In a moment of dynamic rhythm of space-twisting energy, the Wheel of the Work came to a crashing halt. Past, present and future, the physical and the nonphysical worlds merged together, and a pathway opened. The chamber was still, airless, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room by a set of gigantic lungs. Abruptly, the child's head assumed an undead animation, writhing with eldritch life as if it had grown into the white ash. No longer the face of a child, the visage spawned from the deepest pit of evil twisted into a terrible thing. Eyes rolling to the whites, it snapped and bared its teeth, mouth frothing slimy white foam.
When the eyes came down again, they were not the eyes of a human but of a demon--slanted, yellow and glowing with evil intent. A gruesome smile split the lips. Drawing no breath, the head began to speak in an old language. The voice was gutteral and deep, the words belonging to a time before the gods created man.
"He who seeks shall always find. He who walks far is not always lost. Go ye to the land where no light falls, only stone grows. Where lies the future is only the past. In a timeless, ever-frozen place, deep 'neath the world lies the center of eternity…"
"The words you say…" Xavier's voice rang with strange, harsh overtones, cutting through the chamber. "Be they true or do you deceive?"
The demon laughed and crooned, "Be they true or be they false, only the Dragon can know."
The words jerked to a stop, and the face contorted into a mask of hate, exploding into violence. Xavier banished Zaal, saying, "Go thee back into thy darkness."
The demon's eyes began to dissolve, bubbling and smoking, melting as if made of hot wax. Teeth gnashing, tearing at the pale, bloodless lips, it began screeching unholy blasphemous curses before bursting into flames. A foul stench worse than smoldering flesh assailed the chamber, and the billowing smoke assumed the demon's true form, a dog-headed, winged snake.
The demon laughed, the awful image lingering as if scorched into the air. Then, with a grin, it vanished utterly. Seared into the wheel around the blackened skull were strange, primitive symbols.
Brain racing with revelation, he studied the blackened scrawl. A smile split his lips.
Ula'dh.
City of the Dead.
He trembled with excitement. He dared not disturb the letters scorched into the surface of the Wheel. Could he believe what Zaal revealed? Or was the demon trying to mislead him, punishment for his failure?
But the words, he thought. In a timeless, ever-frozen place…
He laughed. The sound echoed through the chamber, a hollow glee reflecting the damnation of his soul. It was so clear, so obvious. Why had he not guessed himself?
Hundreds of feet under Sclyd's surface, past hard ground and solid rock, existed the three cities of the underworld. Closest to the surface and most prosperous of the three cities was Danarra, city of the elven people. A world in miniature, it was lush and green, abounding with life. Its people were curious and open to strangers, accepting all and rejecting none. The underworld was a civilization flourishing despite being bordered by fire and rock.
Gidrah. City of trolls. Trolls were workers of metal and keepers of the underworld's fires. Life near the flames was hazardous and the span of years short. Uncouth and rough, trolls harbored a lust for life. Clannish by nature and suspicious of outsiders, they were loyal to their friends and deadly to their enemies.
Closer still to the core was Ula'dh.
It was stark and desolate, devoid of all life. Most traces of its people had long ago vanished. Left were only empty streets and crumbling columns painstakingly carved from limestone. Commonly known as 'the edge of eternity', Ula'dh seemed to have no past, as its people had left few written records.
How fitting the Cachaens would choose the city as the place to inter their devastating writings. The city itself is a gigantic tomb.
"When I possess the scrolls the fettered power of the Dragon will break free and savage the land again. Then, I will know ascension as a true god."
A sound behind him brought him sharply out of his musing. He turned in time to see Ilya, her body taut and trembling with horror, slide to the floor, sobbing great convulsive spasms that wrenched her entire body.
"The child," she cried, disturbed. "I can't believe you took a child…"
Xavier leapt at her.
"You are weak!" he snapped. His voice crushed the syllables in every word. "Useless." His gaze dwelt on her, disdain curling his lips. Raging, he loomed over her. "You, who vowed never to fail me…you do just that, Ilya. You, whom I believed to be my strongest--"
"A…child, Lord," she blubbered. "She had no defense against you."
She broke off to a deep, sorrowful silence and a curious pity lingered behind her eyes.
A ridge of muscle tightened his jaw. Forcing his voice to a deliberate calm, he caressed her face, the scent of the oil lingering on her white skin.
"Just as you have none now." He bent and grabbed her by her hair, wrenching back her head. He struck her hard in the face with his open hand, bloodying her lip. He knew he could break her easily, and he began to take pleasure in her fear. He glanced to Megwyn.
"What shall I do with the traitorous woman? Make her beg for her life?"
Megwyn shook her head. "It's a waste of precious time, Lord," she said. "Let me have her. I need the energies to restore myself."
Ilya sighed in defeat and went slack. The sorcerer nodded and cast her aside.
"She is yours."
Megwyn grinned, a wolf eager for the feed. Kneeling in front of Ilya, she took the woman's hand, lacing their fingers together palm to palm to form a contact point. Ilya yelped in fright and tried to pull away, but Megwyn tightened her grip, digging her fingernails into the back of Ilya's hand. Her free hand shot out, catching Ilya's jaw. She began to speak.
"Your essence to mine, your youth to me, your life to me." She pressed her mouth to Ilya's, not in a kiss but to snatch the breath from her lungs. As she inhaled, Ilya's hand started to shrivel, aging at an incredible rate as her body's energies were absorbed. As a sponge takes in water, Megwyn's skin became plump and pliant, glowing with health as the juices of youth filled and strengthened her. She kept her grip tight, refusing to let loose until Ilya crumpled to the floor, shriveled and lifeless.
"This will feed my hunger for the present." She cast a look of disgust toward the corpse, then turned her beguiling gaze up to him. "Soon I will need another."
Xavier took her hand. "When the mortal world is ours," he promised, "we shall have all we need."
Chapter Sixteen
When presented with an obstacle of any sort, the best way around it was through it, directly and with force. At least, this was the reasoning Morgan used when met by a locked door. Simply put, he kicked it in. No easy task, considering he was saddled with the weight of Julienne and had an elf clinging to the skirt of his coat.
The crash of breaking glass and splintering wood brought the library's occupants directly to their feet. There were cries of surprise and shouts all around from the group of household retainers who helped him navigate the mortal world. Tobias Greenwood, manager of the estate. Melissa, his wife and head of the domestic staff. Danielle Yames, Morgan's secretary and personal assistant. These three formed the core of what was a very cliquish network of people who all had one thing in common: all owed him their lives.
Hearing the shattering glass, Melissa sent her coffee cup sailing before pressing her hands to her belly, sure she was about to miscarry her two-month-old fetus. Tobias grabbed a lamp, determined to protect his wife. Danielle's mouth quirked down in disapproval. She looked from Morgan to the door and back to him, speechless.
"Why did you do that?" she asked, more puzzled than frightened. She'd worked for him long enough to know he was a strange sort and had a different way of doing things.
Morgan shrugged as well as he was able. "Forgot my key."
Danielle's brow wrinkled. "Couldn't you just knock?" Pausing, she followed up with, "Thought you weren't co
ming back."
Again, he shrugged as he hefted Julienne's weight. "Needed my cigarettes."
"Yeah, right," Danielle snorted in disbelief.
Tobias caught sight of the little elf clinging to Morgan's coat, doing its best to keep hidden. His curious stare scanned the golden-skinned, white-haired creature. "What is that?"
Morgan gave the clinging Danarran a nudge with his leg. "An elf."
All nodded, taking in the information as casually as if he'd just said it was a Persian cat or some other exotic pet. During their time with him, all had learned to expect the unexpected. They were already aware he kept a lot of secrets. Secrets, he thought ruefully, that were probably about to be revealed.
As though approaching a frightened puppy, the black man knelt down and put out his hand in a show of friendship. "Does it understand?" he wanted to know.
Morgan spoke to the elf in the Quarayan dialect. "They will not hurt you." Then, to Tobias, "Give him something."
Tobias fished in his pockets, digging out a handful of change. Immediately, the shiny objects caught the elf's eye.
"Can I have them?" Without waiting for a reply, Lynar ran up and snatched a few of the larger coins, no doubt reasoning that larger was better. Stepping back, he surveyed his new treasure--two shiny quarters.
"We didn't know what happened," Melissa broke in, able to speak now that shock had let loose of her tongue. "You were both just gone!"
"We didn't know Miss Julie was going, too," Tobias added.
Morgan shook his head. "I did not know she was going."
Concern set into all three faces as it dawned on them that Julienne was not walking on her own. She had her arms around Morgan's neck, face turned away from onlookers.
"Don't let them see me," she mumbled, tightening her grip on him. "I want to go to my room, please."
"Something happened--" Danielle began to say.
"She will be fine," he said. "I will deal with it. Keep Lynar here and leave us alone." When Danielle and Melissa attempted to follow, he shot both a warning glare. "I mean it."
"What the hell do we do with an elf?" Danielle asked as a last resort.
"You have always wanted a child without a man," Morgan shot back. "Lynar is your chance."
"What?" Danielle stammered, having no return argument and no one to argue with. "That's not the kind of kid I was talking about."
No one was listening.
Morgan left the library, crossing the wintry foyer that had so intimidated Julienne on her first day at home. Beautifully arranged, the entry was impeccably decorated, from the white marble of the floor to each piece of furniture and painting. How frightening it must have been for her to come home to a place her mother had fled when she was but a three-year-old child.
He remembered how she had looked--a thin, haggard woman returning to a place she had little memory of, trying to fit into a family she did not know. Career in ruins, newly divorced and bankrupt, it had taken incredible courage for her to make the journey, something he had not believed her capable of.
She had every right to turn around and walk away--especially since you were so damned unwelcoming, he cursed himself as he carried her up the gently curved staircase.
On the best of days, he was an ill-tempered alcoholic. On the worst of days, he was a suicidal alcoholic. He certainly could not throw Julienne's short, self-destructive past in her face, though he'd gone ahead and done it anyway. With her past and his, they seemed made for each other--both on the edge, coming apart at the seams, willing to die in their self-chosen ways.
He sighed inwardly. Misplaced regret would do neither of them any good right now. And as much as he had not wanted to admit it at the time, here was where she belonged. Maybe it is even where I belong.
At the top of the stairs, he took a sharp turn toward the master suite. The house, with its sixty-plus rooms and three levels, was so large that Julienne had once joked she would have to leave breadcrumbs to be able to find her way through its maze of hallways and levels.
Pushing open the doors of her suite, he ghosted through the shadows and put Julienne down on the canopied bed atop the blue quilt her grandmother had made before arthritis stole away her ability to handle a needle. Though her weight was no burden, he was relieved to have her in a place he considered safe. Feeling the welcome softness beneath her, Julienne sighed, a limp mass of arms and legs.
Flicking on a small lamp, he sat down on the edge of the bed. In the low illumination, the room was gently shaded. A brief glance around told him things were exactly as she'd left them.
"You are back," he whispered, "where you wanted to be."
Julienne opened her eyes, seeking his face, grateful tears glimmering in her eyes. "Thank you…for coming home…I know you didn't…want to."
"This is where you were meant to be."
"You, too." She exhaled painfully, breathing heavily and with forced endurance. Perspiration dotted her brow. She rolled onto her side, clutching at her chest. "God," she moaned, face pale and strained. "It hurts so bad."
Hand on her shoulder, he attempted to turn her over. Her body stiffened, and she resisted, trying to curl herself into a ball.
"Please, I can't take this anymore." Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment as she rocked in misery.
He persisted, gently rolling her onto her back. "I can take the pain."
It was clear her strength was fading with each passing moment--pulse sluggish, heart laboring. Despite her great determination to live, to find him again, unless he did something, she would succumb to the mutant's hunger.
She will not last longer unless strengthened. I can feed my strength into her. It would not keep her pain-free long, but it would offer temporary relief.
"You…don't have…to…lie, Morgan. I know I'm…going to…die." She groped for his hand, grasping it, searching for reassurance. Quite suddenly, in a low, startlingly clear voice, she begged. "Kill me, please. Don't let me die like this."
She gave another groan of agony.
"You are not going to die," he replied with a quiet certitude. "I promised you that."
Linking his fingers with hers, he asked, "Do you trust me?"
It was the first time he'd consciously attempted to activate the psychic union that could exist between those mated as he and Julienne were. Because she was too untrained to seek back, he felt safe making a brief connection with her.
Joined in blood, joined in body, the last barrier to be bridged is that of the mind.
She did not hesitate. "Yes."
"Close your eyes, and the pain will go." Reaching with his free hand, he pressed the tips of two fingers to her temple and massaged in small, slow circles. He began to speak in a low, lulling Gaelic, drawing on their bonding through his blood. "Take her pain into thyself, let her draw from thee the strength she needs."
Closing his eyes, he envisioned himself stepping into her body as if passing through a door, merging his self with hers.
Immediately, he was attacked by an alien force. Raging with fever, Julienne's pain was a hunger. Though he barely moved as her agony flailed through him, the ridge of his jaw tightened under the gritting of his teeth.
Take my strength, Julienne, he silently commanded. Send the pain toward me. Seeking it, he went deeper, embracing her torture as his own. Across his mind's screen, he could see the mutant--it had taken hold of her heart, unfurling sinewy fingers into her veins. Well settled, it was growing at a rapid pace, threading itself like poison ivy through her system.
Minutes seemed to pass like hours, frozen by her great need, her weak body seeking the strength of his.
"I like this," she murmured drowsily. "I feel…you…inside me." Her weary voice faded. A contented smile drifted across her lips, her taut features relaxing. Her brow smoothed as the sharp talons of agony loosened. Closing her eyes, she began to drift into a gray veil of wispy unconsciousness.
Gently withdrawing from her mind so his absence would not injure her mentally, he severed the
psychic link. Freeing his hand from hers, he pressed both of his together, disbursing the negative energy he had drawn in. Her pain lingered.
His head dipped, and he pressed a hand to his forehead. It was dangerous to enter the mind of a dying individual. If the person passed on while a psychic link was established, there was a chance the initiator could become trapped in the void between life and death, unable to break the connection and return to the physical.
I can feel her weakening. Every moment that passes she is being sucked dry. She cannot last much longer. A few more days, perhaps, but no more.
He looked at her for a moment, appraising her the way one might an object to assess its value. Without his willing, his hand moved up toward her face. His open palm hovered scant inches above her nose and mouth. Would it be more merciful to spare her further pain? Anlese was not here to beg for her granddaughter's life.
An uninvited, terrible compulsion filled him.
A minute turned to two, then three. The odd feeling he was being watched crept over him. He cast a quick glance around the room. There was nothing except his reflection in the bureau mirror across the room, perfectly delineating his terrifying objective. Oddly, though, there was no wrathful intent behind his gaze but, rather, a wraithlike regret. He closed his eyes, head tilted slightly to one side.
Suddenly, with defining clarity, he realized he did not want to act on the impulse.
Bile rose, and he detested himself for the malice in his heart. His thoughts were a barbed lash of scorn and self-loathing. Why must he always turn his mind to death when he held the capability to save lives as well? What was this shocking, hidden disease inside him?
For him, the idea of suicide was a harbor, a twisted desire gnawing its way into the center of his tormented spirit with each breath he drew. The impulse to escape was deeply rooted in guilt. At a young and impressionable age, he'd witnessed his mother kill herself to escape his father and the demons harrying her. What he was thinking now was an expression of a very personal preoccupation not at all out of sync with his inner psychological life.
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