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at first.
IX
It was charming laughter, but not nice. Farrell had never heard
laughter like that; there was a dissolving sweetness in it, and the
memory of many good times, and no kindness at all. _Sirens_, he
thought, _mermaids_. It hung in the air like the smell of burning.
From where he stood, Farrell could not discern the man's face in
the darkness, but he heard his voice as clearly as if the two of them
were across a chessboard from one another, or a sword's length apart.
"God a'mercy, and here's poor Nicholas again, all alive-o!" It was
alight, curling voice, the words airily poising their feet to dance,
and something in the rhythm made Farrell think about the yellow-eyed
man who had stumped like a falcon into Sia's house at midnight. He had
dreamed of the man twice since then.
"Arms, legs, senses, fancies, follies, and lovesome honey
appetites, every one with me still," the stranger announced cheerfully.
"Now bless thy weazeny breech and lantern countenance, my sweeting, and
my Nicholas Bonner present his unchurched compliments?" Farrell heard a
small scuffle, apparently halted by an almost inaudible squeak from the
woman, and then the wonderful soulless laughter again. "Nay, so, so
there, dear duck--surely thy dam lulled thee to the roll of blessings
awaiting for her who's first to lie with springtime Nick, come all
chilled and lonely out of old dull dark once more. Thy firstling will
know the talk of all animals, thy second-born the cry of gold in the
earth--hither, then, swiftly, for I'm cold, I'm cold." For that instant
there was such wailing sadness and terror in the voice that Farrell
could not breathe.
Brush and twigs crackled again, but the woman called out in a
tone mixing near-hysteria with a certain chattering imperiousness,
"Away, touch me not, what are you doing? I mean, I have scribed the
pentacle thrice round myself, what are you _doing_, you dumb dork?" And
those were the first clear words that Farrell ever heard Aiffe speak.
The man did not answer immediately; when he did, his speech had
already begun to alter, but the laughter continued to prowl in the
shadow of each word. "Actually, one time is quite enough for a true
pentacle. It's a circle you're to weave thrice, and then it wards off
nothing a maid with such great lean shanks couldn't outrun." A single
chuckle sprang past Farrell on soft paws, as though to take up its own
independent life in Barton Park. The stranger went on, "Any road--nay,
pardon, I'll have it presently--anyway, the matter's moot altogether,
since your pentacle bites only 'gainst demons and the like, and good
Nick Bonner's no demon. Not even Will Shakespeare ever called me that--
and indeed he spent more time than most trying to devise a fitting name
for me." His voice had been husky as flame when he spoke first; now,
with use, it was taking on color and suppleness like a new butterfly,
stretching itself, basking in the moon.
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Farrell sidled and crouched and skulked until he could see Aiffe
facing him almost directly across a strange small grove of burned-out
redwoods. Some forest fire had scorched the trees to standing charcoal,
gutting them so that they looked like great, black, high-backed chairs
dragged up around a table of air. The man was standing in their shadow
with his back to Farrell, who sensed more than saw that he made as
slight a figure as Aiffe herself and that he was naked.
Aiffe was recovering herself rapidly, forcing a bold dignity that
Farrell had to admire. She said, "The pentacle's there because I
happened to be summoning a demon. If you aren't one, you can just go
back where you came from. I don't want you." She added several halting
words in what Farrell assumed to be Latin.
The laughter flowered brightly between them, and Aiffe took a
step backward, touching her face. The stranger said happily, "Dear
squirrel, dear coney, dearest little partridge, it would take such
priest-cackle as great Innocent himself never knew to send Nicholas
Bonner around the block. I've not been for anyone's bidding since
Master Giacopo Salvini died at the stake in Augsburg--and there was a
man had demons sweeping his hearth and currying his fine horses." He
whistled softly and chuckled again. "Ah, but forty men-at-arms came to
curry _him_, and he'd not time to ask his lackwit niece what sweet Nick
had promised her in the dark of the chimney corner. And with him went
up the only words could ever command my spirit, and the rest is all
freedom. Child, there's jabber binds Lucifer to obey that wouldn't do
up a collar button on Nick Bonner."
Even at that distance, Farrell could see that the thin girl was
trembling, but she answered coolly, "You're such a liar. Somebody sent
you back out into limbo, or wherever you go, and you had to stay there
until I called you. You're nothing, I still want a demon." Her voice
was the lute's voice, poignant and shifting, with coins and little
drums in it, and a rubber-band whine.
The man dropped lithely down onto his bare heels, hugging himself
and rocking as he cried, "Oh, well hit, fair on the mazzard, squash on
the old beezer. What an excellent savory talk is this of yours, after
all." His own speech was fast shedding its daintily wicked music;
Farrell could hear the vowels collapsing like pricked balloons, and the
lilting drawl being overtaken by the concrete consonants of Cedar
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