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Chapter Twelve

Dreamtime.

He was aware of others moving around him, but they were like phantoms. They called his name but it held no meaning for him. The only reality was cold agony. They were so careful with him, but their least touch only made it worse.

An airlift out, strapped to a board swinging suspended under a 'copter, flurries of activity when he was returned to earth. Roadside triage. People and more people. Phantoms.

Needles, tubes, a blessed rush of sustenance into his starved veins. Not his preferred method of feeding, nor his food, but the liquid would do to stave off the hunger. Drugs, a special blanket. He began to warm. What a lovely, comforting thing that warmth was . . .

Richard awoke slowly, at night; he felt that much of the world outside. Day had a specific kind of pressure, easily ignored with practice. For a moment he thought he was on watch in Sabra's intensive care room and had just dozed off, for he heard an identical beep of monitors nearby. But that couldn't be right, she was . . .

He groaned a little, eyelids fluttering, finally staying cracked open enough for him to look around. Hospital room, yes, only now he was the patient. He wasn't quite up to moving anything else yet. Much better to lie very still.

Bourland, seated next to the bed, leaned into view.

"Well, now, Richard. Are you going to stay with us after all?" he gently asked.

"Where is she?"

"Who?"

"Sabra. I heard her singing."

Bourland looked at a loss for a moment. "She's . . . she's not here, Richard."

Oh. Of course. Dream. Muddled delirium. Desperation. Desire. Not to be. Not yet. "She's gone."

"Yes, she is." He swallowed. "Do you remember what happened to you?"

A normal human would have quite sensibly blotted out the whole horror. "Yes. The bridge. Bomb. Fall." God, he was tired, but apparently he'd slept enough and his body insisted on waking up more and more. "St. Mike's?"

"This is a different place. More secure."

No doubt. Bourland would be paranoid about preserving security after what had happened to Sabra. Not his fault. No one's fault but Charon's. Got to kill that animal . . . "Charon? Did we—?"

"We're looking for him. Don't worry, he left a trail a mile wide."

A false one. Richard knew they'd never find him. Not now.

It was all for nothing.

"Richard, that fall you took . . ."

Here it comes. He really didn't want it. "How bad off am I?"

Bourland visibly considered the question. "They wouldn't tell me everything. Probably thought I'd not be able to handle it, but I know how to read a chart, and I've overheard things."

It was quite an impressive list. Both legs shattered to pulp, ribs, arms, his back, skull fractures, nerve and soft tissue damage . . . if anything could be broken it was broken.

"They said you're stabilized, but you should be dead. No one could have survived such a fall. But you're healing, at an amazing speed. That's what's flummoxed everyone. And me."

Them? Oh. Doctors. A nice army of them and likely to bring in reinforcements to have a look at the curiosity for themselves. This was too much to deal with, and they wouldn't leave him alone, ever.

"The insides of your arm should be pocked from the shots and from when they drew blood. I sat here and watched the holes vanish. Why is that?" Bourland's voice dropped to a whisper.

This was bad. Richard always feared someone in this modern age would discover his edge and put him under a microscope, but after all he'd been through, still sick with grief for Sabra, he just could not bring himself to give a damn.

He shut his eyes, hoping Bourland would take it for sleep. There was a shifting, a creak, soft footsteps, a door opened, shut. Silence. The only heart beating in the room was his own.

Sweet Goddess, why did you spare me?  

He'd been so close.

Richard napped lightly, never quite going fully out, his mind drifting, but not to anything important or traumatic. He wouldn't allow it. Battered inside and out, he needed the downtime. He tried moving once, a finger, then a toe, but nothing happened. Best to give it a while.

He thought a doctor came several times to check on him. He was fairly sure of hearing low voices discussing him. Some people were very astonished. They asked him if he could feel this or that. Ignorable.

They were feeding who knows what directly to his veins to judge by the plastic bags just within view. It tamed his hunger for the time being. Good. Now if it would just take away the dizziness. That twist before he'd hit the . . . no. No memories allowed, remember? He shut down again to drift some more.

When next he bothered to surface he noticed the camera up in one corner of the ceiling. He was familiar with the type of installation. It wasn't a retro-fit, but part of the planned construction, meaning this room had been originally designed with the intent to observe whoever was in it. Assume there were listening devices as well.

Was this place to do with the Boris and Natasha couple? If so, then this could prove very bad indeed. Bourland's influence with that group might be insufficient protection to keep off the vivisectionists.

Why do I even care?  

Because he still had to go after Charon. He'd murdered Sabra, stolen something precious and holy, and the bastard had to be stopped. Richard had no idea what else, if anything, was afoot, but it wouldn't be anything good.

Bourland returned. Perhaps he'd been in a booth or type of nurse's station with monitors to show when the special patient was awake for longer than a minute. There seemed little point pretending to drop off again. Richard had questions.

So did Bourland. "How are you?"

"Read the charts." He was sure he was hooked to a number of sophisticated data-collecting devices.

"You know what I mean. Are you up to talking?"

"If it's short. Isn't a doctor supposed to nag you about keeping visits brief?"

"He's outside looking after things, and I know when it's time to leave. Has to do with the way your eyes suddenly roll up into your skull. Are you in much pain?

"Like a migraine all over."

"They have an automatic dosage thing set up . . . the button's in your hand." He pointed. "Want me to press for you?"

Richard thought the offer might also be a test. Could he move his fingers or not? He didn't want to know just yet and hedged. "Where's Michael?"

"In a safe place close by. Well guarded."

"Any more phasing out, visions?"

"No, thank God. He's been normal, but quiet. Because of Sabra. He's still . . ." But he did not finish.

"I know. We all are." Richard understood Bourland's pain and grief down to his core and beyond. "I'll find Charon. I swear it."

Bourland was good. He managed to conceal his pity. So far as he knew Richard was going to be confined to hospital beds, dependant on machines and gentle, helping hands for the rest of his life.

"How long have I been out?"

"A day."

"That long?"

Incredulous stare time. "Listen, my lad, we didn't think you were going to wake at all the way you were knocked about. I am still dealing with the impossible: that you survived. How is it that—"

"Tell me what's happened. Please."

He got a headline report of the bridge aftermath. News of it had gone around the world a few dozen times since Richard's fall and was likely to stay the top story before the insatiable TV cameras until the next disaster shifted the media's short attention span elsewhere.

"The official account is that it was a freak motor accident involving the gas tank, but there's a large number of outsiders supporting the failed terrorist bombing and cover-up theory. Every law enforcement agency you can think of is all over this one, but I've had a talk with the people who matter, and they'll see that certain aspects of it are buried. They're nettled we weren't up front from the start about Charon."

"The Americans?"

"Of course. I rather like them, but they do love to be the star players in every game."

"Let them. They've a vested interest in the bridge, and they've a right to look after themselves. In this case it won't be a problem because the ones in charge know where to rein in their people."

"As long as no terrorist group decides to take credit for it. I'd hate to be responsible for the repercussions from that."

"So what if they do and get slapped down? Fewer bad guys in the world."

"Well, you've every right to be bloody-minded after—"

"And you need to read more Winston Churchill."

"I have, and things are considerably more complicated than when—"

"No they're not."

"Now, just a damned—" Bourland caught himself, gaped, and shook his head. "You son of a bitch. Lying on what should be your deathbed, yet throwing out smoke and mirror distractions."

Richard couldn't laugh, but his lips twitched. "Guilty, m'lud."

He shut down again.

It seemed only a few moments. When he woke, his head was more clear, but so was the pain. His extremities ceased to be so wonderfully numb. Pins and needles darted through the layers of his bodywide migraine, white hot. Bourland was in view, sitting in a chair, just as he'd done for Sabra.

"Philip."

He was up and there in an instant.

"Press that button for me, would you?"

"You're feeling things, hm?"

"God, yes. Please."

Bourland did so, and in a few moments the torture eased back to its bad, but still tolerable levels.

"What's happening out there? How long's it been?"

"Still the same. You slept for an hour. Sleep some more."

"Soon. Get my mind off this. Talk to me."

"They're still looking for him. That group guarding Michael thinks they found where Charon staged his operation. Unoccupied hotel room, telescope, electronic equipment modified. Still had the Eaton Centre sales receipts. Left a mess."

"That's our boy." Though personally neat, Charon was not one to keep a tidy environment around him.

"Specialists are going through it. They think he set the bomb off using a cell phone as a long distance trigger. C-4, they're estimating how much."

"The driver?"

"Dead."

"I tried to tell him . . ."

"Not your fault. Charon's. The man was dead the moment Charon picked him as his mule. His name's not been released yet. Nor yours."

"Good."

"Not released as in we let on to the media you were killed."

"Good. "

"I must say you're taking it well. Being dead."

I've had practice.  

He continued. "Seemed the best way to give Charon what he wanted."

The door opened and a white-coated doctor came in, smiling. He was a very dignified, kindly type, bald with a carefully tended white beard. "Hello, Richard. We've been looking after you. So far you've been our most remarkable patient."

No doubt.  

The doctor examined, made notations, shone a light in Richard's eyes, and asked banal things like his street address and what year he'd been born. Richard cooperated, thinking that would get rid of him faster.

"I've some questions if you're up to them . . ."

But he would get no answers. Richard fixed him with a look. "Later, please. Philip and I must talk."

The doctor, still wearing his kindly smile, went on his way, no arguments.

Bourland saw. "What the devil is it you do to people?"

"He knows I'm on the thin edge. Whatever he wants can wait."

"But you just—"

Another man poked his head in, very tall, with piercing blue eyes, frowning. "Everything all right?"

Bourland twitched annoyance at the further interruption. "We're fine, Frank, but could you keep your people out for the time being? He's not up to being put under a microscope just yet."

Oh, my prophetic soul, Richard thought.

Frank nodded, gave Richard an intent stare, then withdrew, snicking the door shut. It had a substantial lock on it. On the outside.

"This isn't a regular hospital, is it?" Richard asked.

"It's more of a research lab. Private funding, but we keep our eye on them when necessary. They're another branch to do with that paranormal crew I brought in."

"Not the sunglasses-in-the-rain crowd?"

"Heavens, no. That lot's specialty is deconstruction, not repair."

What a relief. Sort of. This bunch could prove just as harmful, like a curious baby elephant, and as hard to divert.

"They're very interested in you, my friend. Tell me why."

Richard would have shaken his head, but realized with a shock it was held immobile in some spiderlike contraption that harkened back to the days of the Inquisition. This thing was stainless steel, shiny and efficient. And bloody uncomfortable. He shut his eyes.

"I rather thought that'd be your answer," said Bourland. "Whatever it is has them stirred up, but they won't bother you. Frank will see to that."

"Good for Frank." Whoever the hell he was. Bureaucrat, perhaps. He had the look of a long-term player. Nice suit. "Charon? Progress?"

"We're assuming he's slipped out of the country, but so far no clue by what means—air, train, bus, car, on foot, or hang glider—they're checking every possibility. It might help if we had a clue as to his destination."

This wasn't what Richard wanted to hear, but there was little he could do about it. Charon must have been up to something big . . . and it could involve another holy site, but where . . . oh, God. "Glastonbury," he whispered.

"What?"

"Have people on watch in Glastonbury. In the U.K. Armed."

Bourland gave him a narrow look, then pulled out his cell, hitting a quick-dial number. He relayed the information. "No, I can't tell you why, just see it through. Standing orders on Charon are still in effect."

"What are those?" Richard asked.

He closed the phone. "To kill him. I think we're both agreed he's a cancer in the gene pool, and the sunglasses crowd has no problem with removing him. They got a bloody nose the other day by failing to get him. Why Glastonbury?"

"A hunch. That's all I can say. Really. It just came to me. How's Michael?"

"He's fine so far as it goes. He knows you were hurt and about the cover story of your death. He wants to see you, but I thought later would be better. When you're awake for longer than a few minutes at a stretch."

And also to prepare the boy for the shock. It would be wholly frightening for him to see another of the adults he loved and relied on flat on the back held immobile by such scary, painful-looking bracing. Hell, Richard was having trouble coping with it himself.

A soft double-knock on the door as it opened. Frank pushed in, shot a brief, cool, apologetic glance to Richard. "Philip, that report you wanted from Chichén Itzá—we've the hard copy now."

"Right. Thank you."

"Report on what?" Richard asked.

Bourland hesitated. "How awake are you?"

"Enough. If it's short."

"It is," said Frank. "I can paraphrase."

"Please."

He read from a folder in one hand. "Our team in place has been interviewing people, one of them a very respected local healer and spiritual leader. He said through a translator that their god had been taken from them by a man who—this is what he said exactly—'caused the great snake to be swallowed up by the darkness. The man then fought with and murdered our village elder, a holy one. The man is very dangerous. He's eating the light to keep himself alive.' "

" 'Eating the light'? What the hell does that mean?" asked Bourland.

"Perhaps it's a translation problem," Frank suggested. "I'll get a follow-up. But the team earlier reported that an old native man did collapse and die in the local air terminal a few days ago. The cause seems to have been a brain hemorrhage. The medicals are still trying to get a final determination."

Richard and Bourland exchanged looks. Brain hemorrhage, hell.

Frank continued skimming the report. "There's going to be another ceremony to try to bring their god back; they'll be staging it a few days from now. They're delaying until there's a larger crowd. The team says more and more people are coming out of the forest, converging on Chichén Itzá."

The report again made sense to Richard and Bourland. All those other lights that had been in Michael's vision . . .

"Stonehenge," said Richard.

"What about it?" asked Frank.

"Anything similar happening there?"

Frank apparently wasn't the sort to share information, even when cross-connections were going on. "Oddly enough, yes. We've a team in place watching things. There's a troop of New Age types gathering. They're going to hold what they call a 'healing ceremony.' Hundreds have shown up already. Not the usual publicity seekers, either. Ordinary types. The local media is on them, but they're not getting much. No one's in a mood to talk, even to our people."

"Timing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Find out when each ceremony is to take place. I'll wager that though both are an ocean apart geographically, they will take place at the exact same time."

Frank's eyes didn't give anything away, but did flicker once. "Well-well. Wouldn't that be an interesting coincidence?"

"You think? Especially if the organizers on each side are unaware of the other group's plans."

"I'll look into it." He left.

"What do you know?" Bourland demanded.

Richard sagged, or would have if he'd not been immobilized. "Damn little. It just seemed a logical thing to check. I've heard of this outfit. More often than not their investigations have no satisfying conclusion."

"So does life in general, and you're trying to distract me again. Do these ceremonies have to do with Charon?"

"He left another mess; they're only trying to clean it up."

"And Glastonbury?"

"A mess about to happen, I think. You could see about notifying the Stonehenge gathering that something might happen there next . . . maybe not. Don't want to put civilians in the line of fire."

"What's there to draw him?"

Richard tried the shake his head again, forgetting the bracing. He felt a sharp heat prickling along the nerves in his neck and spine. Not pleasant, though it meant progress. "It's an ancient holy site, like Henge and the other."

"He's eating light to keep alive? Is that symbolism or an actuality? Could he be ill?"

"That . . . I find very interesting. I've heard of people drawing on place energies to heal themselves."

"Tree-hugging?"

"Don't knock it until you've tried it."

Bourland opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to think better of it. "I just might. Is that your secret?"

"Yes. You've found me out. Bring an oak in here and I will give it a manly embrace . . . oh . . . oh, God . . ."

"What?"

"Hurts." Too much too soon, now he had to pay for it. His nerves were waking up all over, all at once, screaming. It took his breath away.

His friend pressed the dosage button again, waiting. "It's a timed thing so you don't overmedicate yourself. Damn, nothing's happ—there, it's coming through now. You'll be all right."

Balm for his nerves as the inflowing meds adjusted his brain chemistry and prevented horrific messages of pain from being delivered. But he wanted recovery, full restoration. Only one thing could give him that.

"You may need a higher dose than an average man. I'll fetch the doctor."

Richard was asleep by the time the door closed . . .

And alone the next time he woke.

Except for his Beast, who was hungry now. Richard's throat hurt from the thirst. That's what dragged him from his oblivion. Need.

It was yet night, but very late. A dim, windowless room, no clock in view, but he could tell. Whether it was the same night or the next he did not know.

He could move his fingers, could discern by touch again. There was some object in his right hand, probably that dosage thing. No need for it, he thought, experimentally flexing his limbs. Some residual ache and stiffness, like an all-over bruise, but the worst of the healing process must be over, thank heaven.

So far as he could tell, not being able to move his head, they'd opted for some kind of shaped plastic forms and bandaging instead of plaster casts to encase his shattered limbs. Plaster was better protection, but only for a man expected to get up from his sickbed. It was better at sparing the broken bones from knocks. So far as they knew Richard was quadriplegic and like to remain that way. This lighter stuff was more comfortable for him and easier for them to conduct routine maintenance and cleaning.

We'll see about that.  

"Doctor? Anyone there?" Someone must be listening.

Sure enough. The white-bearded doctor came in, light from the hall falling over Richard's sheeted form. The doctor's eyes were puffy and red. Must have been pulling a long shift because of his special patient. He turned the room lighting up.

"Yes, Richard, what is it? More pain?"

None today, thank you.  

"It's silly," said Richard. "But my damned nose itches. It's driving me mad."

The man smiled and came in close to help. There was more than sufficient light. Richard had him frozen in mid-reach.

"Who else is watching this room through the camera?" Richard whispered, hoping the microphone would not pick up.

"I'm the only one for now," the doctor readily answered in a normal voice.

Very good. "I want you to shut it off, stop all further recording, then come back here with some clothes for me."

"Clothes?"

Richard knew he'd better be specific or his hypnotized ally might leave in search of a tailor shop. "Have you any spare scrubs? Extra large?"

The doctor returned some moments later with an armful of clean, pastel blue cottons: a loose V-necked top, drawstring pants, and what looked like thick paper shower caps, which turned out to be shoe protectors.

"Right," said Richard. "Camera off? Good. Now get me out of this."

"You're still hurt."

"I'm fine, you must help me. Quickly please." He nudged things a bit to encourage cooperation and asked to be freed of the head brace first. "Who else is here?"

"The director, Mr. Bourland, security people downstairs, a few techs."

"Anyone likely to walk in here soon?"

"They're busy. Your friend's asleep in one of the other patient rooms. He was all in."

"What about your director?"

"Feet up in his office on the other side of the building."

"Fine, if you see any of them, head them off, all right?"

"All right."

With the doctor's expert help Richard was gradually released from his high-tech bindings. The most unexpected—and unpleasant—surprise turned out to be a catheter. Ye gods. That thing made a slop bucket much more appealing than he'd ever thought possible. Scowling and wincing and moving most gingerly under the doctor's guidance, he removed that horror with a minimum of discomfort. He let the doctor take out the drip needle catheter they'd planted in his shoulder. Somehow finding the first one made the other almost tolerable.

He was able to stand, able to walk, but still weak and desperately hungry. The drugs they'd pumped into him had dulled his appetite as well as the pain, and it was roaring fully awake. "Does this place keep any whole blood on hand?" Upon getting an affirmative, he sent the man on another errand. Richard made his unsteady way to the room's small bath and ran a very hot shower to massage circulation back to his newly mended limbs. This kind of running water was much more preferable to the river. He wanted to shave, but found no razors handy.

"Richard?"

He almost jumped, mistaking the voice for Bourland, but it was the doctor back with another delivery. Two pints of group O-positive. He watched impassively as Richard drank them straight down, one after the other.

"You're not to remember any of this," he said, after his last shuddering reaction passed and his Beast went back to sleep.

"Of course not."

Would that everyone he met was this agreeable. Richard dried off, pulled on the make-shift clothes. "Are all the records you have on me in one place?"

"The hard copies, yes. The computer records are in the database, the biological samples are in the lab, the videotapes are—"

"Fine. I want you to destroy or erase all of them, every scrap that has to do with me. Do you know how to delete computer files down to the hard-drive level? Delete my records, however many backups, then go into the delete program and lose those, too. You have to be thorough, as though I'd never been here. It's important, very important you do this. Everyone's safety depends upon you thinking of everything."

That impressed itself as nothing else could, for protecting others would better overcome any subconscious blocks the scientist in him would have against destroying data. He sent the man off, confident that he would be thorough.

Now Richard had to get out of here. He'd find Bourland, persuade him to drive them away and leave this lot with another mystifying event to go unsolved while he disappeared himself.

He saw to the med charts in his room, tearing the records small and flushing them away, then emerged into the hall for the first time. It stretched long both ways equally, modern, clean, and too easy to get lost. He should have had the doctor draw a map, but he'd no idea the place would turn out to be quite this big. Privately funded projects usually tended to be smaller in scale.

Richard went right, passing doors with identifying signs like 'Xenopathology' and 'Cryptozoological Lab'. He didn't think the latter had to do with canine retrievers. Maybe it did, only here the animal might have three heads and radar-dish ears.

Distraction. He was good at that, at throwing it out, even for himself. He felt cold again and shaky despite the blood. It was still doing its job of healing, but wasn't enough. He wanted—needed—more than mere food.

He paused to listen. Close by, someone moving about. That door, light showing under it. Someone pulling an all-nighter? It seemed too late for any janitorial staff to be working.

Knocking politely, he pushed the door open a crack. "Hallo?"

A stunner of a young woman, petite in her lab smock, and evidently startled. She relaxed a trifle at the sight of his blue scrubs, since they indicated he might have a valid reason to be wandering the halls. "Can I help you?"

He put on a confused face, looking around to see if she had company and only poked in with his head and shoulders, keeping his bare feet out of sight. "Oh, yes, please, I hope so. I was looking for the director, and I am hopelessly lost. The doctor with the white beard said he was in his office?"

The references reassured her. "Administration's in the other wing. You've got a walk. Go back down until you reach the elevator hub and turn left. There's a map up. His office is on the ground floor. Just follow the coffee smell. I think he lives on it."

The wide room had several computer stations, tables with acid-proof tops, gas connections, and apparently a number of works in progress at the various stations. No one else. "You must too, I think." He smiled and nodded at a machine with a steaming carafe on one of the tables. Pleasant odor, that stuff.

She responded with her own smile. "Have to when it gets busy."

"You've a project on?"

"Several. Yourself?" She seemed glad to have company.

"I'm working on that basket case they brought in the other night. The fellow who was so banged up."

"Yes, I helped on some of his blood samples. Strange stuff."

"Really? Anything I could have a peek at?"

"Oh, everything's been and gone. I put the data in and went back to my other work. Interesting protein markers, possibly unique. I've never seen anything like them before, even in this place." She seemed disarmed enough for him to venture in. When possible, he preferred to avoid frightening his ladies. No fear here, she stared at his feet. "Have an accident?"

He made a deprecating gesture. "You must be a mind reader."

"They're in the basement. What happened to your shoes?"

"That's what I need to talk to the director about."

"Where's your ID badge?"

He picked up the tiniest change in her voice, a tightening that would turn to alarm given the time, but he was close enough to gaze into her smoky brown eyes and make everything so much better for her.

"Will you please show me the data you entered about the strange blood?"

She obliged, walking to a station, going into the computer, and calling up the most recent file. The computer emitted a flat-toned beep and told them the file was not available. That was a relief. Apparently his good friend the doctor had gotten there first by another machine, efficiently deleting things.

Richard had some deleting himself to accomplish and instructed her to forget everything about the odd blood samples and their unique protein markers, whatever those were.

Then he suddenly felt tired. There was a stool next to the computer. He slipped onto it. His legs were whole again, yes, but subject to wobble. He smiled at the woman, holding his hand out, extending his will toward her as well. "Over here. Please."

He could have simply ordered her, and she'd have been just as happily obedient. Her mind was under his control, and she was mostly unaware of things, but there was no need to be uncivilized about it. She could have a trace memory of an agreeable dream or an ugly nightmare. He'd had too many of the latter himself to inflict more upon his partners.

With a soft word, a guiding gesture, he drew her close so her back was to him and pulled the shoulder of her coat partway off. A nice, easy, button-down blouse was under it. She undid the buttons herself and leaned back against him, very close, very comfortable, as though they were long-time lovers. Between the height of the stool and her own diminutive size, they were on a perfect level with each other. She stood between his knees and he wrapped his arms bearlike around her, his face buried in the crook of her shoulder, and gratefully breathed in her scent.

Beneath the powders and fragrances and artificialities of modern hygiene he found it, that basic wonderful difference that made her female, that made her and her many sisters so desirable to him. It was with substantial relief that he felt himself stir and grow hard. No such invasion of her on that level would take place, he'd not been invited, but he was glad enough to satisfy his need in another manner.

He gently tilted her head to the left, making taut her skin under his lips. He ran his tongue over the spot where the heat was greatest, delighting in the foretaste and her reaction to it. Were things different he might have lingered there long to see just what she liked, but didn't dare. Though one advantage to hunting in such a warren of identical halls and doors was being able to achieve—for a few necessary moments—a degree of privacy, he couldn't push it. Someone might take it into their heads to look in his room and send up the alarm.

But this was so nice, holding her, soaking in warmth and touch and comfort. He needed that contact as much as the blood.

He picked up the change in her, the scent of arousal. Oh, good for her. He nuzzled deep into her neck and bit down on the stretched skin, knowing it would now cause her pleasure, not pain. The same happened for him when her blood flowed into his mouth. Much, much better to take it fresh from a living vein, to taste her climax in it, to hear her long sighs as he held her, her body trembling against his.

She shivered, her breath coming faster, more rough, growing more vocal. It took some of them that way. He soothed her down, continuing to drink. Couldn't have a row.

Let's have a lovely, drawn out peak, intense and quiet . . . that's my sweet, beautiful darling . . .  

The last healing suffused heat through him. He felt complete, made whole again, full strength returned, and it was as much from the purely animal contact as from her blood, a psychic as well as a physical connection.

He ceased to take from her, kissed her skin clean, and that should have been it, but he continued to hold on, not wanting to relinquish the solace she unknowingly brought him. She was tiny, like Sabra, and though much else was quite different, there was enough similarity for him to hang on just a little longer, rocking gently back and forth. He'd never had the chance to hold Sabra, to say good-bye. She'd once taught him how important good-byes were . . .

Richard felt a sting in his eyes, and thought that now, finally, he would break down and weep for her. He choked twice, but nothing more happened. Forcing it was no good. There was nothing inside. What was wrong with him? The one woman he loved beyond measure and he couldn't shed a tear for her?

After a moment he pulled himself together and kissed his innocent surrogate on her temple. "Thank you. You're not to remember any of this, but thank you all the same."

"All right," she lightly agreed and moved clear, adjusting her clothes back to the way they were. She glanced at him, smiling, then went on to whatever she'd been doing before his arrival.

He took in a cleansing breath, straightening up, and with his eyes still flushed bloodred found himself looking right at his friend Bourland, who'd seen everything he shouldn't.

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Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter Twelve

Dreamtime.

He was aware of others moving around him, but they were like phantoms. They called his name but it held no meaning for him. The only reality was cold agony. They were so careful with him, but their least touch only made it worse.

An airlift out, strapped to a board swinging suspended under a 'copter, flurries of activity when he was returned to earth. Roadside triage. People and more people. Phantoms.

Needles, tubes, a blessed rush of sustenance into his starved veins. Not his preferred method of feeding, nor his food, but the liquid would do to stave off the hunger. Drugs, a special blanket. He began to warm. What a lovely, comforting thing that warmth was . . .

Richard awoke slowly, at night; he felt that much of the world outside. Day had a specific kind of pressure, easily ignored with practice. For a moment he thought he was on watch in Sabra's intensive care room and had just dozed off, for he heard an identical beep of monitors nearby. But that couldn't be right, she was . . .

He groaned a little, eyelids fluttering, finally staying cracked open enough for him to look around. Hospital room, yes, only now he was the patient. He wasn't quite up to moving anything else yet. Much better to lie very still.

Bourland, seated next to the bed, leaned into view.

"Well, now, Richard. Are you going to stay with us after all?" he gently asked.

"Where is she?"

"Who?"

"Sabra. I heard her singing."

Bourland looked at a loss for a moment. "She's . . . she's not here, Richard."

Oh. Of course. Dream. Muddled delirium. Desperation. Desire. Not to be. Not yet. "She's gone."

"Yes, she is." He swallowed. "Do you remember what happened to you?"

A normal human would have quite sensibly blotted out the whole horror. "Yes. The bridge. Bomb. Fall." God, he was tired, but apparently he'd slept enough and his body insisted on waking up more and more. "St. Mike's?"

"This is a different place. More secure."

No doubt. Bourland would be paranoid about preserving security after what had happened to Sabra. Not his fault. No one's fault but Charon's. Got to kill that animal . . . "Charon? Did we—?"

"We're looking for him. Don't worry, he left a trail a mile wide."

A false one. Richard knew they'd never find him. Not now.

It was all for nothing.

"Richard, that fall you took . . ."

Here it comes. He really didn't want it. "How bad off am I?"

Bourland visibly considered the question. "They wouldn't tell me everything. Probably thought I'd not be able to handle it, but I know how to read a chart, and I've overheard things."

It was quite an impressive list. Both legs shattered to pulp, ribs, arms, his back, skull fractures, nerve and soft tissue damage . . . if anything could be broken it was broken.

"They said you're stabilized, but you should be dead. No one could have survived such a fall. But you're healing, at an amazing speed. That's what's flummoxed everyone. And me."

Them? Oh. Doctors. A nice army of them and likely to bring in reinforcements to have a look at the curiosity for themselves. This was too much to deal with, and they wouldn't leave him alone, ever.

"The insides of your arm should be pocked from the shots and from when they drew blood. I sat here and watched the holes vanish. Why is that?" Bourland's voice dropped to a whisper.

This was bad. Richard always feared someone in this modern age would discover his edge and put him under a microscope, but after all he'd been through, still sick with grief for Sabra, he just could not bring himself to give a damn.

He shut his eyes, hoping Bourland would take it for sleep. There was a shifting, a creak, soft footsteps, a door opened, shut. Silence. The only heart beating in the room was his own.

Sweet Goddess, why did you spare me?  

He'd been so close.

Richard napped lightly, never quite going fully out, his mind drifting, but not to anything important or traumatic. He wouldn't allow it. Battered inside and out, he needed the downtime. He tried moving once, a finger, then a toe, but nothing happened. Best to give it a while.

He thought a doctor came several times to check on him. He was fairly sure of hearing low voices discussing him. Some people were very astonished. They asked him if he could feel this or that. Ignorable.

They were feeding who knows what directly to his veins to judge by the plastic bags just within view. It tamed his hunger for the time being. Good. Now if it would just take away the dizziness. That twist before he'd hit the . . . no. No memories allowed, remember? He shut down again to drift some more.

When next he bothered to surface he noticed the camera up in one corner of the ceiling. He was familiar with the type of installation. It wasn't a retro-fit, but part of the planned construction, meaning this room had been originally designed with the intent to observe whoever was in it. Assume there were listening devices as well.

Was this place to do with the Boris and Natasha couple? If so, then this could prove very bad indeed. Bourland's influence with that group might be insufficient protection to keep off the vivisectionists.

Why do I even care?  

Because he still had to go after Charon. He'd murdered Sabra, stolen something precious and holy, and the bastard had to be stopped. Richard had no idea what else, if anything, was afoot, but it wouldn't be anything good.

Bourland returned. Perhaps he'd been in a booth or type of nurse's station with monitors to show when the special patient was awake for longer than a minute. There seemed little point pretending to drop off again. Richard had questions.

So did Bourland. "How are you?"

"Read the charts." He was sure he was hooked to a number of sophisticated data-collecting devices.

"You know what I mean. Are you up to talking?"

"If it's short. Isn't a doctor supposed to nag you about keeping visits brief?"

"He's outside looking after things, and I know when it's time to leave. Has to do with the way your eyes suddenly roll up into your skull. Are you in much pain?

"Like a migraine all over."

"They have an automatic dosage thing set up . . . the button's in your hand." He pointed. "Want me to press for you?"

Richard thought the offer might also be a test. Could he move his fingers or not? He didn't want to know just yet and hedged. "Where's Michael?"

"In a safe place close by. Well guarded."

"Any more phasing out, visions?"

"No, thank God. He's been normal, but quiet. Because of Sabra. He's still . . ." But he did not finish.

"I know. We all are." Richard understood Bourland's pain and grief down to his core and beyond. "I'll find Charon. I swear it."

Bourland was good. He managed to conceal his pity. So far as he knew Richard was going to be confined to hospital beds, dependant on machines and gentle, helping hands for the rest of his life.

"How long have I been out?"

"A day."

"That long?"

Incredulous stare time. "Listen, my lad, we didn't think you were going to wake at all the way you were knocked about. I am still dealing with the impossible: that you survived. How is it that—"

"Tell me what's happened. Please."

He got a headline report of the bridge aftermath. News of it had gone around the world a few dozen times since Richard's fall and was likely to stay the top story before the insatiable TV cameras until the next disaster shifted the media's short attention span elsewhere.

"The official account is that it was a freak motor accident involving the gas tank, but there's a large number of outsiders supporting the failed terrorist bombing and cover-up theory. Every law enforcement agency you can think of is all over this one, but I've had a talk with the people who matter, and they'll see that certain aspects of it are buried. They're nettled we weren't up front from the start about Charon."

"The Americans?"

"Of course. I rather like them, but they do love to be the star players in every game."

"Let them. They've a vested interest in the bridge, and they've a right to look after themselves. In this case it won't be a problem because the ones in charge know where to rein in their people."

"As long as no terrorist group decides to take credit for it. I'd hate to be responsible for the repercussions from that."

"So what if they do and get slapped down? Fewer bad guys in the world."

"Well, you've every right to be bloody-minded after—"

"And you need to read more Winston Churchill."

"I have, and things are considerably more complicated than when—"

"No they're not."

"Now, just a damned—" Bourland caught himself, gaped, and shook his head. "You son of a bitch. Lying on what should be your deathbed, yet throwing out smoke and mirror distractions."

Richard couldn't laugh, but his lips twitched. "Guilty, m'lud."

He shut down again.

It seemed only a few moments. When he woke, his head was more clear, but so was the pain. His extremities ceased to be so wonderfully numb. Pins and needles darted through the layers of his bodywide migraine, white hot. Bourland was in view, sitting in a chair, just as he'd done for Sabra.

"Philip."

He was up and there in an instant.

"Press that button for me, would you?"

"You're feeling things, hm?"

"God, yes. Please."

Bourland did so, and in a few moments the torture eased back to its bad, but still tolerable levels.

"What's happening out there? How long's it been?"

"Still the same. You slept for an hour. Sleep some more."

"Soon. Get my mind off this. Talk to me."

"They're still looking for him. That group guarding Michael thinks they found where Charon staged his operation. Unoccupied hotel room, telescope, electronic equipment modified. Still had the Eaton Centre sales receipts. Left a mess."

"That's our boy." Though personally neat, Charon was not one to keep a tidy environment around him.

"Specialists are going through it. They think he set the bomb off using a cell phone as a long distance trigger. C-4, they're estimating how much."

"The driver?"

"Dead."

"I tried to tell him . . ."

"Not your fault. Charon's. The man was dead the moment Charon picked him as his mule. His name's not been released yet. Nor yours."

"Good."

"Not released as in we let on to the media you were killed."

"Good. "

"I must say you're taking it well. Being dead."

I've had practice.  

He continued. "Seemed the best way to give Charon what he wanted."

The door opened and a white-coated doctor came in, smiling. He was a very dignified, kindly type, bald with a carefully tended white beard. "Hello, Richard. We've been looking after you. So far you've been our most remarkable patient."

No doubt.  

The doctor examined, made notations, shone a light in Richard's eyes, and asked banal things like his street address and what year he'd been born. Richard cooperated, thinking that would get rid of him faster.

"I've some questions if you're up to them . . ."

But he would get no answers. Richard fixed him with a look. "Later, please. Philip and I must talk."

The doctor, still wearing his kindly smile, went on his way, no arguments.

Bourland saw. "What the devil is it you do to people?"

"He knows I'm on the thin edge. Whatever he wants can wait."

"But you just—"

Another man poked his head in, very tall, with piercing blue eyes, frowning. "Everything all right?"

Bourland twitched annoyance at the further interruption. "We're fine, Frank, but could you keep your people out for the time being? He's not up to being put under a microscope just yet."

Oh, my prophetic soul, Richard thought.

Frank nodded, gave Richard an intent stare, then withdrew, snicking the door shut. It had a substantial lock on it. On the outside.

"This isn't a regular hospital, is it?" Richard asked.

"It's more of a research lab. Private funding, but we keep our eye on them when necessary. They're another branch to do with that paranormal crew I brought in."

"Not the sunglasses-in-the-rain crowd?"

"Heavens, no. That lot's specialty is deconstruction, not repair."

What a relief. Sort of. This bunch could prove just as harmful, like a curious baby elephant, and as hard to divert.

"They're very interested in you, my friend. Tell me why."

Richard would have shaken his head, but realized with a shock it was held immobile in some spiderlike contraption that harkened back to the days of the Inquisition. This thing was stainless steel, shiny and efficient. And bloody uncomfortable. He shut his eyes.

"I rather thought that'd be your answer," said Bourland. "Whatever it is has them stirred up, but they won't bother you. Frank will see to that."

"Good for Frank." Whoever the hell he was. Bureaucrat, perhaps. He had the look of a long-term player. Nice suit. "Charon? Progress?"

"We're assuming he's slipped out of the country, but so far no clue by what means—air, train, bus, car, on foot, or hang glider—they're checking every possibility. It might help if we had a clue as to his destination."

This wasn't what Richard wanted to hear, but there was little he could do about it. Charon must have been up to something big . . . and it could involve another holy site, but where . . . oh, God. "Glastonbury," he whispered.

"What?"

"Have people on watch in Glastonbury. In the U.K. Armed."

Bourland gave him a narrow look, then pulled out his cell, hitting a quick-dial number. He relayed the information. "No, I can't tell you why, just see it through. Standing orders on Charon are still in effect."

"What are those?" Richard asked.

He closed the phone. "To kill him. I think we're both agreed he's a cancer in the gene pool, and the sunglasses crowd has no problem with removing him. They got a bloody nose the other day by failing to get him. Why Glastonbury?"

"A hunch. That's all I can say. Really. It just came to me. How's Michael?"

"He's fine so far as it goes. He knows you were hurt and about the cover story of your death. He wants to see you, but I thought later would be better. When you're awake for longer than a few minutes at a stretch."

And also to prepare the boy for the shock. It would be wholly frightening for him to see another of the adults he loved and relied on flat on the back held immobile by such scary, painful-looking bracing. Hell, Richard was having trouble coping with it himself.

A soft double-knock on the door as it opened. Frank pushed in, shot a brief, cool, apologetic glance to Richard. "Philip, that report you wanted from Chichén Itzá—we've the hard copy now."

"Right. Thank you."

"Report on what?" Richard asked.

Bourland hesitated. "How awake are you?"

"Enough. If it's short."

"It is," said Frank. "I can paraphrase."

"Please."

He read from a folder in one hand. "Our team in place has been interviewing people, one of them a very respected local healer and spiritual leader. He said through a translator that their god had been taken from them by a man who—this is what he said exactly—'caused the great snake to be swallowed up by the darkness. The man then fought with and murdered our village elder, a holy one. The man is very dangerous. He's eating the light to keep himself alive.' "

" 'Eating the light'? What the hell does that mean?" asked Bourland.

"Perhaps it's a translation problem," Frank suggested. "I'll get a follow-up. But the team earlier reported that an old native man did collapse and die in the local air terminal a few days ago. The cause seems to have been a brain hemorrhage. The medicals are still trying to get a final determination."

Richard and Bourland exchanged looks. Brain hemorrhage, hell.

Frank continued skimming the report. "There's going to be another ceremony to try to bring their god back; they'll be staging it a few days from now. They're delaying until there's a larger crowd. The team says more and more people are coming out of the forest, converging on Chichén Itzá."

The report again made sense to Richard and Bourland. All those other lights that had been in Michael's vision . . .

"Stonehenge," said Richard.

"What about it?" asked Frank.

"Anything similar happening there?"

Frank apparently wasn't the sort to share information, even when cross-connections were going on. "Oddly enough, yes. We've a team in place watching things. There's a troop of New Age types gathering. They're going to hold what they call a 'healing ceremony.' Hundreds have shown up already. Not the usual publicity seekers, either. Ordinary types. The local media is on them, but they're not getting much. No one's in a mood to talk, even to our people."

"Timing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Find out when each ceremony is to take place. I'll wager that though both are an ocean apart geographically, they will take place at the exact same time."

Frank's eyes didn't give anything away, but did flicker once. "Well-well. Wouldn't that be an interesting coincidence?"

"You think? Especially if the organizers on each side are unaware of the other group's plans."

"I'll look into it." He left.

"What do you know?" Bourland demanded.

Richard sagged, or would have if he'd not been immobilized. "Damn little. It just seemed a logical thing to check. I've heard of this outfit. More often than not their investigations have no satisfying conclusion."

"So does life in general, and you're trying to distract me again. Do these ceremonies have to do with Charon?"

"He left another mess; they're only trying to clean it up."

"And Glastonbury?"

"A mess about to happen, I think. You could see about notifying the Stonehenge gathering that something might happen there next . . . maybe not. Don't want to put civilians in the line of fire."

"What's there to draw him?"

Richard tried the shake his head again, forgetting the bracing. He felt a sharp heat prickling along the nerves in his neck and spine. Not pleasant, though it meant progress. "It's an ancient holy site, like Henge and the other."

"He's eating light to keep alive? Is that symbolism or an actuality? Could he be ill?"

"That . . . I find very interesting. I've heard of people drawing on place energies to heal themselves."

"Tree-hugging?"

"Don't knock it until you've tried it."

Bourland opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to think better of it. "I just might. Is that your secret?"

"Yes. You've found me out. Bring an oak in here and I will give it a manly embrace . . . oh . . . oh, God . . ."

"What?"

"Hurts." Too much too soon, now he had to pay for it. His nerves were waking up all over, all at once, screaming. It took his breath away.

His friend pressed the dosage button again, waiting. "It's a timed thing so you don't overmedicate yourself. Damn, nothing's happ—there, it's coming through now. You'll be all right."

Balm for his nerves as the inflowing meds adjusted his brain chemistry and prevented horrific messages of pain from being delivered. But he wanted recovery, full restoration. Only one thing could give him that.

"You may need a higher dose than an average man. I'll fetch the doctor."

Richard was asleep by the time the door closed . . .

And alone the next time he woke.

Except for his Beast, who was hungry now. Richard's throat hurt from the thirst. That's what dragged him from his oblivion. Need.

It was yet night, but very late. A dim, windowless room, no clock in view, but he could tell. Whether it was the same night or the next he did not know.

He could move his fingers, could discern by touch again. There was some object in his right hand, probably that dosage thing. No need for it, he thought, experimentally flexing his limbs. Some residual ache and stiffness, like an all-over bruise, but the worst of the healing process must be over, thank heaven.

So far as he could tell, not being able to move his head, they'd opted for some kind of shaped plastic forms and bandaging instead of plaster casts to encase his shattered limbs. Plaster was better protection, but only for a man expected to get up from his sickbed. It was better at sparing the broken bones from knocks. So far as they knew Richard was quadriplegic and like to remain that way. This lighter stuff was more comfortable for him and easier for them to conduct routine maintenance and cleaning.

We'll see about that.  

"Doctor? Anyone there?" Someone must be listening.

Sure enough. The white-bearded doctor came in, light from the hall falling over Richard's sheeted form. The doctor's eyes were puffy and red. Must have been pulling a long shift because of his special patient. He turned the room lighting up.

"Yes, Richard, what is it? More pain?"

None today, thank you.  

"It's silly," said Richard. "But my damned nose itches. It's driving me mad."

The man smiled and came in close to help. There was more than sufficient light. Richard had him frozen in mid-reach.

"Who else is watching this room through the camera?" Richard whispered, hoping the microphone would not pick up.

"I'm the only one for now," the doctor readily answered in a normal voice.

Very good. "I want you to shut it off, stop all further recording, then come back here with some clothes for me."

"Clothes?"

Richard knew he'd better be specific or his hypnotized ally might leave in search of a tailor shop. "Have you any spare scrubs? Extra large?"

The doctor returned some moments later with an armful of clean, pastel blue cottons: a loose V-necked top, drawstring pants, and what looked like thick paper shower caps, which turned out to be shoe protectors.

"Right," said Richard. "Camera off? Good. Now get me out of this."

"You're still hurt."

"I'm fine, you must help me. Quickly please." He nudged things a bit to encourage cooperation and asked to be freed of the head brace first. "Who else is here?"

"The director, Mr. Bourland, security people downstairs, a few techs."

"Anyone likely to walk in here soon?"

"They're busy. Your friend's asleep in one of the other patient rooms. He was all in."

"What about your director?"

"Feet up in his office on the other side of the building."

"Fine, if you see any of them, head them off, all right?"

"All right."

With the doctor's expert help Richard was gradually released from his high-tech bindings. The most unexpected—and unpleasant—surprise turned out to be a catheter. Ye gods. That thing made a slop bucket much more appealing than he'd ever thought possible. Scowling and wincing and moving most gingerly under the doctor's guidance, he removed that horror with a minimum of discomfort. He let the doctor take out the drip needle catheter they'd planted in his shoulder. Somehow finding the first one made the other almost tolerable.

He was able to stand, able to walk, but still weak and desperately hungry. The drugs they'd pumped into him had dulled his appetite as well as the pain, and it was roaring fully awake. "Does this place keep any whole blood on hand?" Upon getting an affirmative, he sent the man on another errand. Richard made his unsteady way to the room's small bath and ran a very hot shower to massage circulation back to his newly mended limbs. This kind of running water was much more preferable to the river. He wanted to shave, but found no razors handy.

"Richard?"

He almost jumped, mistaking the voice for Bourland, but it was the doctor back with another delivery. Two pints of group O-positive. He watched impassively as Richard drank them straight down, one after the other.

"You're not to remember any of this," he said, after his last shuddering reaction passed and his Beast went back to sleep.

"Of course not."

Would that everyone he met was this agreeable. Richard dried off, pulled on the make-shift clothes. "Are all the records you have on me in one place?"

"The hard copies, yes. The computer records are in the database, the biological samples are in the lab, the videotapes are—"

"Fine. I want you to destroy or erase all of them, every scrap that has to do with me. Do you know how to delete computer files down to the hard-drive level? Delete my records, however many backups, then go into the delete program and lose those, too. You have to be thorough, as though I'd never been here. It's important, very important you do this. Everyone's safety depends upon you thinking of everything."

That impressed itself as nothing else could, for protecting others would better overcome any subconscious blocks the scientist in him would have against destroying data. He sent the man off, confident that he would be thorough.

Now Richard had to get out of here. He'd find Bourland, persuade him to drive them away and leave this lot with another mystifying event to go unsolved while he disappeared himself.

He saw to the med charts in his room, tearing the records small and flushing them away, then emerged into the hall for the first time. It stretched long both ways equally, modern, clean, and too easy to get lost. He should have had the doctor draw a map, but he'd no idea the place would turn out to be quite this big. Privately funded projects usually tended to be smaller in scale.

Richard went right, passing doors with identifying signs like 'Xenopathology' and 'Cryptozoological Lab'. He didn't think the latter had to do with canine retrievers. Maybe it did, only here the animal might have three heads and radar-dish ears.

Distraction. He was good at that, at throwing it out, even for himself. He felt cold again and shaky despite the blood. It was still doing its job of healing, but wasn't enough. He wanted—needed—more than mere food.

He paused to listen. Close by, someone moving about. That door, light showing under it. Someone pulling an all-nighter? It seemed too late for any janitorial staff to be working.

Knocking politely, he pushed the door open a crack. "Hallo?"

A stunner of a young woman, petite in her lab smock, and evidently startled. She relaxed a trifle at the sight of his blue scrubs, since they indicated he might have a valid reason to be wandering the halls. "Can I help you?"

He put on a confused face, looking around to see if she had company and only poked in with his head and shoulders, keeping his bare feet out of sight. "Oh, yes, please, I hope so. I was looking for the director, and I am hopelessly lost. The doctor with the white beard said he was in his office?"

The references reassured her. "Administration's in the other wing. You've got a walk. Go back down until you reach the elevator hub and turn left. There's a map up. His office is on the ground floor. Just follow the coffee smell. I think he lives on it."

The wide room had several computer stations, tables with acid-proof tops, gas connections, and apparently a number of works in progress at the various stations. No one else. "You must too, I think." He smiled and nodded at a machine with a steaming carafe on one of the tables. Pleasant odor, that stuff.

She responded with her own smile. "Have to when it gets busy."

"You've a project on?"

"Several. Yourself?" She seemed glad to have company.

"I'm working on that basket case they brought in the other night. The fellow who was so banged up."

"Yes, I helped on some of his blood samples. Strange stuff."

"Really? Anything I could have a peek at?"

"Oh, everything's been and gone. I put the data in and went back to my other work. Interesting protein markers, possibly unique. I've never seen anything like them before, even in this place." She seemed disarmed enough for him to venture in. When possible, he preferred to avoid frightening his ladies. No fear here, she stared at his feet. "Have an accident?"

He made a deprecating gesture. "You must be a mind reader."

"They're in the basement. What happened to your shoes?"

"That's what I need to talk to the director about."

"Where's your ID badge?"

He picked up the tiniest change in her voice, a tightening that would turn to alarm given the time, but he was close enough to gaze into her smoky brown eyes and make everything so much better for her.

"Will you please show me the data you entered about the strange blood?"

She obliged, walking to a station, going into the computer, and calling up the most recent file. The computer emitted a flat-toned beep and told them the file was not available. That was a relief. Apparently his good friend the doctor had gotten there first by another machine, efficiently deleting things.

Richard had some deleting himself to accomplish and instructed her to forget everything about the odd blood samples and their unique protein markers, whatever those were.

Then he suddenly felt tired. There was a stool next to the computer. He slipped onto it. His legs were whole again, yes, but subject to wobble. He smiled at the woman, holding his hand out, extending his will toward her as well. "Over here. Please."

He could have simply ordered her, and she'd have been just as happily obedient. Her mind was under his control, and she was mostly unaware of things, but there was no need to be uncivilized about it. She could have a trace memory of an agreeable dream or an ugly nightmare. He'd had too many of the latter himself to inflict more upon his partners.

With a soft word, a guiding gesture, he drew her close so her back was to him and pulled the shoulder of her coat partway off. A nice, easy, button-down blouse was under it. She undid the buttons herself and leaned back against him, very close, very comfortable, as though they were long-time lovers. Between the height of the stool and her own diminutive size, they were on a perfect level with each other. She stood between his knees and he wrapped his arms bearlike around her, his face buried in the crook of her shoulder, and gratefully breathed in her scent.

Beneath the powders and fragrances and artificialities of modern hygiene he found it, that basic wonderful difference that made her female, that made her and her many sisters so desirable to him. It was with substantial relief that he felt himself stir and grow hard. No such invasion of her on that level would take place, he'd not been invited, but he was glad enough to satisfy his need in another manner.

He gently tilted her head to the left, making taut her skin under his lips. He ran his tongue over the spot where the heat was greatest, delighting in the foretaste and her reaction to it. Were things different he might have lingered there long to see just what she liked, but didn't dare. Though one advantage to hunting in such a warren of identical halls and doors was being able to achieve—for a few necessary moments—a degree of privacy, he couldn't push it. Someone might take it into their heads to look in his room and send up the alarm.

But this was so nice, holding her, soaking in warmth and touch and comfort. He needed that contact as much as the blood.

He picked up the change in her, the scent of arousal. Oh, good for her. He nuzzled deep into her neck and bit down on the stretched skin, knowing it would now cause her pleasure, not pain. The same happened for him when her blood flowed into his mouth. Much, much better to take it fresh from a living vein, to taste her climax in it, to hear her long sighs as he held her, her body trembling against his.

She shivered, her breath coming faster, more rough, growing more vocal. It took some of them that way. He soothed her down, continuing to drink. Couldn't have a row.

Let's have a lovely, drawn out peak, intense and quiet . . . that's my sweet, beautiful darling . . .  

The last healing suffused heat through him. He felt complete, made whole again, full strength returned, and it was as much from the purely animal contact as from her blood, a psychic as well as a physical connection.

He ceased to take from her, kissed her skin clean, and that should have been it, but he continued to hold on, not wanting to relinquish the solace she unknowingly brought him. She was tiny, like Sabra, and though much else was quite different, there was enough similarity for him to hang on just a little longer, rocking gently back and forth. He'd never had the chance to hold Sabra, to say good-bye. She'd once taught him how important good-byes were . . .

Richard felt a sting in his eyes, and thought that now, finally, he would break down and weep for her. He choked twice, but nothing more happened. Forcing it was no good. There was nothing inside. What was wrong with him? The one woman he loved beyond measure and he couldn't shed a tear for her?

After a moment he pulled himself together and kissed his innocent surrogate on her temple. "Thank you. You're not to remember any of this, but thank you all the same."

"All right," she lightly agreed and moved clear, adjusting her clothes back to the way they were. She glanced at him, smiling, then went on to whatever she'd been doing before his arrival.

He took in a cleansing breath, straightening up, and with his eyes still flushed bloodred found himself looking right at his friend Bourland, who'd seen everything he shouldn't.

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Framed