Siege Perilous

by Nigel Bennett

  "Stonehenge," said Richard.

  "What about it?" asked Frank.

  "Anything similar happening there?"

  Frank apparently wasn't the sort to share information, even when cross-connections were going on. "Oddly enough, yes. We've a team in place watching things. There's a troop of New Age types gathering. They're going to hold what they call a 'healing ceremony.' Hundreds have shown up already. Not the usual publicity seekers, either. Ordinary types. The local media is on them, but they're not getting much. No one's in a mood to talk, even to our people."

  "Timing?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Find out when each ceremony is to take place. I'll wager that though both are an ocean apart geographically, they will take place at the exact same time."

  Frank's eyes didn't give anything away, but did flicker once. "Well-well. Wouldn't that be an interesting coincidence?"

  "You think? Especially if the organizers on each side are unaware of the other group's plans."

  "I'll look into it." He left.

  "What do you know?" Bourland demanded.

  Richard sagged, or would have if he'd not been immobilized. "Damn little. It just seemed a logical thing to check. I've heard of this outfit. More often than not their investigations have no satisfying conclusion."

  "So does life in general, and you're trying to distract me again. Do these ceremonies have to do with Charon?"

  "He left another mess; they're only trying to clean it up."

  "And Glastonbury?"

  "A mess about to happen, I think. You could see about notifying the Stonehenge gathering that something might happen there next . . . maybe not. Don't want to put civilians in the line of fire."

  "What's there to draw him?"

  Richard tried the shake his head again, forgetting the bracing. He felt a sharp heat prickling along the nerves in his neck and spine. Not pleasant, though it meant progress. "It's an ancient holy site, like Henge and the other."

  "He's eating light to keep alive? Is that symbolism or an actuality? Could he be ill?"

  "That . . . I find very interesting. I've heard of people drawing on place energies to heal themselves."

  "Tree-hugging?"

  "Don't knock it until you've tried it."

  Bourland opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to think better of it. "I just might. Is that your secret?"

  "Yes. You've found me out. Bring an oak in here and I will give it a manly embrace . . . oh . . . oh, God . . ."

  "What?"

  "Hurts." Too much too soon, now he had to pay for it. His nerves were waking up all over, all at once, screaming. It took his breath away.

  His friend pressed the dosage button again, waiting. "It's a timed thing so you don't overmedicate yourself. Damn, nothing's happ—there, it's coming through now. You'll be all right."

  Balm for his nerves as the inflowing meds adjusted his brain chemistry and prevented horrific messages of pain from being delivered. But he wanted recovery, full restoration. Only one thing could give him that.

  "You may need a higher dose than an average man. I'll fetch the doctor."

  Richard was asleep by the time the door closed . . .

  And alone the next time he woke.

  Except for his Beast, who was hungry now. Richard's throat hurt from the thirst. That's what dragged him from his oblivion. Need.

  It was yet night, but very late. A dim, windowless room, no clock in view, but he could tell. Whether it was the same night or the next he did not know.

  He could move his fingers, could discern by touch again. There was some object in his right hand, probably that dosage thing. No need for it, he thought, experimentally flexing his limbs. Some residual ache and stiffness, like an all-over bruise, but the worst of the healing process must be over, thank heaven.

  So far as he could tell, not being able to move his head, they'd opted for some kind of shaped plastic forms and bandaging instead of plaster casts to encase his shattered limbs. Plaster was better protection, but only for a man expected to get up from his sickbed. It was better at sparing the broken bones from knocks. So far as they knew Richard was quadriplegic and like to remain that way. This lighter stuff was more comfortable for him and easier for them to conduct routine maintenance and cleaning.

  We'll see about that.

  "Doctor? Anyone there?" Someone must be listening.

  Sure enough. The white-bearded doctor came in, light from the hall falling over Richard's sheeted form. The doctor's eyes were puffy and red. Must have been pulling a long shift because of his special patient. He turned the room lighting up.

  "Yes, Richard, what is it? More pain?"

  None today, thank you.

  "It's silly," said Richard. "But my damned nose itches. It's driving me mad."

  The man smiled and came in close to help. There was more than sufficient light. Richard had him frozen in mid-reach.

  "Who else is watching this room through the camera?" Richard whispered, hoping the microphone would not pick up.

  "I'm the only one for now," the doctor readily answered in a normal voice.

  Very good. "I want you to shut it off, stop all further recording, then come back here with some clothes for me."

  "Clothes?"

  Richard knew he'd better be specific or his hypnotized ally might leave in search of a tailor shop. "Have you any spare scrubs? Extra large?"

  * * *

  The doctor returned some moments later with an armful of clean, pastel blue cottons: a loose V-necked top, drawstring pants, and what looked like thick paper shower caps, which turned out to be shoe protectors.

  "Right," said Richard. "Camera off? Good. Now get me out of this."

  "You're still hurt."

  "I'm fine, you must help me. Quickly please." He nudged things a bit to encourage cooperation and asked to be freed of the head brace first. "Who else is here?"

  "The director, Mr. Bourland, security people downstairs, a few techs."

  "Anyone likely to walk in here soon?"

  "They're busy. Your friend's asleep in one of the other patient rooms. He was all in."

  "What about your director?"

  "Feet up in his office on the other side of the building."

  "Fine, if you see any of them, head them off, all right?"

  "All right."

  With the doctor's expert help Richard was gradually released from his high-tech bindings. The most unexpected—and unpleasant—surprise turned out to be a catheter. Ye gods. That thing made a slop bucket much more appealing than he'd ever thought possible. Scowling and wincing and moving most gingerly under the doctor's guidance, he removed that horror with a minimum of discomfort. He let the doctor take out the drip needle catheter they'd planted in his shoulder. Somehow finding the first one made the other almost tolerable.

  He was able to stand, able to walk, but still weak and desperately hungry. The drugs they'd pumped into him had dulled his appetite as well as the pain, and it was roaring fully awake. "Does this place keep any whole blood on hand?" Upon getting an affirmative, he sent the man on another errand. Richard made his unsteady way to the room's small bath and ran a very hot shower to massage circulation back to his newly mended limbs. This kind of running water was much more preferable to the river. He wanted to shave, but found no razors handy.

  "Richard?"

  He almost jumped, mistaking the voice for Bourland, but it was the doctor back with another delivery. Two pints of group O-positive. He watched impassively as Richard drank them straight down, one after the other.

  "You're not to remember any of this," he said, after his last shuddering reaction passed and his Beast went back to sleep.

  "Of course not."

  Would that everyone he met was this agreeable. Richard dried off, pulled on the make-shift clothes. "Are all the records you have on me in one place?"

  "The hard copies, yes. The computer records are in the database, the biological samples are in the lab, the videotapes are—"
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  "Fine. I want you to destroy or erase all of them, every scrap that has to do with me. Do you know how to delete computer files down to the hard-drive level? Delete my records, however many backups, then go into the delete program and lose those, too. You have to be thorough, as though I'd never been here. It's important, very important you do this. Everyone's safety depends upon you thinking of everything."

  That impressed itself as nothing else could, for protecting others would better overcome any subconscious blocks the scientist in him would have against destroying data. He sent the man off, confident that he would be thorough.

  Now Richard had to get out of here. He'd find Bourland, persuade him to drive them away and leave this lot with another mystifying event to go unsolved while he disappeared himself.

  He saw to the med charts in his room, tearing the records small and flushing them away, then emerged into the hall for the first time. It stretched long both ways equally, modern, clean, and too easy to get lost. He should have had the doctor draw a map, but he'd no idea the place would turn out to be quite this big. Privately funded projects usually tended to be smaller in scale.

  Richard went right, passing doors with identifying signs like 'Xenopathology' and 'Cryptozoological Lab'. He didn't think the latter had to do with canine retrievers. Maybe it did, only here the animal might have three heads and radar-dish ears.

  Distraction. He was good at that, at throwing it out, even for himself. He felt cold again and shaky despite the blood. It was still doing its job of healing, but wasn't enough. He wanted—needed—more than mere food.

  He paused to listen. Close by, someone moving about. That door, light showing under it. Someone pulling an all-nighter? It seemed too late for any janitorial staff to be working.

  Knocking politely, he pushed the door open a crack. "Hallo?"

  A stunner of a young woman, petite in her lab smock, and evidently startled. She relaxed a trifle at the sight of his blue scrubs, since they indicated he might have a valid reason to be wandering the halls. "Can I help you?"

  He put on a confused face, looking around to see if she had company and only poked in with his head and shoulders, keeping his bare feet out of sight. "Oh, yes, please, I hope so. I was looking for the director, and I am hopelessly lost. The doctor with the white beard said he was in his office?"

  The references reassured her. "Administration's in the other wing. You've got a walk. Go back down until you reach the elevator hub and turn left. There's a map up. His office is on the ground floor. Just follow the coffee smell. I think he lives on it."

  The wide room had several computer stations, tables with acid-proof tops, gas connections, and apparently a number of works in progress at the various stations. No one else. "You must too, I think." He smiled and nodded at a machine with a steaming carafe on one of the tables. Pleasant odor, that stuff.

  She responded with her own smile. "Have to when it gets busy."

  "You've a project on?"

  "Several. Yourself?" She seemed glad to have company.

  "I'm working on that basket case they brought in the other night. The fellow who was so banged up."

  "Yes, I helped on some of his blood samples. Strange stuff."

  "Really? Anything I could have a peek at?"

  "Oh, everything's been and gone. I put the data in and went back to my other work. Interesting protein markers, possibly unique. I've never seen anything like them before, even in this place." She seemed disarmed enough for him to venture in. When possible, he preferred to avoid frightening his ladies. No fear here, she stared at his feet. "Have an accident?"

  He made a deprecating gesture. "You must be a mind reader."

  "They're in the basement. What happened to your shoes?"

  "That's what I need to talk to the director about."

  "Where's your ID badge?"

  He picked up the tiniest change in her voice, a tightening that would turn to alarm given the time, but he was close enough to gaze into her smoky brown eyes and make everything so much better for her.

  "Will you please show me the data you entered about the strange blood?"

  She obliged, walking to a station, going into the computer, and calling up the most recent file. The computer emitted a flat-toned beep and told them the file was not available. That was a relief. Apparently his good friend the doctor had gotten there first by another machine, efficiently deleting things.

  Richard had some deleting himself to accomplish and instructed her to forget everything about the odd blood samples and their unique protein markers, whatever those were.

  Then he suddenly felt tired. There was a stool next to the computer. He slipped onto it. His legs were whole again, yes, but subject to wobble. He smiled at the woman, holding his hand out, extending his will toward her as well. "Over here. Please."

  He could have simply ordered her, and she'd have been just as happily obedient. Her mind was under his control, and she was mostly unaware of things, but there was no need to be uncivilized about it. She could have a trace memory of an agreeable dream or an ugly nightmare. He'd had too many of the latter himself to inflict more upon his partners.

  With a soft word, a guiding gesture, he drew her close so her back was to him and pulled the shoulder of her coat partway off. A nice, easy, button-down blouse was under it. She undid the buttons herself and leaned back against him, very close, very comfortable, as though they were long-time lovers. Between the height of the stool and her own diminutive size, they were on a perfect level with each other. She stood between his knees and he wrapped his arms bearlike around her, his face buried in the crook of her shoulder, and gratefully breathed in her scent.

  Beneath the powders and fragrances and artificialities of modern hygiene he found it, that basic wonderful difference that made her female, that made her and her many sisters so desirable to him. It was with substantial relief that he felt himself stir and grow hard. No such invasion of her on that level would take place, he'd not been invited, but he was glad enough to satisfy his need in another manner.

  He gently tilted her head to the left, making taut her skin under his lips. He ran his tongue over the spot where the heat was greatest, delighting in the foretaste and her reaction to it. Were things different he might have lingered there long to see just what she liked, but didn't dare. Though one advantage to hunting in such a warren of identical halls and doors was being able to achieve—for a few necessary moments—a degree of privacy, he couldn't push it. Someone might take it into their heads to look in his room and send up the alarm.

  But this was so nice, holding her, soaking in warmth and touch and comfort. He needed that contact as much as the blood.

  He picked up the change in her, the scent of arousal. Oh, good for her. He nuzzled deep into her neck and bit down on the stretched skin, knowing it would now cause her pleasure, not pain. The same happened for him when her blood flowed into his mouth. Much, much better to take it fresh from a living vein, to taste her climax in it, to hear her long sighs as he held her, her body trembling against his.

  She shivered, her breath coming faster, more rough, growing more vocal. It took some of them that way. He soothed her down, continuing to drink. Couldn't have a row.

  Let's have a lovely, drawn out peak, intense and quiet . . . that's my sweet, beautiful darling . . .

  The last healing suffused heat through him. He felt complete, made whole again, full strength returned, and it was as much from the purely animal contact as from her blood, a psychic as well as a physical connection.

  He ceased to take from her, kissed her skin clean, and that should have been it, but he continued to hold on, not wanting to relinquish the solace she unknowingly brought him. She was tiny, like Sabra, and though much else was quite different, there was enough similarity for him to hang on just a little longer, rocking gently back and forth. He'd never had the chance to hold Sabra, to say good-bye. She'd once taught him how important good-byes were . . .

  Richard felt a sting
in his eyes, and thought that now, finally, he would break down and weep for her. He choked twice, but nothing more happened. Forcing it was no good. There was nothing inside. What was wrong with him? The one woman he loved beyond measure and he couldn't shed a tear for her?

  After a moment he pulled himself together and kissed his innocent surrogate on her temple. "Thank you. You're not to remember any of this, but thank you all the same."

  "All right," she lightly agreed and moved clear, adjusting her clothes back to the way they were. She glanced at him, smiling, then went on to whatever she'd been doing before his arrival.

  He took in a cleansing breath, straightening up, and with his eyes still flushed bloodred found himself looking right at his friend Bourland, who'd seen everything he shouldn't.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A black moment for them both.

  Bourland shrank from the doorway where he'd apparently been standing quiet for some time. His expression . . . shattered.

  "Philip—"

  He turned and kept going. Richard rushed after, his heart in his throat.

  Bourland did not run, but walked very quickly, coming to an abrupt stop outside the open door of Richard's empty room. When he turned again . . . there was a Walther in his hand; he smoothly racked the slide to chamber a round, but did not bring it up to shoot. Instead he let his arm hang straight down, the pistol pointed at the floor. But he had a finger on the trigger.

  They regarded each other for a long, long time. Richard heard his friend's heartbeat loud in the silence between them. It hammered swiftly and hard for a time, then gradually slowed, but not by much.

  Richard finally worked up to say something to break the unnerving stretch, but Bourland beat him to it.

  "So . . . now I know," he whispered.

  "Yes. You do."

  "That story about porphyria you handed me back when we met . . ."

  "A necessary cover." Richard's standard one to explain his aversion to daylight and other quirks.

  "I can understand why. Is this also why you've not changed in all this time? You still look to be in your thirties, and how long have I known you? Fifteen years. Until now I never noticed . . ."