Running with the Demon - Terry Brooks [179]
She brushed at the insects that buzzed at her, thick clouds of them that flew at her eyes and mouth. Her fear returned in a sudden wave as she pictured what waited ahead. But she did not turn back. She could not. It was no different now than it had been when she had gone to save Bennett Scott from the feeders. No different at all.
Please, Pick, don’t give up. I’m coming.
Moments later, she stepped from the woods into the clearing where the big oak stood. The tree was a vast, crooked monster within the darkness, its bark wet-looking and ravaged, as if skin split from the bones and muscles of a corpse. The wicked green light emanated from here, given off by the trunk of the old tree, pulsing slowly, steadily against the darkness. Nest stared in dismay. The tree was still intact, but it had the look of a dying creature. It reminded her of pictures she had seen of animals caught in steel traps, their limbs snared, their eyes glazed with fear and pain.
The demon stood next to the tree, his calm eyes fixed on her. He seemed to think nothing was out of place, nothing awry. It was all she could do to make herself meet his gaze.
“Where is Pick?” she demanded.
Her voice sounded impossibly childish and small, and she saw herself as the demon must see her, a young girl, weaponless and desperate in the face of power she could not even begin to comprehend.
The demon smiled at her. “He’s right over there,” he replied, and pointed.
Five feet or so off the ground, a small metal cage hung from the branches of a cherry. Within its shadowed interior, Nest could just make out a crumpled form.
“Safely tucked away,” the demon said. “To keep him from meddling where he shouldn’t. He was flying about on that owl, trying to see what I was up to, but he wasn’t very smart about it.” He paused. “A cage wasn’t necessary for the owl.”
A feathered heap lay at the edge of the trees, wings splayed wide. Daniel. “He came right at me when I knocked the sylvan off his back,” the demon mused. “Can you imagine?”
He motioned vaguely at the cage. “You do know about sylvans and cages, don’t you? Well, perhaps not. Sylvans can’t stand being caged. It drains away their spirit. Happens rather swiftly, as a matter of fact. A few hours, and that’s it. That will be the fate of your friend if someone doesn’t release him.”
Nest! Pick gasped in a frantic attempt to signal her. Then he went silent again, his voice choked off.
“Your little friend would like to say something to you about his condition, I’m sure,” the demon breathed softly, “but I think it best he save his strength. Don’t you?”
Nest felt alone and vulnerable, felt as if everything was being stripped from her. But that was the plan, wasn’t it? “Let him go!” she ordered, staring at the demon as if to melt him with the heat of her anger.
The demon nodded. “After you do what I tell you.” He paused. “Child of mine.”
Her skin crawled at the sound of his words, and a new wave of rage swept through her. “Don’t call me that!”
The demon smiled, satisfaction reflecting in his eyes. “You‘ know then, don’t you? Who told you? Evelyn, before she died? The sylvan?” He shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t matter. That you know is what matters. That you appreciate the special nature of our relationship. Who you are will determine what you become, and that is what we are here to decide.”
He looked past her, suddenly startled. A hint of irritation flashed across his strange empty features. “Ah, it’s the bad penny. He’s turned up after all.”
John Ross emerged