Siege Perilous
Page 20
The security guy went flying backward too fast to register surprise. He whammed against the wall behind him, making a hell of a noisy landing and did not get up again.
Wow. That was impressive.
The nurse gaped and dove behind her desk, dragging the phone along. The cavalry had to be on the way by now. Charon was reasonably sure he could fight off them and all their cousins, but that would only be channeling the energy, not storing it, not using it to heal himself. Wasteful. A hell of a lot of fun, but not too smart.
He went all out now. Both hands over the bitch, and take all he could while he could. This was prime feeding, too bad he had to hurry.
The rush made him dizzy-giddy in a good way, not the weakness kind when his pills were screwing with his brain chemistry, but the sort you get on a really fast plane ride with a wildman pilot. This one was all climb, no drop.
Of course, it couldn't last forever. The first jolt out of his fun was when she went into arrest. Major dip in the graph, but she still had plenty of juice left. He sucked it in . . .
Until something hit him.
He couldn't see it. Must be the opposition. Pissed, too.
Charon felt it first as a firm punch in the shoulder, which he ignored. The second strike had more meat to it. He was knocked straight back, struck the wall, cracking his head. He slid down, fast.
Ow. Not fun now.
Dizzy, no giddy. Man, someone was really pissed. What a howling in the wind.
He pushed partway from the floor and considered having a quick second helping, but the brouhaha had attracted too much attention. The nurse was emerging from behind the desk as other people crowded through the door, trying to assess what was going on. Several went to check on the security type, who was groggily stirring.
The energy high went to Charon's head like sucking beer through a straw. He could knock them all over and no problem, but . . . wasteful. No point. There wasn't anyone in that pack he couldn't take out the ordinary way in his sleep. Better to get out, digest the feast, and make good use of the high while he still had it.
Standing, he prepared to bull his way through the medical version of the Keystone Kops, but paused.
He grinned down at Sabra, shoving his black patch back in place. "Hey, baby, was it good for you, too?"
Blood streamed from her ears and closed eyes.
* * *
Bourland gave a violent start and tried to shove the overwhelming blackness away. Stubborn stuff, and he was so weak. No air for a while, now it was back in force and tasted odd. Then the restraining darkness evolved into a nurse struggling to keep an oxygen mask over his face. He still fought, but she won. Giving up, he let her do her job, and tried to sort out what had brought him to this confusion. He gradually regained full consciousness to a thunderous headache, and became aware of activity around him.
No longer in Sabra's room, he was outside on the floor, and there was all sorts of hell going on. Doctors and nurses were hustling, alarms buzzed, beeped, and shrilled. Strong enough now to fend off help, he lurched to his feet, horribly sick and wobbly-weak, and stared through the glass at the frenzy around Sabra. So many staff, security guards, and noise in this otherwise quiet place . . . what the hell happened? What was going on? He fumbled out his cell phone, and clumsily hit the autodial for Richard's number.
"Get down here," he said.
* * *
With a satisfied grunt, Charon eased deep into the broken-in backseat of the cab he waved down near the hospital. What a party. He should have fun like that every night. His body felt light for a change, the way it was supposed to feel, all parts in working order, sir. He figured he'd bought well over an hour of battery power, which should be enough.
That was a job well done, minimum of fuss, and even the security cameras turned out to be a snap. On his way out he'd cupped a hand over the front of one like muzzling a dog and, with the feedback cracking along the wires in ways that it shouldn't, given Realside physics, had shut down the whole system. Any recordings made prior to that would be unaffected, but so what? He'd be just another out-of-focus shape in an overcoat, the eye patch obscuring his face. There'd been no camera in the small room where he'd slipped the medical scrubs on over his street clothes and clipped on a stolen badge. Security, my ass. Hell, he could have walked in there wearing a clown suit and gone anywhere he liked.
Well, he was out now and on his way.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
"North to 401 until I say different."
"Sounds like a long trip. You sure?"
Charon put three hundred in U.S. bills over the seat top. Ben Franklin had fans on this side of the border. "I'm sure. Move it, I'm in a hurry."
Swallowing further questions, the driver sought out Yonge Street, going north to 401, then headed west, the first leg of the trip. Witchy babe lived—make that used to live—out in the boonies. Charon had scoped the place via maps and aerial photos, so it was almost like he'd been there earlier. Man, weren't computers a gas?
Despite the energy rush, he felt the pills he'd taken earlier trying to make him sleepy. Well, he could fight that off easy enough now. The pain had dulled down to almost nothing. If he could hold it off just a little longer . . .
The taxi's suspension swooped as they hit some change in the highway grading. God, but Canada was just the living end about road repair. Never finished, year after year, how did fang-boy put up with it? Well, too bad, soon none of that crap would matter. People would have other things to worry about than resurfacing the damn highways. Woozy in the gut, Charon rolled down a window and let the cold night air work on him. Too freaking hot in here, but he could deal. Every click of the meter took him closer to the brass ring.
Where had Lance gotten himself to, anyway? He was still tight with his old lady, so he should have been with her, not the other guy, whoever the hell he was. Put up a good fight, just lucky for him he didn't have the right kind of wattage or that would have been too bad, that's all she wrote.
The driver made the exit and they were barreling north, tires hissing loud on the wet road. Snowy fields and black fences sped past. Charon felt every bump and dip, but so long as the heap got them there he could hang on. They were in the home stretch. He gave secondary directions. The man said he knew the area and made the correct turns when they came.
Charon had no need to count down the minutes to their destination, he could feel things slowing inside of him. The power hit had helped a lot, but was not going to last. The one at Stonehenge had been good, Chichén Itzá the best, draining off the old ahkin had been a taste-treat sensation, but this must be the downside of the bell curve. He suspected the boosts would continue to shorten in duration until . . .
Hey, belt it, already. I'm almost there.
He held things in, conserving himself until the driver slowed, checking mailboxes along a narrow road. When had they turned off here?
"This it?" The headlights fell on a new mailbox with the name 'du lac' on it in reflective letters.
"You got it, pal. I need you to wait." Charon dropped another c-note over the seat.
The driver still had change left above the meter charge from his original retainer. "Sure."
"Won't be long, but you can cut the motor."
The man did so, and Charon let himself out.
He trudged up a driveway cleared of snow along two narrow strips, just wide enough for car tires. There'd been a hell of a fall here recently, which was a good reason to live in the Caribbean. Maybe he'd go there afterward. Or not.
The house—more of a cottage, really—looked to be World War II vintage. With all her money you'd think she'd have done better for herself than a dump like this, but her choice probably had to do with the local energy lines or some crap like that. Lots of trees, you almost couldn't see the house for them. Evergreens and oaks. Very symbolic. Ho-hum predictable.
Lights showed behind the windows, but they were only part of the security system. Lance would have insisted she have one,
probably installed it himself just to be sure. Yup, nothing was too good for his old lady.
Charon got past it in a very few minutes, but then he was an old hand at getting around such snags. He let himself inside by the front door and turned on more lights as though he owned the place.
Comfy living room, all the usual stuff, nothing too ancient or too new to give away the truth about her background. He knew one of them had a da Vinci or a Botticelli hanging on a wall like a magazine pinup. Well, it wasn't here. He was after something way more valuable, anyway.
Oh, hell.
It struck fast, felt like a killing constriction around his chest. For an instant he feared Snaky had invisibly returned somehow and was doing his crushing thing. Be just like him to change his size and come slithering up from Nowhere for a surprise ambush. Charon hastily backed out of the house, and the tightening abruptly eased.
Heart attack? No way. The pain was different from that or the cancer. It had nothing to do with his human-weak bod or his disease; witchy girl had some less prosaic protections set up in the place. He backed off more and used his Sight.
Holy moly, what a light show. Millennium bash in Times Square.
He wanted sunglasses. The babe knew her noodles. That kind of barrier was into overkill, and it was just the defense. She could have death traps rigged all through the place.
Hm. Maybe not. Her type had a thing against using that kind of power. They really should get over themselves and grow some sense.
Invasion was going to be a hell of a strain on his dwindling energy, so he'd have to hurry. Plan it out, then. Where would she keep the thing? Near an altar? Nah, her type was so far up the corporate ladder as to not really need one. Still, she might have something set up as kind of a respect thing. Look for one of those first. Besides, she wasn't the sort to shove her treasures under a mattress. He would guess it would be . . . ah, screw it, just go for the money and make it fast.
He took a deep breath and dove inside. The pressure wound tight around him again as invisible forces tried to expel his unwelcome presence, but he endured them. Sweat broke on his body. He tripped on things that weren't there, stumbled from one room to another, trying to sense his target while the pressure threatened to squeeze him in two.
Finally. In a back room that was chock-full of plants and grow-lights, he found it. She didn't even try to hide the thing. Good grief, it was right there, sitting like a decorating statement on its own table near one of those New Age style mini-fountains. You'd think she'd show it more reverence as hot as she and her boy-toy were to get hold of it in the first place.
Charon whipped off the piece of white gauzy silk covering and picked up the small cup. The pressure on him suddenly ceased. Okay, that was good. Made it, but jeeze, he was pooped. No reserves left. If he had to go through the gauntlet again . . . nah, break a window out for an exit. Keep it simple.
The trophy itself was not much to look at, being a kind of half-sphere less than a handspan across and made of humble brass not gold, but a mile away you could see it was the real magilla, the one and only, accept no substitutes, one hundred percent gen-u-ine Holy Grail.
Sweet.
So, how about a test drive?
He put the bowl, cup, whatever in one hand, held the other over it, took another deep breath . . . and oh-so-gently touched on the power. Had to be careful, this was like trying to hand-dip a thimble of water from Niagara at full rush. Lose your balance and you were in, over the edge, and bye-bye.
His hands shook. This was no place for amateurs.
Here it was: The moment of truth or consequences . . .
Pale light seemed to leap from the cup to his outstretched fingers like soft lighting. Warm tinglies traveled up his hand, wrist, up and up, the light fading the higher it went. His shoulder, yeah, something was working there, a decided warmth as it seeped into his chest, a definite heat when it hit his lymph glands.
Freaking hell, talk to me, baby!
Free air, singing with the living energy of the plants, whooshed right to the bottom of his lungs, cleaning them out. He exhaled and his Sight picked out the microscopic particles of his disease hanging before him like black vapor.
Ohhh, yeaaah. This will do. Once he got it to the right place and could make a proper job of it. This would serve as a fine pick-me-up in the interim.
Then the air seemed to congeal. Shit, too much of a good thing. All the difference between getting a little sun tan and facing down a flamethrower. He fell away, knocking over the fountain. Crash, bang. Bull in a china shop interlude as he struggled to keep his feet. Water splashed everywhere, the pump whirring loudly with nothing to drive. Burn-out soon. For them both.
He hastily withdrew from the cleansing while his head was still on the end of his neck. The house's protections abruptly kicked in again, trying to get rid of him. Fine, he had the brass ring, time to exit, stage left; he was strong enough to deal with them now. He wrapped the little cup in the silk, slipped it in his coat pocket, and got the flock outta Dodge.
Hustling into the cab, he told the driver to take him back to Toronto. The meter was higher than Everest; the man cheerful, totally clueless about what going to happen at the end of the ride. He didn't have the kind of spiritual energy of the old ahkin or witchy girl, but now Charon had the means to change that. With the Grail and a little Otherside switcheroo he could order up room service whenever he needed from anyone at hand. By the time they got back to the city a light snack would hit the spot. He could get his cash back and remove a witness. Neat.
Charon hugged the precious Grail to himself, the anticipation making his heart thrum.
* * *
Not long after Bourland's call Richard arrived at the hospital with Michael, the two of them tearing up to the ICU ward. The news was what he feared most. The attack on Sabra had her on the edge. If not for the machines, she'd have slipped away already.
Bourland was in the hall outside, relegated there by a preoccupied and hyperbusy staff. He looked awful, ghastly pale and stinking of chloroform. Hospital security was all over, along with the police, and a couple more of the dark-suited security types he'd brought in. The ant nest was thoroughly stirred.
"What happened?" Richard demanded after he showed ID for the umpteenth time. They'd almost not allowed Michael in for not having one, but Richard fixed things with a single piercing look and an inarguable order to butt out. The cop had rocked back on his heels and let them pass.
Bourland had trouble finding the words; he looked to be in shock.
Richard leaned close. "You're scaring Michael. Get a grip."
Visibly pulling himself together, he set his teeth, nodding once. "Sorry. I don't know much, just what they've told me. Some man in medical scrubs and an eye patch got in. They saw him standing over Sabra. The security man tried to stop him and got thrown across the room for his trouble. They're treating him. Concussion."
"What happened to you?"
"Not sure. I was asleep in the chair." Bourland's face went scarlet. "They think he put me out with chloroform, something like that, then went after Sabra. Her life support alarms went off. The doctors should have gotten to her in time, but they can't figure out what's been done. Then they threw me out."
Richard looked through the glass inset on the door. Everyone was still working, still rushing about, focused on her. So long as they didn't stop . . .
Michael had not said a word since Richard roused him from sleep and told him they were leaving. "Uncle Richard? Dad . . . ?"
Bourland went to him. "It'll be all right."
The boy's head drooped. "Tell them it's like an aneurysm." He stumbled over the word as though he'd never said it before.
Bourland didn't pause to ask how Michael knew that; he bulled into the ICU and got someone to pay attention. Only after one of the doctors heard and took him seriously did he allow himself to be guided out of their way.
Richard fought off his own personal meltdown, holding everything at a distance. All he wa
nted was to rip the world apart at the seams. He managed not to for Michael's sake. And Bourland's. They did not need to see that side of him, ever.
Why hadn't his blood helped her? There should have been an improvement, or at least a strengthening. It would have begun working in her from the first, changing things, returning her to life and health.
Unless she'd been right. The dark Gift given once could not be given again.
The sheer helplessness surged over Richard, but he cast that to one side as well. There was only one way he could save her.
The Grail.
If he had the time to get to Sabra's house and back.
They had life-support machines. If they could keep her body going until his return . . . and then he'd hypnotize the whole damned hospital into forgetting if need be.
"Michael—I've got to go fetch something. Tell your father not to give up, have them put her on a machine if they must, but don't give up on her. I'm going to her house and back." He started for the exit.
But Michael seized his hand. Strongly, dragging him to a halt. "That is not for her."
He paused, resisting the reaction to shake clear. Michael held fast. "W-what?"
"That's not her road." The boy was very intense, very certain, not to be ignored.
How did he know? "It will make her well."
Michael streamed tears and shook his head. "That's not your road, either. You must take another."
The voice was Michael's, but the words were his own, from a long-ago time . . .
Chapter Nine
Britain, the Past
Richard boosted Galahad up into the saddle as he'd done over a thousand times before since the day the lad was big enough to ride a horse by himself.
"You'll take care," he said, making it an order, not an admonition. He didn't like sending his foster son off on his own, but there were too few of them and too many of Mordred's forces, at least in this part of the land. Sabra said the boy would be fine, though, so . . .