Tragg’a.
“Listen!” Blue cried.
He took Sally’s arm and stopped dead, head cocked. They heard the sound of breaking glass and something hard hitting the floor, bouncing.
“That came from Sara’s tower,” Blue said. “Let’s go!”
He took off at a loping run, working the bolt of his Weatherby. Stopping at the door to Sara’s rooms, he pushed it open with his shoulder and entered at a crouch, the rifle leveled. Sally flicked on the lights. The first thing Blue saw was the broken window. The edges of the glass were already smoothing as the House healed itself. More glass was scattered on the floor. At Blue’s feet was a stone the size of two fists.
“Blue?” Sally asked.
“They didn’t get in,” he replied, coming to his feet. “Not yet, anyway.”
He approached the window cautiously, staring at the regenerating glass. Through the opening that still remained he could see nothing. But that feeling was still there. Something was coming. Where was Ur’wen’ta? And Hengwr . . . They needed him more than ever now.
“Come on,” he said to Sally. “Let’s see if Tucker’s found anything.”
Mal’ek’a stirred in its place of darkness.
Its patience came to a sudden end. That damnable House! It would tear it up by its stony roots and smash it until not a piece of it remained that was larger than its own fist. The House’s defenses were strong, but not impenetrable. It had breached them once. It needed only another mind. Another mind to grasp and twist until it cracked open a second breach. And this time it would not fail.
“Mr. Tams?”
Jamie looked up from the fridge to see Gannon and Chevier standing in the doorway of the Silkwater Kitchen. Chevier held a handgun negligently in his hand.
“Let’s go for a walk, Mr. Tams,” Gannon said.
Jamie looked left and right. Where was everybody else? What did Gannon want with him? Maybe he should try to make a break for it. . . .
“I wouldn’t try what you’re thinking,” Gannon murmured. “Mike’s awfully good with that gun of his.”
Chevier’s lips shaped a feral grin. His voice was bad enough. His silence at the moment made things seem even worse.
“Look, Mr. Gannon,” Jamie began, “I. . . .”
Gannon shook his head. “Uh-uh. We’ve got a quieter place to talk. Just come along nice and easy and you won’t get hurt.”
“What was that racket?” Tucker asked.
Blue shrugged. “Something tried to get in but didn’t quite make it. The House is still blocking them, but something’s gotta give. Anything happening on this side?”
“It’s been quiet. Too . . .”
Tucker paused, looking from Blue to Sally.
“Do you hear it?” he asked.
Blue nodded. “Howling. They’re going to attack again. Sounds like it’s coming from the south side.”
“Christ! I left Maggie sleeping on a couch in one of those rooms.”
“Well, what’re we waiting for?”
Mal’ek’a found the mind it needed. It paced through the forest, nearing the House, and with each step it took, it tightened the bindings of its will about that other mind.
Do not fight me, it whispered with its thoughts. We were one before. We shall be one again. Welcome me, and I will swallow you with my power. Fight me, and I will scatter the shards of your soul across the worlds.
The mind was weak, shattered once and scarcely mended. Earlier Mal’ek’a had sought it with all the power at its control, to no avail. But something had changed. Something had drawn that mind up from out of its abyss, left it weak and approachable, where Mal’ek’a could find it.
You are mine, it whispered. Welcome me.
Gannon opened the cellar door and motioned for Jamie to go down.
“Wait a minute,” Jamie began.
Gannon backhanded him across the mouth, making every tooth in his head rattle. The force of the blow threw him against a wall. Gannon grabbed him by an arm and propelled him down the stairs.
“Move!”
Jamie fell to his knees at the landing. Before Gannon could push him again, he drew himself upright and went on down. What in God’s name was going on?
“Get the door,” Gannon said as he followed Jamie into the first cellar.
As Chevier kicked the door shut, Gannon pointed to a high-backed wooden chair that Jamie recognized as coming from one of the dining rooms in the west wing, standing among the rows of wine racks.
“Sit,” Gannon said.
Jamie sat.
“Now talk.”
“A—about what?”
Gannon hit him again, snapping Jamie’s head against the back of the chair. The jolt took Jamie’s breath away.
“Please,” he said. “I don’t know what you want with me, but—”
Again the big fist lashed out.
“You’re talking,” Gannon said quietly, “but you’re not saying anything I want to hear. I’ll put it to you simply: How does this place work? How did we get here and how do we get back? Where are the fucking controls?”
Jamie’s head rang and he could hardly see straight. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. There was nothing he could tell them. He heard Chevier chewing on a mint behind him and shuddered. Gannon reached forward and lifted Jamie’s chin with his fist.
“Talk,” he said, his voice soft and dangerous.
Traupman had been in Jamie’s study. He left it and entered Gramarye’s Clover, drawn by the sound of Thomas Hengwr’s thrashing. To conserve what power they had, there was only one light on in the room, and that was over by the chairs near the window. It cast a pale light on Tom’s anguished features. He whipped back and forth on the bed, limbs entangled in the blankets that had covered him.
“No,” he muttered. “No. No!” His face glistened with perspiration. His back arched and fell. His hands were clenched into fists.
Traupman hesitated in the doorway. Should he call for some help or do what he could on his own? Jamie was due back at any minute. That decided him. He moved across the room.
“It’s all right,” he said softly. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
Tom’s eyes snapped open at the sound of his voice and Traupmand stopped dead in his tracks. He saw the look of a wild beast caged in those eyes. And those eyes began to glow.
Sara started to shake. There was no way she could handle tragg’a, not with the House gone. What in God’s name had possessed her to take up this stupid challenge? She didn’t know what to do. She had to run, but run to where? What could protect her in this world? She couldn’t return to Taliesin’s tower. The moonheart tune wouldn’t work here.
The tragg’a hadn’t spotted her yet. If she could just get around the comer. . . .
One of the creatures sighted her and they headed her way. They lifted their hideous snouts to the sky and howled. The sound stopped the blood in Sara’s veins. For long moments she watched the tragg’a draw near, numb with terror. Then her adrenaline cut in with a rush and she was off and running. It didn’t matter where to, just so long as she got away from those . . . things.
Skidding around the corner of the House, she hiked up her dress and vaulted over the low fence that separated the park from Patterson Avenue. She landed badly and tumbled in a sprawl, clawing her way to her feet. Running along the parkside of the House, she kept glancing back, hoping that by some fluky miracle she’d lost her pursuers. But then they rounded the corner, the largest a few paces ahead of its companions, and they were gaining on her.
She heard the squeal of burning rubber from Patterson, then a car door slamming. A voice called out commanding them to stop.
A quick look back showed her that the lead tragg’a was steadily closing the distance between them. There was no way she could outrun them. She was halfway down the side of the House now and tiring, while the tragg’a seemed unaffected. She saw a window open with nothing but a screen between her and whatever was inside the House now. Be
tter the danger you didn’t know than the sure death you did, she thought, as she hurled herself at the screen. It broke under her weight and she tumbled in.
There was a moment of frightening disorientation, when up seemed like down and the whole world spun, then she landed on a rug that slid out from under her. She heard a gunshot outside, saw the lead tragg’a thrust its face at the ripped screen. The rank stench of the creature assailed her. She tried to move, but could only stare helplessly as the tragg’a made as if to follow her in. Then a piercing blue light flared in the window. She heard the tragg’a’s roar of pain, heard sounds behind her, voices, running feet.
“Don’t shoot!” a vaguely familiar voice cried.
She tried to recall why it sounded familiar, where she knew it from. Her eyes hurt from the glare of the blue fire. Spots danced in front of her eyes. She turned from the window. She tried to stand, got halfway up.
“Oh, God!” she muttered as she crouched on the floor. Her hands were slick with perspiration. She lifted her head and attempted to focus on the silhouetted form in front of her.
“I understood that,” another voice said. “She speaks Eng—”
“Ho-lee shit!” the first voice broke in. “It’s Sara!”
“Blue?” she asked.
She was still half blind. She’d only been a few feet from the flare at the window. She reached out with her taw, searching for a familiar presence.
“Is that you, Blue?”
Blue knelt in front of Sara, but she still couldn’t see him. “Is that you, Blue?” she asked again.
“It’s me, Sara.” Gently, he reached for her and drew her into his arms. “It’s okay now, Sara.”
“The tragg’a . . .”
“It’s dead,” he said. “Or hurt bad. The House fixed it. It won’t be coming in after you.”
She shuddered against him. Awkwardly, Blue patted her shoulder, and tears of relief welled up in his eyes. For a long moment, all he could do was hold her. Then slowly he disengaged his arms and helped her to her feet.
“Can you stand up now?” he asked. “Christ, look at you! You’re a regular Pocahontas. Where’d you dig up those threads?”
The beginnings of a smile tugged at Sara’s lips. “You . . . you wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said.
“Want to bet?”
She blinked as what he’d just said settled in her. The spots in her eyesight were fading, and she saw she was in one of the downstairs rooms on the south side of the House—facing the park. Seeing Sally, she smiled, then her eyes widened as her gaze swung around to Tucker. What was he doing here? She took a step forward. Her legs were still a little wobbly, but her panic had subsided. She turned to face Blue and saw the torn window screen.
“There . . . there were two more, Blue.”
“Two? There’s a whole fucking army of them out there.”
“A whole . . .” She shook her head slowly. “But . . . I thought they followed me here from the Otherworld. There were only three of them chasing me. They appeared just behind me on Patterson.” She stopped when she saw the looks on their faces. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Patterson’s not out there anymore,” Sally said. “There’s nothing out there but forest.”
“Forest? But I was just out there. They were chasing me through the park. . . .” Her voice trailed off as she neared the window and saw the moonlit fields running off into the darker shadow of the forest. “Oh, God! Where are we?”
But she already knew. This explained why the House had seemed empty earlier. It wasn’t there anymore. At least its insides weren’t. But how had she ended up here? If they stepped out, would they be back in Ottawa?
“I’ve been a long way into the woods,” Blue explained when she asked. “There’s nothing out there but bush. And monsters. Trags.”
“Tragg’a.”
“Whatever.”
At that moment the howling started up again. Sara shivered, stepping back from the window. The hole in the screen was half the size it had been and growing smaller.
“They can’t get in,” Tucker said. He handed the Weatherby back to Blue. “But that hasn’t stopped them from trying.”
Sara wasn’t listening. Her small taw was raised and she threw out her senses, searching until she touched what she sought—the thing that led the tragg’a. Kieran’s demon. Mal’ek’a. It was drawing near.
“He’s out there,” she said softly.
“Who is?”
“Mal’ek’a—the Dread-That-Walks-Nameless. I can feel him.” She shivered. “He’s so strong. So evil. I don’t think these walls are going to stop him. Not this time. He won’t stop until—”
She stumbled as though she’d been hit, fell to her knees and clapped her hands against her temples.
“Get out! Get out of my head!”
I remember you, Mal’ek’a whispered. When I am done with the druid I will return for you.
Mal’ek’a felt its words hit the small hornless one like so many blows. It grinned, then returned its attention to the other mind, thrusting sharp commands deep into the wounded soul of its enemy, the druid.
We are one, it hissed, overriding the other’s protests. But I am the stronger now. Welcome me. . . .
“No!” Tom screamed.
He came off the bed, eyes blazing. Mal’ek’a’s commands were like fires in his brain, dragging him from the cool darknesses deep inside him into the harsh light of reality.
You know me, Mal’ek’a told him. You are me!
“No!”
Tom tore at his shirt, gulped air, shook his head from side to side. Motion caught his eye. He saw Traupman backing out of the room, only it wasn’t Traupman he saw. He saw his own evil twin mirrored across the room. He lifted his hands and gold magefire blossomed in his palms, arcing towards the man in the doorway. Traupman was lifted into the air as though by a great fist and hurled against the wall. The air smelled of cooked flesh. Traupman’s body smoked as it slid to the floor, lifeless eyes staring at Tom with a glassy accusation imprinted in their retinas.
Tom stared numbly at the dead man and sank to the ground. Mal’ek’a pounded at his mind. Tom wanted to hide—from what he had done, from what he was—but there was no escape.
He saw again the tall longstone on Gwynedd’s shores that had been his prison for a thousand years. He had changed, forced the evil festering in his soul away through meditation and other mental disciplines. But the evil, rather than dissipating, had taken on a life of its own. It had escaped their imprisonment in the standing stone long before Tom himself had. It was the lie that Tom had named Taliesin. It was the Dread-That-Walks-Nameless that the quin’on’a named the white man’s curse. It was what had struck him down in the Otherworld when he’d been reading the Weirdin he’d thrown to find Sara. It was his own twin and, deny it though he might, he had always known it existed.
“No!” he cried, staring at Traupman’s charred corpse.
Yes. Accept it.
Tom saw himself in the Otherworld again, throwing the Weirdin bones, bent over the reading cloth, turning to face his enemy, turning to face himself. . . .
“No!”
He twisted and faced the window now.
“No!”
He lifted his hands, drawing up the last shreds of his waning power. The fire in his hands burned like a miniature nova and he flung it at his enemy.
You are mine! Mal’ek’a cried.
The entire side of the room blew outward. Flaming debris rained on the field, burning and crushing the nearest tragg’a. The House rocked. A voiceless wail pierced Tom’s mind. The House! He’d wounded the House and left a breach for his enemy to enter. He pressed his face against the floor. Where now his vaunted wisdom? Where his powers and strengths? Where now his humanity? Gone. All gone.
He fled as the first tragg’a came clawing up through the hole in the House’s side. Feeble flickers of blue light ran along the
edges of the hole, but the gap was too big for the House to defend.
The tragg’a were inside. And with them came their master.
Gannon drew back his arm to hit Jamie again.
“Talk, damn you!”
Jamie looked up through swollen eyes. Feebly he tried to shake his head, but Chevier held him by the hair and he couldn’t move. Blood dripped from cuts above his eye, blinding him. A broken tooth was stuck in his throat, choking him.
“Hit him again, Phil,” Chevier said in his whispery voice.
Gannon nodded. But then the House shook to its very foundations. The stones seemed to grind against each other and Jamie screamed.
Christ! Gannon thought. I never even—
Jamie lunged out of the chair, leaving a handful of hair in Chevier’s fist. He bowled Gannon over and thundered up the stairs, moaning. It was not his own pain he felt at the moment, but a deeper pain. Now he knew what this bond was that existed between the House and himself, and the knowledge shook him to the depths of his soul. There was a sharp stab in his abdomen, like a knife wound piercing him. He had to pause at the top of the stairs to lean against the wall.
Gannon appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
“You can’t get away,” he said. “I’ve got the key to the door. Now get down here and—”
“Fools!” Jamie shouted through bloodied lips. His voice echoed and re-echoed in the confined place. “They’ve broken in. We’re all dead now!”
As Gannon lifted his gun, Jamie turned and hit the door with his shoulder. It should have held. It was locked. It was made of stout oakwood and heavily hinged. Instead, it gave way. As Gannon fired, Jamie was already through the door and off down the hall. He ran to the right and had disappeared around the corner by the time Gannon topped the stairs.
The big man paused, listening. He heard sounds coming down the corridor to his left and ran that way, Chevier following close behind. When they rounded the corner, they came face to face with the first wave of tragg’a.
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