by K. Z. Snow
As Ivan ranted on, Jackson slipped out of bed and cat-pawed into the kitchen. He poured a glass of cold water. After a few long swallows, he asked irritably, “Now what are you yammering about?”
“You know goddamned well, Spey.”
“No. I don’t.” Jackson sat at the dining table. “It’s two a.m., Ivan. Some people do go to bed before bars close, you know.” He ran a thumb and forefinger over his eyes and yawned. Sonofabitch must be drunk.
“Listen, asshole,” Ivan said, “I know damned well this has something to do with you. Your name came up. And there’s nobody else of my acquaintance who’s familiar with all three of these females.”
“What three—”
“Hey, hey,” Ivan shouted away from the mouthpiece, as if he were trying to get somebody’s attention.
Jackson scowled. What the hell was going on?
“Mikaela,” Ivan said distractedly. “And that friend of yours, Angelina.” A clatter came through the line, as if Ivan had carelessly dropped the handset. He seemed to be moving around, muttering.
Jackson’s frown deepened. He was fully awake now, his attention tensely focused.
Abruptly, Ivan returned. “And who the fuck are Adin and Celia?”
Jackson stopped breathing. “What?” The question was more an expulsion of air than of sound. His arm fell with a thud to the table top.
“Some cute blonde chick appeared—you’ll notice I didn’t say ‘was here’—and said she was looking for somebody named Adin and you knew this Adin.”
Jackson threw the phone aside as he bolted up from the chair and shoved himself away from the table. Jogging toward the hallway, he stopped short when Adin emerged from the bedroom.
Adin grabbed his arm. “What’s wrong?”
“I have to leave.” Briefly touching his lover’s flushed cheek, Jackson pushed past him and headed for the bathroom.
“And go where?”
After peeing and gargling and dragging a brush through his hair, Jackson whirled toward the bedroom and started dressing.
Following him, Adin too began slipping into his clothing. “Where are you going?” he repeated more emphatically.
Jackson’s mind spun. He didn’t want to get Adin involved in this but couldn’t leave him alone, either—not with his vampiric appetite resurfacing. And that mention of Celia… It wouldn’t be right to keep him in the dark, either literally or figuratively.
“Something’s happening at Ivan Kurtz’s apartment.”
After the briefest pause, Adin said, “I’m coming with you. And don’t try to give me any shit about it.”
Jackson didn’t.
Suddenly, the Prism of Nezrabi had become terrifyingly real.
* * * *
“Why are you here? To fuck with me even more?” Kurtz shouted through the door. “You better put an end to this bullshit. Now go away.”
“Let me in, Ivan.”
Adin stepped beside Jackson and pounded on the door. “Celia? Celia, are you in there?”
Jackson grabbed his arm and forced it down. “Be quiet. You’re going to wake up everybody on this floor.”
“I don’t care,” Adin said. He had a manic look in his eyes, which were bleary and bloodshot and hardly looked like Adin’s eyes at all. Ashen hollows lay beneath them. His skin shone with sweat.
Despite his growing concern about Adin’s condition, Jackson knew he had to be firm. “You’d better care. I need to find out what’s going on, and I won’t be able to do that if we get thrown out of here. And to answer your question—no, Celia isn’t in there. Now get a grip.”
Jackson realized his authoritative bluster was acid-etched with resentment and anxiety and a host of other feelings he needed to get rid of. It ate at him that Adin’s primary focus was suddenly on Celia. It ate at him with long, sharp teeth that this concern came on the heels of Adin’s pursuit of another man. But it wasn’t the time for petty jealousies. Jackson knew he, too, needed to get a grip.
“Ivan,” he said, “you’re the one who called me. You jerked the chain that brought me here. So open…the fucking…door.”
Within seconds, Kurtz did just that. No resistance, no threats, no imperatives laced with profanity. He just quietly opened the door.
Hand still on doorknob, Ivan stood there, pale and wide-eyed. “That’s what Newman said. Oh Jesus, that’s what Newman said. ‘Call him. Open the door’.”
Pushing past Kurtz, Jackson’s gaze swept over the living room, darted to the kitchen. Nobody else was around. His eyes slowly moved to the left, back toward the cocktail table. A sizable object sat there, covered with a towel.
Newman…
Jackson spun to face Ivan. “Did you mean James Newman?”
Head jerking, Ivan breathed out, “Yeah.” He seemed on the verge of looking at something else but caught himself. Instead he glanced at Adin, who stood silently against the door. “You must be Adin. Does your girlfriend know you’re cheating on her with a dick?”
With no forethought whatsoever, Jackson grabbed the front of Ivan’s robe and gave him a shove that sent him tumbling onto his couch.
Kurtz’s demented snickering continued. “What happened, Spey? Did you run out of women good enough for you? But he is prettier than—”
Jackson fell on him. He repeatedly yanked Ivan forward and slammed him against the cushions, punctuating each exertion with a bitch slap.
“Don’t you ever presume anything about me, you clueless son of a bitch.”
As Kurtz squealed and whimpered and protectively draped his arms over his bald head, Jackson felt a pair of hands on his own shoulders.
“Stop. Save your strength. He isn’t worth it. He’s just trying to provoke you.” Adin’s voice was mild and instantly soothing. Whatever wire had been running through him had obviously slackened. He sounded tired.
Breathing heavily, Jackson gave Kurtz one last, lackadaisical jerk then stood up straight. He wanted to turn and hold Adin. That’s all he wanted to do. Hang on to Adin and wish them back into his bed and wish everything else away. Instead, he swept the hair from his face. Closing his eyes, he mustered composure. And resolve. Adin’s hands slid from his shoulders.
Jackson walked around to the other side of the cocktail table and dropped to his haunches. Adin followed and stood over him. They both stared at the covered form on the table. A multicolored glow pulsed like a heartbeat beneath the cloth.
“That must be it,” Adin said quietly.
“That’s it.”
“Now what do we do?”
Tentatively, Jackson reached for the cloth. His hand stopped in midair. He withdrew it. “I don’t know.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
She came out of the kitchen. Just drifted out of its darkness like a wraith emerging from a cave. Ivan, curled up on the couch, made a puling sound.
Jackson wasn’t particularly surprised. He had no reaction except to look up, speak Mikaela’s name, and then glance over his shoulder at Adin.
“Hello, Adin,” she said. She neither walked over to him nor extended her hand.
Although Mikaela had given his name the Hebrew pronunciation, a fact as shocking as her immediate recognition of him, Adin continued to watch her without the slightest sign of emotion. He merely inclined his head in acknowledgment. Jackson, his mind scrambling for answers, rose from the floor and stood beside Adin.
“A united front,” Mikaela said. “Good.” She leaned over the back of the couch and touched Ivan’s shoulder. “You’re not needed anymore. You may retire.”
As if he were in a trance, Kurtz mechanically got off the couch and disappeared into his bedroom.
Mikaela stepped over to the cocktail table and stood opposite the two remaining men.
“You’re not human,” Adin said, his gaze fixed on her face.
“I am now,” she replied. “And whenever else I need to be.”
“You mean,” Adin said, “you’re whatever you need to be whenever you need to be it.”
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“That’s accurate enough.”
With a jolt, Jackson realized the truth of this. Adin’s vampiric senses, which were kicking in again, had picked up on her nature.
So maybe she, or rather “it,” was the real Keeper of Nezrabi’s Prism. It didn’t matter, though. Not in terms of Jackson’s reaction. He’d begun to simmer. Few things infuriated him more than being played. He was already on edge, what with all the other shit that had been swirling around him, and now to find out some dispassionate puppet-master had been pulling his strings, making him dance around at the Lobo Lounge and that ridiculous esbat meeting and in his own home…
“I don’t know what the hell you are,” he told the Mikaela creature, “but I will not be manipulated and made a fool of. You and your Prism can go to hell.” His voice was low, like the deep-throated growl of a cat. He turned to Adin. “I’m leaving. I wash my hands of this.”
Adin’s fingers closed on his sleeve. “You can’t, Jackson. And I can’t.”
There was grim resignation in that statement, and it immediately smothered Jackson’s outrage. But the indignation remained. Scowling, he fired a contemptuous look at the still figure that continued to watch them.
“All that deceit. All that humiliation. Why did you do it?” He knew he didn’t have to elaborate.
“Your pride is blinding you,” the thing said blandly. “I needed to keep track of you as well as learn about you. Mr. Kurtz was the connection.”
Jackson remembered Esme saying the same thing, but that that wasn’t sufficient to explain all the personal invasions. “I had to fuck you so you could ‘learn about’ me?”
“I learned a lot that way,” Adin muttered.
“Everything that happened was tied together,” said Mikaela, “and all for a reason.” Her gaze lowered to the Prism. “This is that reason.”
“You assumed Adin’s form at my flat,” Jackson said. It was, in his mind, the ultimate violation.
Her expressionless eyes shifted in his direction. “Yes.”
“But why? Why that?”
“To determine the degree of attachment, and how or if it would impact your mission. I’ve needed to get as good a sense of you as possible. You must believe this.”
Sighing, Jackson rubbed his face. He needed to understand. To get past his anger and resentment and do what had to be done, he first had to feel all these machinations were justified.
“So…you have some connection to the Prism.” Your mission… Heart pounding, Jackson glanced down at the still-covered form on the table. Its rhythmic pulsations were stronger on the side that faced him. He was sure of it.
“I served as one link between you and this microcosm,” Mikaela said. “My position in the chain allowed me to assess all the players involved, especially you, the Mender. Now that you’re on the threshold, my function changes. I shall serve as your guide.”
Mikaela’s form began rapidly to dissolve, each detail of its substance hazing and fading until that form became little more than a smudge on the air. Before it vanished entirely, it began to adopt another shape, a different set of details.
Where the female figure had been, a man now stood—a very striking man with curling black hair and clear gray eyes and, from what Jackson could tell, an impressive physique. He was dressed casually, maybe in imitation of the two human men.
“It might be best if you simply called me M,” the creature said. “I am not who or what you believed me to be. You must let go of the Mikaela illusion now. It has served its purpose.”
“But…why did you adopt this form?” Jackson asked. Understanding wasn’t coming easily.
“First, because you no longer trust the female persona. Second, because you seem to favor comely men.”
The observation, made so casually, rekindled Jackson’s ire. Regardless of what this entity was, it had no right to be presumptuous. Or insensitive. Jackson glanced at Adin. M’s statement had obviously penetrated his fugue. He looked stung by it, by the implication that Jackson routinely hounded after “comely” men.
Jackson glowered at the being who watched him with such icy impassivity. “The man standing beside me,” he said in a measured voice, “is the only man I favor, ‘comely’ or not. You’d be well advised not to make ignorant assumptions…about either of us.”
Although he’d muted his outrage, it wasn’t lost on M. “Very well. My only intention was to put you more at ease.”
“If you had any regard for my goddamned comfort, Adin and I wouldn’t be here!”
“Yes,” M said, “you would. Now, tell me what you’d like me to change into.”
“I don’t give a damn if you change into a jellyfish!” Jackson shouted. “What the fuck are you?”
He covered his face for a moment, realizing his mounting tension was self-defeating. Then he felt Adin’s hand flatten against his back. Gentle as the contact was, it calmed and strengthened him. He looked at his lover, trying further to gird himself through Adin’s presence.
“I am the Shebra’felim that has been assigned to you,” M said.
Adin’s eyes immediately narrowed when he heard the word, as if it were familiar to him. Jackson was about to ask if he knew what it meant when Adin’s eyelids fluttered. He swayed and made a low, hurting sound.
Concern clutched at Jackson. Adin was maintaining, but he looked increasingly frail. Sweat had begun to bead on his upper lip. The texture and color of his skin resembled tissue paper. Delicate tremors shimmied through his body. He either needed to feed, or the reassertion of vampiric traits was wreaking havoc with his entire constitution.
“How do you feel?” Jackson asked quietly, trying to minimize the stress in his voice.
“Like shit.” Adin’s mouth barely moved.
“Do you need—?”
“I don’t know what I need. This is something like the Fever but…different.”
The Fever. An affliction generated by hunger, it was a vampire’s worst fear, aside from whatever agents could kill him. Adin had told Jackson about it years ago. If the Fever went unchecked, it could lead to a dangerous and debilitating dementia and, finally, death. Blood was the only cure.
Forgetting about M and the Prism and Ivan Kurtz, Jackson held his lover. One hand firmly braced Adin’s back; the other cradled his head. Jackson half expected to feel the fiery slash of a fingernail, even the plunge of sharp teeth…but neither came. Adin didn’t even return his embrace. Heavily, his head merely lowered to the slope between Jackson’s neck and shoulder, damp hair grazing Jackson’s face. His pallid cheek was cool and clammy.
Pressing his lips to Adin’s temple, Jackson silently conjured a strong wave of healing energy and sent it into his lover’s body. The effort seemed to work. Adin’s respiration deepened and slowed. Warmth percolated through his skin.
“Thank you,” he murmured. Lifting his head, he lightly kissed Jackson on the mouth.
Jackson smiled. “Your lips are warm again. I’m glad.” Even now, caught up in some mind-bending mission he didn’t fully understand and couldn’t fully accept, Adin’s kiss still touched off a small cyclone of lust in his belly. Damn, he was a freakin’ mess.
“I don’t think it’s going to last, though,” Adin said.
Jackson’s face fell.
Desperation bit into him. It was far more torturous than any vampire attack. Perhaps for the first time, he realized how horribly out of control the situation had gotten; worse, how much beyond his control. Adin’s suffering tore at him. His own helplessness galled him.
The figure now calling itself M at least provided Jackson with a target for his outrage. Muscles tight as bow strings, he was about to lift the Prism and hurl it at the creature. What the hell. Things couldn’t get much worse. Maybe shattering the crystal was something that should’ve been done eons ago.
Only, it wasn’t going to happen that way.
He should’ve known.
Brilliant blades of colored light seemed to cleave each molecule of air in the room. T
he multifaceted Prism no longer hunkered and thrummed beneath Ivan Kurtz’s tea towel. It had revealed itself.
Blinded for a moment, Jackson turned his head away from the table, his face nearly hidden in Adin’s hair. The crystal’s aggressive flashing quickly subsided to a sly, beckoning glimmer.
“Go ahead, look at it,” Adin whispered. “You have to.”
Jackson knew he was right. His eyes faltered toward the table. For the first time in his life, he beheld the legendary Prism of Nezrabi.
It held him spellbound. The object’s intricate artistry was depthless, and as alluring as it was terrifying. Kurtz’s gauche apartment seemed to recede, fading into its own dark walls. Only Adin’s presence and M’s voice kept Jackson grounded in the world he knew.
“Should Mr. Swift accompany you,” M said, “his health will immediately improve. That place is not the same as this. Different conditions prevail.”
The assertion was enough to tear Jackson’s gaze away from the crystal. He needed to gauge Adin’s reaction.
“I told you from the start I intended to go with you,” Adin said.
M smiled. Jackson had no idea why. After one more uncertain glance at his lover, he asked, “How do I…go about entering it?”
“Entering is quite easy for those who’ve been invited,” M said offhandedly. “You need only touch one of its highest facets. Choose one to which you feel drawn. Since you’re expected, a door will open and admit you.”
“What about me?” Adin asked.
“Mr. Spey may bring whomever he chooses,” M said. “I, of course, must accompany him. Now, I suggest we not tarry any longer. Certain situations require attention.”
Hesitantly, Jackson reached for the Prism, paused, and again pulled back his hand. He knew damned well he was stalling. He also knew he either had to walk away from this thing, once and for all, or just go in. Waffling indefinitely, looking for reasons to delay his entry, wasn’t an option.
“Shouldn’t I at least go over the Book of Paths first?” he asked M.
“The Book is an admirable attempt at occult scholarship, but it has little practical application. You don’t need to peruse it. Now please stop procrastinating. Choose a facet and touch your finger to it.”