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Chapter Six

The tunnel was long, yet it seemed that he was finally coming to the end; he could see lights. He headed directly for them, but they were not to be reached, for even as he neared they swung away at the last instant, and darkness closed around him again. Would he ever find the end of it? He began to despair when more lights appeared in the distance. Again to his frustration, they swung away from him, but this time a strange wailing sound accompanied them. It rose and fell as it passed.

Too much like a banshee, Richard thought, stirring with unease.

The blackness slowly brightened, though, and Richard realized that he was sitting in an enclosed space, and there was something under his right foot that vibrated slightly. In fact everything vibrated slightly all around him. If only he could see more in this damned murk. He bowed his head, rubbing the glue from his eyes, and his world gave an unexpected lurch. He snapped up, all attention, found he could see perfectly well, and for a split second, panic seized him.

His car sped along, weaving gently from side to side, paying attention to neither the line down the middle of the road nor its ragged shoulders. No wonder the lights swerved away from his approach. They'd been other cars. Thank God he'd not caught any of them.

He grabbed hard at the steering wheel where his hands rested, and brought the vehicle under control. How in the name of all things had he gotten here? He could not remember. He must have left the house and been driving on autopilot for God knows how long—without bothering to turn on the headlights. It was a wonder he hadn't killed anyone.

Richard corrected the oversight and tried to get his bearings. He was still out in the country, and heading toward a glow on the horizon that must be Dallas. The clock on the dash pulsed green numbers at him, but he couldn't wrap his mind around the time it showed, only that it was very late. Or very early. Hours must have passed since his nightmare had begun. And he was apparently still in it.

He was sweating, and dizziness washed over him in waves, though the sea that tossed him was no longer in full storm. Memories came and went willy-nilly, refusing to stay long enough for sorting. Finding the bodies, the explosion, he could remember those clearly enough, but other details were muddy. He'd been sick . . . no, badly injured—

As if in response to the thought a sudden cramp in his stomach doubled him over, and the car swerved in violent reaction. He had to stop.

He hit the brakes a good deal harder than he meant, and the vehicle came to rest with its front end on the shoulder, its rear out on the road. No matter, it wasn't a busy highway. Richard cut the motor, pushed the door open, and staggered out into the night air. It cooled him, and he drank it down in great gulps like an exhausted runner. He remembered now. The damned animal blood. The hallucinations and shadows.

And . . . that vision.

He'd seen it all, seen how the murders in the house had happened. He had been Michael, been right inside his head, looking out through his eyes. Yet how could that be? Richard did not have the Sight. Sabra had told him often enough that it was not part of his Gift.

"It is given by the Goddess at birth. Even before birth, and to a very few. She chooses who will see, not I. And she does not give her reasons." And she squeezed his hand like a parent with a disappointed child.

He could feel her hand now, small, almost hidden in his grasp, warm and full of comfort. The feeling was so strong he had to look to see that she was not truly there. He was sorry for that, longing for the solace of her presence. She would know what to do, what to say to make things better, but she was miles away in her Vancouver wilderness.

The vision of the killings disturbed him deeply, not for what it was—he had expected such brutal violence—but for the fact that he'd seen it at all. He had the uncomfortable knowledge of having gone someplace dangerous where he was not supposed to venture, like a child swimming in a lake against his parent's wishes. There were certain things that were of the Goddess and should not be tampered with, and Richard had a chill feeling in his gut he'd somehow done exactly that. He'd swum deep in the forbidden lake, and looked up at the world above through its changing waters, and seen what he should not. A shiver crept its slow way up his spine at the very thought. Damn the animal blood for taking him where he was not meant to go.

But it had shown him what Michael had seen, felt, and thought, which could be . . . Michael. Where was he?

The car's interior illuminated as Richard opened the rear driver's door, and in the harsh light he could see the boy was sitting safely belted in the back seat. He slid partway in for a better look at the child.

"Michael, it's Uncle Richard. Can you hear me? Michael?"

No response. The silence rang deafeningly through the still night air. Those dead blue eyes gazed straight ahead, quite unaware of him. Richard stroked the boy's hair, whispering his name again. Still no response. Little wonder, considering what he'd been through. The vision had been disturbing enough for Richard, but poor Michael had witnessed the real thing. Richard would have to get him help.

He eased out and closed the rear door, the abrupt darkness swallowing everything. No streetlamps this far away from town. Usually he didn't mind the lack of artificial lights, but craved them now. Lights meant that he wouldn't feel so damned alone.

But before he could get inside to drive, the cramping nausea hit again, and Richard folded over with the hurt, leaning desperately against the car, sweat breaking out in great drops on his brow and falling to mix in tiny muddy puddles on the dry earth. His body ached in every pore, and his vision swam. God, but this was too much. He'd have to look after himself before he could look after the boy. He still needed human blood to dispel the last of the alien poison. He had to get back to New Karnak. Quickly.

After an age the pain eased, and Richard was able to stand upright and get in the car. It slipped easily into drive, and he set the rental right on the pavement, heading south. Driving was a huge effort. At first he thought the power steering was out, then realized it was simply his own physical weakness that made holding the wheel such an exertion.

He was healed for the most part, though. That was something to celebrate. The broken leg felt normal again, and the angry red skin marking his burns had faded to a less alarming pink. Even his torn-out nails had grown back. The blood had done its miracle, but the aftermath was still playing a devil's game with his insides.

His hands trembled, and whenever a wave hit he leaned forward toward the windshield, unable to sit up straight, resting his chin on the wheel. The car wandered alarmingly, and he found himself having to ease up on the gas during bouts so as not to go off the road before he could correct things. He was doing no more than twenty. At this rate it would take hours to get home.

He wiped sweat from his eyes. Tried to concentrate. He kept drifting in and out, always unaware of the onset of the dark mist, and waking with alarm at its retreat.

He wrenched the car over once more from the wrong side of the road. I should stop, he thought, but knew he could not. His sight blurred fitfully, and he shook his head in a feeble attempt to clear his vision. Then he noticed bright lights in the rearview mirror flashing red to blue, red to blue, and gave an inward groan. Why were they always there when you didn't want them? He heard the siren wail a short, imperious warning, and obedient to the law, he eased the car onto the shoulder and coasted to a halt. The police car did the same, leaving its headlights on. Richard could just make out the vague form of the officer inside and his heart gave a small leap. His initial dismay at the intrusion evaporated. This might be exactly what he needed.

But he was so weak. If only he could sleep. The steering wheel was mercifully cool against his forehead. His eyes fell shut.

He heard a car door slam and slow footsteps on the gravel of the shoulder. Then a flashlight beam shone red through his lids. He rolled his head to one side and squinted out the open window. It was a woman, clipboard in one hand, flashlight in the other, her uniform and badge proclaiming her to be a member of Addison's finest.

"Good morning, sir," she said in an overly loud voice. The sort of voice law enforcement professionals always used to command attention. It did not jibe well with the polite words. "How are you doing?"

There was nothing to be gained trying to form a reply to that query. He was doing rather badly, thank you very much; she should be able to see that for herself.

She shone the light around the interior and caught a good long look at Richard. He stank of smoke and sweat. His clothes were mostly torn away and what remained was either scorched or covered in dried blood. Her breath escaped in a non-professional hiss. "Jesus!"

Richard could see her silver name tag now against the dark blue of her shirt: Henebry.

"I'm just a little tired, officer . . ." Good God, what lunatic had answered for him just then? He could do better than that.

"Sir? Sir, I'm going to ask you to get out of your car."

Very well, ask away. 

"Sir—I want you to get out of the car. Can you do that?"

I'd really rather not if you don't mind. 

"Come on. Get out right now." Still speaking loud and clear. She had a no-nonsense quality about her that in other circumstances, Richard was sure he would find appealing. But here and now it irritated the hell out of him. It was probably the way she acted as though he were slightly deaf and somewhat backward mentally. Perhaps she thought he was drunk.

"Maybe I should rest here for a little while . . ."

"I said get out of the car, sir, and I mean right now." She was new. Richard could tell that without asking. There was an edge in her voice that gave her away, that and a bead of sweat on her upper lip. "Come on, open the door."

She was starting to grate on his nerves, ordering him about so politely, but he could also be teeth-grittingly courteous. Richard attempted what he hoped would pass for a smile of compliance and pulled on the handle. It took some work to push the door open, then turn and get his legs out. He finally managed to boost clear, standing more or less upright facing her.

Officer Henebry was solid and fit in her uniform. He towered over her.

Henebry backed off a step, still holding her clipboard. Her other hand rested on the big semi-auto strapped to her hip. Considering his appalling state he couldn't blame her. "Are you all right? You want to tell me what happened to you?" she asked, spacing the words.

Not in this lifetime I don't. Richard shook his head, gathering his scattered thoughts. He should have taken care of this by now. His usual time for dealing with traffic violations was less than a minute. Ah, but this was no simple avoidance of a speeding ticket.

"Are you injured? What happened to you?" she demanded, shining her light on him. "Who's the little boy in the back seat?"

The reminder of Michael snapped him to full alertness. For the moment. How long would it last? Never mind that, get to work. 

"I want to see some identification. You got a driver's license?"

"Yes, officer. It's in my wallet." He slowly reached toward his back pocket. Henebry, on guard, tensed. Her grasp tightened on her gun, ready to pull it free.

Richard turned slightly, so she could see his every move, and took out his wallet using two fingers. He could not fault her for her caution. Aside from domestic disputes, the most disagreeable calls cops generally faced were investigating driving violations. Especially at night.

"Take it out of the wallet, please," she told him. The whole situation was wearing thin. Could this downturn possibly be another unpleasant hallucination? He wasn't certain. Better to play along. A docile attitude might reassure her somewhat. Things would work better for them both if she was relaxed.

He glanced back at her car to see if she was alone. She was. Better and better. Then he noticed something that would put a decided crimp in things. The vehicle had a surveillance camera set in the grill. The picture would likely be of poor quality, but enough to later identify him. It would have recorded his rental's tags as well. The paranoia of the twentieth century was often defensible, but now it was just bloody inconvenient.

He pulled his Canadian driving license clear and held it out to her. "Here it is, officer. I think you'll find it all in order."

She was intent on taking it from him, but for a moment, for a very crucial moment, she looked him in the eyes.

All he had to do was smile. He summoned enough strength to make a profound impression.

The wrong kind, as it happened.

Her service semi-auto appeared almost as if by magic in her hand. It was a Glock, its dark plastic surface dully reflecting first the blue, then the red of the prowl car's flashing lights. Henebry pointed it steadily at him. Right between his eyes to be exact. He felt a sudden tightness in his chest as the memory of Michael's horrific vision superimposed itself on the present time. Richard had to fight to maintain control, to keep himself from running away.

"Put your hands on your head!"

Funny, his smile was usually enough to win anyone over. But then he usually wasn't clad in burned, bloodstained rags and . . . oh. Oh, dear.

His corner teeth were out. No wonder she'd reacted so strongly. His beast could have that effect on people.

Henebry slapped the clipboard on the hood of his car, and shook out a pair of handcuffs. Richard was as adventurous as the next man, but he didn't think she had any intention of putting them to some sort of erotic use. "Lean on the car. Place your hands on the roof and lean on them."

"How can I do that and still have them on my head?" he inquired, annoyed again.

"Just turn around and put them flat on the roof." She said it with a sense of satisfaction, almost as if quoting from some obscure training test.

Richard grimly struggled to think of how to delay things. Once she got those cuffs on him he'd not be able to break free of them; he was too weak for that. Then he would be stuck in the endless quagmire of officialdom.

"I've done nothing wrong, officer." He was too weak for some things, but his beast gave him one last little reserve to draw from.

"Don't argue with me; turn—"

He could yet move very fast.

She had no chance to finish. Between one eye blink and the next he snagged the gun from her grasp. He caught her before she could react, swung her around, pressing her against the rental car with his body. She recovered quickly, though, and started to struggle, but abandoned that when he made her aware the gun was pressed hard on her temple. He hated doing it, but it was a necessary compensation for his feeble state. It also commanded her undivided attention.

The scent of her sudden fear jumped at him. How tantalizing that was to his beast.

Control. Keep control. 

"Now, Officer Henebry—" No, such an address was too awkward, too formal for what he had in mind. "What's your first name?"

She glared at him. Scared as she must be, she was also mad as hell.

He asked the same question again, this time using her gun for emphasis.

"Kath," she spat out. "Kath Henebry."

"That's lovely. Suits you very well."

"Listen, mister—"

"I think not. You must listen to me, Kath. What I have to say is very important; you need to hear every word. Are you listening, Kath Henebry?" He looked her hard in the eye. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them when she did not answer. "Are you?" he asked, his tone softer, more seductive.

"I hear you." She practically sighed out her reply. There was a definite blush on her face, but he wasn't sure if it was because of him or a product of her anger.

He continued to look hard at her, but spoke mild, soothing words, and almost imperceptibly she slipped under his sway. Her eyes glazed slightly, and her breathing became even. Richard reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair under her hat. That done, he stepped back, holding to the car to keep his balance. The effort had taken a lot out of him. She remained in place, staring at the empty fields. Excellent. He held the heavy firearm out to her.

"I want you to put the gun away and not move until I tell you to."

The only sound was the smart snap of plastic against leather as she obeyed. She continued to stare, a wonderfully serene expression on her face.

"Thank you." He quickly checked on Michael who was as he'd left him, belted in the back seat, still unresponsive. Mindful or not of the world around him, he certainly did not need to see what was about to happen.

Richard turned back to Officer Henebry and reestablished their connection. "Come around here with me, Kath, there is something we have to do. It will not be unpleasant for either of us."

He took her hand. It was very small in his, freshly manicured and warm. He lifted it in his and brushed his lips against it. She smelled of roses, and he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Her veins lay pale blue under the skin, and in the silence, he could hear her heart fluttering.

The stimulus had its welcome effect. The sickness, the aches of his body, fled for the moment as deep in his gut, his groin, he felt his need for her. It was more intense than usual. He would have to be careful and take her now while what self-control he possessed was still in place. Gently, he led her around so that her patrol car lay protectively between them and the road. This was a very open place, and he did not want to be disturbed by any passing motorist. He glanced quickly both ways, but everything was clear.

Kath stood facing him, mouth slightly open, lips moist. She wore lipstick, and Richard idly wondered if that was allowed on duty. He took off her hat. Her shining brown hair was curled up in a knot. How lovely it would be to take it down and twine between his fingers . . .

Steady on. 

"Roll up your sleeve."

She obeyed.

"Now hold out your arm."

This she did too, and Richard moved closer. He knew what he looked like at this moment, and was glad she had no conscious perception of it. His eyes were red, wolflike, and his teeth long and razor sharp. A low growl, pure animal, rose from him, and his beast impatiently stirred as Richard braced her against the car.

He took her arm in his hand, and brought it up to his mouth. The scent of roses was heavy at the wrist, then diminished as he moved along toward the elbow. His sense of smell was heightened, and the fragrance almost brought water to his eyes, it seemed so potent. He slid his other arm around her waist, and despite his best efforts at self-restraint, pressed himself roughly upon her, feeling the firm length of her body with his. He ran his tongue slowly along her neck, tasting her, feeling the veins there throbbing so quickly. Ah, if only he had more time and was not in such sore need. He would have to forgo this sweet contact in favor of one less dangerous to her.

He bowed his head down, and bit into the soft skin on the inside of her elbow. His teeth cut through the flesh easily, and the blood flowed strong into him, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

He sucked hungrily, hardening, pushing himself urgently against her. Her head fell back and, loosened in the moment, her hair cascaded down. To Richard, it smelled of heaven. He caressed her, feeling the fine texture of her hair, the smoothness of her temple, her cheek. Her mouth opened as his fingers brushed over her lips and a low moan escaped her.

He wanted this to go on and on as he had all those years ago with the servant in Sabra's tent, that first time. More than that, he wanted this woman, wanted to be inside her, to be one with her. Kath's heart beat faster—he could hear it—and her breath came in small gasps. Her breasts pushed hard against him, and he could now smell her musk, heavy in the air with her own arousal.

He supped heavily and well on her strength, her sweetness, her very spirit. If he could not be in her, then she must surely be in him. He felt the rush of her vitality flooding his own veins and welcomed it, reveled in it.

But he had to stop. It would cost Kath her life if he did not. So he pulled back, reluctantly kissing away the remaining traces of blood, eyes closed as he savored the last shreds of ecstasy. He could feel it coursing through him, healing and reviving as it went. He had fed enough to last until he got home.

After a few moments he came back to himself. He lifted her face to his and kissed her long and deep. Then, looking her in the eye, he told her what he always told his partners. She'd been to a blood donation center and would feel a little light-headed for the next day or two. He always carried adhesive bandages in his back pocket for just such occasions, and by some miracle they were yet clean in their wrappings. He taped them over the small puncture marks he'd left, rolled her sleeve down, and fastened the cuff.

"You will remember nothing of what has happened here," he whispered in her ear.

"I will remember nothing," she obligingly confirmed.

Then Richard leaned forward and whispered once more, getting rather detailed. Kath immediately went to her patrol car, and in a very short time he had the highly incriminating surveillance tape in hand. Officer Henebry would simply report that by some mistake the recorder had not been loaded prior to her patrol that night.

"Your hat . . ." He gave it to her.

After a quick rearrangement of her tumbled hair, she replaced her visored cap squarely on her head. "Thank you."

"It truly was a pleasure," he replied, quite sincere.

She threw the car into gear and sped off, executing a smart U-turn and accelerating back in the direction Richard had come from. As she passed, she waved, and Richard heard a long throaty laugh as she disappeared down the road. Yes, it had been an enjoyable experience for them both.

In the distance, her siren started its ominous howl. She would get to what was left of the house and start the whole process of investigation. She wouldn't remember how she'd gotten there or why, but those explanations were her problem, not his. He must be on his way. Her fresh blood had improved his state; the dizziness and cramping had cleared, and his vision, though not steady, was better than it had been. But he was still far from well.

He retrieved his wallet and license from where they'd fallen forgotten on the road shoulder. With some chagrin he noticed her clipboard with its attached paperwork still on his hood. Yet another mystery for the good officer to ponder. Just as well for him to have the thing: she'd recorded his tag numbers. He tossed it on the passenger seat with his drover's coat and hat. There would likely be some record of them with the dispatcher when Kath first called in her stop, but without the car tape and clipboard as support there was a chance the minor mystery would be dismissed. He'd covered that as well while filling her head with instructions. After all, so far as she was concerned, she'd never even seen him, and in less than an hour the police would have far more important matters demanding their attention.

Once inside again he checked on Michael. His head drooped and his eyes were closed; he seemed to be sleeping. Hopefully that was a good sign. There was no point disturbing him. Snapping his seat belt, Richard started the car and pushed it into gear. The sooner home, the better. The last thing he wanted was to be caught out in daylight.

He could sense the sun dragging itself toward the horizon, the sky changing from black to dark blue; the night all but gone.

The rest of the journey proved uneventful, and he was glad for small favors. Driving almost lulled Richard to sleep again, but he came fully awake in time to swoop under the amber lights marking Midway Road. He hurried past gas stations, shopping centers, and light industry, past a restaurant row and office buildings toward the distinctive shape of New Karnak.

Engulfed in its welcoming shadow, he hastened into the underground parking lot. His space next to the elevator was empty, as it should be, and he slipped in and killed the motor. The silence after it died was disconcerting after the long drive. He listened with all his preternatural ability to detect if there was anyone else about at this too-early hour of the morning. He preferred not to have witnesses and thankfully none were apparent.

Getting out, he opened the rear door and reached in. Michael did not wake, and Richard lifted him easily. He'd forgotten how light children were. Holding the boy protectively close, he kicked the door shut and headed for the elevator.

The soft hum of its ascent was comforting, signifying the end of his journey. He leaned back against the wall, tired to the bone, yearning for sleep. The car rode upward uninterrupted to his apartment, stopped with its customary subtlety, and Richard stepped out. The doors closed behind him, the car automatically plummeting back to the garage level. He carried the boy to the master bedroom in the back of the big flat.

Except for spare clothing and some framed photographs, he kept few items of any meaning to himself here. Having been professionally decorated, it was rather like a luxury hotel suite possessing all the basics—and those being of the finest quality—but ultimately impersonal. Still, there was a soothing quality to such surroundings. Passing a mirrored wall on the way, the only chaos Richard perceived in the beautifully coordinated calm was himself and the ragged, dirty little boy in his arms. Scarecrows, the both of them. He turned away, not liking what he glimpsed in his own face.

In the master bedroom Richard turned down the coverlet and sheets with one sweep of his arm, and laid Michael down. The boy did not wake, and his breathing continued normally. Oh, to know that kind of utterly abandoned sleep again. Richard took off the child's shoes and socks, and decided to wait a bit on the rest. Except for some minor scratches on his arms and legs—which Richard knew had come from the flight through the thorny mesquite scrub—he appeared physically unharmed.

There was no measuring the depth of damage done to his mind and spirit, though.

Looking down at Michael's sleeping form, the stresses of the night started to rush at Richard, demanding attention, but he pushed them back. He was in no state to cope with them now. He bent to kiss the boy lightly on the forehead and dragged the covers over him.

Straightening, Richard found the room swaying in a too-familiar manner. The strength he'd taken from Kath Henebry's blood was nearly spent. He needed more. Thank the Goddess for the supply he'd obtained from Dr. Sam, sitting cool in his refrigerator.

He drank down two entire bags before he felt anywhere near to normal again. Their boost gave him enough momentum to strip and stand under a scalding shower. He put it on maximum pressure until the supply in the water heater gave out, then stood dripping before the mirror in the bright light of the bathroom. He again glimpsed the expression on his face, this time able to confront it, to stare himself down. After awhile, its corpselike aspect faded to the less alarming mundanity of simple exhaustion. He took stock of what remained.

The worst of his wounds had completely closed up, though the scars were red and sore. They would soon fade. They always did. Only those he'd achieved before his change remained, like the sword cut on his shoulder that had nearly killed him, and the one where his ring finger had been severed then restored.

The angry raised blisters left by the fire ants had subsided, and the aching pain in his body had eased, but he was not fully recovered. He wanted sleep, and could see no reason for putting it off. He would need all his energy for what was to come.

Wrapped in the loose ease of an oversized terry robe, he made a quick round of the flat. His prime concern was being sure the doors were secure and that the metal blinds over the windows were sealed shut to block out the day. He lay on a sofa in the gentle darkness of the bedroom so as to be close should Michael wake.

Richard shut his eyes, waiting, hoping fatigue would allow him swift oblivion. Hoping he would be spared further dreams. Further nightmares.

Somewhere in that strange place between waking and slumber he realized that the worst was not yet over. Bourland would have to know. How would he tell him?

The vision of Michael's experience placed the time of their deaths in the early morning. Richard had been on the plane then. There was no way he could have arrived in time to prevent any of it.

Cold comfort, that.

Icy cold.

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Framed

Back | Next
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Chapter Six

The tunnel was long, yet it seemed that he was finally coming to the end; he could see lights. He headed directly for them, but they were not to be reached, for even as he neared they swung away at the last instant, and darkness closed around him again. Would he ever find the end of it? He began to despair when more lights appeared in the distance. Again to his frustration, they swung away from him, but this time a strange wailing sound accompanied them. It rose and fell as it passed.

Too much like a banshee, Richard thought, stirring with unease.

The blackness slowly brightened, though, and Richard realized that he was sitting in an enclosed space, and there was something under his right foot that vibrated slightly. In fact everything vibrated slightly all around him. If only he could see more in this damned murk. He bowed his head, rubbing the glue from his eyes, and his world gave an unexpected lurch. He snapped up, all attention, found he could see perfectly well, and for a split second, panic seized him.

His car sped along, weaving gently from side to side, paying attention to neither the line down the middle of the road nor its ragged shoulders. No wonder the lights swerved away from his approach. They'd been other cars. Thank God he'd not caught any of them.

He grabbed hard at the steering wheel where his hands rested, and brought the vehicle under control. How in the name of all things had he gotten here? He could not remember. He must have left the house and been driving on autopilot for God knows how long—without bothering to turn on the headlights. It was a wonder he hadn't killed anyone.

Richard corrected the oversight and tried to get his bearings. He was still out in the country, and heading toward a glow on the horizon that must be Dallas. The clock on the dash pulsed green numbers at him, but he couldn't wrap his mind around the time it showed, only that it was very late. Or very early. Hours must have passed since his nightmare had begun. And he was apparently still in it.

He was sweating, and dizziness washed over him in waves, though the sea that tossed him was no longer in full storm. Memories came and went willy-nilly, refusing to stay long enough for sorting. Finding the bodies, the explosion, he could remember those clearly enough, but other details were muddy. He'd been sick . . . no, badly injured—

As if in response to the thought a sudden cramp in his stomach doubled him over, and the car swerved in violent reaction. He had to stop.

He hit the brakes a good deal harder than he meant, and the vehicle came to rest with its front end on the shoulder, its rear out on the road. No matter, it wasn't a busy highway. Richard cut the motor, pushed the door open, and staggered out into the night air. It cooled him, and he drank it down in great gulps like an exhausted runner. He remembered now. The damned animal blood. The hallucinations and shadows.

And . . . that vision.

He'd seen it all, seen how the murders in the house had happened. He had been Michael, been right inside his head, looking out through his eyes. Yet how could that be? Richard did not have the Sight. Sabra had told him often enough that it was not part of his Gift.

"It is given by the Goddess at birth. Even before birth, and to a very few. She chooses who will see, not I. And she does not give her reasons." And she squeezed his hand like a parent with a disappointed child.

He could feel her hand now, small, almost hidden in his grasp, warm and full of comfort. The feeling was so strong he had to look to see that she was not truly there. He was sorry for that, longing for the solace of her presence. She would know what to do, what to say to make things better, but she was miles away in her Vancouver wilderness.

The vision of the killings disturbed him deeply, not for what it was—he had expected such brutal violence—but for the fact that he'd seen it at all. He had the uncomfortable knowledge of having gone someplace dangerous where he was not supposed to venture, like a child swimming in a lake against his parent's wishes. There were certain things that were of the Goddess and should not be tampered with, and Richard had a chill feeling in his gut he'd somehow done exactly that. He'd swum deep in the forbidden lake, and looked up at the world above through its changing waters, and seen what he should not. A shiver crept its slow way up his spine at the very thought. Damn the animal blood for taking him where he was not meant to go.

But it had shown him what Michael had seen, felt, and thought, which could be . . . Michael. Where was he?

The car's interior illuminated as Richard opened the rear driver's door, and in the harsh light he could see the boy was sitting safely belted in the back seat. He slid partway in for a better look at the child.

"Michael, it's Uncle Richard. Can you hear me? Michael?"

No response. The silence rang deafeningly through the still night air. Those dead blue eyes gazed straight ahead, quite unaware of him. Richard stroked the boy's hair, whispering his name again. Still no response. Little wonder, considering what he'd been through. The vision had been disturbing enough for Richard, but poor Michael had witnessed the real thing. Richard would have to get him help.

He eased out and closed the rear door, the abrupt darkness swallowing everything. No streetlamps this far away from town. Usually he didn't mind the lack of artificial lights, but craved them now. Lights meant that he wouldn't feel so damned alone.

But before he could get inside to drive, the cramping nausea hit again, and Richard folded over with the hurt, leaning desperately against the car, sweat breaking out in great drops on his brow and falling to mix in tiny muddy puddles on the dry earth. His body ached in every pore, and his vision swam. God, but this was too much. He'd have to look after himself before he could look after the boy. He still needed human blood to dispel the last of the alien poison. He had to get back to New Karnak. Quickly.

After an age the pain eased, and Richard was able to stand upright and get in the car. It slipped easily into drive, and he set the rental right on the pavement, heading south. Driving was a huge effort. At first he thought the power steering was out, then realized it was simply his own physical weakness that made holding the wheel such an exertion.

He was healed for the most part, though. That was something to celebrate. The broken leg felt normal again, and the angry red skin marking his burns had faded to a less alarming pink. Even his torn-out nails had grown back. The blood had done its miracle, but the aftermath was still playing a devil's game with his insides.

His hands trembled, and whenever a wave hit he leaned forward toward the windshield, unable to sit up straight, resting his chin on the wheel. The car wandered alarmingly, and he found himself having to ease up on the gas during bouts so as not to go off the road before he could correct things. He was doing no more than twenty. At this rate it would take hours to get home.

He wiped sweat from his eyes. Tried to concentrate. He kept drifting in and out, always unaware of the onset of the dark mist, and waking with alarm at its retreat.

He wrenched the car over once more from the wrong side of the road. I should stop, he thought, but knew he could not. His sight blurred fitfully, and he shook his head in a feeble attempt to clear his vision. Then he noticed bright lights in the rearview mirror flashing red to blue, red to blue, and gave an inward groan. Why were they always there when you didn't want them? He heard the siren wail a short, imperious warning, and obedient to the law, he eased the car onto the shoulder and coasted to a halt. The police car did the same, leaving its headlights on. Richard could just make out the vague form of the officer inside and his heart gave a small leap. His initial dismay at the intrusion evaporated. This might be exactly what he needed.

But he was so weak. If only he could sleep. The steering wheel was mercifully cool against his forehead. His eyes fell shut.

He heard a car door slam and slow footsteps on the gravel of the shoulder. Then a flashlight beam shone red through his lids. He rolled his head to one side and squinted out the open window. It was a woman, clipboard in one hand, flashlight in the other, her uniform and badge proclaiming her to be a member of Addison's finest.

"Good morning, sir," she said in an overly loud voice. The sort of voice law enforcement professionals always used to command attention. It did not jibe well with the polite words. "How are you doing?"

There was nothing to be gained trying to form a reply to that query. He was doing rather badly, thank you very much; she should be able to see that for herself.

She shone the light around the interior and caught a good long look at Richard. He stank of smoke and sweat. His clothes were mostly torn away and what remained was either scorched or covered in dried blood. Her breath escaped in a non-professional hiss. "Jesus!"

Richard could see her silver name tag now against the dark blue of her shirt: Henebry.

"I'm just a little tired, officer . . ." Good God, what lunatic had answered for him just then? He could do better than that.

"Sir? Sir, I'm going to ask you to get out of your car."

Very well, ask away. 

"Sir—I want you to get out of the car. Can you do that?"

I'd really rather not if you don't mind. 

"Come on. Get out right now." Still speaking loud and clear. She had a no-nonsense quality about her that in other circumstances, Richard was sure he would find appealing. But here and now it irritated the hell out of him. It was probably the way she acted as though he were slightly deaf and somewhat backward mentally. Perhaps she thought he was drunk.

"Maybe I should rest here for a little while . . ."

"I said get out of the car, sir, and I mean right now." She was new. Richard could tell that without asking. There was an edge in her voice that gave her away, that and a bead of sweat on her upper lip. "Come on, open the door."

She was starting to grate on his nerves, ordering him about so politely, but he could also be teeth-grittingly courteous. Richard attempted what he hoped would pass for a smile of compliance and pulled on the handle. It took some work to push the door open, then turn and get his legs out. He finally managed to boost clear, standing more or less upright facing her.

Officer Henebry was solid and fit in her uniform. He towered over her.

Henebry backed off a step, still holding her clipboard. Her other hand rested on the big semi-auto strapped to her hip. Considering his appalling state he couldn't blame her. "Are you all right? You want to tell me what happened to you?" she asked, spacing the words.

Not in this lifetime I don't. Richard shook his head, gathering his scattered thoughts. He should have taken care of this by now. His usual time for dealing with traffic violations was less than a minute. Ah, but this was no simple avoidance of a speeding ticket.

"Are you injured? What happened to you?" she demanded, shining her light on him. "Who's the little boy in the back seat?"

The reminder of Michael snapped him to full alertness. For the moment. How long would it last? Never mind that, get to work. 

"I want to see some identification. You got a driver's license?"

"Yes, officer. It's in my wallet." He slowly reached toward his back pocket. Henebry, on guard, tensed. Her grasp tightened on her gun, ready to pull it free.

Richard turned slightly, so she could see his every move, and took out his wallet using two fingers. He could not fault her for her caution. Aside from domestic disputes, the most disagreeable calls cops generally faced were investigating driving violations. Especially at night.

"Take it out of the wallet, please," she told him. The whole situation was wearing thin. Could this downturn possibly be another unpleasant hallucination? He wasn't certain. Better to play along. A docile attitude might reassure her somewhat. Things would work better for them both if she was relaxed.

He glanced back at her car to see if she was alone. She was. Better and better. Then he noticed something that would put a decided crimp in things. The vehicle had a surveillance camera set in the grill. The picture would likely be of poor quality, but enough to later identify him. It would have recorded his rental's tags as well. The paranoia of the twentieth century was often defensible, but now it was just bloody inconvenient.

He pulled his Canadian driving license clear and held it out to her. "Here it is, officer. I think you'll find it all in order."

She was intent on taking it from him, but for a moment, for a very crucial moment, she looked him in the eyes.

All he had to do was smile. He summoned enough strength to make a profound impression.

The wrong kind, as it happened.

Her service semi-auto appeared almost as if by magic in her hand. It was a Glock, its dark plastic surface dully reflecting first the blue, then the red of the prowl car's flashing lights. Henebry pointed it steadily at him. Right between his eyes to be exact. He felt a sudden tightness in his chest as the memory of Michael's horrific vision superimposed itself on the present time. Richard had to fight to maintain control, to keep himself from running away.

"Put your hands on your head!"

Funny, his smile was usually enough to win anyone over. But then he usually wasn't clad in burned, bloodstained rags and . . . oh. Oh, dear.

His corner teeth were out. No wonder she'd reacted so strongly. His beast could have that effect on people.

Henebry slapped the clipboard on the hood of his car, and shook out a pair of handcuffs. Richard was as adventurous as the next man, but he didn't think she had any intention of putting them to some sort of erotic use. "Lean on the car. Place your hands on the roof and lean on them."

"How can I do that and still have them on my head?" he inquired, annoyed again.

"Just turn around and put them flat on the roof." She said it with a sense of satisfaction, almost as if quoting from some obscure training test.

Richard grimly struggled to think of how to delay things. Once she got those cuffs on him he'd not be able to break free of them; he was too weak for that. Then he would be stuck in the endless quagmire of officialdom.

"I've done nothing wrong, officer." He was too weak for some things, but his beast gave him one last little reserve to draw from.

"Don't argue with me; turn—"

He could yet move very fast.

She had no chance to finish. Between one eye blink and the next he snagged the gun from her grasp. He caught her before she could react, swung her around, pressing her against the rental car with his body. She recovered quickly, though, and started to struggle, but abandoned that when he made her aware the gun was pressed hard on her temple. He hated doing it, but it was a necessary compensation for his feeble state. It also commanded her undivided attention.

The scent of her sudden fear jumped at him. How tantalizing that was to his beast.

Control. Keep control. 

"Now, Officer Henebry—" No, such an address was too awkward, too formal for what he had in mind. "What's your first name?"

She glared at him. Scared as she must be, she was also mad as hell.

He asked the same question again, this time using her gun for emphasis.

"Kath," she spat out. "Kath Henebry."

"That's lovely. Suits you very well."

"Listen, mister—"

"I think not. You must listen to me, Kath. What I have to say is very important; you need to hear every word. Are you listening, Kath Henebry?" He looked her hard in the eye. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them when she did not answer. "Are you?" he asked, his tone softer, more seductive.

"I hear you." She practically sighed out her reply. There was a definite blush on her face, but he wasn't sure if it was because of him or a product of her anger.

He continued to look hard at her, but spoke mild, soothing words, and almost imperceptibly she slipped under his sway. Her eyes glazed slightly, and her breathing became even. Richard reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair under her hat. That done, he stepped back, holding to the car to keep his balance. The effort had taken a lot out of him. She remained in place, staring at the empty fields. Excellent. He held the heavy firearm out to her.

"I want you to put the gun away and not move until I tell you to."

The only sound was the smart snap of plastic against leather as she obeyed. She continued to stare, a wonderfully serene expression on her face.

"Thank you." He quickly checked on Michael who was as he'd left him, belted in the back seat, still unresponsive. Mindful or not of the world around him, he certainly did not need to see what was about to happen.

Richard turned back to Officer Henebry and reestablished their connection. "Come around here with me, Kath, there is something we have to do. It will not be unpleasant for either of us."

He took her hand. It was very small in his, freshly manicured and warm. He lifted it in his and brushed his lips against it. She smelled of roses, and he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Her veins lay pale blue under the skin, and in the silence, he could hear her heart fluttering.

The stimulus had its welcome effect. The sickness, the aches of his body, fled for the moment as deep in his gut, his groin, he felt his need for her. It was more intense than usual. He would have to be careful and take her now while what self-control he possessed was still in place. Gently, he led her around so that her patrol car lay protectively between them and the road. This was a very open place, and he did not want to be disturbed by any passing motorist. He glanced quickly both ways, but everything was clear.

Kath stood facing him, mouth slightly open, lips moist. She wore lipstick, and Richard idly wondered if that was allowed on duty. He took off her hat. Her shining brown hair was curled up in a knot. How lovely it would be to take it down and twine between his fingers . . .

Steady on. 

"Roll up your sleeve."

She obeyed.

"Now hold out your arm."

This she did too, and Richard moved closer. He knew what he looked like at this moment, and was glad she had no conscious perception of it. His eyes were red, wolflike, and his teeth long and razor sharp. A low growl, pure animal, rose from him, and his beast impatiently stirred as Richard braced her against the car.

He took her arm in his hand, and brought it up to his mouth. The scent of roses was heavy at the wrist, then diminished as he moved along toward the elbow. His sense of smell was heightened, and the fragrance almost brought water to his eyes, it seemed so potent. He slid his other arm around her waist, and despite his best efforts at self-restraint, pressed himself roughly upon her, feeling the firm length of her body with his. He ran his tongue slowly along her neck, tasting her, feeling the veins there throbbing so quickly. Ah, if only he had more time and was not in such sore need. He would have to forgo this sweet contact in favor of one less dangerous to her.

He bowed his head down, and bit into the soft skin on the inside of her elbow. His teeth cut through the flesh easily, and the blood flowed strong into him, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

He sucked hungrily, hardening, pushing himself urgently against her. Her head fell back and, loosened in the moment, her hair cascaded down. To Richard, it smelled of heaven. He caressed her, feeling the fine texture of her hair, the smoothness of her temple, her cheek. Her mouth opened as his fingers brushed over her lips and a low moan escaped her.

He wanted this to go on and on as he had all those years ago with the servant in Sabra's tent, that first time. More than that, he wanted this woman, wanted to be inside her, to be one with her. Kath's heart beat faster—he could hear it—and her breath came in small gasps. Her breasts pushed hard against him, and he could now smell her musk, heavy in the air with her own arousal.

He supped heavily and well on her strength, her sweetness, her very spirit. If he could not be in her, then she must surely be in him. He felt the rush of her vitality flooding his own veins and welcomed it, reveled in it.

But he had to stop. It would cost Kath her life if he did not. So he pulled back, reluctantly kissing away the remaining traces of blood, eyes closed as he savored the last shreds of ecstasy. He could feel it coursing through him, healing and reviving as it went. He had fed enough to last until he got home.

After a few moments he came back to himself. He lifted her face to his and kissed her long and deep. Then, looking her in the eye, he told her what he always told his partners. She'd been to a blood donation center and would feel a little light-headed for the next day or two. He always carried adhesive bandages in his back pocket for just such occasions, and by some miracle they were yet clean in their wrappings. He taped them over the small puncture marks he'd left, rolled her sleeve down, and fastened the cuff.

"You will remember nothing of what has happened here," he whispered in her ear.

"I will remember nothing," she obligingly confirmed.

Then Richard leaned forward and whispered once more, getting rather detailed. Kath immediately went to her patrol car, and in a very short time he had the highly incriminating surveillance tape in hand. Officer Henebry would simply report that by some mistake the recorder had not been loaded prior to her patrol that night.

"Your hat . . ." He gave it to her.

After a quick rearrangement of her tumbled hair, she replaced her visored cap squarely on her head. "Thank you."

"It truly was a pleasure," he replied, quite sincere.

She threw the car into gear and sped off, executing a smart U-turn and accelerating back in the direction Richard had come from. As she passed, she waved, and Richard heard a long throaty laugh as she disappeared down the road. Yes, it had been an enjoyable experience for them both.

In the distance, her siren started its ominous howl. She would get to what was left of the house and start the whole process of investigation. She wouldn't remember how she'd gotten there or why, but those explanations were her problem, not his. He must be on his way. Her fresh blood had improved his state; the dizziness and cramping had cleared, and his vision, though not steady, was better than it had been. But he was still far from well.

He retrieved his wallet and license from where they'd fallen forgotten on the road shoulder. With some chagrin he noticed her clipboard with its attached paperwork still on his hood. Yet another mystery for the good officer to ponder. Just as well for him to have the thing: she'd recorded his tag numbers. He tossed it on the passenger seat with his drover's coat and hat. There would likely be some record of them with the dispatcher when Kath first called in her stop, but without the car tape and clipboard as support there was a chance the minor mystery would be dismissed. He'd covered that as well while filling her head with instructions. After all, so far as she was concerned, she'd never even seen him, and in less than an hour the police would have far more important matters demanding their attention.

Once inside again he checked on Michael. His head drooped and his eyes were closed; he seemed to be sleeping. Hopefully that was a good sign. There was no point disturbing him. Snapping his seat belt, Richard started the car and pushed it into gear. The sooner home, the better. The last thing he wanted was to be caught out in daylight.

He could sense the sun dragging itself toward the horizon, the sky changing from black to dark blue; the night all but gone.

The rest of the journey proved uneventful, and he was glad for small favors. Driving almost lulled Richard to sleep again, but he came fully awake in time to swoop under the amber lights marking Midway Road. He hurried past gas stations, shopping centers, and light industry, past a restaurant row and office buildings toward the distinctive shape of New Karnak.

Engulfed in its welcoming shadow, he hastened into the underground parking lot. His space next to the elevator was empty, as it should be, and he slipped in and killed the motor. The silence after it died was disconcerting after the long drive. He listened with all his preternatural ability to detect if there was anyone else about at this too-early hour of the morning. He preferred not to have witnesses and thankfully none were apparent.

Getting out, he opened the rear door and reached in. Michael did not wake, and Richard lifted him easily. He'd forgotten how light children were. Holding the boy protectively close, he kicked the door shut and headed for the elevator.

The soft hum of its ascent was comforting, signifying the end of his journey. He leaned back against the wall, tired to the bone, yearning for sleep. The car rode upward uninterrupted to his apartment, stopped with its customary subtlety, and Richard stepped out. The doors closed behind him, the car automatically plummeting back to the garage level. He carried the boy to the master bedroom in the back of the big flat.

Except for spare clothing and some framed photographs, he kept few items of any meaning to himself here. Having been professionally decorated, it was rather like a luxury hotel suite possessing all the basics—and those being of the finest quality—but ultimately impersonal. Still, there was a soothing quality to such surroundings. Passing a mirrored wall on the way, the only chaos Richard perceived in the beautifully coordinated calm was himself and the ragged, dirty little boy in his arms. Scarecrows, the both of them. He turned away, not liking what he glimpsed in his own face.

In the master bedroom Richard turned down the coverlet and sheets with one sweep of his arm, and laid Michael down. The boy did not wake, and his breathing continued normally. Oh, to know that kind of utterly abandoned sleep again. Richard took off the child's shoes and socks, and decided to wait a bit on the rest. Except for some minor scratches on his arms and legs—which Richard knew had come from the flight through the thorny mesquite scrub—he appeared physically unharmed.

There was no measuring the depth of damage done to his mind and spirit, though.

Looking down at Michael's sleeping form, the stresses of the night started to rush at Richard, demanding attention, but he pushed them back. He was in no state to cope with them now. He bent to kiss the boy lightly on the forehead and dragged the covers over him.

Straightening, Richard found the room swaying in a too-familiar manner. The strength he'd taken from Kath Henebry's blood was nearly spent. He needed more. Thank the Goddess for the supply he'd obtained from Dr. Sam, sitting cool in his refrigerator.

He drank down two entire bags before he felt anywhere near to normal again. Their boost gave him enough momentum to strip and stand under a scalding shower. He put it on maximum pressure until the supply in the water heater gave out, then stood dripping before the mirror in the bright light of the bathroom. He again glimpsed the expression on his face, this time able to confront it, to stare himself down. After awhile, its corpselike aspect faded to the less alarming mundanity of simple exhaustion. He took stock of what remained.

The worst of his wounds had completely closed up, though the scars were red and sore. They would soon fade. They always did. Only those he'd achieved before his change remained, like the sword cut on his shoulder that had nearly killed him, and the one where his ring finger had been severed then restored.

The angry raised blisters left by the fire ants had subsided, and the aching pain in his body had eased, but he was not fully recovered. He wanted sleep, and could see no reason for putting it off. He would need all his energy for what was to come.

Wrapped in the loose ease of an oversized terry robe, he made a quick round of the flat. His prime concern was being sure the doors were secure and that the metal blinds over the windows were sealed shut to block out the day. He lay on a sofa in the gentle darkness of the bedroom so as to be close should Michael wake.

Richard shut his eyes, waiting, hoping fatigue would allow him swift oblivion. Hoping he would be spared further dreams. Further nightmares.

Somewhere in that strange place between waking and slumber he realized that the worst was not yet over. Bourland would have to know. How would he tell him?

The vision of Michael's experience placed the time of their deaths in the early morning. Richard had been on the plane then. There was no way he could have arrived in time to prevent any of it.

Cold comfort, that.

Icy cold.

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