Then he saw it, too.
Wraith stood in the doorway, thick fur bristling, tiger–striped face lowered, ears laid back, green eyes narrowed and glittering. He was so massive that he filled the entire opening, a monstrous apparition stalking out of the gloom. His big head swung left and right with slow deliberation, and his muzzle drew back, revealing all of his considerable teeth. He made no sound as he stood there, surveying the unwary assemblage, but his intent was unmistakable. Nest's fear had drawn him, summoned him to a place he had never been, brought him out of the deep woods and into this unfamiliar setting. His deliberate stare was filled with hunger. Nest felt her stomach lurch. No, Wraith, no, go away, go away! Feeders scattered everywhere, crawling under pews, skittering down the aisles, and climbing the wood–paneled walls, their dark forms bleeding into the shadows. Their scrambling was so frantic that it stirred the air in the chamber, and among the congregation several heads lifted in surprise.
Wraith took a moment to consider his options, then started forward in that familiar, stiff–legged walk.
Nest was out of her seat and striding up the aisle to intercept him instantly. She did not stop to think about what she was doing. She did not stop to consider that she had never even thought to approach him before, that she had no idea whether she could control him. She did not say anything to her grandfather as she wheeled out of the pew; she did not even look at him. All she could think about was what would happen if Wraith managed to get hold of one of the feeders–here, in her church, among her family and friends and neighbors. She did not know what it would do to the fabric that separated the human and nonhuman worlds, and she did not want to find out.
The responsive reading concluded, and the congregation reseated itself. Heads turned to look at her as she closed on Wraith–on the ghost wolf they could not see–but she ignored them. Wraith seemed to grow even larger as she approached him, and his predatory gaze fixed on her. She felt small and vulnerable in his presence, a fragile bit of life that he could snuff out with barely a thought. But still she came on, fixed of purpose, steeled by her determination to turn him back.
And as she reached him, as it seemed she must come right up against him, right onto the tips of those gleaming teeth and that bristling fur, he simply faded away and was gone.
She continued without slowing through the space he had occupied, eyes closing against the rush of cold that washed over her, until she passed through the doorway and into the hall beyond. She stood there shaking, taking deep breaths to steady herself, leaning against the Christian–literature table, out of sight of those gathered within.
She jumped as a hand touched her shoulder. "Nest?"
John Ross was standing next to her, leaning on his black,
rune–scrolled staff, his pale green eyes intense. He must have followed her out, she realized, and done so quickly.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
She nodded. "Did you see?"
He glanced about the deserted hall as if someone might be listening: Within the sanctuary, Reverend Emery was beginning his sermon, "Whither Thou Goest."
"I saw," he answered. He bent close. "What was that creature? How does it know you?"
She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. "That was Wraith." She shook her head, refusing to offer any further explanation. "Where did all these feeders come from? What's happening?"
Ross shifted uneasily. "I think the demon is here. I think that's what's drawing them."
"Here? Why?"
Ross shook his head. "Because of me." He looked suddenly tired. "I don't know. I'm only guessing."
She felt a deep cold settle in the pit of her stomach. "What should we do?"
"Go back inside. Stay with your grandfather. I'll wait out here until after the service. Maybe the demon will show himself. Maybe I'll catch sight of him." His green eyes fixed on her.
She nodded uncertainly. "I have to go to the bathroom first. I'll be right back."
She hurried off down the hall to the Christian Education wing, Reverend Emery's deep, compelling voice trailing after her, floating over the hush of the congregation. She did not feel very good; her stomach was rolling and her head pounding. She glanced through the open doors into the cavernous gloom of the sanctuary; the feeders had disappeared. She frowned in surprise, then shook her head and went on. It didn't matter why they were gone, she told herself, only that they were. Her footsteps echoed softly on the wooden floor as she crossed the lower foyer. She pushed through the doors leading into the reception room, feeling worn and harried. Mrs. Browning, who had been her fifth–grade teacher, was arranging cups and napkins on several long tables in preparation for the fellowship to be held after the service. The bathrooms lay beyond. Nest slipped past Mrs. Browning without being noticed, went into the kitchen, and disappeared into the women's bathroom.
When she came out, a man was standing there, surveying rows of cookies and cakes arranged on serving trays. He looked up expectantly as she entered.
"Ah, there you are," he greeted, smiling. "Good morning."
"Good morning," she replied automatically, and then stopped in surprise. It was the maintenance man who had spoken with her the previous day when she had wandered through the park after working on the injured tree. She recognized his strange, pale eyes. He was wearing a suit now, rather than his working clothes, but she was certain it was the same man.
"Not feeling so good?" he asked.
She shook her head.
He nodded. "Well, that's too bad. You don't want to miss out on all these treats. Missing out on the sermon is one thing, but missing out on these cookies and brownies and cakes? No, sir!"
She started past him.
"Say, you know," he said suddenly, stepping in front of her, blocking her way, "there's a little something I want to share with you. A private fellowship, you might say. It's this. I remember when sermons meant something. It's been a while, but the old–time evangelists had a way of communicating that made you sit up and take notice. Now there's the televangelists with their high–profile ministries, their colleges and their retreats, but they don't talk about what matters. None of them do. Because they're afraid. You know why? Because what matters is how the world will end."
Nest stared at him, openmouthed.
"Sure, that's what really matters. Because we might all be here to see it happen, you know. There's every reason to think so. Just take a look around you. What do you see? The seeds of destruction, that's what." A comfortable smile creased his bland features. "But you know something? The destruction of the world isn't going to happen in the way people think. Nope. It isn't going to happen in a flood or a fire. It isn't going to happen all at once, brought about by some unexpected catastrophe. It won't be any one thing you can point to. That's not how it works. The Bible had it wrong. It will happen because of a lot of little things, an accumulation of seemingly insignificant events. Like dominoes tipped over, one against the other- that's how it will happen. One thing here, another there, next thing you know it all comes tumbling down." He paused. "Of course, someone has to topple that first domino. It all has to start with someone, doesn't it? Tell me. Does any of this sound familiar to you?"
Nest stood speechless before him, her mind screaming at her to run, her body paralyzed.
"Sure it does," he continued, inclining his head conspiratorially. His strange eyes narrowed, burning with a fire she could not bear to look upon. "Tell you something else. The destruction of the world depends on the willingness of the people in it to harm each other in any way necessary to achieve their own ends and to further their own causes. And we got that part down pat, don't we? We know how to hurt each other and how to think up whatever excuses we need to justify it. We're victims and executioners both. We're just like those dominoes I mentioned, arranged in a line, ready to tip. All of us. Even you."