A most unsubtle hint, mixed with a touch of exasperation. "Sorry. This is my own worry showing. I'll shed it and be waiting at Philip's for you."
"With hot chocolate? Double strength?" Since her change back to being fully human, Sabra had become quite the addict.
"A gallon of it. The gourmet kind." Bourland's pantry was well stocked with boxes of the stuff. He delighted in spoiling her whenever she visited Michael.
Hanging up, Richard wanted physical action to distract him. He had hours to fill, a common situation given his penchant for the nocturnal, but he'd long learned how to manage that detail.
Keeping his thoughts prudently neutral if not completely shut down, he trotted up to his bedroom to trade the business suit for more expendable attire. Back down again, through the rarely used kitchen, and out the side door to the garage to fetch the snow shovel. The snow blower would have been faster, but in this part of the Beaches the houses were built close together. The obnoxious noise at this time of morning would not endear him to his neighbors.
Clearing the driveway. After hockey it was Canada's other great winter sport. Not nearly as exciting, but the exercise helped channel his frustrated energy into something more constructive than punching holes in walls. On occasion, he'd been known to do that and was trying to break the pattern.
The Duke of Normandy's son, Lord Richard d'Orleans, later known as Lancelot du Lac, and still later by a hundred other names, worked steadily to free the side of the garage housing his Land Rover. Once upon a time he'd have delegated the humble task to a dozen pages, who would have leapt forward and had a race to see who was fastest. Those days were long past, the young pages gone to dust, their names lost to history. They wouldn't have known what to make of a modern truck anyway, probably taken it for an infernal contrivance and burned it to exorcise the demon within. They'd have assumed success when the gas tank blew . . .
Absurdities. Distraction. Most needed and necessary distraction.
Finished, he checked the sky. Snow still tumbled lazily out of the darkness, but had slacked off considerably and didn't seem to be sticking. Mercedes' flight would have no trouble departing then. Damn. For all the abrupt changes that had taken place, forcing him to shift his focus to other matters, he would miss her.
Minutes later in his bath he stripped and stepped into the oversized shower, the water temperature set just short of scalding and the tap at full force. Mercedes had wanted him smelling like a man. Well, she'd have been most happy with him now with the sweat he'd worked up. He scrubbed it away, along with any lingering trace of her baby powder scent. Pity about that. Her blood was still with him, though. He felt it running in his own veins, almost as hot as the water hammering his skin. What a woman.
Dried and dressed in fresh casual clothes, but with no place to go just yet. More waiting to do before Bourland could be expected to be up and seeking his first coffee of the day. He was an early riser, but not this early.
Richard threw on a jacket and muffler and went out again. His side-yard gate was convenient to the beach, but blocked under a snow drift as high as the fence. He went out the front door, then took the public stairs at the end of the street that led down to the lake.
Ice caked the shoreline; deep snow mixed with sand clung to his boots. The wind was knife-sharp on his face. As far as he could see in either direction he had the place to himself, with not even a psychotically dedicated early jogger to mar the solitude. At times like this he felt that he alone owned the whole of the land and lake. A good feeling, that.
At intervals along the beach boulders had been brought in to serve as breakwaters. People adored clambering on them in the warm months; now they were a deathtrap. He moved past them, wanting an unimpeded view of Ontario's restless water plain.
He slogged east toward a groin, one of the cement promontories flanked by boulders that extended out into the water. There were several of them along the length of the park's shoreline. Their practical use was to also act as breakwaters during storms; the rest of the time locals took them over, especially in the summer.
He took care stepping up onto the broad flat of concrete and held to the center. The edges were trimmed with a footwide band of steel to slow down the weathering that was inevitable with such a harsh winter climate. Slick with ice, possessing no guardrails, they were a treacherous walk. He kept clear of the metal; a fall into the water could be fatal, even to him. It was a big lake; he had a healthy respect for its power.
The rocks and parts of the pier were coated with the frozen splashings from the constant waves. Even if the lake didn't freeze over—he couldn't recall that happening since moving here—some of the more shallow areas could fill themselves with slush. A gray wave rose, washed over the breakers, broke apart into spray, and died, leaving behind another thin layer of wet for the wind to congeal. In the middle of a stand of rocks a small tree had flourished during the summer; now its skeleton was held prisoner by the ice. Would it softly die in its winter sleep or waken to grow taller in the spring? No way to tell, but the odds were against survival here.
At the end of the pier Richard looked westward, barely making out the CN Tower lights in the misty distance. Low clouds dimly reflected the city glow of downtown. So many people there, and who among them was even remotely aware of Otherside matters? Damned few, and probably just as well. There were enough lunatics in the world.
To the east were the Scarborough bluffs, invisible now, and to the southeast, where the sun would appear, he thought he saw the sky lighting a little. It could well be his imagination. The clouds were as thick as sin; it would be a gray and gloomy morning. Good. No need to bother slathering on the sunblock.
A last few random flakes of snow touched his face, and he breathed deeply of the clean lake air. This was a favorite spot for him, and on nights when the water and sky assumed the same shade of dull steel he felt suspended between them, almost floating. Only the lap of waves less than a yard from his boots reminded him how close he stood to the destruction of free-flowing water. It was quite nice here in the summer, looking straight down to the rocks on the bottom a dozen feet below. Now it was an arctic hell. Few ventured out here when it was like this, allowing him much needed outdoor solitude.
Calmer now, Richard thought about Sharon and what had to be done.
Once he and Sabra talked, he would arrange to take the first plane heading to the Yucatán and see for himself what was going on there. Sabra might well come along; she was better able to deal with the tropical sunlight and other, more metaphysical things. What the hell had Sharon been doing there? What was the man-shadow thing she fought?
Easy, old lad. You'll find it all out soon enough. Richard knew that in his bones. He'd not have been shown the vision in the first place unless the Goddess was certain he was the right person for the job. Of course, it's a most risky business when the gods take notice of one. He'd learned that the hard way, again and again and again.
But . . . anything to help Sharon if he could.
Very, very gently, he touched on his long-suppressed feelings for her.
They were still solidly in place. Dormant, like that tree, iced over, but perhaps ready to waken again given the right circumstances.
Yes, she had decided against staying with him. He'd accepted that. Mostly. Maybe on some level she knew it wouldn't have worked, that she would have been one of hundreds he'd loved before her. Loved, and eventually, inevitably, and irrevocably lost.
How many have I loved and then wept for, how many have I taken to the grave? Taken, but never followed.
Tears flared cold on his face. He chided himself for giving into grief when he still didn't know for sure what had happened. He swiped the chill trails away. They weren't only for Sharon, though, but for the others as well. So many, many others.
To keep himself sane, he'd learned to live very much in the here-and-now moment, but sometimes the past reared up to overwhelm his heart. A scent, a sound—the little things that triggered the memories, th
ousands of them, good and bad, the sweetness and the pain.
He brushed his eyes again. Quickly.
Am I getting too old to hold them all?
* * *
The Yucatán
The man who had once called himself Professor Rivers sat in the small air terminal, cheerfully waiting for his flight to be called. It was still dark out, but he'd seen no point in hanging around his hotel. Though the chance was small, that redheaded Amazon might have tipped the cops about him being a Suspicious Character, so why make things easy for them? Not that he didn't have perfectly legitimate credentials. God knows he'd paid enough for them.
What was his name today? He tried to remember, failed, and checked his passport. Oh, okay, fine, he could answer to "Daniel Dean" for a few more hours. Jeez, who gave their kid that one? Talk about an excuse to get beaten up on the playground. Well . . . they could try beating him up.
He preferred his past names over this prosaic example of Western alliteration. The others were more impressive, carried power in their very utterance. Thousands used to tremble and shake-it-up-baby and yadda-yadda way back when upon hearing them. Those had indeed been the good old nights. Gone for now, not forgotten, but nothing lasts forever . . .
Whups, don't go there. Think positive.
What was his last favorite? Old Man of the Mountain? Father of Assassins? Apophis? Stuff like that. Charon. One of the good ones. He couldn't use it openly anymore of course, that had been thoroughly screwed up, but them's the breaks and too bad.
Looong day of travel ahead of him, tiring. He knew it would exhaust him of all the energy he'd taken from Chichén Itzá. If only the hits would last longer; he hated when the buzz left and the pain started barging in again. But he would recharge again, and he'd been through worse. Now he could get out during the day, no need to wrap up like a mummy. That was a big plus about being human again, but it well and truly sucked compared to the minus side: the Death Thing.
It's fun to inflict on others, but not so much when the Old White Man is staring YOU in the face.
Charon shifted uncomfortably in the plastic seat and glanced around, half expecting to see that dread specter hanging near one of the terminal boutique shops, maybe wearing a souvenir T-shirt and sipping a cold drink. Biding his time, the gaunt bastard.
Nope, not today. He'd been thoroughly put down, smacked down, tossed out of town.
For the time being.
Might be worth whistling him back, though, to deal with an argumentative young couple trying to get around airline regulations about something or other. God, some of them positively asked for it. There were few people in the terminal at this hour, so theirs was the only show to watch. Neither of them or the unyielding gate attendant seemed aware of the thick black and green cloud floating close over their heads, apparently feeding off the rising hostility. The young man with the muddy aura looked ready to explode, but calmed down when another attendant came forward to sort out the mess. The cloud drifted away, its meal interrupted. Like a big jellyfish it hovered over the people scattered about the terminal, probably hopeful for seconds. Who knows how long it had fattened itself up here? Sure had staked out a good hunting ground for heaping helpings of frustration and anger.
No else one saw it. That was such a hoot. They had no idea. Idiots.
Then it sank lower. Must have picked up something. An Otherside scent, a feeling. There was no telling how the things knew where to go to find negative emotions. None of them were too smart. A lot simply attached themselves to people for a lifetime of feeding unless the victim got depression therapy and some happy pills or even religion. If not . . . oh, how those things enjoyed contributing to, then feasting on a good suicide, then attaching to the family and friends. Despair followed by a bottomless supply of survivor guilt. Most tasty.
It floated toward Charon. With purpose.
Oh, now that was just too stupid.
He grinned at it. "Come on, dumb-ass. Gimme your best shot."
But the free-drifting parasite suddenly changed course.
Must not like my aftershave.
Charon stretched forth his will and neatly snagged the thing, drawing it closer. It thrashed and fought every inch. Futilely. He threw a net over its shifting shape and gradually pulled it into himself. The murky green cloud touched his chest . . . and that was it. He started feeding in turn and, oh, that was mighty good. It shouldn't have been, considering its diet, but the things were like catfish. Those were the worst of the bottom feeders, but what a nice delicate taste when prepared right.
Damn if the amorphous beast didn't scream as he absorbed it. He'd had no idea they could do that. It was a psychic thing, translated by the mind into a piercing nails-on-a-blackboard screech. Well, live and learn. Charon noticed a woman a few yards away suddenly put her hand to her head and wince. Sensitive types sometimes got migraines from Otherside racket. Aw, wasn't that just too bad, but a fella's gotta eat.
He sucked out the energy until there was nothing left but ash which quickly vanished. That was fun if much too easy, like running down old ladies in a parking lot. Still, Charon relished the tiny refreshment to his power, his Sight resharpened by it.
Absolutely no one in the place saw any of the action. Manomanomano. Wouldn't it be a gas to change that? What looks on their faces if they were suddenly made aware of all the beings and energies floating around their sane and solid world.
I'll be able to make that happen. Then hoo-boy, party night in Bedlam. Xanax anyone? And they thought things had gone crazy when the Black Death hit Europe like a dose of salts.
Uh-oh. He abruptly noticed a dark-skinned man looking at him from across the way, glaring, really. Who the hell . . . ? Charon opened his Sight up a little more.
Well-well, what d'ya know? An honest-to-gawd ahkin. The old bastard must have come out of the jungle to look for the cause of last night's big bash at the pyramid and followed the psychic trail to here. Yeah, the natives would have been plenty stirred up by that fracas.
Well, you found me. Charon smiled winningly at him, and got a look of pure hatred in return. Aw, did I hurt your little snake god? Give it a bloody nose? There'll be hell to pay before you hear from it again. If ever.
The old man wasn't much to see outwardly: short-limbed, sinew-lean, and pot-bellied, Mayan ancestry strong in his leather-dark face. He wore cheap thin clothes with rubber sandals on calloused feet that looked twice as old as his face. You saw a million others just like him in the towns and villages all through the area, beggars, farmers, merchants, professionals. Their ancestors had been converted or conquered by invaders and disease and time, but the blood still ran strong here. Hell, they shed enough of it so the strain was soaked deep into the very earth.
But the ahkin's astral self was another story—young and damned furious, about twelve feet tall, in full battle gear with sun-bright feathers and one of those fancy clubs, spoiling for a fight. He could do some damage and no mistake. Charon didn't want to waste his hard-won energy fending off this self-righteous jerk.
Don't get your loin cloth in a twist, old cock, I'm leaving your territory. You're better off not getting into a pissing contest with me, and we both know it.
The ahkin still glared, his lips moving.
Charon felt a gust of heat roll over him. It stirred his hair, plucked his loose shirt, and set his heart to racing. No one else seemed affected. The old boy knew his noodles. Or was it tamales? Key lime chicken? Whatever.
A low, forceful chanting in a language Charon had never before heard, yet understood, rumbled through the whole of the terminal, echoing off the modern walls. Death Magic. One of its countless variations. Here it was, live and in person, straight from the erroneously named New World, a touch diluted by time, but still potent.
The heat shot up, got worse, centered on his heart. Yeah, this bunch had a thing for hearts. Bet the guy's sorry he can't cut mine out like his great-great et cetera grand-pappy used to do. That would be his remedy for bringing back his missing g
od. It just might work, too.
Charon winced against the building fire, but hid it under another grin . . .
Which made the ahkin more angry.
Watch it there, daddy-o. Don't get too personally involved.
The astral body of the old man lunged forward, swinging his club, going for the kill. It smashed right through Charon's Realside self. He suppressed a grunt in reaction.
Okay, enough was enough. He'd been very, very patient until now.
Another pass-through. Ow. That one hurt.
So you like it rough, do you? Lemme teach you how it's done, little boy . . .
Charon shut his eyes, seeming to nap, but on another level, on Otherside, he rose up, revealing his true self.
The ahkin's weathered face showed shock—about damn time—but the spirit warrior screamed an ancient war cry and attacked again.
Charon wanted this one over fast to conserve energy, so he played it dirty. Oh, hell, he always played it dirty; that's how to win. He used a bastardized version of a tai chi move to get in under the club, then drove his hand deep into the warrior's chest. Just like the snake scales did a few hours ago, the magical armor shattered at the first touch.
Be my valentine? Wrong month, wrong culture, but pretty funny. Charon closed his astral hand around that fast-beating heart and pulled for all he was worth. The bodies on this Side could be just as tough as the ones in the so-called Reality Side.
A shriek. Full throated. Satisfying. Loud enough to shake rafters, filled with agony . . . and . . . swiftly over. It should have lasted much longer.
I'm out of practice.
Charon slammed the still-beating heart against his own astral chest and felt the lurch as it was pulled in and consumed.
Whoa, what a rush. The parasite had been cheese on a cracker. This dude was an eight-course banquet, heavy on the cream.
Charon feasted, relishing the nuances of the man's rage and knowledge and power—especially the power. He had a lot of that. Not on a par with the primal stuff of the ruins, but substantial. Made for a nice boost.
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