing what was happening had given him a start on his recovery. He pulled on jeans, shirt, and walking shoes, not bothering with socks or underwear, anxious to get moving. There should be someone on duty at the center. Whoever it was should have detected the smoke—should have answered the phone, too, when Stef called over to see what was wrong.

She was hanging up the phone behind him and heading for the door. “I’ve got to get over there, John!” she called back to him as she swept out into the living room.

“Stef, wait!”

“Catch up to me as quick as you can! I’ll wake as many people as I can find and try to get them out!”

The door slammed behind her. Cursing softly, he finished tying the laces of his shoes, stumbled through the darkness to the front closet, pulled on his all-weather coat, grabbed the black walking stick, and followed her out.

He didn’t waste time on the elevator, which was notoriously slow, heading instead for the stairs, taking them as quickly as he could manage with his bad leg, hearing her footsteps fading ahead of him followed by the closing of the stairway door below. His mind was clearer now, and his body was beginning to come around as well. He limped down the stairs in a swift shamble, using the walking stick and the railing for support, and he was into the entryway and out the front door in moments.

Rain beat down in torrents, and the streetlights were murky and diffuse in the storm-swept gloom. Second Avenue was deserted and eerily quiet. Where were the fire engines? He left the sidewalk and crossed through the downpour, head lowered against gusts of wind that blew the rain into his face with such force that he could barely make out where he was going.

Ahead, he watched Stefanie’s dark figure pause at the front door of the shelter, pounding at it, then fumbling with her keys to release the lock. The building was dark, save for a glimmer of night-lights in the upper dormitories and front lobby. Inside, everything was silent and still.

Then the front door was open and Stef was inside, disappearing into the gloom. As he drew nearer, he saw rolling gray smoke leaking from the basement windows and the front entry, escaping the building to mix with the mist and rain outside. His chest tightened with fear. In an old building like this, a fire would spread quickly. He shouted after Stefanie, trying to warn her, but his words were blown away on the wind.

He reached the front door, still open from Stef’s entry, and rushed inside. The interior was murky with smoke, and he could barely see well enough to make his way across the lobby to the hallway and the offices beyond. The stairway door to the upper floors was open, and he could hear shouts and cries from above. He coughed violently, covered his mouth with his wet sleeve, and tried to find some sign of the night manager. He couldn’t remember who had the duty this week, but whoever it was, was nowhere to be found. He searched the length of the hallway and all the offices without success.

The basement door was closed. Smoke leaked from its seams, and it was hot to the touch. He ignored his instincts and wrenched it open. Clouds of smoke billowed forth, borne on a wave of searing heat. He shouted down the stairs, but there was no response. He started down, but the heat and smoke drove him back. He could see the flames spreading along the walls, climbing to the higher floors. Wooden tables, filing bins and cabinets, records and charts, and even the stairway were burning.

He slammed the door shut again, backing away.

There were footsteps on the stairway behind him, the women and children coming down from the upper floors. He limped over to meet them so that he could direct them to the front door. They appeared out of the gloom, dim shapes against the haze of smoke. They stumbled down in ones and twos, coughing and crying and cursing in equal measure, the children clinging to their mothers, the mothers clinging back, the women without children helping both, the whole bunch wrapped in robes and coats and even sheets. The smoke was growing thicker and the heat increasing. He shouted at them to hurry, urging them on. He tried to count heads, to determine how many had come out so he could know how many were still inside. But he couldn’t remember the number in residence, and he didn’t know how many might have been admitted that afternoon after he left. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three—they were filing past him in larger groups now, bumping up against one another in their haste to get out. Thirty-five, thirty-six. There had to be at least ninety, probably more like a hundred.

He peered through the haze, feeling the heat grow about him, seeing red flickers from down the hallway at the back of the building. The fire was climbing through the air vents.

There was still no sign of Stef.

Sirens screamed up to the front doorway, and firefighters clad in flame-retardant gear rushed inside in a knot. Ross was down on one knee now, coughing violently, eyes burning with the smoke, head spinning. They reached out for him and pulled him to his feet. He was too weak to resist, barely able to keep hold of his staff.

Hoses were being dragged through the doorway, and he could hear the sound of glass being broken.

“Who else is in here?” he heard someone ask.

He shook his head. “More women and children … upstairs. Stef is up there … helping them.” He retched violently and doubled over. “A night manager … somewhere.”

They hauled him outside into the cool, rainy night, propped him against the side of an ambulance, and gave him oxygen. He gulped it down greedily, his eyes gradually beginning to clear, his sight to return. Knots of women and children huddled all around him, shivering in the cold night air.

His gaze settled on Fresh Start. Flames were climbing the exterior of the walls, shooting out of the second- and third-story windows.

Stef!

He lurched to his feet and tried to push his way back inside, but hands closed tightly on his arms and shoulders and pulled him back again. “You can’t do that, sir,” a voice informed him quickly. “Get back now, please.”

Windows exploded, showering the street with shards of glass. “But she’s still in there!” he gasped frantically, trying to make them understand, fighting to break free.

More women and children were being hustled out, escorted by firefighters. A hook and ladder truck had rolled into position, and the extension was being run up toward the roof. Police cars had arrived to protect the firefighters and control traffic, and there were flashing lights everywhere. At the fringe of the action, a crowd was gathering to watch from behind cordoned lines. The mix of rain and hydrant water had turned the streets to rivers.

Still struggling, Ross was moved back to the makeshift shelter, overpowered by the combined weight of his protectors. Fear and anger swept through him in a red haze, and he felt himself losing control.