Free The Nimble Man by Christopher Golden, Thomas E. Sniegoski Page B

scuffle
at Grand Central, but still looked pretty much like a stretch of bad road.
    "I'll take her up into the house," Doyle told him
as he helped the injured woman from the backseat of the limousine.
    She had been unusually quiet for most of the drive, telling
Squire to shut his trap only once. He figured she must have been hurt pretty
badly. There was quite a bit of blood on the back seat's upholstery, and he had
made a mental note to have it cleaned when things settled down. If things
settle down, he cautioned himself .
    "Go to the freezer in the cellar and bring her back a
little something to help pick her up," Doyle told him.
    Leaving the two to make their way up into the residence,
Squire found the nearest patch of shadow and disappeared within it. Hobgoblins
traveled the shadowpaths. It was their gift and their greatest defense. This
day he used them to reach the basement beneath the Louisburg Square townhouse. Squire
had his pick of places to emerge, the cellar ripe with huge areas of gloom. It
didn't matter the size or shape, a hobgoblin could bend and fold himself into
just about any position.
    The drive had been exhausting, and he welcomed the ease with
which he was able to enter the cellar. In Doyle's employ, things were rarely so
easy. He emerged into the basement from a patch of darkness beside a shelving
unit that held the burial urns of some of Mr. Doyle's closest friends and
business acquaintances. You never know when you're going to need to talk to
one of them again, the magician had told the goblin once, shortly after
acquiring another urn for his collection.
    "Hey, guys," he said to the urns. "Got
another bad one whipping up, you should be thankful that you're all dirt."
    The goblin did not need light. His eyes were used to
navigating the pitch-black hallways of the shadowpaths. He slipped across the
crowded storage room to the refrigeration unit humming in the corner. He tugged
open the door, a cloud of frigid air escaping into the mustiness of the cellar.
Multiple packets of blood hung within the unit, recently stocked by the boss
for just such an emergency. That's the boss, always thinking ahead, Squire mused, taking what he needed. He wondered how far ahead Doyle had thought
about the current situation.
    He also wondered when it was going to be his turn to grab a
snack. Sure, Eve was injured. Her health had to come first. But his stomach had
been growling since Hartford. A burger and a milk shake would be nice. Even
just a bag of fries. Hell, he'd settle for a donut.
    Squire sighed. First things first.
    The goblin made sure that the door was shut tight and
quickly turned away. Squire recalled the problems of storing blood in the past.
Dry ice had been what they used way back when, but it didn't offer much of a
shelf life. He painfully remembered how much Eve would complain when she was
forced to drink a batch that had spoiled. He again praised the Dark Gods for
advances in technology as he plunged head-on into the nearest patch of shadow.
     
     
    "What do you mean he was taken?" Graves asked,
hovering above the oriental carpet in the formal sitting room of Doyle's
townhouse.
    The sorcerer had placed pages of the newspaper on the sofa
and was gently lowering the bloody and beaten form of Eve down atop them. "We
were attacked and Sweetblood was taken." The mage sighed, looking worn and
weary. He removed his coat, walking through the spectral form of Graves as if
he wasn't there.
    Graves spun around, watching as Doyle hung his jacket on a
wooden coat rack outside the parlor. "You're one of the most powerful
magicians on the planet, at least that's what you tell us. Who could have
managed to do that to you?"
    Doyle came back into the room rolling the sleeves of his
starched, white dress shirt. "The Night People. The Corca Duibhne."
    The squat, misshapen goblin, Squire, suddenly appeared from
the shadows of the fireplace, stepping out into the room with multiple,
fluid-filled plastic bags clutched in his