by Rebecca York
His good hand caught her wrist, scaring the spit out of her.
Her gasp of alarm was met by his curse. "Jesus! I thought it was him." Then, "What are you doing?" he demanded in a voice that sounded stronger than it had the day before.
Lifting her gaze to his face, she found he was staring at her—a mixture of emotions on his face. Relief. Surprise. Uncertainty.
Her own voice wasn't quite steady as she pulled his gown back into place and said, "I was looking for knife wounds."
"I'm fine." His gaze went to her midsection, and she noted that the swelling had gone down on the eye that had been closed the day before. "But I think you got cut. At least, I remember his slashing at you."
"Yes."
His expression turned stormy. "How bad was it?"
"Not bad, just a slash across my stomach. I washed the blood off."
"That bastard!"
A sound at the door made them both look up. It was a nurse, and Kathryn waited to be told she had to leave. But apparently the unit was pretty relaxed. The nurse only said, to Jack, "You're awake. Good. Let me check your pupils and your vital signs."
Kathryn stepped out of the way, waiting tensely while the woman went efficiently through her routine. She relaxed a bit when it looked like everything was okay. Finally, they were alone again, and she said, "Tell me what happened after I left."
"I was trying to get some information out of him. Then—there was a…" He trailed off. "I don't know what. Something else was there. Something I couldn't see. But I sensed it, like a huge storm cloud hovering over both of us. Some kind of… being." He stopped, swallowed, looked angry. "Black Trousers sensed it, too. I could tell he was scared. He… he disappeared and the dream disappeared, too. And I was back here."
She nodded. "The thing you described. It… it sounded like what I told you about—in that place where I can't breathe." She went very still, her mind taking another leap. "It's there every time I have one of the dreams. And this time you were aware of it, too. Do… do you think it could be what's dragging us in there?"
His face contorted. "We're talking about something you can't see except as a large, dark shape? If it's causing the dreams—and the other stuff we've been experiencing—how the hell do we fight it?"
"I don't know how—but we will."
He studied her closely. "Lord, you look so fierce. If you can fight this thing, so can I."
"You had the stuffing knocked out of you—I'm still on my feet."
"Okay, I'll accept that excuse."
"It's not an excuse!"
"Then let's get some work done. Can you describe the thing any better?" he asked.
She thought about it. "I can't describe it physically. I can't really see it. Like I said, it's got no shape. No features. But I feel like it's watching me. And it's spoken to me. Spoken in my mind."
"What else?"
"It lives in that place where I start the dreams, I think. Or maybe a place that's even less hospitable to humans—but the thing changed the conditions a little so I can be there, at least for a little while."
She saw he was listening intently, also saw that the short discussion was taking a lot out of him. Pressing her hand over his, she said, "We can talk about it later."
"No. This is important. We need to talk about it now. While it's fresh in our minds."
"Jack, I can see you're worn out. If you don't get some sleep, you won't be in shape to discuss anything."
He considered the advice, then gave a tight nod. "Maybe you're right."
"I'll stay here." She looked around, saw the bulky plastic easy chair in the corner. "I'll get some rest, too. And when you wake up, we'll talk again."
She could see he didn't like it, but she also saw that his energy was draining away.
Settling down in the chair, she watched him slip into sleep and knew he must have been making a tremendous effort to stay conscious. Her own energy level was pretty low.
As her eyes started to drift closed, a voice whispered in her head. The voice she had heard before. Stay awake. You must stay awake.
She sat up straighter, gripped the arms of the chair. It was the thing she had encountered in the dream—the thing they had just been talking about—speaking to her again. Only this was no dream. It was reality.
"Why?" she said aloud.
If you both sleep at the same time, he will find you.
There was no doubt in her mind about whom the voice was referring to. It was Black Trousers.
Somehow, he had found them together in their last dream. He could do it again.
She shuddered, pressed her spine against the chair back. There was no reason to believe a voice whispering in her head. Yet she believed.
"What does he want?" she asked.
To kill both of you.
"Why? What did we do to him?"
There was no answer. "Why?" she repeated. Then, "Are you trying to help us? Hurt us?"
Again, there was only silence. She could choose to dismiss the warning, but she elected to keep herself awake. So she sat in the chair, watching Jack, telling herself she must keep him safe.
Twice a nurse came in and roused him, checking his pupils and taking his vital signs. Each time, he went right back to sleep, and she was thankful for that. And thankful the nurses didn't ask her to leave.
Sleep tugged at her, and she dug her nails into the palms of her hands, then stood up and crossed to the small bathroom, where she splashed water on her face.
Around six, she was standing with her hips propped against the window ledge when Jack opened his eyes again.
He looked toward the chair, and the disappointment on his face gave her a small jolt of hope. Then he found her, and his features smoothed out again. So he felt something! But he wasn't going to tell her about it. At least that was how she decided to interpret his behavior.
"Did you sleep?" he asked.
"No."
"Yeah, sleeping in a chair isn't all that great."
"It's not that. It's…" She trailed off, then started again. "I might as well tell you straight out. The thing spoke to me again. Here."
His expression sharpened. "Oh, yeah? What did it say?"
"That if we both sleep at the same time, he can find us again."
"Oh, shit! You believe that?"
"Yes."
He swore again. "Crank up my bed, will you?" He looked around. "Better yet, help me get to the bathroom."
She eyed the IV line. "Is it all right for you to get out of bed?"
"It better be." He pushed himself up, swung his legs to the side of the bed, and she hurried to move the stand with the IV line so it wouldn't pull out of his arm. On his feet, he swayed slightly, and she reached to steady him.
He grimaced as he looked at the tubing. "I feel like an old guy in a nursing home."
"No, you feel like a guy who was in a car that rolled over," she corrected him, thinking he was probably uncomfortable with her helping him. Slowly, they crossed to the bathroom, her arm around him. After easing the IV stand inside, she closed the door and waited outside.
The toilet flushed, then she heard water running. When he came out, his face was damp, and she assumed he'd splashed it with water—and probably also taken a drink.
They reversed the trip, and he sat down heavily on the side of the bed. "I could use some civilized clothing," he said, gesturing toward the hospital gown. "It's disconcerting to have a breeze blowing on your butt."
She laughed.
"Maybe I should call Mrs. Anderson. She can bring me some pajamas—and some clothing to wear home." He looked at the clock on the wall. "And I can talk to the kids before they go to school."
He lay back down, and she cranked up the head of the bed so that he was sitting comfortably. Then she moved the phone to the long table that swung across the bed.
After dialing the number, he leaned back and closed his eyes. "Emily," he said when the housekeeper answered.
Kathryn watched him, torn between drifting out
of the room and listening to the conversation. When he didn't tell her to give him some privacy, she decided to stay.
"Yes, I'm much better," he said, then was silent, apparently listening to a long monologue.
"Kathryn and I have gotten close," he said, and she knew he must be responding to some complaint about the night before.
Close. That was a bland description of what she felt, but she had no right to argue the point—not when he had other people in his life to consider.
Again there was a lengthy comment that she couldn't hear. Instead of responding, he said, "Why don't you put Craig on?"
In a moment he was speaking to his son, his voice steady and reassuring, and she felt her heart squeeze.
When she volunteered at school, she got to see lots of kids—and lots of parents. So she knew Jack was a good father—as good as any child could hope for.
"Yes, I'm fine. Yes, I miss you, too," he was saying. "I'll be home as soon as I can. Craig, I love you. You don't have to worry about me, I'm fine. Well, my arm's in a sling, and my face is kind of bruised. But I'm going to be as good as new." After a bit more conversation with his son, he said, "Let me talk to Lily now."
He repeated what he'd said to Craig, reassuring his daughter in a warm, deep voice that made Kathryn feel good just listening to it.
Then he asked to speak to Mrs. A. again, and requested the pajamas he rarely wore and some trousers and a button-down shirt that he could wear home.
When he was finished with the phone call, he flopped back, his eyes closed.
"You're a great father," she murmured.
"I try my best. Sometimes I worry it's not good enough."
"Just from meeting them here, I can tell they're good kids."
"That's as much Emily's doing as mine."
"She was upset that I got to see you, and she didn't."
"Yeah."
She waited for him to tell her what the housekeeper had said. Instead, he asked, "How did you manage to see me, by the way?"
"Ross told them I was your fiancée."
"Oh." He looked down at his hands, and she wanted to assure him he could put an announcement in the paper saying it wasn't true.
It was almost a relief when he changed the subject. "You were telling me about the thing watching you. The thing with no body. No shape. What else do you know about it?"
He had come right back to where they'd left off.
"It's intelligent. Not like an animal. Not like a person. Not anything we can understand. It doesn't have senses in the way we think of them. It doesn't want to be here." As she struggled for some other way to describe the creature, another voice chimed in.
"It sounds like something that doesn't belong in this universe." The observation came from Ross, who was standing in the doorway.
"How long have you been eavesdropping?" Jack demanded.
"Long enough to know that you need some distance from the present subject. So why don't you tell me what happened when you went off the road?"
Jack sighed. "Okay, maybe you're right. But I'm counting on your not thinking I've plunged off the deep end."
"We've gone past that, don't you think?"
"Yeah," Jack answered, then told Ross about the ceremony that had captured his attention while he was driving.
When he finished, Ross looked thoughtful. "It seems like you're up against a guy who knows how to use magic to alter reality."
"You think that's possible?"
"You're telling me it is."
Jack sighed. "Yeah. I was working my way toward something like that."
"I don't know much about black magic. But from what you describe, it sounds like he sacrifices a victim as part of his ceremony."
Kathryn sucked in a sharp breath. "You think that's why… how he killed Heather."
"I'm afraid so."
"Heather and Swinton. And at least four other victims. There were five graves up at Sugarloaf," Jack muttered, then leaned back and closed his eyes. "Apparently Black Trousers has been practicing his craft for a while."
Kathryn studied his face and posture. He was looking exhausted again. "I think you need to sleep some more."
"I'm fine," he said automatically.
"We'll go get some breakfast," Ross said. "And you get some rest. Then we'll continue the conversation."
Before Jack could object, Ross gestured toward Kathryn. "Let's get some food."
She hesitated. She knew Jack needed to sleep, but all at once the idea of leaving him alone made her chest tighten.
She told herself she was being ridiculous. Nothing was going to happen while she and Ross were downstairs for a little while.
Still, her steps were slow as she exited the room. She wasn't sure she could eat, but she dutifully let Ross lead the way to the cafeteria.
"You don't look so great yourself," he said, as they stepped out of the elevator.
"I didn't get much sleep." She stopped, realizing that Ross didn't know what had happened after she'd gotten home. Quickly she filled him in on the man who had tried to block her car in the driveway. "I'm pretty sure it's the same guy I saw digging Heather's grave. The magician."
He whistled. "He's been busy. You can't go back to your house. At least alone. After breakfast, I can take you back there to get some clothing. Then you can stay in our spare room."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
She swallowed. "God, I keep forgetting that I've lived a thousand lifetimes since I saw you last night. After I checked into that motel, I went to bed—and Jack and I met in a dream again. This time, the magician showed up. He attacked both of us with a knife."
"Jesus!" Ross exclaimed.
"The bad part is that if we get hurt in one of those reality dreams, the injury is real. He gave me a slash across the stomach. It's not bad," she added quickly. "But I was pulled out of the dream before Jack. That's why I rushed here so early—to make sure he was all right."
Ross nodded.
"Then when I sat down in the chair beside Jack's bed, the… the thing we were talking about when you came in spoke to me. It said that if Jack and I slept at the same time, the magician would find us again. So I have to stay near Jack—so we can figure out whose turn it is to sleep." She grimaced. Then asked the next logical question. "What does the otherworldly creature have to do with the magician?"
"I don't know. But we'll find out."
He sounded so sure that Kathryn felt some of the hopeless feeling lift.
"The two of you need to come to our house—so Megan and I can torture you to keep you awake." He laughed. "Actually, if you come home with me, Joshua may not let either one of you sleep."
"Joshua is your little boy?"
"Yes. He's seven months old."
She smiled at him. "You sound like you have such a normal life. I can't get over how you accept all these nutball explanations without acting like I'm crazy. I tell you a creature from another universe talked to me while I was in Jack's hospital room, and you don't even blink."
They had reached the entrance to the cafeteria. Over to one side was a small walled courtyard filled with tables. It was probably more appealing in the noontime sun, so none of the tables was occupied at the moment.
"Let's go outside for a minute," Ross said, holding the door open.
When the door had closed behind them, he turned to face her, his gaze appraising. "Well, the reason I don't have any trouble accepting your wild story is that I've got my own wild story." She saw him shift his weight from one foot to the other, watching her.
"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," she said quickly. "It's enough that I know you're on our side."
"What did Jack say about me?"
"That you could find Heather—if anybody could. That you'd be able to find the body I saw him bury. He didn't say it in so many words, but I know he trusts you implicitly." She swallowed. "And I gather from what he said that you have… something in your background that you'd rather not talk about."
>
"Yeah. That's right." He scuffed his foot against the concrete.
"Ross, I don't need to know what it is."
He sucked in a breath and let it out. "Under the circumstances, I think you do. The reason I'm good at sniffing out graves is that I'm a werewolf."
Kathryn stared at him, wondering if she'd heard him correctly. But the tight expression on his face told her that he'd just given up a deeply hidden secret. Still, she heard herself saying, "You're not making that up?"
"Sometimes I wish I were. It can be a difficult burden. So maybe you want to reconsider my invitation to come home with me."
She shook her head, still trying to wrap her mind around his admission. Probably she should be more shocked. But she knew she'd been prepared to hear something extraordinary about Ross—prepared by the aura of the man and by what Jack had hinted at.
But more than that, she'd changed over the past few days. When she'd first met Jack in that painting, she'd literally stepped out of the ordinary world and into a universe where anything was possible. "You've been a good friend to me. I thought from the first that you were someone I could trust," she said.
"So you can deal with a friend who's a werewolf?" he pressed.
She saw the tension in his face and reached to clasp his hand. It was a large hand but, aside from that, totally ordinary. She didn't allow herself to imagine it as anything else—a wolf's paw, for example. "You've shown me what you're like. And I know that Jack trusts you with his life."
"Thank you."
She couldn't hold back a small laugh. "Jack said you'd be good at investigating the grave up at Sugarloaf. I guess I understand why. You've… uh… probably got a sense of smell that's way beyond anything…" She had started to say a sense of smell that was way beyond human capacities, but realized at the last moment how that would sound.
He breathed out a small sigh. "Yeah."
"Thank you for telling me. I'm sure you don't broadcast the information."
"No. But I wanted you to understand why I'm open to strange scenarios. Jack came to me, worried about what was happening. I listened and told him that anything is possible." He reached for the door. "Come on, you need to eat something."