Running with the Demon - Terry Brooks [86]
“How much time do we have?” Nest asked quickly.
Ross took a deep breath. “Until Monday. July fourth.”
“July fourth?” She looked over at him curiously. “How do you know that?”
Ross slowed and stopped, leaning heavily on his staff, suddenly weary. He had slipped up. “Sometimes the Lady tells me things,” he said quietly. “She confides in me.”
The lie burned in his mouth, but there was no help for it. He had told her as much as he could, as much as he dared. He would tell her more tomorrow, after she had been given time to consider what she had already learned. He must be careful about this. He must not give away too much too soon.
He said good night to her in her backyard, out by the tire swing, where she said she would remain to talk a bit with Pick. He told her he would see her again tomorrow and they would talk some more. He asked her to keep her eyes open and be careful. Pick was quick to declare that he would keep his eyes open for both of them and if the demon was out there he would find him quickly enough. It was bold talk, but it felt reassuring to hear.
John Ross went inside the house then to thank Nest’s grandparents once more for the dinner, moving slowly through the shadows, the staff providing him support and guidance where the light was dimmest. He was conscious of the girl’s eyes following after him, aware that already her doubts about him were starting to surface. She was too smart to be fooled easily. He could not expect to do much more than delay giving out the truths she would all too soon demand to know.
He felt the weight of his task settle over him like lead. He wished he had known sooner and been given more time. But his dreams did not work like that. Time was not a luxury permitted him, but a quixotic variable that seemed to thwart him at every turn. He thought again of all the things he had not told her. Of the secret of the staff he bore. Of the reason for his limp. Of the price he paid for the magic he had been given.
Of what would become of Nest Freemark if the future were not changed by his coming.
Nest sat in the tire swing with Pick on her shoulder and told him all of what she had learned about John Ross. As she repeated the tale, she found herself beset by questions she had ; not thought to ask earlier. She was surprised at how many things Ross had failed to address, and she wished now that she I could call him back again. He had come to Hopewell to see her grandparents, to visit her mother’s grave, to keep a promise to f himself, and to revive old memories. But he had come to stand against the demon as well. It seemed a rather large coincidence that he was there to do both. Were the two connected in some way? What was the demon doing here in the first place, in this tiny town, in the middle of Reagan country? Wasn’t there some other, larger place where his efforts might have a more far-reaching result? What was so special about Hopewell?
There was something even more disturbing to her, something that had not been addressed at all. Apparently John Ross had known nothing of her before coming to Hopewell, for he had not seen or spoken with her mother since college. If that was so, then why did she feel that he knew so much about her? He hadn’t said anything specific, but the feeling was inescapable. He had recognized her ability to see the feeders. He had known about her relationship with Pick without ever having met the sylvan. He had opened up to her about himself as if this was necessary, as if she was akeady his ally. Yet what exactly did he expect from her? Was it only that he needed another pair of eyes to help look for the demon? Was it just that if Pick were to know of his coming, so necessarily must she? Or was there something more?
“What do you think?” she asked Pick impulsively.
The sylvan scowled. “What do I think about what?”
“About him. About John