NOT FIVE MILES DISTANT, close by the waters of the Columbia, the Klee stiffened in recognition. It stood where it was for a long moment, as if become a stone carving, its huge, shaggy bulk blocking the way forward on the narrow trail it followed, bits of debris broken off by its cumbersome passage littering the ground behind it. A deep quiet settled in all around it, a widening arc of silence that reached well beyond what it could see with its weakened eyes, a caution that reflected both the nature and extent of the danger its presence posed.
When the moment ended, it turned slightly in the direction of the magic that had attracted its attention, magic generated by a creature that it sensed instinctively was not a demon. Its instincts told it that the magic was of a foreign nature, of a different form. The Klee was not overly bright, but it was deeply attuned to and capable of differentiating among forms of magic. It could not see well, but it could hear and taste and smell what other creatures would simply overlook. It tested the air now, and, even as far away as it was, it caught a whiff of what had distracted it from its search.
A whiff, it concluded, of what it might be searching for.
It shambled down to the riverbank and began plodding upstream toward the magic’s source. It advanced steadily for the better part of an hour, a bulky, almost featureless form passing through a mix of sunlight and shadows, a monster set loose. It was neither fast nor supple, but steady and dogged. Once it began a search, it would not quit. That was its value. The old man in the gray cloak and slouch hat relied on it to do what no other demon could—to track a scent from a scrap of cloth or a single footprint or even a momentary vision. A peculiar mix of bloodlust and hunger drove it, guided it, and infused it with purpose. The Klee was a special breed of demon, one that came along only now and then. Its makeup was unusual enough that a demon less astute than the old man might not recognize its talent. Repulsive and terrifying, a monster in both appearance and behavior, it did not invite close examination.
To make any use of it, you had to be able to embrace an unspeakable evil, and the old man had.
The Klee didn’t care what others thought of it. It only cared that its urges and needs were given an outlet. On this occasion, the old man had given it what it craved most—an uncomplicated directive to kill everything it encountered. The Klee did not understand the reasons for this or even care to discover them. It understood instinctively that the old man was worried, something that rarely happened, and required of the Klee that it do whatever was necessary to make that worry disappear. There would be no restraints, no limits, and no recriminations for what happened. It was the Klee’s favorite kind of work. The Klee was to kill the magic user and everything and everyone that stood in the way of its doing so.
Easy enough when you were the most dangerous creature alive. Easy enough when you knew you had never failed.
The Klee walked until it reached the spot where the magic had been expended. The taste and smell of it were still present, stronger here, pungent with power, a shadowy residue that hung on the air like smoke. The Klee stood where it was for a long time, drinking it in, as if it were a creature parched with thirst and the residue fresh, clean water. Its huge bulk shifted slightly as it tested the air over and over.
Then it saw the footprints embedded in the soft mud of the riverbank.
Without a second thought, it began to follow.
NIGHTFALL BROUGHT A COOLING in the air and fresh solitude to the forest bordering the Columbia. The walk back had tired Angel sufficiently that she had fallen asleep almost immediately on her return and not awakened again until Larkin told her that dinner was waiting. Sitting on his porch, looking out into the failing light cast across the surface of the river by the setting sun, she worked her way slowly through her meal, washing it down with cold springwater, and thinking ahead to the trip upriver to where the children were encamped. She ate in silence, and Larkin let her be. Maybe he sensed that she preferred it that way. Maybe he just wasn’t feeling talkative himself. He sat across from her, his blank gaze fixed, his face expressionless.
When her dinner was finished, she went out back of the cottage to where the waterfall provided a makeshift shower and washed the day’s grime and sweat from her body. She closed her eyes and let the water splash over her, leaving her skin alive and so cold that it tingled.
Alive, she thought, speaking the word silently. One word. A word that could mean so much.