"Are you winning?" Richard asked, peering.
"I've almost got it. Ten thousand points and I move up, but the more points you rack, the tougher they get to hit . . . and . . . aaagh!"
There was a magnificent explosion on the computer's monitor, followed by dirgelike music. A sonorous voice from the speakers intoned that because he fought so valiantly he would be accorded a hero's shrine and the bards would sing his name forever. Would he like to play another game?
"Raaats." Michael rolled his eyes in dramatic frustration, though he did not appear to be overly distressed by the defeat.
"What happened?"
"Gas attack."
"Really?"
"They got these fat guys in there full of mega-methane, and if you don't get 'em with a head shot they blow up and take you with them."
"Oh. What are you shooting?"
"Nitrogen bullets."
Richard wasn't entirely at sea with the sciences, but fairly certain such things were impossible. He hoped they were, anyway.
Michael edged his control device onto his overcrowded desk, dislodging a stack of CDs. It was clear the housekeeper never made it this far. Nearly every horizontal surface was covered with several strata of . . . well, there was too much to take in or categorize, but bright colors and plastic seemed to dominate the bulk of the artifacts, that and comic books. The walls and ceiling were completely papered over with posters of current icons of teen worship, including a blond pop princess wearing what appeared to be paint. Closer examination indicated her costume to be made of fabric after all, though it was a near thing. Richard glanced at the boy, one eyebrow twitching. Damn. An early starter. He couldn't recall exactly when he himself had realized that girls weren't horrible creatures one avoided at all costs. Some things were likely better off lost in the mists of time.
Significantly missing from Michael's collection were any toys or mementos from his past in Texas. Those had all been destroyed, of course, though he could have gotten duplicates if he asked. The only reminder of his life before Bourland adopted him just a few years ago was a photo of his much younger self with his late mother and twin sisters that Richard had given him.
There were no pictures of Michael's biological father. Just as well. The therapy was still an ongoing process for that heartbreak.
"Check this out," said Michael. He'd been busy clicking away on his keyboard. Bourland bought the boy a new computer every Christmas in a vain effort to keep up with advancing technology. This latest model, which would probably be hopelessly out of date in less than a week, was sleek and expensive looking, with an oversized flat screen and matching speakers. "There's this way-cool software that came with the computer and it turns any sounds or music into shifting shapes and stuff. See?"
He hit more keys, electronic instruments blared from the speakers, and a window filling most of the screen erupted with the promised show. It was rather neat.
"Why you over here so early?" Michael asked, nodding in time to the beat. He had pale blond hair like his mother, cut short, but darker skin than one would expect from her Nordic ancestry. The seemingly permanent tan bequeathed by his father's genes had faded somewhat since his move from Texas to this latitude, and he'd taken to the abundance of snow like a home-grown sled dog.
"I think you know."
He grunted. "Because of why Dad kept me home. That vision. It was gross."
Yes, children were tough all right. "That's all? Gross? Not frightening?"
"Well, yeah, it scared me, but you were there in it, so that made it okay. You were all there. It was cool how you talked to the snake."
"I talked to it?"
"That's what it looked like."
"Did you hear it speak?"
"Nah. Too much other stuff was going on. Look, Aunt Sabra's coming over, too, isn't she?"
"Yes."
"I thought so. Whenever something weird happens you guys gang up. I'll talk about it with her then. Check this—" He cut the music, but the show on the screen continued, reacting to his voice. "You can turn your words into geometric or free forms or abstract designs, and it's got all kinds of colors and styles . . ." He clicked his way through a parade of variations, talking a mile a minute, raising or lowering his tone to bring about an effect. He seemed most pleased at the pattern his own name made.
On one of the shelves Richard noticed a new picture of Michael and Bourland, apparently from their most recent ice-fishing expedition. Red-faced, they looked enormously pleased with themselves, showing off a bounteous catch. Richard felt a too-familiar twinge about missing out on such diversions, but reminded himself that Michael was here and alive and that's all that really mattered. Even limited contact was better than nothing.
Make the most of it, he thought, and bent over to inquire about some detail. It didn't really matter what they talked about, just having time together was the important part. He obligingly spoke into a pick-up mic and saw what his name looked like on screen.
"Aw, say your whole name," Michael urged.
"Richard Dun."
"That's not it. Your real whole name."
He hesitated. Perhaps Sabra had been giving history lessons. Or it was the Sight at work? "Richard d'Orleans," he finally admitted.
The screen splashed itself with color. Mostly reds. Hm. Coincidence?
Michael grinned and hit keys. Richard's voice echoed and re-echoed his full name, mechanically repeating, making an endless fountain of red against a black background.
He felt suddenly uncomfortable. "That's very interesting, but could you shift it, please?"
Michael made no move; the screen continued active, reacting to the manic repetition of sound.
"Michael?"
The pattern of color changed, giving up its pulsing symmetry to completely random movement. The colors and shapeless blobs began to darken and eventually coalesced into recognizable patterns, stabilizing, becoming a surreal and disturbing picture. Michael went very still. He calmly stared, unblinking and oblivious, at the screen. A sudden shift in color and focus knocked everything from chaos into clear vision. An all too familiar one.
Chichén Itzá.
Heart pounding, Richard felt himself drawn strongly into the scene. It ceased to be contained by the screen, but grew, filled his view . . . and, without fuss, swallowed him.
Laughter . . . booming laughter against the storm raging around him.
He stood at the top of the pyramid, looking down the steep angle of hard steps. Was this what Sharon saw in those last seconds?
Unable to act, only watch, he was raised high by unnaturally strong arms. Who was it? He tried to turn to see the face, but—
A sickening swoop, a cry, but instead of being caught by the storm's force and lifted, he plunged heavily down, crashing onto the stone steps, bones splintering. Spin, roll, rolling faster, gravity and momentum having their way until he was at the base lying twisted on the bare dry ground between the two great snake heads.
From there he seemed to rise from the wreckage of flesh and pull back. Now he was looking down at Sharon's battered form. He reached for her, but possessed no body, only sight. He'd never felt so helpless.
She saw him through her pain, unable to move, struggling to breathe. Blood bubbled from her lips. Her face changed. The injuries remained the same, but now he stared down at Sabra . . . and then Michael. They shifted in and out of focus, meshing, their voices blending, becoming one.
Richard—help me!
Right out of hell.
Then they were gone.
He gasped awake as though struck with an electric shock; adrenaline hammered sickeningly through his system. But he was only in Michael's study under the harsh but prosaic dazzle of artificial light, and outside was gray winter day.
Michael slumped, pitching to one side from his chair.
Bourland caught him before Richard could even think to move. Apparently he'd been standing there a while. He gathered the boy up and carried him to the next room, laying him gent
ly on the bed. He felt Michael's brow for fever, automatically, the way parents do whether it's likely or not. There was a blanket folded over the footboard. He shook it open and draped it on the boy, who seemed deeply asleep. Only then did Bourland look at Richard, his expression that of barely suppressed anger.
"What's wrong with him?" he whispered. "And what is that?" He pointed through the door to the computer, which now showed only an innocuous screen saver and made no sound.
"You saw it, too?"
Bourland nodded. "And its effect on the two of you. He slept the last one off, but—is this hurting him?"
"I don't know," Richard answered truthfully. The last one? "How long has this been going on?"
No reply, Bourland checked Michael again, then motioned for them to leave.
"You're sure?" Michael looked so very young, painfully vulnerable. The boy's heartbeat sounded normal, regular. Beyond that . . .
"He's just asleep. Come on."
* * *
Bourland's study was direct from a decorator's handbook; traditional, sober, projecting a wealth of reassurance and the reassurance of wealth. Warm wood and leather furnishings, dark green walls, some carefully selected antiques, it seemed a century out of date, except that a century ago such rooms hadn't looked quite the same. However, Richard liked it much better than that time Queen Victoria went so ludicrously mad for tartans. This was more like a staid but contented London club than her kilt factory explosion at Balmoral.
Absurdities again. Focus, old lad.
Philip Bourland chose the long tufted leather couch over one of the overstuffed chairs. A big man, he was determinedly informal today in worn slacks, a thick moss-colored sweater over a dark shirt, and sheepskin slippers. Amid the ambiance of his surroundings, he looked more like a misplaced handyman than the lord of the manor. He also looked very tired, his china blue eyes haunted yet blazingly angry.
"That damned dream," he rumbled aloud, as though continuing from an internal dialogue.
"What about it?" Richard eased into one of the chairs opposite.
His friend had shut his face down. In Bourland's line of work it was to his advantage not to broadcast his feelings, particularly the harsher ones. Rarely had Richard ever experienced that aspect directed his way. The two of them were nearly always on the same page. "You were there, square in the middle of it, so you tell me."
This could go very bad, very fast. Anger was a useful weapon, but not between friends. Richard fixed his gaze for a moment until the heat went out of Bourland's eyes. "You know I'm here to help, Philip. I'll do whatever I can. Please trust that."
In a few scant seconds some of the rigidity left Bourland's shoulders. He slumped and rubbed a hand over his face. "God, this has me on the living edge. I don't know what to do so I—sorry, Richard. None of this is your fault."
Don't be too sure of that. "When did it start?"
"I'm not . . . I only began to notice in the last few days. Michael's—well, I call it 'phasing out.' "
"This has been going on for days?"
"Maybe longer."
"Why didn't you tell Sabra? Or me?"
Bourland shook his head. "I wasn't sure if this was real or not—his spells, whatever they are. I really don't know why I held back. It was as though there was a hand on my shoulder and a voice telling me to 'wait and see, wait and see,' that everything would get better. It seems completely idiotic now. I must have been in denial, but that's not like me."
Indeed it was not. Bourland always kept them apprized of everything to do with Michael, from his schoolwork to the least bump and bruise on the soccer field or at hockey practice. Had there been some kind of Otherside intervention at work?
He continued. "I'm not one to make excuses, either. You were over Sunday, and he was fine then, wasn't he?"
Richard gave a cautious nod, trying to remember specifics in retrospect. It had been especially cloudy, so he made a rare daylight visit, watching a hockey game with them in the TV room. Bourland's inborn enthusiasm for the sport had grafted onto Michael and their running commentary about the game rivaled that on the television and had been just as constant. An ordinary afternoon together, enjoyable, no hint of looming trouble.
"When did you first notice anything?"
"It was Monday evening. He was at his computer, playing a game, not doing his homework. I was saying the things you're supposed to say in those situations, and he just kept staring at the screen. I thought he'd shut me out, wasn't listening, but he's not like that. Some boys his age start to build up anger and go surly, but not him. Then I saw that there were some damned odd images on the screen. They had nothing to do with his game or homework or anything I've ever seen before."
"What did they look like?"
"I'll get to that. The main point is he was quite fine and then shut down for a few moments. When that happened . . ."
Richard waited him out.
But Bourland gave up. "No, you won't believe me."
"Just say it, Philip. I'll judge for myself."
A longer wait. Then, "All right. When he's like that, when there's things happening on the screen, I seem to see . . . in my mind . . . similar things. As though I'm in them, surrounded by them. It's because of that I've not taken Michael off to a neurosurgeon for tests. I know in my heart this isn't anything a doctor can diagnose and treat. Please tell me I'm wrong."
"What did you see upstairs?"
"Nothing in my head, but on the screen, those faces . . ."
"I saw them, too. It was just my luck to have a turn to be in it."
"You've gone through this before, haven't you? Experienced it."
"Yes. In Texas. He . . . showed me how his mother and sisters died. There's been nothing since then."
Bourland looked at him a long time, studying, thinking, and not giving anything away. It was this sternness that often compelled others to burst forth with confessions. All he had to do was wait.
But Richard had long been immune to such tactics. He wanted to try to explain, but the odds were very great that Bourland would be unable to accept anything as outré as the truth, about himself, Sabra, Michael, the projected visions, Otherside matters, especially the Goddess. Such concepts simply did not exist for him except as myth.
Then again . . .
Perhaps Bourland's extended contact with Sabra—and Michael—was affecting him on a psychic level, creating a window for him to peer through. Perhaps that's why he'd been able to see certain things. Sabra often kept herself removed from the general crowd of humanity because the press of their emotions wore at her, but it could go both ways. Some people were sensitive to her presence and power, and its touch could suddenly, inadvertently, open them up to forces for which they were unprepared.
"I thought," said Bourland, "that it might be me. I've been told my job is not exactly low stress. My first instinct was that I was having a problem and saw something that wasn't there. The brain can be quite disturbing when it comes to manufacturing fantasies. I thought I'd experienced some kind of mental glitch—except for Michael phasing out like that."
"Does he remember what he's seen?"
"He says not, but I don't believe him. I didn't want to press things and make too much of it. For what it's worth I was going to phone Sabra today and sort it all out. Then we had that dream. Both of us. Three of us . . . ?"
Richard finally nodded. "Four, actually. Another reason why Sabra's coming in."
"Oh, my God."
"What else is there?" Richard asked.
"How do you know th—" he cut off, frowning.
"Just go with me on this."
Bourland sighed. "In for a penny, in for the whole bloody national debt. All right. I think he's able to project these . . . images . . . not only to a screen, but into other people's heads besides my own and he has no control over it."
Richard nodded, encouraging him to continue.
"On Wednesday one of the day maids quit. Michael was after a pre-dinner snack in the kitchen, and she
was there. He must have phased out then. She ran screaming from the house. After what I've seen, I don't blame her."
"Is she all right?"
"I think so. She insisted the house was haunted and refused to come back. Stood in the street crying. My housekeeper had to take the girl's coat and purse out and drive her home. I didn't make a fuss with the agency, gave her a nice reference, but it was a damned awkward bit of business. I still don't know what she might have seen. Michael couldn't or wouldn't say. I don't think he means to, it just takes him over. He's broadcasting like a radio tower, isn't he?"
He recalled the vivid images projected into his mind by a much younger Michael, showing in too-graphic detail the murder of his mother and sisters. Even second-hand they carried power and still sometimes troubled Richard's sleep with nightmares.
"What I want to know—among other things—is where are these images coming from? They're . . . unworldly. I know he's not seen anything like this in a film or television, there are limits. He's allowed a certain amount of rubbish to watch if he wants, but not that kind of rubbish."
"His imagination, perhaps."
"Then the boy needs more therapy than he's getting."
"Can you describe what you've seen?" Richard's instinct told him there was more to this than Chichén Itzá.
"Better. Or worse. I can show you."
Anachronistically taking up space on the polished top of Bourland's Edwardian desk was another state-of-the-art computer system. He roused it from hibernation, got it fully awake, and entered a password. Then he opened a program and put in a CD. His hand rested on the trackball, preparatory to clicking the "play" icon.
"Here it is: after school yesterday Michael came in to ask me about something, then while he was standing exactly where you are now, he phased out. At the same time the images began to flash into my mind; I also saw them on my computer screen. Weirdest damned stuff I'd ever—I was set up to do some video copying and had just enough wit to try recording. It worked. I wanted to call Sabra then, but didn't know how I could possibly describe it. She's usually the one to call here, always knows when something's off, but she didn't. This is scaring the hell out of me, Richard. First, that Michael is subject to these fits, second, that I'm seeing such visions, and third, that they could even be recorded. I wish the latter at least was untrue."
Siege Perilous Page 9
