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Chapter Fifteen

He gathered the child close, crooning to him, rocking him, letting him wail out his grief. Richard's eyes streamed tears as well in shared sorrow.

Eventually they were both exhausted. Michael went still, his face smoothing out. His eyes went dead and dull once more as he retreated into the sanctuary that appalling experience had created within him. Soon his lids drooped and he slept.

Richard stood up, careful not to jar him awake, and carried him toward the rental. He removed the absurd crossbow and lay the child out in the back seat. When he straightened, Jordan Keyes was standing a few paces away. The man had been damned quiet about it. Probably force of habit.

He seemed quite at home in his dusty fatigues and boots, his face liberally streaked with flat black paint. All he had to do to be invisible in the dark was shut his eyes. The gun in his hand was fitted out with a massive silencer. He was in matte black from head to toe, including the night-vision goggles hanging from his neck.

"Well, that got pretty intense," he said with a nod toward the fallen. He drew his arm across his sweating brow, shoving back the knitted skullcap to reveal some pale forehead. The ski mask-styled covering bore a cousin's resemblance to a chain mail coif, giving him a knightly air. "You okay?" His gaze dropped to the gash in Richard's side.

"Just some scratches. Nothing to worry about. I want to get the boy out of here."

"I'm all for it, but we got a hell of a mess. Can't leave anything behind that the Feds can track back to us . . . you hearing any of this?"

"Yes, I'm just a little tired."

"No shit, Sherlock, but get with the program, we've still got work to do. You need caffeine tabs? I got some."

"No, thank you." He drew himself up, shifting mental gears. They were rather rusty at the moment.

They walked to the center of things, surveying the battlefield. Richard looked at the fallen, scenting the blood, but felt no hunger. He was weary in spirit and sick. He had no conscience left when it came to killing killers. In the heat of necessity it was easy, but afterward doubts would creep in. Who were they? Had they deserved their fate? And why was I the one chosen to deliver it to them? 

"Too much work and risk to try hiding the bodies," said Keyes. "But we're going to have to destroy all trace of our specific presence. With any luck, the Federales might think one of Trujillo's competitors caught up with him. And having him on this particular site won't hurt to keep them speculating. Just what kind of a link do you have to this place? Is that going to be a problem?"

"There's no paper trail to me from the land itself, but Luis worked for a company of mine. He's Luis Marcelja there, but his fingerprints are on file; the alias will be found out. A smart investigator will find me sooner or later."

"Trust me, they're going to have nothing but smart investigators all over this one once they identify Trujillo. Though if anybody comes after you, chances are they'll want to shake your hand."

With Bourland's help and his own hypnotic abilities he'd manage. He'd done so before. "I can weather it."

"Well, I can't. You and I don't know each other, never heard of each other."

"Of course."

"Let's start by moving your buggy . . . just what the hell did you do?" For the first time Keyes noticed the log rammed into the first Caddie. He looked at Richard. "There's a story here."

Richard shrugged. "Adrenaline."

"Impressive." He leaned into the open passenger door and gingerly twisted the keys, careful to avoid touching the corpse. The motor died. "Okay. She might roll forward—no way am I going to mess with the parking brake—but you get your crate out of there."

He did so, the bumpers scraping as Richard drove the rental clear and circled around the wide yard. He went halfway to the entry road and parked. Going back he saw Keyes had found a dead tree branch and was dragging it all over the ground, stirring their footprints and tire tracks back into the dust.

"Where did you walk, exactly?" he asked, pausing to wipe down the second car's ripped-out steering wheel. He had no question over how it had come to rest yards outside of its vehicle.

"There and there, and I went to cover there."

"Any sandy spots?"

"I don't know."

"Well, find 'em and sweep." He gave Richard the branch, then went to crouch before the bumper of the front car. He brought out a knife and a penlight and proceeded to scratch off paint traces that had transferred over from its contact with the rental. He caught the tiny flakes and pocketed them, then did the same for Richard's transport.

They worked like a rehearsed team, going through the effects of the dead, not for booty, but for any linking evidence. None presented itself. Richard found cell phones and beepers, taking them away in case anything inconvenient might be in their electronic memories. He'd make a good home for them in a dumpster later, after smashing them to pieces.

Richard saw to Trujillo himself, Keyes to Anton. Both were clean.

"Mouth shot?" Richard asked, indicating the back of the neck exit wounds.

"Little something I picked up from a commando. Blows the spinal cord to hell and gone. The brain can give all the orders it wants, but nothing goes out. No reflex twitching that can kill the hostage."

And he'd done both with a silencer yet. "Impressive." A near-instant death. Too good for the bastard, but necessary. He returned the Glock to Keyes, who put it with his Walther.

"Hate to lose this one," Keyes said about the latter. "I just got it broke in."

"How will you dispose of them?"

"Probably take 'em apart, see what fun I can have with a blowtorch. I know ways to mess up a barrel without even trying. You use that revolver at all? Good. One nice thing about those, they don't throw brass. Any chance of you finding your empties? Never mind, there won't be prints on those anyway. It should be enough to just lose the weapons. The forensic boys can't trace something that doesn't exist any more. I think we've balled things up enough now; let's boogie. What are you going to do about Luis?"

"Kill him."

"You want a moment alone?" There was no irony in the question. He was aware that sometimes cold murder had to be a private act.

"Not yet. I've something . . . special in mind for him."

Keyes looked disappointed. "You're not going to set up some kind of Rube Goldberg thing, are you?"

"No, but I would like to ask about contracting for your services. I'll pay your normal fee."

"You haven't heard it yet."

"How much?"

He named a price. High, but Richard had the funds. "It's local work. I remember your policy against it, but this would primarily be a watchman's job. It can be done from a safe distance."

Keyes's mouth drew tight. "Well, I can see you've got a hell of a grudge on. Would you mind giving me the headlines about that first?"

He did so, his voice cold as he looked down on Luis's unconscious body. Richard had to be cold so as not to feed the rage. If he let it take him over, then Luis would die now, too quickly, deprived of a just punishment. In this creature's case, Richard had absolutely no conscience at all.

Keyes shook his head. "So he thought you fathered the kids, stewed about it for years, and then went postal with his brother's help. That explains why Trujillo stepped outside his usual box with the explosion stuff. Luis was the fireworks fan."

"Yes. For Luis it must have been a symbolic thing as well. His way of utterly obliterating the life he had here. I had no clue, not one hint of what was in his mind. If only I'd . . ."

"Hey, no way are you responsible for him being nuts. I want to know about the kids, though. The boy does look like you."

"It's genetics. The children took after their mother's side; her ancestors are all from Iceland. Luis was their real father. That's why Stephanie and I parted. I could not give her children or the life she wanted. He could." And ripped it away. "As for this job, all you need to do is make sure he stays where I put him."

"What have you got in mind?"

Richard explained it to him. In detail.

Under his sweat-streaked mask of black paint, Keyes went a little pale.

"It won't be easy to endure," said Richard. "And I don't know how long it will take. Are you willing?"

Keyes snorted, throwing a glance at the ruins of the house. "For a guy who did that to his own family? Hell, yes. And keep your cash. This one's on me."

He left Keyes to tidy up the last details and drove home.

This second trip was hauntingly similar to the first: the boy asleep in the back and Richard driving all battered and tired, his sheer weariness holding back the grief. It would need release and soon, but when? Tomorrow Bourland would arrive, and Richard would have to be there for him, if only to offer a drink and a listening ear. Other necessities would also arise, as the mundanities of the world closed in, demanding attention.

In the old days he could go off on his own and wail his sorrows to the forgiving sky. No more.

When may I truly grieve for you, my poor Stephanie? 

His phone trilled. A wryly sardonic reply from the gods, it seemed.

"Richard, it's Sam. Any news?"

"Yes, and it's good. I've got Michael back and he's unharmed."

"Thank God for that. How?"

"It's a bit complicated. I'll explain when I see you, but I've sorted everything out. Michael's safe now with me. No one's going to hurt him ever again."

"How is he?"

"Same condition." If not worse. "I'll take care of him tonight, then we can see about that specialist tomorrow. Did you call Bourland?"

"Yes, and it was hell trying to fill him in when I didn't know anything."

"It's all right; he's used to me doing that to people. Would you call him again for me? If I phone he'll want details, and I'm too exhausted. Tell him what I just said and that he'll get a complete debrief tomorrow. A coherent one."

"What about Luis? Where is he?"

"Not in the picture," he said shortly.

Silence on the other end as Sam digested this. "Okay. You'll tell me everything?"

"I promise." Which, of course, was a lie. Richard had no intention of telling Sam the truth about Luis and his horrific betrayal. The man dealt with evil enough on a daily basis, no need to add another nightmare to his collection.

Nor would Bourland hear any of it. He'd been fond of Luis for Stephanie's sake. He did not need to wonder if he couldn't have done more, sensed something or anticipated the unimaginable, and have somehow prevented the butchery—all the things that were eating at Richard's soul.

This is my burden, my good friends. You're better off without it. 

He would come up with a story to cover Luis's disappearance. Alejandro would get the blame. That would be the end of it.

But what of Michael, who knew the truth?

He carried the still-sleeping boy gently, thumbed the elevator button, and waited for it to deliver him to a few hours of peace before the morning storm. As before, he laid Michael in the big bed, then padded about seeing to his own needs. Once clean, his skin flushed red from the heat of a scalding shower, he carried the crossbow tripod out to the front room.

No need to wonder now how Trujillo's hit man had gotten into the flat. Luis himself could have been the one to set up the trap.

At least it wasn't a bomb. 

As soon as he thought of it, Richard made a quick, thorough search of the place, sniffing for Semtex in every cupboard, peering under every stick of furniture. Then he went down to his safe room and did the same. He felt ridiculous, but knew no rest would come to him until he satisfied his flare of paranoia.

That done, he stretched out heavily on the bedroom sofa, and listened to Michael's soft breathing, waiting for sleep to take him, too.

He was on the point of drifting into it when the sound of the elevator snapped him wide awake. Who on earth . . . ? 

Then he suddenly knew and hurried forth, his heart hammering.

The doors parted, and he swept Sabra up into his arms.

"You knew to come," he said, quite some moments later. For a time it was enough to simply hold her. His fatigue vanished.

"How could I not? Your pain and need called me like a thunderclap. I'm only sorry I could not get here sooner."

He put her down, and looked at her. Outwardly, she was the same as ever, beautiful, delicate of frame and face, but there were changes in her that only he could discern. There was a new power within her now, carefully veiled to most, quite visible to him. She possessed a strange strength that went beyond the apparent limits of her small body, as though the woman before him was merely a projection of her real self, an ephemeral vessel to interact with the temporal world. He had the feeling that should the projection ever became a full reality, mountains would crumble.

The Grail had done that for her.

"You've suffered much," she said, having gazed at him in turn.

"You're here. I can bear anything now."

She smiled. "Take care what you say, my Richard."

"I know." He was long familiar with the universe's antic sense of humor. "But it's still true."

She dragged a sizable backpack in from the elevator, leaving it on the floor. Dressed in an old, oversized sweater, faded jeans, and jogging shoes, her long hair tied back with a bandanna, she could have vanished into any college campus, but for her eyes.

She could stop rivers with those eyes. 

"Show me the child," she said, straightening.

He ushered her to the bedroom. She glanced down once at the surprisingly large bloodstain on the threshold carpet and looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. He shrugged sheepishly, then motioned toward the bed. The only light came from the open bathroom door, more than sufficient for them both.

She bent over Michael, touching a loving hand to his forehead. She was not his declared godmother—that honor had gone to Bourland's daughter—but was certainly his spiritual one for her link to Richard. She caressed the silken blond hair, then went still, her eyes closed. She remained so for a long time, then took a shuddering breath and pulled away, shivering.

He went to her. "What is it?"

"The child is dying."

His heart plummeted. No. Not again. We've been through too much.  

Michael could not die. He was all that was left, all that remained of the beauty that had once been Stephanie, that had once held Richard so close, so wrapped in an unconditional, an undemanding love. "Is his fate sealed beyond all change?"

Sabra's smile was sad, yet it warmed his very soul. In that smile he knew that no matter what, all would be well. "Not quite."

He sagged with relief. There was a chance then, and if it were even remotely within his power, he would make it a certainty. "What must I do?"

She reached her hand up and gently touched his pale, unshaven face. "Ah, Richard, ever the knight, ever the protector. Indeed there is much, and it is such that only you can do. A man betrayed the boy, and a man must save him. Only another who has been so terribly wounded can heal his wound."

"I do not understand."

"Think back to another son despised by an unloving father, another so cast away, another wounded nigh unto death."

The inner vision was so strong, Richard saw it as though it were happening again: his father's face full of hate, the bite of the blade, and the tearing pain. Pain that went far deeper and continued longer than that of any physical wound; pain that had been his enemy and then his strange, awful friend; pain that had faded yet never quite disappeared. His most bitter companion. How unloved is a son unloved by his father, how desperate and unending his loneliness and despair. Such a great, unfillable void to bestow as a paternal legacy.

"Whatever Michael needs, that will I do."

"I knew as much. You must go and find his spirit. He is much hurt and needs your healing. Complete the circle before his soul drifts so far away that it can never return."

"Yes, of course I'll go; but where?"

Her dark eyes glittered in the cool dimness of the room. "Beyond."

When she explained what was to be done, Richard took her hand, leading her out.

"I've the perfect place," he said. "Bring all that you need."

Puzzled, but trusting his judgment, she went to her backpack and drew forth a bundle that made discrete clinking sounds. From it rose the dusky scent of herbs and incense. The second bundle was smaller, padded well, and wrapped in pure white linen that he recognized as handwoven. He knew Sabra would have raised, harvested, and worked the flax herself, weaving in magic with each pass of the thread shuttle. He had no need to ask what was inside, he could feel its serene force. She gave him the larger bundle, hugging the smaller one to her breast.

He motioned Sabra toward the center of the room where what appeared to be a square, free-standing closet had been built as a space divider. One of its four outer walls held an entertainment center, two had shelving or displayed artwork. He opened the door set in the fourth, entering a cubicle with a spiral staircase. It went up to a trapdoor in the ceiling, which he pushed open.

As she followed, emerging into the chamber above, he could not repress a grin. How good it was to know that even after fifteen hundred years he could himself surprise and enchant her.

They stood in the very apex of the great glass pyramid.

The slanting panels of glass met twenty feet overhead, the floor being an exact forty by forty feet. It was huge, but not oppressive with its space as in some structures. Fresh air circulated from hidden floor vents, which kept the heat from building up too much during the day, exposed as it was to the full sun.

He eased the trapdoor down, seamlessly enclosing them.

The floor was wood parquet, a light background with a dark red pattern stained into it. Within the largest framing square was a circle, within the circle a smaller square, its angles aligned to the compass points. The square-within-circle pattern continued until the final square. Unlike the rest of New Karnak, the measurements here were balanced and true. Richard had seen to that, drawing out the lines and painstakingly applying the stain himself.

But the focus was the construct in the middle. It was a step pyramid within the smooth-sided one and composed entirely of interlocking slats of thick, clear plastic. Free-standing, it rose to a platform ten feet up, the top in the exact center of the chamber.

"What do you think?" he asked, but was already delighting at the look on her face.

She finally found speech again, looking at him with bright, loving eyes. "You . . . absolutely amaze me."

"This is why I had to have the place." They climbed slowly to the top, his bare feet brushing the warm plastic, the sun energy flowing up into him in a form that did not injure. Standing there made it seem as though they were suspended, floating not only in the room but above the night-dark city.

Beyond the glass, the city itself was a distant fairyland, all lights and shadows. To the north were vast unlit fields and woods, yet untouched.

"It's my own world," he said. "I come here to meditate and remember how small we truly are in the universe and yet how boundlessly important."

She took his hand. Her love seemed to course from her fingers and into him like a rushing fall of water. "It is perfect. Let us begin."

Midnight, not of the clock, but the true mid of night when the moon was at her Zenith and the sun blotted out by the whole of the planet's bulk.

They sat cross-legged on the high center platform, facing each other. Sabra looked west, Richard east. Between them was a brass brazier on a tripod in which charcoal smoldered.

Sabra unwrapped the smaller, more precious treasure and reverently held it high. A small cup it was, very ancient, yet untouched by time. Richard fell in love with its simple beauty and all that it represented all over again. It was object and idea at once, promise and fulfillment, desire and satiation.

A frisson of its power went through him as Sabra placed it in his open upturned hands.

"Hold it gently," she said. "It will be there when you are in need."

He nodded, full well knowing the truth of that.

Sabra produced dried herbs from a leather pouch, casting them onto the redly glowing coals. The smoke swirled about them, a heady mixture of sage, sweet grass, and others he could not tell. They kindled, flames shooting up high and hot, but short-lived, guttering to extinction, releasing white smoke.

Magic was suddenly in the air. He could feel it all around, far more powerful than he, than even Sabra. Yet what was here was but one minute tendril drawn down from the whole of the core.

She cast a handful of incense into the brass vessel. The smoke doubled, trebled, pouring out to permeate every corner of the great chamber.

Absurdly, it occurred to him the alarm in the rooms below could well go off bringing heavy-booted firemen, all axes and purpose, crashing in on them. He almost said something, but Sabra, catching his thought as she often did, merely smiled and shook her head. The Goddess would take care of such problems. He needed to focus on the task before him, to clear his mind of distractions. Michael's life depended on it.

The child still slept in the bedroom below, body intact, soul elsewhere.

Sabra began to chant, repeating over and over an ancient rhyme in a tongue he'd never heard before. She was calling out to someone, he discerned that much, and it was working. Softer than the touch of a shadow, other voices joined hers, one by one in the same key, female, strong, insistent.

The smoke thickened, whirling in a slow spiral around them.

The full moon was directly overhead, at first brilliant silver, so bright as to hurt his sensitive eyes. Then the silver darkened, the mottled markings on her distant face turned blood red, spreading across the whole of the disk. Its lurid light filled the room, melding with the smoke until he and Sabra seemed to float on a sea of blood.

Her chanting—and the chanting of her unseen sisters—grew louder; the sea closed in on them. It rose high until it filled all of Richard's sight. He concentrated on keeping his mind clear and calm. Fear would dispel everything.

Red darkness surrounded him, red moonlight bathed him from above, brightening again to hurt his eyes. It physically pulled at him.

He felt himself lifted toward the crimson light, drawn inexorably forth into its vortex. The chanting rang in his ears, rushing through his temples, roaring like a torrent in springtime. He stretched his arms high. Strong, invisible hands carried him swiftly upward; he passed through the barrier of glass as one might run through a curtain of strung beads.

His eyes were shut tight now; he strained for air, his breath coming in heaving gasps. He wanted to move but could not; something held him close in an iron grip along the whole length of his body. Panic-stricken, he tried to speak, to open his eyes. He was paralyzed again by the poison, only this time he would never wake from its spell. He tried to scream, but all he could hear was the chanting, the voices buffeting him like fists as he spun helpless and blind . . .

And then silence.

Suddenly released, he sat up as though from a nightmare, sweat cold on his brow, eyes staring. He could scarce take in what they showed him: a bright sunlit meadow, green under the midsummer sun, quite beautiful.

But slow, painful death if he did not find shade.

He saw a line of trees nearby. He stumbled toward their shelter, not understanding why he could not persuade his unsteady legs to more speed. They dragged like leaden weights over the thick overgrown grass. It took him ages to cover the ground, and when he fell beneath the shade of a friendly oak, he gasped like a dying fish. His side had caught a stitch and hurt like blazes. What was wrong? Was the poison still at work on him? He felt so weak and tired from the exertion. No matter, he would soon recover. Sabra said he had very little time left to find Michael, so while catching his second wind he took stock of himself, his surroundings.

He was no longer in his old blue bathrobe, but fully dressed in a soft woolen tunic and leggings the color of twine. Leather boots were on his feet, leather belt riding low on his hip, all handmade. He'd not worn such clothes for a thousand years. They felt strange to him, bringing back tactile memories long forgot. He wasn't just in another world but in very much another time.

The Grail was gone from his hands, but that did not trouble him. In this magical place intent was as strong as actuality. If and when he needed the Grail, it would be there as she'd promised.

What he'd first taken to be a meadow was actually a large clearing in the midst of a great wood. He recognized nothing about this place with no landmarks immediately visible. There was no sign of gaudy New Karnak. He certainly wasn't in Texas any more. Not with these massive trees. Some of the oaks here were a full ten feet or more in girth, ancient even by his standards, with shadows black as death gathered beneath them. Many raised their gnarled branches high to the sun, others were bent and twisted, taking perverse glory in their corruption, and some were divided, with new growth above, but their trunks split asunder to show rotting cores.

The day was warm, not burning hot, the sun shining gently from a pale blue sky. All around were the sounds of life. Birds sang incessantly, one taking over from the other unbidden, their calls filling the honey-sweet air with undeniable joy. Insects hummed along their busy way, drawn by the heady smell of wildflowers that drenched him, soothing as thoughts of love.

He leaned back against the trunk of the oak. Such a blissfully exquisite day he had not known for . . . how long? He couldn't remember. Had he ever? No matter. He did now.

He smiled, idly pushing his fingers deep into the grass until they reached the damp earth below, then raised them to his face to take in the wondrous scent of earth and green growth. It stirred his soul, that rich smell, he wanted to rest here and just breathe for a week. He knew that wasn't possible, but it couldn't hurt to steal just a moment. His eyelids flickered. He did not want to sleep, he would miss the beauty around him, but the heavy, lush air lulled him. The endless drone of insect and birdsong grew louder, shutting away all else, and his eyelids drifted shut.

"Richard!"

A voice cut through his semi-slumber.

"Richard!"

He knew the voice yet could not name it. It came from everywhere and nowhere.

"Richard, do not sleep!"

Something slapped him, hard. He twice felt the hot sting of a hand on his face. His eyes flashed open, alarmed. "Sabra?" His own voice sounded strange, thick and slurred as if he had been long abed, yet he had not dozed off. Or had he? He did not know. "I hear you, Sabra. What is wrong?"

"You must not sleep, my love. This is a dangerous place, treacherous. Time is not as it should be for you. Many have been here before and slept, some never to waken, some to return eventually to life but old, confused, swearing that they had closed their eyes but a moment. A moment here may be years elsewhere. Time is loosened and is your enemy."

He stood and rubbed his eyes. The air was cooler now, the birdsong more remote and less seductive. "Where are you?"

"Beyond." Sabra's voice was distant, fading. "This is all the help I can give, and then only by the strength of the Goddess and the Nine Sisters. To find Michael you must follow the signs as in the old days."

"What signs?"

"You will know them. Trust in that. But beware, there is danger for you that I did not foresee."

"What danger?"

"In this land you are an ordinary man once more."

"Ordinary? How can that be?" He could not believe such a thing.

"The magic demands balance. The blood of the Hounds of Annwyn was the price of your passage here. I did not know the Guardians would take it from you. In this place you are a fragile mortal man. You can die here. Truly die."

No—that was impossible. He felt no different. Or did he? "Sabra . . . ?"

"Take care, my love, for there is danger all around. Hurry, do not tarry. Find him!"

And the voice was gone.

Nerves taut and all his senses alert, Richard stared around with fresh eyes. Mortality? How? The first rush of terror froze him a moment, then eased as he thought things through. Danger was all around, true, but he'd survived in a tougher, much more demanding world than this for thirty-five years before his change. He could deal with this summer land for however long it took.

At least now he understood why his run to the shelter of the trees seemed to take so much effort. And why his senses seemed so muffled.

He would indeed take extra care. Yet there was one advantage to this return to mortal frailty. He stepped into the sunlight, raising his face like a supplicant for a blessing. It shone full on him, and for the first time in many, many centuries, all he felt was its warm healing caress. No blindness, no acidlike burning. He closed his eyes and spun slowly in a circle, arms outstretched, a game he used to play as a child, though he could not remember what it was called.

It was in truth a blessing, and he would remember it forever.

A sharp, cracking sound. A careless footfall? Richard dropped to his haunches, jolted from his reverie. He would remember forever . . . if he lived that long.

Something moved in the woods across the clearing, and he could not pierce the thick shadows under the trees to see.

There, again! A twig snapping and the rustle of dead leaves. It was closer. Richard, mindful of his new-vulnerable state, slipped back to the shelter of the trees on his side. There was silence once more for several long minutes. All he could hear now was the pounding of blood in his brain. Dear Goddess, but he'd forgotten the feeling of this kind of fear. Terror and exhilaration at once. He'd lost the memory of how alive it made him from one instant to the next.

He strained his eyes searching the trees opposite for any sign of whoever or whatever it was but could see nothing. He abruptly heard the sound again . . . there . . . yes, something white moved there. But what?

It emerged slowly from cover; delicate, shy, huge eyes innocent yet wise, a pure white hart stepped out into the sunlight, graceful as a dancer.

He slumped and tried to steady his still-racing heart. Relief flooded through him so strongly that he wanted to laugh; instead, he held himself quiet, not wanting to startle the animal.

The hart came a few paces into the clearing, standing quite still, only her ears flicking nervously for sound. And then she saw him. He would have sworn that it was not possible for her to know he was there. He'd been quite silent, and was mostly hidden behind a tree. Yet as he watched she turned deliberately, and fixed her great brown eyes upon him.

Come.

He gaped in response to the flower-soft whisper. It could have been a trick of the wind. Merely the leaves above shifting and not—

Come! 

The voice was clear in his head this time. Then the hart turned and walked daintily back whence she had come. At the edge of the clearing she paused, as though waiting, looking once over her shoulder at him.

Follow the signs as in the old days, Sabra had said. The white hart had ever been a sign, a very powerful one, leading to adventure and danger. Richard's nerves tingled at the thought. She could only be here for him, to lead him to Michael. If his soul had retreated to this sanctuary, he might well have followed the hart himself. What child could have resisted?

Richard stood. The sudden movement startled the animal, for she skittered and seemed about to flee, but spun and stood her ground. He now stepped into the clearing, and they faced each other, man and beast united in common purpose.

"Where is Michael, good friend?" he murmured. "Lead me to him, if you will."

She broke away at once, ears canted to hear his progress as he followed.

Deeper in the woods the daylight faded, filtered by the dense foliage. The hart kept her distance ahead, and he did not try to close the gap. The white of her coat was easy to see as she picked her way, and Richard knew better than to try to hurry her, else she would leave him.

The journey was not easy. The trees grew close together here, often forming a barrier that he was unable to get through. Then he would have to circle around searching for a clear path. She would wait for him at these times, nibbling at tender leaves or snuffling the ground until he caught up, then she would head off again.

The exertion was beginning to have its effect on Richard. The day was still warm, and no cooling breeze could penetrate this growth. Sweat plastered his hair, and his clothes were soaked. Branches snapped and snagged at his progress, scratching him, and a myriad of insects clung in a hovering cloud. They got in his eyes and nose, biting, feeding on his blood.

So this is how it feels! 

He swiped impatiently at them, angered that such small things could create so great a hurt.

When he looked up, the hart was gone. She'd ever been in sight, but no longer. The forest went unnaturally still. No birds, only the insects remained to continue their torment. He was quite alone, deep in the tangled trees and undergrowth with no idea of where he was or which way he must go.

He looked around desperately, cursing himself for a fool for having followed the animal unthinkingly. He looked for the path that he'd broken through the trees, but it had vanished as well. Fear began to rise up once more, for it was in dark places as this that panic was first bred and birthed. This forest was an enemy, terrifying in its vastness. He had to fight the urge to shout for help as he looked desperately around; who would hear him? Should he stay or go, and which way? He could not see the sun to mark a direction.

It would get dark all too soon. He had no wish to spend the night in this place. Blindly he set forth, snapping branches as he went, going as fast as he could in the close surroundings. At least he was moving. That certainly made him feel better. Then he spied a strangely gnarled tree just ahead and knew he'd seen it before. His heart sank as he realized that it marked the spot where he'd stood when the hart disappeared. Without her guidance he'd walked in a circle.

He sank to the ground, his heart hammering as he gave in to a moment of pure terror. He was lost, utterly, utterly lost. He wiped his brow and held his head in his hands, cursing the price he'd unknowingly paid to come to this hellish place. What he would give for his vampire senses now. Tears of frustration welled in his eyes, and he rubbed them away impatiently.

"This is not for me, but for Michael!" he called out. "Take me to him! Please!"

Movement.

A flash of white barely glimpsed through the tangle ahead. A pale gleam like a ghost.

He hauled himself upright and with fresh hope staggered forward through tangling vines and tree roots. The forest seemed against him, trying to hold him back, branches reaching forth to twist about his arms and legs, slapping his face and neck, leaves rustling with cruel laughter. He pushed and fought his way through. It had to end eventually. It must. He thought of free-flowing air and escape from the damned blood-sucking insects.

But when he finally burst through into a clearing, the white he had glimpsed was not that of the hart. It was the tattered dress of a woman leaning with her back against a tree. Her head was bowed as though praying or asleep, her long, rippling hair hanging free.

The sight so surprised him that he forgot caution, standing in the open to stare.

She was not really leaning. Her arms were drawn back around the trunk. She moved a little, and across the space between them Richard heard the unmistakable sound of chains clanking, chains and her quiet sobbing.

She was not alone. Some twenty feet from her was pitched a knight's pavilion. His war-horse, in full battle armor, cropped contentedly at the sweet grasses of the clearing. A shield bearing no token to identify its owner hung from one of the boughs nearby along with a sword in its scabbard. A lance leaned up against them.

Follow the signs as in the old days. Sabra's words once more rang in his head.

This was definitely a knightly quest. The hart had led him here, and now he must rescue the lady. It was one of the immutable laws of chivalry. A test of his courage. But he was mortal here, so any conflict could be deadly, and this would be conflict against a fully armed and armored knight. He had no doubt such a one occupied the pavilion.

Well, I've learned a few new tricks since those old days. Let's see what happens. 

Richard stole forward, his soft boots silent on the grass. The woman looked up at him, her eyes sad and full of fear. He signed for her to be still, then reached for the sword and shield.

That's when he heard the knight emerging from the tent.

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Contents
Framed

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Contents

Chapter Fifteen

He gathered the child close, crooning to him, rocking him, letting him wail out his grief. Richard's eyes streamed tears as well in shared sorrow.

Eventually they were both exhausted. Michael went still, his face smoothing out. His eyes went dead and dull once more as he retreated into the sanctuary that appalling experience had created within him. Soon his lids drooped and he slept.

Richard stood up, careful not to jar him awake, and carried him toward the rental. He removed the absurd crossbow and lay the child out in the back seat. When he straightened, Jordan Keyes was standing a few paces away. The man had been damned quiet about it. Probably force of habit.

He seemed quite at home in his dusty fatigues and boots, his face liberally streaked with flat black paint. All he had to do to be invisible in the dark was shut his eyes. The gun in his hand was fitted out with a massive silencer. He was in matte black from head to toe, including the night-vision goggles hanging from his neck.

"Well, that got pretty intense," he said with a nod toward the fallen. He drew his arm across his sweating brow, shoving back the knitted skullcap to reveal some pale forehead. The ski mask-styled covering bore a cousin's resemblance to a chain mail coif, giving him a knightly air. "You okay?" His gaze dropped to the gash in Richard's side.

"Just some scratches. Nothing to worry about. I want to get the boy out of here."

"I'm all for it, but we got a hell of a mess. Can't leave anything behind that the Feds can track back to us . . . you hearing any of this?"

"Yes, I'm just a little tired."

"No shit, Sherlock, but get with the program, we've still got work to do. You need caffeine tabs? I got some."

"No, thank you." He drew himself up, shifting mental gears. They were rather rusty at the moment.

They walked to the center of things, surveying the battlefield. Richard looked at the fallen, scenting the blood, but felt no hunger. He was weary in spirit and sick. He had no conscience left when it came to killing killers. In the heat of necessity it was easy, but afterward doubts would creep in. Who were they? Had they deserved their fate? And why was I the one chosen to deliver it to them? 

"Too much work and risk to try hiding the bodies," said Keyes. "But we're going to have to destroy all trace of our specific presence. With any luck, the Federales might think one of Trujillo's competitors caught up with him. And having him on this particular site won't hurt to keep them speculating. Just what kind of a link do you have to this place? Is that going to be a problem?"

"There's no paper trail to me from the land itself, but Luis worked for a company of mine. He's Luis Marcelja there, but his fingerprints are on file; the alias will be found out. A smart investigator will find me sooner or later."

"Trust me, they're going to have nothing but smart investigators all over this one once they identify Trujillo. Though if anybody comes after you, chances are they'll want to shake your hand."

With Bourland's help and his own hypnotic abilities he'd manage. He'd done so before. "I can weather it."

"Well, I can't. You and I don't know each other, never heard of each other."

"Of course."

"Let's start by moving your buggy . . . just what the hell did you do?" For the first time Keyes noticed the log rammed into the first Caddie. He looked at Richard. "There's a story here."

Richard shrugged. "Adrenaline."

"Impressive." He leaned into the open passenger door and gingerly twisted the keys, careful to avoid touching the corpse. The motor died. "Okay. She might roll forward—no way am I going to mess with the parking brake—but you get your crate out of there."

He did so, the bumpers scraping as Richard drove the rental clear and circled around the wide yard. He went halfway to the entry road and parked. Going back he saw Keyes had found a dead tree branch and was dragging it all over the ground, stirring their footprints and tire tracks back into the dust.

"Where did you walk, exactly?" he asked, pausing to wipe down the second car's ripped-out steering wheel. He had no question over how it had come to rest yards outside of its vehicle.

"There and there, and I went to cover there."

"Any sandy spots?"

"I don't know."

"Well, find 'em and sweep." He gave Richard the branch, then went to crouch before the bumper of the front car. He brought out a knife and a penlight and proceeded to scratch off paint traces that had transferred over from its contact with the rental. He caught the tiny flakes and pocketed them, then did the same for Richard's transport.

They worked like a rehearsed team, going through the effects of the dead, not for booty, but for any linking evidence. None presented itself. Richard found cell phones and beepers, taking them away in case anything inconvenient might be in their electronic memories. He'd make a good home for them in a dumpster later, after smashing them to pieces.

Richard saw to Trujillo himself, Keyes to Anton. Both were clean.

"Mouth shot?" Richard asked, indicating the back of the neck exit wounds.

"Little something I picked up from a commando. Blows the spinal cord to hell and gone. The brain can give all the orders it wants, but nothing goes out. No reflex twitching that can kill the hostage."

And he'd done both with a silencer yet. "Impressive." A near-instant death. Too good for the bastard, but necessary. He returned the Glock to Keyes, who put it with his Walther.

"Hate to lose this one," Keyes said about the latter. "I just got it broke in."

"How will you dispose of them?"

"Probably take 'em apart, see what fun I can have with a blowtorch. I know ways to mess up a barrel without even trying. You use that revolver at all? Good. One nice thing about those, they don't throw brass. Any chance of you finding your empties? Never mind, there won't be prints on those anyway. It should be enough to just lose the weapons. The forensic boys can't trace something that doesn't exist any more. I think we've balled things up enough now; let's boogie. What are you going to do about Luis?"

"Kill him."

"You want a moment alone?" There was no irony in the question. He was aware that sometimes cold murder had to be a private act.

"Not yet. I've something . . . special in mind for him."

Keyes looked disappointed. "You're not going to set up some kind of Rube Goldberg thing, are you?"

"No, but I would like to ask about contracting for your services. I'll pay your normal fee."

"You haven't heard it yet."

"How much?"

He named a price. High, but Richard had the funds. "It's local work. I remember your policy against it, but this would primarily be a watchman's job. It can be done from a safe distance."

Keyes's mouth drew tight. "Well, I can see you've got a hell of a grudge on. Would you mind giving me the headlines about that first?"

He did so, his voice cold as he looked down on Luis's unconscious body. Richard had to be cold so as not to feed the rage. If he let it take him over, then Luis would die now, too quickly, deprived of a just punishment. In this creature's case, Richard had absolutely no conscience at all.

Keyes shook his head. "So he thought you fathered the kids, stewed about it for years, and then went postal with his brother's help. That explains why Trujillo stepped outside his usual box with the explosion stuff. Luis was the fireworks fan."

"Yes. For Luis it must have been a symbolic thing as well. His way of utterly obliterating the life he had here. I had no clue, not one hint of what was in his mind. If only I'd . . ."

"Hey, no way are you responsible for him being nuts. I want to know about the kids, though. The boy does look like you."

"It's genetics. The children took after their mother's side; her ancestors are all from Iceland. Luis was their real father. That's why Stephanie and I parted. I could not give her children or the life she wanted. He could." And ripped it away. "As for this job, all you need to do is make sure he stays where I put him."

"What have you got in mind?"

Richard explained it to him. In detail.

Under his sweat-streaked mask of black paint, Keyes went a little pale.

"It won't be easy to endure," said Richard. "And I don't know how long it will take. Are you willing?"

Keyes snorted, throwing a glance at the ruins of the house. "For a guy who did that to his own family? Hell, yes. And keep your cash. This one's on me."

He left Keyes to tidy up the last details and drove home.

This second trip was hauntingly similar to the first: the boy asleep in the back and Richard driving all battered and tired, his sheer weariness holding back the grief. It would need release and soon, but when? Tomorrow Bourland would arrive, and Richard would have to be there for him, if only to offer a drink and a listening ear. Other necessities would also arise, as the mundanities of the world closed in, demanding attention.

In the old days he could go off on his own and wail his sorrows to the forgiving sky. No more.

When may I truly grieve for you, my poor Stephanie? 

His phone trilled. A wryly sardonic reply from the gods, it seemed.

"Richard, it's Sam. Any news?"

"Yes, and it's good. I've got Michael back and he's unharmed."

"Thank God for that. How?"

"It's a bit complicated. I'll explain when I see you, but I've sorted everything out. Michael's safe now with me. No one's going to hurt him ever again."

"How is he?"

"Same condition." If not worse. "I'll take care of him tonight, then we can see about that specialist tomorrow. Did you call Bourland?"

"Yes, and it was hell trying to fill him in when I didn't know anything."

"It's all right; he's used to me doing that to people. Would you call him again for me? If I phone he'll want details, and I'm too exhausted. Tell him what I just said and that he'll get a complete debrief tomorrow. A coherent one."

"What about Luis? Where is he?"

"Not in the picture," he said shortly.

Silence on the other end as Sam digested this. "Okay. You'll tell me everything?"

"I promise." Which, of course, was a lie. Richard had no intention of telling Sam the truth about Luis and his horrific betrayal. The man dealt with evil enough on a daily basis, no need to add another nightmare to his collection.

Nor would Bourland hear any of it. He'd been fond of Luis for Stephanie's sake. He did not need to wonder if he couldn't have done more, sensed something or anticipated the unimaginable, and have somehow prevented the butchery—all the things that were eating at Richard's soul.

This is my burden, my good friends. You're better off without it. 

He would come up with a story to cover Luis's disappearance. Alejandro would get the blame. That would be the end of it.

But what of Michael, who knew the truth?

He carried the still-sleeping boy gently, thumbed the elevator button, and waited for it to deliver him to a few hours of peace before the morning storm. As before, he laid Michael in the big bed, then padded about seeing to his own needs. Once clean, his skin flushed red from the heat of a scalding shower, he carried the crossbow tripod out to the front room.

No need to wonder now how Trujillo's hit man had gotten into the flat. Luis himself could have been the one to set up the trap.

At least it wasn't a bomb. 

As soon as he thought of it, Richard made a quick, thorough search of the place, sniffing for Semtex in every cupboard, peering under every stick of furniture. Then he went down to his safe room and did the same. He felt ridiculous, but knew no rest would come to him until he satisfied his flare of paranoia.

That done, he stretched out heavily on the bedroom sofa, and listened to Michael's soft breathing, waiting for sleep to take him, too.

He was on the point of drifting into it when the sound of the elevator snapped him wide awake. Who on earth . . . ? 

Then he suddenly knew and hurried forth, his heart hammering.

The doors parted, and he swept Sabra up into his arms.

"You knew to come," he said, quite some moments later. For a time it was enough to simply hold her. His fatigue vanished.

"How could I not? Your pain and need called me like a thunderclap. I'm only sorry I could not get here sooner."

He put her down, and looked at her. Outwardly, she was the same as ever, beautiful, delicate of frame and face, but there were changes in her that only he could discern. There was a new power within her now, carefully veiled to most, quite visible to him. She possessed a strange strength that went beyond the apparent limits of her small body, as though the woman before him was merely a projection of her real self, an ephemeral vessel to interact with the temporal world. He had the feeling that should the projection ever became a full reality, mountains would crumble.

The Grail had done that for her.

"You've suffered much," she said, having gazed at him in turn.

"You're here. I can bear anything now."

She smiled. "Take care what you say, my Richard."

"I know." He was long familiar with the universe's antic sense of humor. "But it's still true."

She dragged a sizable backpack in from the elevator, leaving it on the floor. Dressed in an old, oversized sweater, faded jeans, and jogging shoes, her long hair tied back with a bandanna, she could have vanished into any college campus, but for her eyes.

She could stop rivers with those eyes. 

"Show me the child," she said, straightening.

He ushered her to the bedroom. She glanced down once at the surprisingly large bloodstain on the threshold carpet and looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. He shrugged sheepishly, then motioned toward the bed. The only light came from the open bathroom door, more than sufficient for them both.

She bent over Michael, touching a loving hand to his forehead. She was not his declared godmother—that honor had gone to Bourland's daughter—but was certainly his spiritual one for her link to Richard. She caressed the silken blond hair, then went still, her eyes closed. She remained so for a long time, then took a shuddering breath and pulled away, shivering.

He went to her. "What is it?"

"The child is dying."

His heart plummeted. No. Not again. We've been through too much.  

Michael could not die. He was all that was left, all that remained of the beauty that had once been Stephanie, that had once held Richard so close, so wrapped in an unconditional, an undemanding love. "Is his fate sealed beyond all change?"

Sabra's smile was sad, yet it warmed his very soul. In that smile he knew that no matter what, all would be well. "Not quite."

He sagged with relief. There was a chance then, and if it were even remotely within his power, he would make it a certainty. "What must I do?"

She reached her hand up and gently touched his pale, unshaven face. "Ah, Richard, ever the knight, ever the protector. Indeed there is much, and it is such that only you can do. A man betrayed the boy, and a man must save him. Only another who has been so terribly wounded can heal his wound."

"I do not understand."

"Think back to another son despised by an unloving father, another so cast away, another wounded nigh unto death."

The inner vision was so strong, Richard saw it as though it were happening again: his father's face full of hate, the bite of the blade, and the tearing pain. Pain that went far deeper and continued longer than that of any physical wound; pain that had been his enemy and then his strange, awful friend; pain that had faded yet never quite disappeared. His most bitter companion. How unloved is a son unloved by his father, how desperate and unending his loneliness and despair. Such a great, unfillable void to bestow as a paternal legacy.

"Whatever Michael needs, that will I do."

"I knew as much. You must go and find his spirit. He is much hurt and needs your healing. Complete the circle before his soul drifts so far away that it can never return."

"Yes, of course I'll go; but where?"

Her dark eyes glittered in the cool dimness of the room. "Beyond."

When she explained what was to be done, Richard took her hand, leading her out.

"I've the perfect place," he said. "Bring all that you need."

Puzzled, but trusting his judgment, she went to her backpack and drew forth a bundle that made discrete clinking sounds. From it rose the dusky scent of herbs and incense. The second bundle was smaller, padded well, and wrapped in pure white linen that he recognized as handwoven. He knew Sabra would have raised, harvested, and worked the flax herself, weaving in magic with each pass of the thread shuttle. He had no need to ask what was inside, he could feel its serene force. She gave him the larger bundle, hugging the smaller one to her breast.

He motioned Sabra toward the center of the room where what appeared to be a square, free-standing closet had been built as a space divider. One of its four outer walls held an entertainment center, two had shelving or displayed artwork. He opened the door set in the fourth, entering a cubicle with a spiral staircase. It went up to a trapdoor in the ceiling, which he pushed open.

As she followed, emerging into the chamber above, he could not repress a grin. How good it was to know that even after fifteen hundred years he could himself surprise and enchant her.

They stood in the very apex of the great glass pyramid.

The slanting panels of glass met twenty feet overhead, the floor being an exact forty by forty feet. It was huge, but not oppressive with its space as in some structures. Fresh air circulated from hidden floor vents, which kept the heat from building up too much during the day, exposed as it was to the full sun.

He eased the trapdoor down, seamlessly enclosing them.

The floor was wood parquet, a light background with a dark red pattern stained into it. Within the largest framing square was a circle, within the circle a smaller square, its angles aligned to the compass points. The square-within-circle pattern continued until the final square. Unlike the rest of New Karnak, the measurements here were balanced and true. Richard had seen to that, drawing out the lines and painstakingly applying the stain himself.

But the focus was the construct in the middle. It was a step pyramid within the smooth-sided one and composed entirely of interlocking slats of thick, clear plastic. Free-standing, it rose to a platform ten feet up, the top in the exact center of the chamber.

"What do you think?" he asked, but was already delighting at the look on her face.

She finally found speech again, looking at him with bright, loving eyes. "You . . . absolutely amaze me."

"This is why I had to have the place." They climbed slowly to the top, his bare feet brushing the warm plastic, the sun energy flowing up into him in a form that did not injure. Standing there made it seem as though they were suspended, floating not only in the room but above the night-dark city.

Beyond the glass, the city itself was a distant fairyland, all lights and shadows. To the north were vast unlit fields and woods, yet untouched.

"It's my own world," he said. "I come here to meditate and remember how small we truly are in the universe and yet how boundlessly important."

She took his hand. Her love seemed to course from her fingers and into him like a rushing fall of water. "It is perfect. Let us begin."

Midnight, not of the clock, but the true mid of night when the moon was at her Zenith and the sun blotted out by the whole of the planet's bulk.

They sat cross-legged on the high center platform, facing each other. Sabra looked west, Richard east. Between them was a brass brazier on a tripod in which charcoal smoldered.

Sabra unwrapped the smaller, more precious treasure and reverently held it high. A small cup it was, very ancient, yet untouched by time. Richard fell in love with its simple beauty and all that it represented all over again. It was object and idea at once, promise and fulfillment, desire and satiation.

A frisson of its power went through him as Sabra placed it in his open upturned hands.

"Hold it gently," she said. "It will be there when you are in need."

He nodded, full well knowing the truth of that.

Sabra produced dried herbs from a leather pouch, casting them onto the redly glowing coals. The smoke swirled about them, a heady mixture of sage, sweet grass, and others he could not tell. They kindled, flames shooting up high and hot, but short-lived, guttering to extinction, releasing white smoke.

Magic was suddenly in the air. He could feel it all around, far more powerful than he, than even Sabra. Yet what was here was but one minute tendril drawn down from the whole of the core.

She cast a handful of incense into the brass vessel. The smoke doubled, trebled, pouring out to permeate every corner of the great chamber.

Absurdly, it occurred to him the alarm in the rooms below could well go off bringing heavy-booted firemen, all axes and purpose, crashing in on them. He almost said something, but Sabra, catching his thought as she often did, merely smiled and shook her head. The Goddess would take care of such problems. He needed to focus on the task before him, to clear his mind of distractions. Michael's life depended on it.

The child still slept in the bedroom below, body intact, soul elsewhere.

Sabra began to chant, repeating over and over an ancient rhyme in a tongue he'd never heard before. She was calling out to someone, he discerned that much, and it was working. Softer than the touch of a shadow, other voices joined hers, one by one in the same key, female, strong, insistent.

The smoke thickened, whirling in a slow spiral around them.

The full moon was directly overhead, at first brilliant silver, so bright as to hurt his sensitive eyes. Then the silver darkened, the mottled markings on her distant face turned blood red, spreading across the whole of the disk. Its lurid light filled the room, melding with the smoke until he and Sabra seemed to float on a sea of blood.

Her chanting—and the chanting of her unseen sisters—grew louder; the sea closed in on them. It rose high until it filled all of Richard's sight. He concentrated on keeping his mind clear and calm. Fear would dispel everything.

Red darkness surrounded him, red moonlight bathed him from above, brightening again to hurt his eyes. It physically pulled at him.

He felt himself lifted toward the crimson light, drawn inexorably forth into its vortex. The chanting rang in his ears, rushing through his temples, roaring like a torrent in springtime. He stretched his arms high. Strong, invisible hands carried him swiftly upward; he passed through the barrier of glass as one might run through a curtain of strung beads.

His eyes were shut tight now; he strained for air, his breath coming in heaving gasps. He wanted to move but could not; something held him close in an iron grip along the whole length of his body. Panic-stricken, he tried to speak, to open his eyes. He was paralyzed again by the poison, only this time he would never wake from its spell. He tried to scream, but all he could hear was the chanting, the voices buffeting him like fists as he spun helpless and blind . . .

And then silence.

Suddenly released, he sat up as though from a nightmare, sweat cold on his brow, eyes staring. He could scarce take in what they showed him: a bright sunlit meadow, green under the midsummer sun, quite beautiful.

But slow, painful death if he did not find shade.

He saw a line of trees nearby. He stumbled toward their shelter, not understanding why he could not persuade his unsteady legs to more speed. They dragged like leaden weights over the thick overgrown grass. It took him ages to cover the ground, and when he fell beneath the shade of a friendly oak, he gasped like a dying fish. His side had caught a stitch and hurt like blazes. What was wrong? Was the poison still at work on him? He felt so weak and tired from the exertion. No matter, he would soon recover. Sabra said he had very little time left to find Michael, so while catching his second wind he took stock of himself, his surroundings.

He was no longer in his old blue bathrobe, but fully dressed in a soft woolen tunic and leggings the color of twine. Leather boots were on his feet, leather belt riding low on his hip, all handmade. He'd not worn such clothes for a thousand years. They felt strange to him, bringing back tactile memories long forgot. He wasn't just in another world but in very much another time.

The Grail was gone from his hands, but that did not trouble him. In this magical place intent was as strong as actuality. If and when he needed the Grail, it would be there as she'd promised.

What he'd first taken to be a meadow was actually a large clearing in the midst of a great wood. He recognized nothing about this place with no landmarks immediately visible. There was no sign of gaudy New Karnak. He certainly wasn't in Texas any more. Not with these massive trees. Some of the oaks here were a full ten feet or more in girth, ancient even by his standards, with shadows black as death gathered beneath them. Many raised their gnarled branches high to the sun, others were bent and twisted, taking perverse glory in their corruption, and some were divided, with new growth above, but their trunks split asunder to show rotting cores.

The day was warm, not burning hot, the sun shining gently from a pale blue sky. All around were the sounds of life. Birds sang incessantly, one taking over from the other unbidden, their calls filling the honey-sweet air with undeniable joy. Insects hummed along their busy way, drawn by the heady smell of wildflowers that drenched him, soothing as thoughts of love.

He leaned back against the trunk of the oak. Such a blissfully exquisite day he had not known for . . . how long? He couldn't remember. Had he ever? No matter. He did now.

He smiled, idly pushing his fingers deep into the grass until they reached the damp earth below, then raised them to his face to take in the wondrous scent of earth and green growth. It stirred his soul, that rich smell, he wanted to rest here and just breathe for a week. He knew that wasn't possible, but it couldn't hurt to steal just a moment. His eyelids flickered. He did not want to sleep, he would miss the beauty around him, but the heavy, lush air lulled him. The endless drone of insect and birdsong grew louder, shutting away all else, and his eyelids drifted shut.

"Richard!"

A voice cut through his semi-slumber.

"Richard!"

He knew the voice yet could not name it. It came from everywhere and nowhere.

"Richard, do not sleep!"

Something slapped him, hard. He twice felt the hot sting of a hand on his face. His eyes flashed open, alarmed. "Sabra?" His own voice sounded strange, thick and slurred as if he had been long abed, yet he had not dozed off. Or had he? He did not know. "I hear you, Sabra. What is wrong?"

"You must not sleep, my love. This is a dangerous place, treacherous. Time is not as it should be for you. Many have been here before and slept, some never to waken, some to return eventually to life but old, confused, swearing that they had closed their eyes but a moment. A moment here may be years elsewhere. Time is loosened and is your enemy."

He stood and rubbed his eyes. The air was cooler now, the birdsong more remote and less seductive. "Where are you?"

"Beyond." Sabra's voice was distant, fading. "This is all the help I can give, and then only by the strength of the Goddess and the Nine Sisters. To find Michael you must follow the signs as in the old days."

"What signs?"

"You will know them. Trust in that. But beware, there is danger for you that I did not foresee."

"What danger?"

"In this land you are an ordinary man once more."

"Ordinary? How can that be?" He could not believe such a thing.

"The magic demands balance. The blood of the Hounds of Annwyn was the price of your passage here. I did not know the Guardians would take it from you. In this place you are a fragile mortal man. You can die here. Truly die."

No—that was impossible. He felt no different. Or did he? "Sabra . . . ?"

"Take care, my love, for there is danger all around. Hurry, do not tarry. Find him!"

And the voice was gone.

Nerves taut and all his senses alert, Richard stared around with fresh eyes. Mortality? How? The first rush of terror froze him a moment, then eased as he thought things through. Danger was all around, true, but he'd survived in a tougher, much more demanding world than this for thirty-five years before his change. He could deal with this summer land for however long it took.

At least now he understood why his run to the shelter of the trees seemed to take so much effort. And why his senses seemed so muffled.

He would indeed take extra care. Yet there was one advantage to this return to mortal frailty. He stepped into the sunlight, raising his face like a supplicant for a blessing. It shone full on him, and for the first time in many, many centuries, all he felt was its warm healing caress. No blindness, no acidlike burning. He closed his eyes and spun slowly in a circle, arms outstretched, a game he used to play as a child, though he could not remember what it was called.

It was in truth a blessing, and he would remember it forever.

A sharp, cracking sound. A careless footfall? Richard dropped to his haunches, jolted from his reverie. He would remember forever . . . if he lived that long.

Something moved in the woods across the clearing, and he could not pierce the thick shadows under the trees to see.

There, again! A twig snapping and the rustle of dead leaves. It was closer. Richard, mindful of his new-vulnerable state, slipped back to the shelter of the trees on his side. There was silence once more for several long minutes. All he could hear now was the pounding of blood in his brain. Dear Goddess, but he'd forgotten the feeling of this kind of fear. Terror and exhilaration at once. He'd lost the memory of how alive it made him from one instant to the next.

He strained his eyes searching the trees opposite for any sign of whoever or whatever it was but could see nothing. He abruptly heard the sound again . . . there . . . yes, something white moved there. But what?

It emerged slowly from cover; delicate, shy, huge eyes innocent yet wise, a pure white hart stepped out into the sunlight, graceful as a dancer.

He slumped and tried to steady his still-racing heart. Relief flooded through him so strongly that he wanted to laugh; instead, he held himself quiet, not wanting to startle the animal.

The hart came a few paces into the clearing, standing quite still, only her ears flicking nervously for sound. And then she saw him. He would have sworn that it was not possible for her to know he was there. He'd been quite silent, and was mostly hidden behind a tree. Yet as he watched she turned deliberately, and fixed her great brown eyes upon him.

Come.

He gaped in response to the flower-soft whisper. It could have been a trick of the wind. Merely the leaves above shifting and not—

Come! 

The voice was clear in his head this time. Then the hart turned and walked daintily back whence she had come. At the edge of the clearing she paused, as though waiting, looking once over her shoulder at him.

Follow the signs as in the old days, Sabra had said. The white hart had ever been a sign, a very powerful one, leading to adventure and danger. Richard's nerves tingled at the thought. She could only be here for him, to lead him to Michael. If his soul had retreated to this sanctuary, he might well have followed the hart himself. What child could have resisted?

Richard stood. The sudden movement startled the animal, for she skittered and seemed about to flee, but spun and stood her ground. He now stepped into the clearing, and they faced each other, man and beast united in common purpose.

"Where is Michael, good friend?" he murmured. "Lead me to him, if you will."

She broke away at once, ears canted to hear his progress as he followed.

Deeper in the woods the daylight faded, filtered by the dense foliage. The hart kept her distance ahead, and he did not try to close the gap. The white of her coat was easy to see as she picked her way, and Richard knew better than to try to hurry her, else she would leave him.

The journey was not easy. The trees grew close together here, often forming a barrier that he was unable to get through. Then he would have to circle around searching for a clear path. She would wait for him at these times, nibbling at tender leaves or snuffling the ground until he caught up, then she would head off again.

The exertion was beginning to have its effect on Richard. The day was still warm, and no cooling breeze could penetrate this growth. Sweat plastered his hair, and his clothes were soaked. Branches snapped and snagged at his progress, scratching him, and a myriad of insects clung in a hovering cloud. They got in his eyes and nose, biting, feeding on his blood.

So this is how it feels! 

He swiped impatiently at them, angered that such small things could create so great a hurt.

When he looked up, the hart was gone. She'd ever been in sight, but no longer. The forest went unnaturally still. No birds, only the insects remained to continue their torment. He was quite alone, deep in the tangled trees and undergrowth with no idea of where he was or which way he must go.

He looked around desperately, cursing himself for a fool for having followed the animal unthinkingly. He looked for the path that he'd broken through the trees, but it had vanished as well. Fear began to rise up once more, for it was in dark places as this that panic was first bred and birthed. This forest was an enemy, terrifying in its vastness. He had to fight the urge to shout for help as he looked desperately around; who would hear him? Should he stay or go, and which way? He could not see the sun to mark a direction.

It would get dark all too soon. He had no wish to spend the night in this place. Blindly he set forth, snapping branches as he went, going as fast as he could in the close surroundings. At least he was moving. That certainly made him feel better. Then he spied a strangely gnarled tree just ahead and knew he'd seen it before. His heart sank as he realized that it marked the spot where he'd stood when the hart disappeared. Without her guidance he'd walked in a circle.

He sank to the ground, his heart hammering as he gave in to a moment of pure terror. He was lost, utterly, utterly lost. He wiped his brow and held his head in his hands, cursing the price he'd unknowingly paid to come to this hellish place. What he would give for his vampire senses now. Tears of frustration welled in his eyes, and he rubbed them away impatiently.

"This is not for me, but for Michael!" he called out. "Take me to him! Please!"

Movement.

A flash of white barely glimpsed through the tangle ahead. A pale gleam like a ghost.

He hauled himself upright and with fresh hope staggered forward through tangling vines and tree roots. The forest seemed against him, trying to hold him back, branches reaching forth to twist about his arms and legs, slapping his face and neck, leaves rustling with cruel laughter. He pushed and fought his way through. It had to end eventually. It must. He thought of free-flowing air and escape from the damned blood-sucking insects.

But when he finally burst through into a clearing, the white he had glimpsed was not that of the hart. It was the tattered dress of a woman leaning with her back against a tree. Her head was bowed as though praying or asleep, her long, rippling hair hanging free.

The sight so surprised him that he forgot caution, standing in the open to stare.

She was not really leaning. Her arms were drawn back around the trunk. She moved a little, and across the space between them Richard heard the unmistakable sound of chains clanking, chains and her quiet sobbing.

She was not alone. Some twenty feet from her was pitched a knight's pavilion. His war-horse, in full battle armor, cropped contentedly at the sweet grasses of the clearing. A shield bearing no token to identify its owner hung from one of the boughs nearby along with a sword in its scabbard. A lance leaned up against them.

Follow the signs as in the old days. Sabra's words once more rang in his head.

This was definitely a knightly quest. The hart had led him here, and now he must rescue the lady. It was one of the immutable laws of chivalry. A test of his courage. But he was mortal here, so any conflict could be deadly, and this would be conflict against a fully armed and armored knight. He had no doubt such a one occupied the pavilion.

Well, I've learned a few new tricks since those old days. Let's see what happens. 

Richard stole forward, his soft boots silent on the grass. The woman looked up at him, her eyes sad and full of fear. He signed for her to be still, then reached for the sword and shield.

That's when he heard the knight emerging from the tent.

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