Earth Mommy is pissed as hell, he thought, when he finally stopped rolling.
It had been quite a near fall. He was partway down one flank of the tor, and had only stopped by twisting to one side on a marginally broader section of the maze path. The top was a hike and a half distant. He had the energy for it now, but suspected his time was short, especially with the weird weather banging around overhead.
NOT my fault. That was just a byproduct resulting from taking his Realside corporeal body through to Otherside. You weren't supposed to do that. It weakened structures, ripped veils, and messed up all kinds of other inconvenient crappola. Well, too bad, he was here and would leave only after he got what he wanted. Deal with it.
He had to get to the top again. That last bout with the jock had opened a window of enlightenment. After the business in Chichén Itzá with Big Snaky's blood doing such a world of help, Charon had an insight on how to accomplish the same thing here, but better. This time the healing would be permanent. He could go back to Realside hale and hearty enough to enjoy the fun and games that would take place when some of the more dangerous denizens of Otherside found their way through.
Predators were always looking for fresh hunting grounds. He had no problem with that since he would be the one at the top of the food chain. He would feed from them, while they fed from all the little pink monkeys that had taken over the planet. They were over-populated anyway. Not that they weren't efficient at thinning their own numbers down, but there were other, more fun ways of going about it. In a couple of months the chaos would set things back to a nicer, slower time, maybe about half-past the Dark Ages, with no Renaissance to haul them out of the muck. Hell, he could probably start up another religion again. It'd been a couple thousand years since the last time he'd played that game. He could introduce an inside-out Rubik's cube of conflicting dogmas for them to fight over then kick back with the remote and a six-pack to watch the fun.
Charon began climbing. He tucked the Grail into his pocket again, so he could use his hands when needed. He had to crabwalk to get up the steeper bits, but that was faster than taking the maze path. After a few minutes exhaustion swooped on him and he paused, pulled the Grail out and used it to replenish himself. Jeez, the stuff was leaking out as fast as he could pour it in. There would be no second chances on this gig. He'd have to make it work right the first time.
Now . . . about the jock. How in hell had he gotten here? Never mind surviving his dip in the river and what it must have done to him. He'd pulled through it somehow and waltzed into Otherside easy-peasy, all ready to kick ass and take names.
And that had created no further disturbances to the windy climate . . .
Which meant he'd done it the Boy Scout way and followed the rules . . .
Which meant his real body was someplace else.
Which meant he had help.
But his witchy girlfriend was deader'n Dixie. Of that Charon was certain. He'd sucked her so dry in the hospital that even divine intervention from her hot shot Goddess wouldn't have brought her back.
So who else was out there directing the show? Had Dun recruited a gaggle of dippy New Agers to dance nekked in the woods for him? Nah, not his style to bring in a group. He was too much the loner. Maybe he had another girlfriend waiting in the wings. He did love to spread himself around and once they spread for him they tended to be devoted for life. Even Sherry-pie had screamed his name before big Wormy caught her. What was it about the guy? The baby blues or his aftershave?
Another girlfriend . . . and she was probably someone close . . . a blood relation, perhaps?
Charon looked at his hands. Well-well—Dun's gore was all over them, how about that? It was messy business, killing, but in this case he didn't mind. He was pretty sure he could improvise something. It wouldn't take much to backtrack. Dickie-boy wouldn't trust his safety to just anyone.
"Come on," Charon whispered. "Talk to papa. Tell me everything you know."
He rubbed his hands against his face, breathing in, smearing the red over his eyelids. The psychic link of the blood here to its Realside originator would be very strong. Yeah, that gave him a fix . . . follow the blood trail to . . . a cozy little cabin in the back of beyond. The same one he'd burgled. He could see it settled in a nest of white drifts, like one of those water globe scenes with the fake snow swirling inside. Very tiny, lots of detail . . . a light over there . . . a fire with four figures at the compass points. Jeez, were they predictable or what? One of the figures was down, that would be the jock, another had left his appointed spot to look after the fallen. The balances would be dangerously off because of that.
So who else was there? A kid? Not him. And that woman . . . who was . . . ? Well, I'll be dipsy-doodled. The bitch that clawed his eye out was running this ride. Wow, look at her working it. She wasn't used to this kind of load. The others weren't carrying their share, either. She wouldn't be able to hold out against . . . ah, just surprise her. Something quick and dirty. Then maybe he could get on with things.
Oh, yeah: Keep It Simple, Stupid.
They were usually very hung up on symbolism. Yank one thing out of place—that should be enough to buy him protection against more interference.
Charon shut his eyes, cupping his hands before him and imagined the cabin and the woods squarely in his palms. When the image was fixed and strong, he blew hard, like it was a birthday cake with countless candles to snuff.
The fire in the clearing went out.
"Nighty-night," he said, then clapped once.
* * *
"Your bleeding's stopped," said Bourland.
Richard had noticed. As soon as he could get up, he would. It felt good to lie here, even if it was freezing and on wet grass. He imagined the strength of the land flowing into him. Not the same as fresh blood but it would do for the time being.
The storm seemed to be in a kind of holding pattern, still full of fury, but not growing worse. Perhaps the blast of sound resulting from Charon's last attack had also knocked him for six. If they could find him before he recovered . . .
"Hand me that sword, would you?"
Bourland reluctantly passed it over, the one that had too recently been buried in Richard's chest. Damn, there was a hellish ache there still. Which wasn't real. Just have to ignore—no—remember Iona's face, ruddy in the firelight, the sage smoke playing about her as she chanted. Richard thought he could hear her voice.
The pain ebbed. Finally. Even the stains on his shirt vanished. He took a deep draught of air and did not cough it out again. "Help me up?" he asked.
"It's too soon."
"Not soon enough. Come on."
Bourland hauled, and Richard used the sword like a cane for balance as he came upright. He swayed, lightheaded a moment, then got his legs. He should have been famished, but only felt a nervous restlessness to get going. Quickly, he explained to Bourland a little of what to expect.
"Charon's attempt to heal himself will probably tear open a rift between the Sides, and it can't be allowed."
Bourland worked to take it in. He really was trying. "But aren't there forces in place to head off that sort of thing? Guardians and such? Iona let that much drop. We can't be the only ones to stop him."
"He's from our Reality. It's our job. And I rather think the guardians might be busy." Richard gestured at the storm. The weather in Realside Glastonbury was probably verging on the catastrophic. He stooped then straightened, picking up his own dropped blade. There, the blood rush to his brain wasn't too bad. The migraine-like agony only lasted a few seconds. "Take this."
Bourland accepted the sword readily, but shook his head. "Fencing wasn't exactly my sport at school. I still have my Walther." He touched the spot under his left arm where it was holstered. "Will it work here?"
Richard hadn't expected that. "Maybe. If you think it will. But cold iron will be better, even if it is imaginary."
"I'll take imagined hot brass and lead over imagined cold iron any day, thank you very mu
ch." But Bourland kept hold of the sword and looked around. "What about Charon?"
"He might have wrapped himself in darkness again. Put your back to mine and keep your eyes open for movement. We'll work toward the center. He seemed interested in that area."
"Oh, lord." But Bourland did as he was told and they gradually made their way over. "What's with the fancy dress?" He was still in his modern clothes, the long coat and somber dark suit he'd worn to the memorial service.
"When we pass to this Side we have what we need." That would account for Bourland being armed with his handgun. He didn't know on a subconscious level that it might not work here, so it was with him. Richard wasn't sure why he was in his old clothes, but they felt right to him.
"I suppose every place needs civil servants," Bourland conceded. "I'd look damn silly in tights anyway."
"They're not tights."
"People really used to dress like that?"
"Yes."
"My God."
"You over the shock, yet?"
Bourland snorted, getting the message. "Yes, all right. You said it'd be unsettling, I'm unsettled. We're here. Now what?"
"Stop him when he shows himself. And ignore everything he says. His voice has power in this place, though he might not use that attack again."
"This is really Glastonbury?"
"For all intents and purposes."
"Is it supposed to smell so bad?" Bourland held the handkerchief to his face again.
"That's his doing. I think he's feeding from the energies here, and it's made an opening that's not supposed to exist."
"Opening to where?"
"Places that are usually sealed. Remember those creatures from Michael's visions?"
Clearly he did.
"I think they're in the storm. There's some nasty things that can come through, so watch out for them. If you get the chance, take the Grail from Charon and run like hell."
"Run where?"
"Back to Iona. Picture her and Michael and the fire in the circle. She'll do the rest."
"My real body's still there, isn't it?"
"Yes. As is mine."
"What about Charon? Where's his real body?"
That stopped Richard short. "An excellent question."
"A damned obvious one. Why don't we look for it instead?"
"Because unless he brought it through to here—which would be horrifically stupid—it's probably in Realside Glastonbury and we're not."
Bourland's brief, one-word response fully reflected his Anglo-Saxon ancestry. "Then we take him out here, no holds barred."
"That's the plan."
"But—"
The specifics of Bourland's objection were lost to Richard. In the same moment both men pitched forward. Richard tasted green grass, its sweetness marred by the slaughterhouse stink of the air, then the grass turned into snow.
He caught a strong whiff of sage and blinked against stinging smoke. The red storm clouds wavered, an unsteady projection superimposed upon a screen of tall trees. What the hell . . . ?
Their circle, the fire . . . out . . . how had that happened?
Bourland looking around in confusion, Iona chanting, her voice harsh and desperate, trying to hold things together, and Michael . . . bless the boy, he was busy, quickly dropping more wood into place. Was he somehow taller or was that an illusion of his Otherside self? He lighted a fire starter and shoved it into the kindling, then lighted another and another, adding them in until the blaze was nearly as strong as before. Thank heaven for modern conveniences. He returned into his place again. The last Richard saw of him before Glastonbury reasserted itself was the boy flashing a sudden grin and a thumb's up sign.
Bourland hastily lurched to his feet. "Bloody hell!"
"Just a setback, keep your eyes open." How long had they been gone? Long enough, apparently, as time was reckoned here. Charon now knelt in the center of where St. Michael's tower stood on Realside and with a thick-bladed knife hacked strongly at the earth there. No screams erupted from this activity, though. The Goddess must have done something to compensate or had sealed that doorway off. He'd never find his way in.
Richard murmured in Bourland's ear. "I'll distract him, you come up from behind." Each man split off in a different direction; Richard saw to it he approached Charon from the front, coming up fast.
That got him noticed right away. Charon paused his digging and scowled. "Damn, but you're harder to shake than a case of the runs. I don't have time for this!"
"Get up then. You can try for three out of three."
He showed teeth. "Third one's the charm? That's how you guys like to work, isn't it? If you really focused, you could get it right the first—"
Richard found a way to shut him up. Charon blocked the attack at the last instant, his knife blade ringing against the extended sword. He followed through, launching a full body tackle and over they rolled. Richard hammered swift, hard knuckle stabs at the pressure points within his reach, getting grunts of pain in return.
The Grail.
In one of Charon's pockets. Richard could feel it through the material. He closed his hand over it to rip it free, but Charon anticipated and hammered right back—using the knife. It startled Richard, and before he could react to the pain he was abruptly tossed clear by a decisive judo-like throw. Charon had ever been strong, but not like this. The storm-troubled sky switched places with the tor several times before Richard came to a stop. He kept hold of the sword and instinctively brought it 'round to block a blow, but none fell. He'd landed in a heap, breathless and sluggish. It was as though his strength had been sucked out, and he dully realized that's exactly what had happened. Charon was a black hole, feeding, feeding, feeding.
Richard didn't dare risk more physical contact, had to keep a distance between. He got up, feeling heavy and clod-footed, willing himself to heal. Where was Bourland?
Two flat pops on the foul wind. Two more. Gun shots. Richard hurried toward the sound.
Bourland was in a shooting stance, braced with left hand cupping the right, his Walther aimed square, point blank range. He knew what he was doing; there was no way he could possibly miss at ten feet, but Charon refused to fall over.
"That's been tried before," he told Bourland. "It didn't work then, either."
Not one to waste time, Bourland obligingly grabbed up his sword. He must have had some fencing classes once upon a time, but wasn't an expert. The most he could hope to do to stay alive would be to keep backing out of range.
Charon shook his head. "Oh, now you've got to be kidding." But instead of his knife, he pulled out the Grail, holding it high. Once more his form lit up with a white flash, but the force went outward from him, striking Bourland like a club. He dropped. Charon turned, grinning. "Hey! Dickie-boy! Can I throw a party or what?"
Using his speed, Richard charged forward, but stopped short as Charon raised the Holy Cup again.
"Don't even think it or I'll fry you, too."
Richard had no fear for himself, but Bourland . . . he lay prone and unmoving. "Philip!"
He heard a groan. Alive, thank God, but needing recovery time.
"Philip! Stay down."
"No problem," came a muffled reply.
Charon's knife had turned into a sword, and he pressed its point into the back of Bourland's black overcoat, making a dent.
"Come on over, or Mr. GQ here gets stapled to the ground, and I don't think he's got your way of bouncing back."
Richard warily approached. "You don't want to do that. The Goddess was less than pleased the last time."
"Thanks for the hint, I'll be sure not to run him through too far, but hey—who'd a thought she'd turn out to be a screamer, huh? And, oh, gosh, where is she, anyway? Haven't heard a peep from her, and I've been doing some major damage to her real estate. Letting her knight-errants do all the dirty work is kinda tough on you. Will she be around to kiss your boo-boos when the smoke clears?"
He's fishing for information. He might not be able t
o sense her, even with the Grail in hand. "You're restored yourself, just leave. The longer you're here the greater the risk you run for retaliation. It's not something you'd like."
"I'm touched you care, but life don't work so simple. If it did I wouldn't have had to haul my ass all over creation to get anything done for myself. Do you have any idea just how stingy the powers that be are with their healing mojo? We only get the tiniest crumbs of what's really out there."
"Meaning if you leave, you're back to dying?"
"At hyperspeed, pal. Not on my event horizon. What I've got here is just bandage work. I want a total fix and some extra to get myself back to how it used to be. You and that freaking Injun Josephine did this to me, so don't think I'm unappreciative. I wanna make sure you each get my personal thanks."
"We cured you from having your beast take you over."
"Screw that, you thought you were killing me, which I get from a lot of people, but they never carried it as far as you did."
"Pity."
"Can it. Where's your Mother Nature wanna-be hiding herself?" Charon shifted the sword point to the back of Bourland's neck. "Come on—or I do a tracheotomy the hard way."
"That's a hell of a storm going on, she could be busy with it."
The gale was right on top of the tor. Still no rain, but the lightning seemed to be having a vast battle with itself, yet there wasn't as much noise as there should have been. Unnatural stuff. At this short distance it should have been stitching the earth, but perhaps the Goddess was preventing that, protecting her sacred ground from further harm.
When Charon glanced up, Richard lunged. Even if that damned parasite drained him empty, he'd find the strength to snap his spine first. Richard slammed his blade through Charon's body, the metal violently disrupting the forces bounded within his flesh.
An almighty flash engulfed the three of them, an inhuman shriek, and Richard felt a massive shock tear up his arm and blast through his body. He fell away, blinded, limbs twitching as the current ripped through his nervous system.
Chapter Fifteen
It was hard to think with the ringing in his ears. Nothing musical about it either, just an annoying, high pitched, and constant jingling, a querulous phone that could never be answered.
Siege Perilous Page 33