8

Hank shook his head in silent wonder.

Whatever was in that stuff leaking from the Orsa, it had a miraculous effect on Darryl. At least as far as his strength was concerned. Ten minutes after lapping at it he got to his feet, but he didn’t seem any less confused. He now stood, swaying slightly, before the One.

“Mother?”

The One showed a hint of a smile. “Yes. Your mother. You want your mother, don’t you.”

Darryl nodded. “Mother.”

“Do you know where she is?”

Another nod. “Mother.”

He stepped aside and gestured toward the staircase. “Then by all means, go find her.”

Hank watched Darryl move toward the stairs, leaving wet shoe prints. He started with a shuffle, then graduated to a slow walk.

“What’s all this about ‘mother’?” Hank said.

Drexler shook his head. “I don’t know. We’ve embarked upon an uncharted sea.”

He gave the One a questioning look, but his attention was fixed on Darryl.

When Darryl reached the wrought-iron stairs, he hesitated.

Hank started forward. “Looks like he needs—”

Drexler thrust out an arm. “Don’t touch. No contact. It’s in the Lore.”

“But—”

“Remember what happened to your coffee cup.”

He remembered. Yeah, maybe a good idea to give Darryl some space.

He watched Darryl reach out and grasp the railing. Smoke rose from where his hand touched the wrought iron. He looked at it curiously, then released the railing and stared at his hand. Hank gasped when he saw that the iron he had touched was gone.

Darryl’s gaze moved from his hand to the gap in the railing, then he started up, leaving a puff of smoke and a gap everywhere he touched.

Hank stood frozen, his tongue a sandbox. “Am I seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Yes, Mister Thompson,” Drexler said. His eyes were bright, his lips parted with excitement. He looked ready to explode. “The Fhinntmanchca does not mix well with this world.”

“Where’s he going?”

“Only the Fhinntmanchca knows.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And of course the One.”

The One stood statue still, staring after Darryl, and smiling.

Drexler cleared his throat. “Sir, may we ask—?”

“You may,” the One said without looking at him. “But if you wish an answer, you will have to follow him and find out for yourselves.”

Drexler turned to Hank. “Then that is just what we will do.”

Hank jerked a thumb toward the One, who hadn’t moved. “He coming?”

“We need not worry about him. Come.”

Hank followed him to the staircase. He waited as Drexler ascended ahead of him and checked out the gaps in the handrail. The iron appeared to have melted away but without leaving any slag. The free ends looked like they’d been cut with an acetylene torch. He gave one a quick touch but found it cool.

The damage to the handrails seemed to have destabilized the staircase because it wobbled as Drexler climbed. Once he was off, Hank hurried up after him. He glanced back and saw the One still standing by the shrunken Orsa.

When he reached the top and stepped out of the closet, he tapped Drexler’s shoulder.

“Hey, how come the metal dissolved when he touched it, but his clothes are okay?”

Drexler shrugged. “I would assume because the clothes came through the Orsa with him.”

Made sense.

Darryl had walked out into the main room of the basement. As they started after him, Hank heard a voice shout Darryl’s name. He recognized it and heard trouble in the tone.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Ansari said. “Not only do you look like shit, but what the fuck you doing here?”

Hank pushed past Drexler and found Ansari confronting Darryl.

“Mother.”

Ansari’s eyes blazed. “What you call me?”

He gave Darryl a two-handed shove to the chest. Darryl swayed, but Ansari wound up staggering back instead. His face purpling, he raised a meaty fist.

Hank shouted, “Hold it!” but not in time.

Ansari swung. His fist rammed forward, smashing against Darryl’s undefended jaw—

—and dissolved in a cloud of red smoke.

Hank skidded to a halt as he watched Ansari stumble back, clutching his wrist and staring at the place where his hand had been. No blood sprayed the air—the stump was blackened, cauterized.

As Ansari screamed in pain and horror, Hagaman rushed up behind him, shouting, “What the fuck you do, asshole?”

“Mother.”

“Goddamn!”

He bent and charged, as if to tackle, but Darryl put out a hand that caught Hagaman’s arm above the elbow. Another scream, another spray of red smoke, and Hagaman spun and dropped to the floor—right next to his forearm. He writhed in agony as he clutched the stump of his arm.

Panic erupted as the other men in the room fell over each other in a headlong rush to get away from him. Darryl began to move toward them as they bunched up at the door.

“Mother.”

“Get out of his way!” Hank shouted.

But either they didn’t hear or were too panicked to understand.

Darryl reached them and put out his hands to push them aside. The result was more screams and more red smoke at they lurched away with chunks burned out of their backs and shoulders.

With the doorway cleared, Darryl stepped through and headed upstairs. Hank and Drexler followed to the first floor. Word must have spread because everyone was pressed against the wall, staring in fear and wonder as Darryl walked toward the front entrance.

“The doors!” Drexler said.

He scooted ahead and opened one of the heavy oak doors, holding it for Darryl until he passed.

Darryl halted at the bottom of the steps and turned in a slow circle. He stopped, facing uptown.

“Mother.”

He turned and began walking up toward Allen Street.

“Any idea where he’s going?” Hank said.

Drexler shook his head. “No. But I believe the One does.”

“The One . . . is he even human?”

“Yes, but something more.”

Hank had figured that. “Can he be killed?”

Drexler gave him a sharp look. “Don’t even think—”

“I’m not thinking anything.” True. The question had popped out seemingly on its own. “Just wondering.”

“Well, then, the answer is yes. But not by any such as us.”

“Who then?”

“Another . . . like him.”

“You mean there’s two of him?”

If so, he wouldn’t really be the One.

“Not exactly. The two are mortal enemies. And that is all I can say on the subject.”

“I need more. Is the One going to be the head honcho after the cosmic shit hits the cosmic fan?”

Drexler’s lips pursed. “You have such a way with words, Mister Thompson.”

“You know what I’m saying.”

“Yes, I do. And yes, once he defeats his counterpart, the Yang to his Yin, he will be the Lord and Master of this sphere.” He glanced at Hank. “Don’t tell me you had illusions of—”

“Hey, no way. You crazy?” But he had. He’d thought that with his Kickers at his back . . . “But we—you and me, that is—we’re going to get to wet our beaks, right?”

He nodded. “When the Change comes, you and I will have places beside the One.”

Well, that would have to do. Probably be fine. Just like Daddy promised—he and Jerry would be princes when the Others returned. Too bad Jerry wasn’t around to join in.

Drexler pointed at Darryl’s retreating figure. “We don’t want him getting too far ahead.”

As they began walking, Hank thought about how reality had begun doing slow cartwheels since his first dream about the stick figure known as the Kicker Man, becoming increasingly surreal until blossoming into the complete and total insanity of this past week.

Darryl . . . fucking Darryl, of all people . . . the Fhinntmanchca . . . the Maker of the Way . . . dissolving everything he touched. It was all going down, just as his daddy had said. In fact, it might be all going down today, and he was right here in the heart of it.

Hank’s pulse raced—he felt cranked and scared. Made him want to pee, but he kept walking.