Bedlam Boyz(62)

Kayla shook her head, wanting to explain to this nice old woman that they were in terrible danger, that they had to do something, call the cops, get the Feds, call in the U.S. Marines. . . .

There was something else here, something that Kayla realized with a start. She's not . . . there's something very different about this bag lady. That odd face . . . the heavy cords of muscle beneath the rags, this lady could be a pro weightlifter without any training . . . the teeth, too long and pointed to belong to a human . . . the long fingernails, crusted with dirt . . . no, they're claws, sharp claws. She's not human, not anymore than the elves, she's something else, something completely different. . . .

She felt more than saw the burst of magic, flowing from the old woman like dark water, racing toward Kayla . . . a shadow reaching out past her, moving through the door. She nearly fell, stepping away from it. She pressed against the wall, flinching where the dark light brushed against her, feeling a sharp pain as though she'd been cut and was bleeding . . . and sensed that it was delighting in that, enjoying her fear and pain.

There was a strangled sound from outside the closed door, and then the boneless thump of something heavy falling, and then again, a similar noise. Kayla listened, but she couldn't hear anything else, not a single sound.

"Well, that takes care of that," the old woman said, a small satisfied look on her face. She turned to Kayla, who was still crouched against the wall. "They won't trouble us," the woman said, "or interfere in any way. Now, come with me. I was about to set the table for dinner." The old woman tottered away toward a lit doorway down the hall.

Kayla glanced at the closed door, sensing that hungry darkness still lingering outside, and decided that maybe, just this once, she didn't want to look.

She didn't really want to follow the old woman anywhere, either. Just what did she do? It felt like magic, but it wasn't any magic I'd ever seen before, nothing I'd want to know . . .

I'd better be polite, at least until I figure out who—or what—she is, and what's going on here. . . .

"Coming, dearie?" the old woman asked, peering back at her.

"Uh . . . yeah," Kayla said uneasily. "I'm coming along right now."

The next room was dimly lit by several huge candles, their flickering light half-concealing the furniture draped with dark cloth and the odd object in the corner, a huge metal cauldron hanging over a pit of bright coals. The cauldron was blackened and old, and the old woman was now standing in front of it, adding seasonings from a small clay pot.

"Make yourself comfortable, dearie," the old woman said, sniffing suspiciously at the open clay pot in her hand. Something leaped out of it and skittered across the floor. The old woman yelped, dropping the pot.

Kayla gingerly sat down on the couch. "Can I help?" she asked hesitantly. As long as I don't have to eat whatever she's cooking for dinner. I'm not into cockroaches, thanks.

"Oh, possibly in a minute," the old woman said, reaching for another clay pot on the shelf above her. "For now, just make yourself comfortable."

"Uh, thanks," Kayla said. There was a low table, also draped in a dark sheet, directly in front of the couch. Several dozen pieces of paper were spread out upon it. Curious, Kayla picked up one of them.

It was covered with beautiful, twisty designs drawn in many colors: bright blues and reds and golds, all coiling together to form patterns. In the center, there was what looked like the image of a cow drawn out of a knotwork of twisty lines.

The paper was odd, too: a heavy, tanned paper with darker lines running through it. "What is this?" she asked the old woman.

The old woman sighed. "That is a drawing I made from the Book of Kells," she said, reaching for a wooden spoon with a long handle, maybe three feet long, and stirring the contents of the black cauldron furiously. "I've been drawing my own version for the last two hundred years or so."

"Two hundred years!" Kayla repeated in shock.

The woman laughed, an odd creaking sound. "I suppose I should be explaining to you who I am. An Caillach Beara, that was what they called me in the Old Country."

"An Caill . . . ?"

"Call me Beara, dearie, if you can't pronounce the Gaelic."

"Beara. Okay, I can handle that. What's the Old Country?"

"My, you're full of questions! I was born in Eire many years ago, what they now call Ireland. I came to America when foul times and famine befell the land. Not that I ever cared to eat potatoes, mind you, but if the people were starving, so was I.

"And, to make it worse, they wouldn't believe in me anymore. Once they feared me and my magic, but now no one believes in me. Nobody believes in magic anymore, not even you; and you're so strong with it, it's skittering out around your edges even when you're not using it."