Sally shook her head. “I haven’t a clue. With everything so mixed up, it could’ve been anything. A ghost?”
“You know what I think? I think it was someone from our world, trying to get in.”
“What?”
“It makes sense,” he said, “in a weird sort of way. And everything’s so mixed up that anything’s possible. What if the House is in two worlds at the same time? If it’s just the inside of the House that goes world-hopping? Remember the attack this morning? When we went outside, there was nothing on the doors or the walls. Not a scratch. But this afternoon, when we found ourselves here. . . . Well, you saw the sides of the House when the wolfmen attacked. The wood’s all clawed to ratshit. The place is a mess. The way it should have looked this morning.”
Sally nodded. “I think you’re right. But what does that mean? And how could there be two Houses as strange as this one is?”
“I don’t know. Jamie’s grandfather had this one built. Maybe there’s something in old Anthony Tamson’s journals that can tell us. Jamie’d know where to look.”
“But wouldn’t he already have thought of that by now? If he knew?”
“Not necessarily. All the Tamsons are heavy-duty writers. They pump out reams of the stuff, from Jamie’s grandfather all the way down to Sara. Who’d have time to go through it all?”
“Well, let’s go ask him.”
Blue shook his head. “After we’ve finished our patrol.”
“Maybe there’ll be something in those journals that will tell us how to get back.”
“You got it,” Blue said.
But if there wasn’t, that made it even more imperative for him to scout around tomorrow. Because if one structure could straddle two worlds, there might be others. And if he found another one, there was a chance that he might find someone in it who could give them a hand. It’d be dangerous, but he wouldn’t walk into anything blind.
He slung his rifle over his shoulder, adjusting the strap so that it hung comfortably, ready at hand. The Weatherby could be awfully persuasive, if push came to shove.
Traupman dozed in a chair in Gramarye’s Clover, wakening from time to time to have a look at the patient. Tom’s breathing had evened out as the night progressed and while his skin was still pale, it was not so transparent. He wondered what it was that could have affected Tom in such a way—what sort of a being this Mal’ek’a creature was.
Traupman found this entire situation extremely disturbing. Here he was, he thought, closing his eyes again, a writer of macabre fiction, a pursuer of “forbidden lore” for all these years, but never a believer. There had always been a wide streak of cynicism running through him—just enough to keep the papers he’d had published free of the baseless enthusiasm that invalidated so much paranormal research. He had only let himself go in his fiction. But he’d never believed in any of it. Not for a moment. It had just come out of the dark side of his imagination. It was a healthy catharsis to relieve his own fears of dying as the years took their toll on him. For he was getting old now. Too old for this. Too old to have fiction become reality.
A footstep in the doorway brought him out of his reverie. He saw Phillip Gannon leaning against the doorjamb.
“How’s the patient, Dr. Traupman?”
“Still unconscious. But he’s resting easier.”
“Any chance we can pry a few words from him tomorrow?”
“I’m hoping.”
Gannon nodded. “Just a little guy, isn’t he? A funny-looking little guy. If you passed him on the street, you’d never think he could cause such a fuss. Well, you take care of yourself, Dr. Traupman. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”
The words were pleasantly spoken, but there was a dead look in Gannon’s eyes. This was a dangerous man, Traupman realized. He stared at the empty doorway for a long time after Gannon was gone. A very dangerous man, he amended. He hoped John had some way of dealing with him and his companions, when and if they got out of their present predicament.
Mal’ek’a waited in a place of darkness.
It gave no thought to the passing of time. Its patience would be rewarded. It had its tragg’a scouring the worlds, past and present, for the small hornless one who kept the bard’s power-object from it. They would find her. And when they did, they would bring Mal’ek’a the ring. What they did with her afterwards was of no concern to it. All it needed was the ring to crack open Tamson House that it might take its rightful prey—the druid.
The only other method of gaining entrance to that cursed House had failed dismally. Mal’ek’a thought of reaching for another mind in the House, but the creatures that remained within were stronger and the House had strengthened its protection.
No. There was time enough. There was forever. It need only be patient. It had already waited through a thousand years of darkness to free itself. It had waited to gather strength enough to fashion itself a body, to bend the wills of the devil-bear’s children to its own purposes. It could wait longer. It was mortals who lived to die. Beings such as itself and the druid would go on forever. Until they were slain.
Mal’ek’a’s power flickered in its eyes as it savored the thought of its enemy’s death. There would be no Summer Country for him. He was to know the same wintry void that lurked in Mal’ek’a’s own heart.
“You both saw this?” Jamie asked.
As he looked from one to the other, Sally nodded.
“And it was a hand? A human hand . . . not a paw?”
“It happened pretty fast,” Blue said. “But I’m sure it was a hand. When we checked around outside, we couldn’t find anything. I tell you it fits.”
“I don’t know,” Jamie said. He rubbed his eyes, weary from the hours he’d spent hunched over Memoria’s terminal and viewscreen. “I suppose it could be possible,” he conceded.
“It fits, Jamie. Where do you keep your grandfather’s journals? There’s got to be some reference in them to what makes the House so strange. After all, he had the place built.”
“I’ve been through them,” Jamie said.
“But you weren’t looking for this,” Sally said.
He’d come up with nothing himself. It was the same frustration that had dogged him for years. He knew the answer was in reach. He just couldn’t focus on it. Blue’s theory warranted looking into, but he just didn’t have the energy. He needed to catch a couple of hours of sleep before he simply passed out where he was sitting.
“All the journals are in the Library in the west wing,” he said. “Where Sam works.”
Blue nodded. “In the glass shelves—on the right as you go in?”
“That’s them.”
“Maybe we should get Sam to go through them. I don’t think he’s really cut out for guard duty. You get some sleep, Jamie. We’ll go ask him if he’s up to it and then we’re hitting the sack ourselves.”
“All right.”
“Come on, Jamie,” Sally said. She helped him to his feet, then glanced at Blue. “You go talk to Sam while I get Jamie to his room.”
“Gotcha. You hang in there, Jamie. We’ll work this thing out yet.”
It was past four by the time Blue made it back to the Firecat’s Room. Sally was still awake when he got into bed and drew him close.
“Hold me,” she said.
Their lovemaking was slow and tender, a reaffirmation of life among the death and horrors that they’d faced. Lying beside her afterwards, Blue looked at her sleeping face and ran a finger down her cheek. This was real. Hell of a time for it to happen. But at least they had this much. Some people went their whole lives through never finding it.
He lay awake for a long while, thoughts drifting from the woman at his side, to Sara and where she might be, to what tomorrow had in store for them. At length he fell into a fitful sleep, awakening two hours later.
It was light outside. Just going on seven. On a Friday morning in Never-never-land. Did they even have days of the week in this place? He tried to get back to sleep
, but he was too wound up. After a while he slipped out of bed, drew the covers up around Sally, and got dressed. He hung a knapsack over one shoulder, his Weatherby over the other.
“Blue?” a sleepy voice asked from the bed.
“It’s okay, babe. I’m just going to scout around a bit. You try and get some more sleep, okay? I’ll see you later.”
He bent over her to give her a kiss, then straightened slowly. Jamie and Tucker’d look after her. There was no one to look after Sara. Catching up his motorcycle helmet, he left the room. Sally was already asleep again.
Gannon and Tucker would be on patrol now. He’d have to make sure he didn’t run into either one of them because he wasn’t in the mood for either arguments or explanations. He made his way downstairs without being spotted, then paused when he heard a sound in the library. Walking silently on the carpeted hall, he made his way to the door and peered in. Sam was sitting on the floor in front of the glass bookshelves that held Anthony and Nathan Tamson’s journals. He had them stacked on either side of him and was bent over one, hand pushing the hair back from his face, his lips pursed as he studied the neat printing on the page before him.
“How’s it going?” Blue asked.
“Wh-what?” The book fell from Sam’s hand as he started.
“Hey! Easy, man. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Oh, it’s you.” He put his hand against his chest. His eyes were bloodshot, gaze darting left to right. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“Sorry, Sam. You find anything in those yet?”
“I’ve found a lot—only nothing we can use. Not yet anyway.”
“Well, keep plugging at it. How’s the head?”
Sam touched the bandage on his forehead and shrugged. “It’s there,” he said.
“You get any sleep?”
“I’m planning to. But first I want to finish this pile.”
“Don’t wear yourself out, man. It looks like a long job.”
Sam nodded. Then he took in Blue’s knapsack and helmet.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Just for a little scout around. Nothing serious.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Blue. Have you told Jamie?”
“Hey, I’m not going far. You take it easy, Sam. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”
He pushed off before Sam could continue the discussion, making for the kitchen. There he loaded his knapsack with some provisions and a canteen that he filled at the sink. He dug a small compass out of a tool drawer and clipped it to his belt, then, chewing on a piece of cheese, headed for the garage facing O’Connor where he kept his bikes. He made it there without running into either Gannon or Tucker, which made him wonder about how much good these patrols were doing in the first place. Well, he’d put more faith in whatever it was about the House that was protecting them, than in either Tucker or Gannon and his crew.
Once in the garage, he wheeled his trail bike out into the open space in front of the big doors and loaded up his knapsack and a spare can of gas on the back. The bike was a Yamaha YZ 250—nothing too big. He only used it for tooling around in the bush, keeping his chopped-down Harley for street use. When he had the gas can and knapsack strapped in and had balanced their weights, he topped off the gas tank. Ready to go. He was just picking up his rifle, when a voice spoke from behind him.
“Well, well, well.”
Shit! He turned slowly to find one of Gannon’s men standing in the doorway that led into the House. Mercier, he thought. Whatever glib explanation Blue might have come up with died as he saw the gun in Mercier’s hand. It was a .22 Margolin target pistol that had belonged to one of the two men that had died yesterday in the attack. Mercier’s own .38 was stuck in his belt.
“What do you want?” Blue asked.
“Well,” Mercier said, enjoying the moment, “when Gannon saw you creeping through the halls—all loaded up for a trip, it seemed—he asked me to go have a look-see, just to find out what it was all about. You got some place you’re going, biker-boy? Some friends you’re calling in, maybe?”
Blue’s eyes narrowed, but he kept a smile on his face. “Hey, what is this shit, man?” he said. “I’m just going to scout around a little, you know?”
“Can the bullshit. Nobody’s going to scout around with those monsters still on the prowl—not unless they’ve got some place to go. Now where is it?”
“I already told you—”
Mercier lifted the .22 and shook it back and forth slowly. “Uh-huh. You’re going to have to do better than that. I always figured you folks knew more than you were letting on. If you know a way back, you better spill it now, biker-boy. Before I spill your brains all over the back of that wall. Got it?”
This was just great timing, Blue thought. Even if he could get his rifle up in time, he didn’t have a shell in the chamber. He had to think of something, and think fast. If Gannon had sent his goon to go have a look, it wasn’t hard to bet that Gannon’d be along himself real soon. About nine feet separated Mercier from him. There was no way he could cross that distance before Mercier got off a shot. And Mercier, being what he was, wasn’t likely to miss.
“Okay,” he said, letting his shoulders sag slightly. “There’s a way out.”
Mercier smiled. “Keep talking, friend. Keep them words rolling. Where is it? How far?”
“Just past the forest—” Blue began, lifting his hand to point, but Mercier cut him off.
“Not so fast. You keep those hands moving slow, biker-boy. And why don’t you lay down that rifle? Your hand must be getting awfully tired just hanging onto it like that. Just ease the barrel down on the floor and bend down slowly and lay it out. Now, friend.”
Now? Damn right, “friend.” It was now or never.
Something Blue hadn’t felt in years rose up in him. It was the who-gives-a-shit attitude that he’d worn as proudly as his colors back when he rode with the Devil’s Dragon. It was that anger that Jamie and Sara had showed him how to diffuse, to focus that energy on creating rather than destroying. But everything they’d given him disappeared in that moment, leaving the savagery that he’d never quite gotten rid of.
Mercier knew that look, but the suddenness of Blue’s attack, its sheer viciousness, took him off guard for the precious seconds the biker needed. Mercier’s first shot went over Blue’s head and he never got the opportunity for a second one. The butt of the Weatherby came up out of the air and drove into his jaw with all the force of Blue’s arm behind it, shattering bone. The blow threw him back against the wall, his jaw hanging askew. Fire poured through him, nerve ends seared with pain. He tried to bring up the Margolin, but Blue stepped in close and smashed the rifle down again. The .22 spilled out of lifeless fingers and Mercier slumped to the ground, his skull staved in. A red stain spread across his shirt, leaked to the floor.
“You should’ve let it ride,” Blue said, standing over him.
There was a wild singing in his ears and he shook his head, trying to get rid of it. I don’t want to feel like this anymore, he told himself. I’m not like this anymore. Even fighting off those monsters I wasn’t like this.
But it was there inside him, the savage side of himself freed again. He took a deep breath. Another. The sudden rush of oxygen helped to clear his head. He knew that the one shot Mercier got off was going to bring people down here. And there wasn’t time for any of the crap that would come in their wake. He wasn’t up to being diplomatic with Gannon or Tucker. And he sure wasn’t ready to face either Jamie or Sally.
Shifting the Weatherby to his left hand, he took Mercier’s .38, stuck it in his own belt, and put the Margolin in his jacket pocket. He looked down at the corpse. What was he supposed to do with the body? God damn Mercier! If he could just’ve left him alone. . . . Blue shook his head, breathed deeply. Slow down, he told himself. We’ve got a ways to go still. Now think. Leave it here or take it? Screw it! He’d take it. Let them try to figure out what had
happened to Mercier. Let Gannon do a little sweating, seeing’s how he always seemed so cool.
The decision made, he moved quickly. He got the garage doors open and wheeled the bike out. Returning to the garage, he carried Mercier’s body out and dumped it unceremoniously beside the bike. Inside again, he threw a tarpaulin over the bloodstained floor, then stepped outside, locking the doors shut behind him. He balanced Mercier on the gas tank and handlebars, hit the ignition and the bike roared into life. The body was awkward and he zigzagged across the field, heading for a break in the woods that was due east. He didn’t bother to look back. The bike’s noise would’ve alerted anyone in the House that something was up. He just hoped he could make it into the woods before someone caught a look.
As he was nearing the trees, he saw the black shapes shuffle from the forest on the right. He gunned the bike to the trees and skidded to a stop. The bike tipped and he wrestled it back upright by brute force. Sucker weighed a lot with two people on it. Glancing at the tragg’a, he dumped Mercier’s body on the ground and took off again.
“Play with that for a while!” he called back over his shoulder.
Then he was in amongst the trees and needed all his attention focused on the obstacle course they made. He just hoped he didn’t run into another pack of the wolfmen in a place where he couldn’t maneuver. They didn’t move fast and he knew he could outdistance them, given the room to move. But all he needed was to lose the bike and have to face a pack of them on foot. He’d take one or two with him, but after facing them yesterday, he knew he wouldn’t last long. They’d have him then and that’d be all she wrote.
“What the hell was that?” Tucker demanded.
He came running up to where Gannon stood, about to put his shoulder to the door that led to the garage.
“Seems like one of the birds has flown the coup,” Gannon replied. “Locked the door from the inside of the garage.” He hit the door with enough force to pop the lock and they both stepped in.
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