The man by the elevator began firing his weapon. Ross knocked him twenty feet through the air with a single surge of power from the staff, and when his head struck the metal-bound edge of the wall where it angled around the main heating vent, Gask heard the vertebrae crack. By now, the last man was firing as well, but Ross knocked him down with a sweep of his staff and was past him so quickly he might as well have been armed with a flyswatter.
In less than two minutes, the Knight of the Word had disposed of all five assailants and disappeared through the fire door. Four of the five were dead, and Findo Gask finished off the last on his way out, pausing as he passed through the lobby to silence the night clerk as well.
It was a messy business, and it netted him nothing. What he learned, however, was that if he was to have any chance at all with John Ross, he would need help of a special sort.
Help of a kind only other demons could supply.
-=O=-***-=O=-
But three days earlier, while he was continuing his search for Ross, something unexpected happened.
That the morph continued to change shape on a regular basis not only provided a way to trace it, but showed that it hadn’t settled on a form or been revealed. John Ross had not found the key to unlock its magic. His time was running out. A morph, on average, survived for only thirty days before it began to break up. If Ross was to solve its riddle, he must do so quickly. The odds against his succeeding were enormous. Only on a handful of occasions in the course of history had the servants of either the Word or the Void found a way to unlock the magic.
But then, sometime in the middle of the night three days ago, the gypsy morph had found the shape it wanted. It had not changed since, not once, not even for the briefest moment. Findo Gask had searched the power lines that embraced the earth carefully for any disturbance, and there had been none.
Even more unexpected than the morph’s settling into a permanent shape was that it had spoken. A morph lacked a voice. It was energy, pure and simple. But somehow it had communicated, one word only, spoken three times. Undoubtedly, the word had been meant for the ears of John Ross alone, yet it was delivered with such intensity of purpose and need that it snagged on the lines of power that conveyed all the magics of the world and filtered through the ether in a whisper that Findo Gask overheard.
The word was Nest.
Findo Gask walked down the hallway of the old Victorian toward the stairs, musing over his good fortune. No other demon had heard, he was certain; no other had his talent and instincts. The find was his alone, and he would be the one to make use of it. John Ross would come to Hopewell because he would draw the same conclusion as Findo Gask. He would come in the hope that Nest Freemark could provide the clue that would unlock the secret of the gypsy morph’s magic. He would come to seek help from someone he trusted and respected. He would come because he had nowhere else to go.
When he did, Findo Gask would be waiting.
CHAPTER 6
I’ve come home.
The words didn’t register for a moment, Nest struggling with the idea that it was really Bennett Scott standing in front of her, no longer a little girl, but someone so far removed from the child she remembered she could barely bring herself to accept that such a transition was possible.
“Home?” she echoed in confusion.
Bennett looked embarrassed. “Yeah, well, I know it’s been a long time since I lived here. I should have written or called or something. But you know me. I was never much good at keeping in touch.”
Nest stared at her, still trying to make sense of the fact that she was here at all. “It’s been almost ten years,” she said finally.
Bennett’s smile faltered slightly. “I know. I’m sorry.” She brushed at her lank hair. “I was hoping it would be all right if I just showed up.”