“Ready?” I asked, and he nodded. I stepped away from the alcove, and he moved to the spot where I’d stood. Then he turned and without warning dragged me into his arms.
He didn’t kiss me, just held on, sharing his heat. There was desire, yes, but something else as well, something elemental, which he gave out and took back from me. It flowed between us, energy in, energy out, warmth and heat and a soft light I saw in my mind’s eye.
“To strengthen our bond,” he whispered, and then he released me and faced the alcove.
Before I could marshal my thoughts, the now familiar crackling sound popped around him, and he was gone.
Sudden irrational panic whipped through me. “Eric!” I tossed the pick into the alcove, then hauled myself up and placed my palms on the stones at the back. “Eric—can you hear me?”
From the other side came a faint chuckle. “Mon ange. You will literally wake the Dead if you do not lower your voice.”
I sighed with relief. “You’re okay? You made it through?”
“Yes. Again, a little faith.” There was a short pause. “I am in a tunnel. It descends rapidly. You will not be able to hear me for long. Can you feel my presence through the stones?”
We hadn’t had time to practice any of this, so I wasn’t sure what to do, but in the end, I didn’t have to do anything. As soon as I wondered if I could still sense him, I did. It was that easy. Even through the bricks, I could tell exactly where he stood.
“You’re close to the wall, perhaps a meter to the”—I oriented myself—“to the south.”
“Bon. I can sense you as well.” There was another short pause, and then I heard the disappointment in his tone. “But the rock—I do not sense it at all. Et toi…?”
It was as we’d suspected then. It wasn’t my death that made me aware of the rock. Of course not—I’d first sensed it when wholly alive. But a tiny part of me had hoped that Eric, being dead, would have the same ability.
I took a deep breath. We’d discussed this, and had come up with Plan B. If I could sense the location of the rock in the Plutonium, and I could also sense Eric, I might be able to direct him to it. Now that we knew he could sense me, it helped, but the chance was still slim.
Then there was the not-so-small matter of him “carrying” the rock out. Beaning Jason with the vase was the first and only time he’d done anything like it. But that was a short, fast action, whereas this would be longer and more involved. He seemed to think he’d figure it out, though, so I pressed my palms against the stones and concentrated on the one thing I could do.
At first, Eric’s presence in my mind was so strong, I felt nothing else. Panic rose again, and I forced myself to focus.
There—I detected something behind Eric. The sensations coalesced, then separated into two distinct threads, and, somehow, I knew this one was Eric, and that one was the rock.
“Yes!” I said. “I feel it—just barely. It must be a long way in.”
“Then I had better get started.”
He moved away, and I called out, “Eric! Wait—”
But he was already too far. I drew another shaky breath. I had to stay calm, or this would never work. I left my palms against the stones and closed my eyes, attuning myself to the night as I had when I felt the rock here before.
It worked. As my breathing slowed, the two threads became more vivid in my mind. The rock’s was still thinner and dimmer, but Eric’s was strong and bright, and I let out a sigh of relief. Then I tried to figure out how the hell to show Eric’s thread the way to the rock’s.
Neither changed position in my mind, and I knew they were still far apart. I shifted my concentration to the rock’s thread, so faint, I kept almost losing it, but at last I pinned it down. Its energy felt…different…than in Marseille. Smaller, and less…sure? Had the Rousseaux already altered it, in preparation for the main ritual? Or was it simply too far inside the Plutonium for me to accurately sense it?
More than that, though, it felt as if the rock didn’t recognize me. The whole thing sounded crazier by the second, but I couldn’t shake the sensation that the rock wasn’t sure it wanted to go to me. Surely, I was better than Demons from Hell?
I took a deep breath. Then I “grabbed” the rock’s thread and held on, while simultaneously reaching for Eric. To my surprise, Eric’s thread pulsed in my mind, brighter and stronger than before. Had he felt my “touch”?
At the thought, it happened again, warm, solid, good energy, and I knew he had. Not only that, I knew he was pretty far in, at a crossroads. All at once, the two threads in my mind shifted and switched and I instantly saw he needed to take the left-hand passage to get to the rock.
But how to tell him? It was one thing to feel a connection, and know he felt it, too. But how could I actually direct him anywhere?
I tried thinking left-left-left, but nothing happened. The two threads stayed put in my mind.
Think. What was it about the rock, that I could feel it? Or Eric?
What was it about me, that made any of this insanity a reality?
The rock. Eric. Me.
Vibrations, like a tuning fork, thrumming out from the center of the Earth. An elemental connection, like molten iron, snaking through solid stone.
And…a vessel, to receive them both, hold them for a while, and release them when necessary.
I didn’t need to push Eric and the rock together. I couldn’t. I needed to open myself up and let them both in—allow their energy to fill me and, well, use me.
As soon as I had the thought, the rock’s thread glowed brighter, and it stopped fighting me. I opened myself to it, let its energy slide into me, through my veins, filling my organs, then did the same with Eric’s. When I felt them both deep inside me, I pulled the rock’s thread closer to Eric’s, and suddenly felt him move down the left passage.
I barely had time to process my sheer relief when I sensed him coming to another junction, this one with three tunnels branching out. But it was easier this time—as though the rock trusted me now and was eager to be found. Without me consciously doing anything, its thread pulled closer to Eric’s again, and he chose a passage and moved on.
This happened over and over, countless times. Eric drew closer by the second, until abruptly, he was there. I felt his excitement—felt the rock’s—the two threads merged into a spark so bright, it was almost too much.
And then, just as quick, Eric’s thread pulled away, back outside of me. It thinned, grew dimmer, and I felt the rock’s terror at losing him, almost as great as my own.
Eric! My mind screamed it, though I knew he couldn’t hear me. God—no!
He was so far in—Hell must be sucking him down. That must be what the librarian meant when he said the stones trapped the heat. And he’d mentioned the calcium silicate in the bricks. Could the quartz, which was so common around here, protect Eric? Even if it did, I had no way to tell him about it now. Stupid of me not to think of it sooner, when we were still together.
Cold panic wracked my chest. I’d almost lost him once—I couldn’t face that again. I forced oxygen into my lungs, dug my nails into my palms, anything to cut through the fear. I felt in my mind for Eric’s thread, desperate, seeking any sign of him. There—but it was faint, a shadow behind my eyelids instead of the bright, warm cord it had been moments before. I pulled at it, but it lay limp and unresponsive, drifting relentlessly farther away with every passing second.
Don’t give in—you are not allowed to leave me!
Suddenly, I remembered what had happened on Malta. I stopped my frantic mental scrabbling and sat perfectly still, picturing a clear bubble of sorts, like the one I’d felt or seen or whatever it was, at the standing stones. Somehow, I knew to picture the way it formed, pulling quartz and lime, and other elements I didn’t recognize, from the surrounding stones, the passage floors, even the dirt and grass. I thought of all the elements in the earth and wove them together.
I held the bubble for a moment, picturing its strength, then
I took it, and like a cart on a pulley, I hurled it down a thread of my own, sending everything I had to Eric.
Then I waited and prayed, harder than I ever had in my life.
At first, nothing happened. Then like a hand grabbing a rope, I felt him latch onto my thread. I sat bolt upright, eyes tightly shut, and pictured the bubble enclosing him, protecting him from the heat. There was a moment of confused grasping, my thread, the rock’s, his, all merging, twisting and tangling together, before each thread sorted itself out.
His grip tightened, he gave a tug—the universal signal for pull me out!—and I did. I pulled as hard as I could. I felt him move forward, but slowly, as though he were being sucked backward after all.
The bubble.
It seemed I could protect him or pull him free—not both.
Which left me only one alternative.
With a sob of anguish for the risk I was about to take, I took a deep breath, then gave a fast, hard tug on my thread. With an energetic pop! the side of the bubble closest to me burst into a million particles of glittering light as Eric and the rock tore through and rushed toward me at breakneck speed up the passages. I felt the dark heat clawing at him, but the half of the bubble that was left behind slowed it down, absorbed some of it. And the closer Eric got, the stronger his thread, the more sure I was he wouldn’t be sucked back in.
I jumped down from the alcove and grabbed the pick. Despite the wall’s tightly-joined appearance, it wasn’t hard to loosen one of the stones. I found a place in the mortar that had already started to crumble, took careful aim, and gave it a sharp tap. The mortar gave way, and I wedged the point of the pick between two bricks, wiggling and forcing it inward until with a scraping, cracking noise one of them broke free and tumbled to the ground.
Just in time. I no longer needed to picture the threads in my mind—both Eric and the rock raced closer, so close, I simply felt them like “normal.” Whatever the hell normal was.
I released them, felt them shimmer out of my body just as something small shot through the opening in the stone wall. A moment later, I heard the familiar crackle and Eric appeared, pale, shaken, looking worse than when his wound ate at him. He stumbled forward and wrapped his arms convulsively around me, and I dropped the pick and clung to him.
“You made it. You’re here—you’re safe.”
“Ouais.” His voice was hoarse, his face gray in the moonlight.
“What happened?”
“Don’t know. Found the rock—tried to touch it. Couldn’t. Thought of the vase.”
“You made the rock an extension of yourself?” He nodded, and I said, “Then what?”
“I moved it…the heat…too much. Wanted to let go. Of everything. You.”
As though to deny the power Hell had tried to exert over him, he clutched me tighter. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to. He was here. He’d made it out. I buried my face in his shoulder, and he cupped the back of my head. He murmured in French, words of endearment I shouldn’t have let him say, but in the aftermath of crisis I couldn’t stop him. I didn’t want to.
Finally, though, I remembered the reason we’d come here—why he’d almost been sucked down to Hell. I sensed it on the ground nearby, stronger than when it was in the Plutonium, but still fainter than in Marseille. Reluctantly, I pulled away, but Eric understood.
“Go—take it. That is why I brought it to you.”
He leaned against the Temple while I turned and hunted in the dark. It took several passes, stooping over the uneven ground, before I pinpointed it. I reached out and picked it up. And immediately realized the problem.
The rock felt unfamiliar—because it was unfamiliar.
I turned to Eric, so shocked I could barely get the words out. “It’s the wrong one. This isn’t the rock I’ve been looking for.”
Chapter Twenty
“And the house, when it was in building, was built of stone made ready before it was brought thither.”
~The Bible, 1 Kings 6:7
I was so stunned by the enormity of what we’d done I couldn’t think.
Apparently, we’d broken into Satan’s “safe” and stolen a rock I didn’t know existed, that Michael might not know had been found. This could be good—Michael wanted all the pieces of the broken slab, didn’t he? Or it could be bad—this wasn’t the piece I’d agreed to find, and might not fulfill my obligation. Worse, it was close to midnight—almost Saturday. If this rock didn’t do the trick, I had less than twenty hours to find the other one.
I looked at the piece in my hand. Similar color and composition—it could easily have come from the same source as the first shard. Plus, there was that whole “hot and humming at Hyacinth” thing. But instead of being half the size of a football, this piece was smaller than a tennis ball. One side curved outward, rough and pocked with indentations, the other was sheared flat. If I had to guess, I’d say this was an outside piece, where the other rock’s all-flat sides and jagged edges indicated it came from the interior.
Of course, now that I’d reached this lovely conclusion, it didn’t help. I was so worn out I could hardly stand. I’d barely slept in the last two days, on top of not eating since breakfast. Whatever Eric had gone through to get this rock had taken a lot out of him. Maybe too much—he still stood, propped against the Temple, looking about ten seconds away from total collapse.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, slipping the shard into my pocket. I needed food and sleep and time to think. I didn’t have much of the latter, but I sure as hell didn’t want to face Michael or demons or anyone else in my current state. Including Jason, but that was unavoidable.
I took the brick I’d removed from the wall and slid it back into place. With the mortar scraped off, the fit was loose, but to the casual observer it might pass muster. The bars on the grate were relatively straight, and I got it back into place, but the lock was toast. I left it next to the grate, gathered up my tools, and led the way to the car, where we tossed everything in the trunk and drove back to Denizli.
At the hotel, Eric split. While asking after the Rousseaux today, he’d also found a place to stay, a sort of hospice for the Dead, and truth be told, I was relieved to not have to worry about him and Jason at the same time. I waited until he rounded the street corner, then headed upstairs.
I figured Jason would be waiting up for me, angry, and I wasn’t disappointed. When I opened the door to my room, he sat on the bed just as he’d done this morning, arms crossed, legs out. He’d left the lights on this time but put Geordi to sleep in his room again.
I closed the door, fished the rock out of my pocket and dropped it on the dresser, then faced him. He took one look at me and slid off the bed, coming to me and pulling me close.
It was so different from Eric, but God, I needed this too. Wordlessly he walked me back to the bed and sat me on it, then picked up a bag from the side table and spread the contents before me. Cold cheeseburger and fries, warm soda.
“Eat,” he said.
Somewhere in my brain, I knew it wasn’t a very good burger. And yet, my taste buds nearly melted when the meat hit them. I’m pretty sure I moaned. I ate it and the fries so fast, I honestly don’t remember chewing. I downed the soda, then looked hopefully at the bag.
“More?” Jason asked.
I nodded, and he disappeared through the bathroom, coming back a few moments later with half a wrapped burger in one hand and meat sticks in the other. “Here’s the rest of Geordi’s that he didn’t finish, and I picked these up at the store.”
He sat on the bed while I polished off the burger and tore into the meat sticks. They turned out to be spiced lamb, and my only regret was that I couldn’t chew them fast enough.
“Hey—slow down a little,” Jason said. “There’s more where that came from. It’s actually a pretty good grocery store. They even sell apricot delight. I got Geordi two boxes, and I think he finished the first one already. I told him we’d go back tomorrow.”
I nodded, still
incapable of speech. Between the burgers and the lamb, my stomach was now actively engaged in digestion, which meant the rest of me really wanted to zonk out. Jason cleared away the garbage, and I leaned back against the pillow. Just an hour or two, that’s all I needed, and I’d be raring to go.
I was vaguely aware of him turning off the light and climbing into bed next to me. He wrapped me in his arms, and I think he might have kissed the top of my head. Then I passed out.
****
When I woke hours later, Jason still spooned me, his arm across my chest, his breath warm on my ear. It felt good—safe and secure. Which paradoxically made me feel bad.
Whatever had happened with Eric had also felt good. And right. So either enjoying Jason was disloyal to Eric, or wanting Eric was disloyal to Jason. And the real problem was that I shouldn’t want either of them. As I’ve said, the few relationships I’ve had were on the casual side. No serious attachments—no “one that got away,” or even “one that got close.” But I’m no good at one-night stands, either.
Vadim, on the other hand, knew how to string women along. It’s a good thing he was like a brother to me, because if he’d tried to get me into bed, I’m sure I would’ve believed every lie he told me along the way. On the day he died, he had two women on the boat with him. They wore life vests, he did not. I’d never thought to ask les flics for their names. I was in such shock, there were lots of questions I didn’t ask then—and many more I should have asked Vadim, before he died.
Like, did you happen to pick up any screaming rocks on your last trip to Turkey?
I felt the low hum of the new rock, which I’d left loose on the dresser last night, too tired even to drop it in a drawer. Hiding it wouldn’t do any good, anyway. I mean, Demons from the Last Circle of Hell probably wouldn’t be stumped by pine boards and cherry veneer.
I counted back in my head. It was at least six months since Vadim’s accident. No, wait—it was exactly six months. He’d died on March fifth.
The fifth.
I shot up in bed, startling Jason awake. He squinted at me. “Wha—?”
Debriefing the Dead (The Dead Series Book 1) Page 21