"How?"
"Dark Father, you don't want to know. But we must stop Charon before he works his power again. Another rip between the Sides will be . . . bad."
He remembered the hellish creatures from the image captured by Bourland's computer and stopped his imagination from going any further with the thought. "How do we stop him?"
"When we're together. You, Michael, Michael's other father. I will show you—but it must be on the Dark Mother's special ground."
Chapter Fourteen
Charon reached beautiful, not-quite downtown Glastonbury in his anonymous rental, pulling into an empty car park and killing the lights. The sky had been clear all day, and it promised to continue through the night, which was just beginning to descend. Few lights showed in the town, which like many in the countryside, really did roll up the sidewalks after dark, much to the annoyance of the American tourists. Well, too bad for them.
He wanted to rest before taking on the last leg of his trip, which would indeed be on his legs, unfortunately. God, he was tired. It had been one hell of a long haul from leaky Niagara, first by train, then that snail-paced bus trip, the other train south to Atlanta, an endless parade of paranoid security people looking for terrorists—and himself, of course—then the flight across the Pond.
The plane trip to get to London damn-near killed him, even in first class. All that sitting in place and the brainless in-flight movie and nauseating food. He'd all but taken up residence in the forward crapper, dropping his cookies in the stainless-steel well, flushing it away with the chemically hygienic blue water, the astringent, overly sweet smell of which only encouraged him to repeat the performance.
The flight attendants became aware of his illness, and he was hard pressed to stave off their well-intentioned offers to help until they finally noticed the bastard in the row ahead of him. When the man keeled over bleeding that got them nicely freaked. That admittedly risky feeding plus their combined tension, horror, and sick worry kept Charon sustained for the rest of the flight. Nice floor show, too. They'd pulled a doctor out of coach to look after things.
Imagine! A doctor flying coach. After the mint they charged me and for nothing, the damned quacks. One idiotic test after another just to tell me I'm gonna die. Well, screw that, them, and all their cousins.
Man, if the flight crew knew the truth of what he was planning they'd have gutted him with their pre-packaged plastic forks, then cracked open the rest of the plane's mini-bottles of tasteless champagne to celebrate. Too late for them, now.
After that, Charon was forced to have a full collapse in a London hotel under his latest and possibly last necessary alias. It had proved a good cover, slicking him past customs and all those watchful cops easily enough when combined with his metaphysical camouflage. Even his case full of pills was no problem, though of course anybody could see he was sick. But he was well aware that he was being hunted by a specialized bunch that made the CIA look like a knitting guild. Can't have them putting a foot into things at this stage.
His illness was taking a visible toll on him, even with the near-constant feeding by using the Grail to channel the resident psychic energies. In the hotel's bathroom mirror he noticed his ribs showing. Not something he'd seen since he was a scrawny teen centuries ago. His face flesh hung loose on emerging cheekbones and what a terrible color his skin was under the tropical tan. No real color at all, just veins showing through the thinning skin. Have to do something about that. Tonight. While he was still able.
He slumped in the car seat, hugging the Grail close, using it to funnel in random energy to keep him going. Not too much to get himself noticed, just enough for a nice buzz and to build up reserves. Save the Spielberg effects for later when they were needed.
There was a good old full moon coming tonight. That additional energy oughta put a corncob up the Goddess's ass. Once he was done, she wouldn't know what hit her.
He'd wait an hour past sunset, then start up the tor.
* * *
Driving the unmarked white van, Bourland, Iona, Richard, and Michael arrived at Sabra's wilderness cottage well before noon. Strictly, it was not in a true wilderness, but distant enough from neighbors for Sabra to enjoy the isolation. There were several acres to the property, very private. Iona walked around to the backyard, which was profuse with large trees and virgin snow. The trees formed a circular clearing some ten yards across; in its center was a stone construction that more mundane eyes might take for a homemade barbeque. It was cone-shaped, made of concrete and native stone, about waist-high, and a yard across at the base. Sabra had built it herself soon after she'd moved in. Its bowl-shaped crown was blackened from past fires. There was no sign of a cooking grill.
"It's good," said Iona. "Let's go in."
The police had shut things up, and Bourland sent people from Richard's security company out to repair the damage to the alarm system. He used his own key to let them in, entering the code into the wall unit before it went off.
Richard feared this moment, but decided it was easier to look at Sabra's things with the others along, easier to think that she was just in the next room. Everything was as she'd left it when she'd bolted out the morning of the shared vision, a few unwashed dishes in the sink, a book she'd been reading open across the arm of a chair.
Michael was hungry. He and Iona poked around the kitchen. She found eggs and still-fresh peameal bacon and asked if he wanted scrambled or over-easy.
"Both," he said, taking his usual chair at the kitchen table.
Bourland touched Richard's elbow, and they went to the small living room. The place had central heating, but that had been turned down. He went to adjust the thermostat and the room began to warm. Bourland uncharacteristically fidgeted, pulling his gloves off, shoving both in the same pocket, taking them out for a look, then shoving them in again.
Richard had confidence in Iona and Michael, but how would Bourland handle this? His inexperience in Otherside matters would work against him; it might overwhelm him. Richard wanted to leave him out. Iona insisted, though. She'd first met him when he, Richard, and Sabra had taken Michael on a visit to Kingcome Inlet. They'd found common ground teaching Michael to night fish.
"What's this about, Richard?" Bourland asked. "She didn't explain much of anything."
A damned good question. "It's a way to perhaps stop Charon."
Bourland held to a straight face, but his heart began to drum loud enough to be audible to human ears. Was it terror or anticipation? "How?"
"The ceremony will cause us to travel in spirit to where he is."
"In spirit?" His tone lowered. Skepticism. "What will that be like?"
"Unsettling," said Richard. "But you get used to it. Just accept what you see and feel as reality and respect it."
"And if I don't?"
"It can kill you. There . . . and here."
"I see. You've done this before?"
"Yes. The last time was to help Michael."
"I don't know as I'm quite the right man for this. What am I supposed to do?"
"Be there," said Iona cryptically, looking in from the kitchen.
"For what?"
She shrugged and went back to frying eggs. Somehow, that had been a very significant-seeming shrug.
Bourland looked at Richard, who also shrugged. "There is no answer since the future is in flux. More so now because of what Charon's been doing. He's upset balances, God knows why, because he must be aware there are always consequences when you muck about with such forces."
" 'Eating the light'? Feeding off psychic energies and such to fight his cancer?"
"To fight off death. He should have been gone by now. Once he missed his sell-by date . . ."
Bourland snorted. "I'm not sure if any of this even exists, but if you're all taking it seriously, then I shall, too. At least for today. By tomorrow I want everything sane and plodding along as usual in the normal sort of madness. But until then I'll do whatever it takes to kill the bastard."
; On that, Richard knew, Bourland could be entirely relied upon.
* * *
Michael must have looked on Iona as a surrogate for Sabra, for they spent the time over his lunch talking. Richard wanted to listen in, but intuition told him to keep clear. He wanted to speak with her, too, perhaps to find some ease for his own inner pain, but there would be no chance. Iona said they would have to take action this day, while the moon rose over distant Glastonbury.
"The time difference can be confusing," she said. "It's a big world, but we have friends." She knew about the Stonehenge group's healing ceremony and the villagers convergence at Chichén Itzá. He'd not told her about either of them. For all they knew similar ceremonies might be going on in other places as well.
"Will time as we reckon it really matter?" asked Michael.
"It will where he is, and that's where we must be."
Iona was serene, Bourland restive and worried, Richard determined, and Michael . . . sad.
"Why?" Richard asked.
The boy shrugged, the gesture must have been contagious. "Change is coming. I like things just as they are—were—anyway, it's all going to be different. Me and Dad, me and you. With Aunt Sabra not being here . . ."
"Have you dreamed of her?" Sometimes Michael dreamed of his mother and sisters. It was a source of comfort for him, had helped much in his healing. Richard wanted some crumb of that for himself.
"Not that I remember." He saw Richard's disappointment. "I'm sorry."
"It's all right."
"I know you want to talk with her."
"We all do." The silence in his mind was still terrible. For nearly all his long life she had always been there. While the brief lives around him flourished and swiftly died Sabra continued on. With him. She was his one constant in an existence rife with disappointments, betrayals, joys, and disasters. He could bear anything, survive anything so long as she was breathing the same air. Half his soul had been ripped from him, and unlike a physical wound he would never quite bleed to death from it.
That would be a happy release.
* * *
Sharon Geary jerked awake when her drifting body thumped up against the side of her snaky protector.
Newton's whatever-the-number Law: a body in motion stays in motion until acted upon by . . .
Or something like that. The short version being that Kukulcan was slowing down, while she in her hollow space continued forward. She was very glad he'd not slammed hard on the brakes or there might have been a nasty collision for her.
She pushed off and sought out her long, thin peephole to the outside. Very bright there, now. She'd fallen asleep—hard to fathom—watching the rainbow lightning ripping across infinity.
"How goes it for ye, sir?" she called, expecting him to widen the opening so she could have a better look. She could just see his massive head in its usual place, above and to the left of her. How long had he held himself so carefully still in this position? Did gods get muscle cramps? She checked her watch and noticed the second hand wasn't moving.
Uh-oh. Was that a bad thing? She shook it. The battery was no more than a month old. Maybe the lightning had buggered it; lots of energy playing about out there, might have been like being next to a magnet. She had a friend at school who killed watches if she wore them for more than a few days. "Magnetic personality" they'd teased and always knew what to buy her for birthdays and Christmas. None of the teachers said it was possible, but the watches, electronic and mechanical alike, died all the same.
Sharon peered through the opening, wary for giant bugs, but seeing bright light. That distant spiral he'd been heading toward . . . was this what it might look like close up? She determinedly did not think about black holes, maelstroms, or even bathtub drains.
Kukulcan seemed to be too occupied to pay her any attention, and anything that got such a level of focus from him was likely to be important.
She resumed her place, anchoring as best she could to observe, her heart speeding up. Something was going to happen, or so her gut told her, not her Sight, not her reason.
"Tick, tick, tick, tick," she muttered, green eyes wide.
Toronto, the Present
Richard brought kindling and shavings from the woodshed, arranged them in the bowl-shaped depression in the top of the cone, and touched a firelighter with a match to get things going. It certainly beat striking a spark off flint. God, those days when after your sword a tinder box was your most important tool. He used to collect the things, acquiring a new one whenever someone made an improvement.
Once the kindling caught, he added several pieces of dry firewood. Oak, he absently noticed. They soon caught as well. The flames were very high and merry under the lowering sky, yet small against the forest darkness. The fire seemed to light only the immediate area; the surrounding trees pressed close, as though seeking warmth. Richard's shadow, made large, moved black against their trunks like an unfriendly spirit.
Iona threw on piles of sage and sweet grass and soon thick, fragrant smoke flooded the clearing.
Richard, Bourland, and Michael took their places two yards from the cone at three of the four compass points. Sabra had long marked them out with little stones, but those were hidden by the snow. Richard shivered in place, aware of a nervous nagging within. He felt naked. When his right hand twitched once across his body, an unconscious gesture, he realized he wanted a weapon. Club, sword, P-90, but he understood that such things on this Side would not carry over in the physical sense. If he had to fight it would have to be with whatever was available on Otherside. He'd been on such a journey before, and knew his mind could conjure him a tank if need be, but it took concentration. He'd just have to wait and see. The Goddess—hopefully—might have whatever he needed most already prepared.
But if not . . . why then his own bare hands would more than suffice, providing he got within reach of Charon.
I'll rip your heart out, if you have one.
Iona, finished with her prayers, backed away to her fourth point, chanting in her own tongue, her arms spread wide. Richard stood opposite, watching her through the yellow flames and pouring gray smoke. Her smooth, serene face calmed his heart for a few precious moments. Rage and hatred for an enemy, however deserving, would not help. Richard breathed deeply of the pungent sage smoke and cleared his mind. Listening to Iona's soft but powerful voice soothed his heart. He did not understand the words, but there was no need.
Bourland kept most of his attention on Michael but cast about, looking for some sign of what was to come. Richard had tried to explain this was a journey of the spirit, not the body, but didn't think it had fully sunk in. Well, they'd all know in a few more minutes.
The smoke suddenly billowed dense and swirled around the circle, seeming to have a guiding force directing it. Richard's eyes smarted as it enveloped him. He swiped at the sting, then no longer felt the same kind of winter cold. He smelled rain instead of wood smoke and snow. A chill damp wind breathed on his bare face.
When his sight cleared he was in Glastonbury, standing at the top of the great tor. St. Michael's Tower was gone, green winter grass covering the flat spot where it should have been. He truly was in another time and place.
The full moon was well risen. The ceremonies in the other sites must have been under way for some while now. The moonlight on the surrounding land was harsh and silvered, and showed damage to the countryside otherwise invisible to mundane eyes. The land below the tor was empty and blasted in places as it had been in his dream about a bombed landscape. Even the ancient bones of the once glorious abbey that had stood for long were gone. Are we too late?
He found himself outwardly changed, wearing clothing and battle gear from his youth. The sword on his hip was his own, given to him by Sabra to replace the one lost in his last tourney as a living man. It should have been in its glass case in his Neville Park house, not here. This weapon gleamed as though new, the blade sharp and flawless, and it felt right in his hand. Lying in the lush, wet grass was one of
his old shields, also new again, which he took up. The weight was also right and solid, reassuringly familiar. When had he lost it? At Camlan field, hacked to splinters and gone to dust over the centuries.
Where were the others? He walked cautiously around the uneven edge of the summit, searching.
We were supposed to be together. What's gone wrong?
No sign of them and no sound but the wind sighing through the grass.
Clouds roiled on the western horizon, bloodred, lit from within by lightning, galloping toward him unnaturally fast. That couldn't be good.
The storm reached the tor in moments, filling the sky, blotting out the friendly moon; wind screamed around him, tearing and biting cold, but no rain fell. He could smell its hanging threat, but its promise of cleansing had been perverted. The air rushing down from the heavy clouds was tainted with burning and the stink of rotting flesh. Instead of thunder he heard screams and howls, nothing earthly in those sounds.
"Iona!"
He cast about, looking for her, for any of them, on one level glad they weren't here, on another worried about where they'd gone. He listened within, hoping to hear her voice as he'd so often heard Sabra's, but all that came was the pounding of his heart.
An aberration flickered in the corner of his eye but seemed to vanish when he looked directly. He only saw it by its absence, vaguely man-shaped, the edges blurred like fog, moving purposely along the tor's winding maze path to the top. It was fast and did not have far to come.
Richard checked for cover. None available with the tower gone. Too bad. A good old-fashioned bushwhacking would have taken care of things nicely. Fair play wasn't a factor in war. He was a soldier, and the job was to defeat the enemy decisively and quickly, then go home.
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