Again, Richard stood at her bedside, in the same place.
An injection would be the wrong way to go, no telling what his blood would do to her system if introduced so directly. By mouth, as always. That's how it worked.
He parted her lips, pressed the plunger with his thumb, and hoped the tiny stream wouldn't choke her. He put in only a few drops, waited, then a few more, taking his time. Whatever power lay within would work its magic however large or small the amount.
Richard's own change had been brought about by a massive draining on her part, taking from him, and then she'd shared it back again, though his memory was less clear on that part of things. It had been as much for lust and ceremony as anything else. In the times that came afterward she told him even a taste was enough to bring about the dark rebirth. Not as pleasurable, but sufficient.
If it would just work again.
He gently took her cold hand, shut his eyes, and silently prayed.
* * *
"Richard?"
He gave a great start at the sound of Bourland's voice. Richard had been so involved with his internal concentration he'd not heard anyone approach.
His friend, standing in the doorway, coat still on, looking diffident about his intrusion. "Hallo. Sorry. How are things?"
That was indeed the question. Richard checked the monitors. "The same, it would seem." Good or bad or too soon to tell?
Bourland came in. He had a modest vase of fresh flowers in hand. Miniature pink roses, expensive at this time of year. He shrugged a little when Richard glanced at them. "Silly of me, but I saw them in the flower shop downstairs and . . . they probably won't allow it here. In case she's allergic. There's no place to put them."
"On the floor by the chair should be fine. Out of the way. She's not allergic to them."
He accepted the suggestion with relief, placing the flowers between the chair and the wall. Their sweet scent began to war with the medicinal air of the room.
"Michael's at home?"
"Yes. I managed to talk him into it. My housekeeper's staying over to keep an eye on him. She's to call me if she notices any problems. There've been no more phase outs, thank God."
Could that mean Michael's episodes had somehow been connected to Sabra? It seemed likely, except that before ever meeting her he'd projected visions. It had been his only way of communicating through his trauma. Perhaps he was simply too distracted now for such activity.
Bourland came around the other side of the bed to look down at Sabra. "She's so impossibly young," he whispered, brushing back a stray tendril of her hair that was outside the bandaging. It was an unexpectedly intimate, tender gesture, and he was likely unaware of how much it revealed about their relationship.
A nurse newly come on shift and clearly unbriefed about the exceptions being made for this patient, appeared at the door. "I'm sorry, but visiting hour is over."
An hour? More like five minutes. Richard fixed her with his gaze and softly recommended she find something else to do, they were allowed to be there. Her face blanked for a second, then she smiled amiably and went away. Bourland noticed, but Richard didn't care.
"I'll be outside," he said, wanting to talk with Bourland, but reluctant to impose on his time with Sabra.
He went to the waiting room near the ICU ward. There was a different governmental type in a plain dark suit hanging about playing watchdog. He didn't seem armed, but Richard got the distinct impression the man might be RCMP. The man nodded to him and went to stand in the hall, looking cordial of all things. Ah—there they were, regulation boots under the suit. Dead giveaway.
Well . . . good. Nice to have a guardian angel standing ready.
Richard stretched out on the padded bench seating along one wall. He'd known harder beds; this one was only worse because of its hospital location. Still, he could get a bit of a nap in.
Only Bourland didn't let him. He came in a few minutes later. "I seem to be making a habit of—no, please, stay as you are. Grab sleep when you can. That's what they tell soldiers, isn't it?"
"So I've heard." Some rules remained ever constant. "What's up?" He continued flat on his back, glad for the change in posture from the chair.
Bourland sat opposite, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. "I'll wager you've been beating yourself about the why of the accident as much as I've done. Michael wanted to know why, too, and there's never any answer, so I shifted over to the how of it."
"Go on." This must have been what had kept him so busy earlier.
"I had her car taken to a place I know," he said. "A place full of experts. I got them to fine tooth comb it for anything unusual, and set people to interviewing witnesses to the accident. So far nothing untoward has surfaced. It was just as we saw, she lost control on the ice when a freak wind—"
Richard shook his head. "It's more than that, and you know it."
"Yes," Bourland agreed in a carefully even tone. "We both know it. At this point we're the only ones who do. What I'm seeking is any kind of proof of whatever else was involved that caused it. You saw the brake lights when she passed? She was trying so hard to stop that thing and it just . . ." He shut his eyes a moment. "My God. I even felt the snow . . . Richard, this is so bloody impossible."
"I know it is. Can you get past that?"
"To what? Telepathy? Ghosts? UFOs?"
"To being there for Michael, whatever happens."
"Of course I will." Bourland snorted. "You do know how to go for the throat, don't you?"
"No comment. In the meantime, yes, there is a strangeness going on. Michael's projecting visions, and we all had the same dream. Nightmare."
"But why? How?"
"I was hoping Sabra would be able to explain. You may have noticed her insight to . . . spiritual matters; very unique, very strong. She's always used that to help Michael."
"It's hard not to notice their connection. Sometimes when they're together it's like two people with one mind. But it seems to work. She's a bit eccentric on some things, but I know she loves him, and would never harm him."
This was promising, but it was yet a long way from acceptance on the level that might be required. It would be easier to just hypnotize Bourland, give him a basic download of Otherside facts, and tell him not to panic. Not yet, anyway.
"You said Sabra might explain. But you know things also, don't you?"
No escape. Richard sat up to face him. The bitch of it was that he knew so damned little himself. He could clarify some aspects of the shared nightmare, not much more.
Bourland gave him a long look. "Richard, this isn't the time."
"What?"
"I know the signs. It's clear you're steeling yourself up for something unpleasant and this is just not the time. Anyway, I might be ahead of you for once."
Richard was at sea. Had someone kidnapped the Bourland he knew and replaced him with a mind-reading clone?
"I think we can agree on the fact that there is a paranormal aspect to this business. There, the word's on the floor for all to trip over."
"Philip . . . really now . . ."
Bourland raised a hand. "An important part of maintaining intelligent pragmatism is being able to recognize when one is out of one's depth. When you've eliminated all other possibilities, then whatever remains, however bizarre, is probably worth looking into. I've contacted some different experts to look into things. They've sent a team to look over the crash site, take measurements and such; the car's going to one of their labs for more work—"
"What do you mean by 'different experts'?"
"I know of a group that investigates the paranormal, not with ouija boards but with science. One of their senior men is an old school chum of mine, so I rang him up and asked for an assist. As it happens, they were already prepping to send a team off to the Yucatán to look into some odd reports from there."
Richard came fully awake. "Such as . . . ?"
"Don't know yet, that's why they're sending a team. Whether what's drawn the
ir attention has to do with that shared vision remains to be discovered. They've got people operating in London who are checking out similar reports concerning Stonehenge. Of course, my friend was highly curious about my interest and the car and the rest. I said I'd explain later. If I can't then I'll have to buy him one hell of an excellent bottle of scotch to—Matt?"
Bourland's attention snapped toward the doorway, where stood a very tall, lean, bordering-on-the-gaunt, man wearing a black ski cap and sardonic expression. Next to him was a slim woman with honey-blond hair, her cool eyes set in a resolute, beautifully sculpted face.
The man said, "Should my ears be burning?"
"Almost." Bourland got up and went over to shake hands. "What are you doing here?"
"Frank told us to stop and see you before our flight to fun-in-the-sun Meh-hee-co." His gaze settled on Richard a moment, friendly, but oddly analytic. Piercing without being offensive. Richard got the impression his face had just been filed into a highly efficient memory for later retrieval if required. Behind them stood the watchdog fellow, still looking cordial, but observant. The couple had passed inspection and were allowed to invade.
"Excuse us," Bourland shot to Richard, then smoothly herded them from the room without seeming to do so. A very seamless technique of compartmentalizing everyone, if that was his aim. With his position in the government, it must have been second nature to him. "My God, I thought you'd have been kidnapped by space aliens by this time."
"Well, now that you mention it . . ." The rest of the man's reply was obscured by a hospital page.
Richard assumed the couple were the team sent by whatever agency had involved themselves. Apparently they had begun checking things independently prior to Bourland's involvement, and that was perfectly fine; there was no way in hell that Richard would leave Sabra and go haring off to the Yucatán at this point.
He hoped they'd be safe. The man-thing on the pyramid . . . what he'd done . . . he was likely long gone by now, but on his way where? Off to destroy another ancient sacred site? Which? There were thousands. And toward what purpose? What was to be gained by ravaging such places?
"Mr. Dun?"
God, he'd gone sleepy again. He sluggishly realized he'd stretched out as before, and the charming young woman was bending over him with an apologetic smile. Given any other circumstance the view would be exceedingly welcome. He boosted up, rubbing his face as she introduced herself. He didn't snag the name long enough to hold, only that she was a researcher. Didn't seem the type to be burrowing through library stacks, but she had the polish of a confident professional about her.
"Yes? What is it?"
"Philip said you had a dream or vision?" she prompted. "It might help our investigation if you could tell me what you saw."
He glanced at the card she gave him along with her self-introduction and recognized the emblem next to her name. "Oh, you're that lot."
She must have been accustomed to the response and smiled. "You've heard of us."
"Yes. I catch things on the television now and then about your doings."
"You can't believe everything that goes on the air. They generally regulate us to Halloween shows or an exaggerated and garbled documentary."
What a pleasing voice she had, very soft, almost liquid. "Well, you're not running about in tinfoil hats, which puts you ahead of other groups with which I've dealt, but I prefer to keep my name out of any records if you don't mind."
"Not a problem. On request we assign a pseudonym or a letter designation—if we bother. I'm told that this is an informal and off-the-record sidebar to the official investigation. Consider it a private one-on-one."
He decided he liked her. "Thank you."
"Your dream?" She drew out a small tape recorder said the date and time into it and identified him as "Mr. B." He assumed Bourland would be "Mr. A."
Without embellishment or emotional coloring, he described exactly what he'd seen, and after a moment's consideration gave Sharon Geary's name to her.
"This was definitely someone you know?"
"Yes. We were very close once. If you can shed any light on what happened—on where she might be, I would very much like to be informed. Immediately."
"Then you believe you saw and perhaps interacted with an event that actually took place, as it took place."
"I know it did. Just not in this Reality."
She did not inquire what he meant by that, and his respect for her group rose a bit more. "Shared dreams are not unheard of, but the ones I've investigated were not quite so detailed as yours. They more commonly occur between close family members like twins or a parent and child. You and Philip aren't related, are you?"
"I'd say we're brothers under the skin," he said without thinking.
"Well, there is something of a physical resemblance."
"Nonsense."
"Has anyone else had this same experience?"
"My"—he almost said "godson" and changed at the last second— "Our friend in there, in the ICU. She was on her way in to talk with us this morning about it when she had her accident."
"I'm sorry."
"She called me last night, rather early this morning. She'd had an identical vision that woke her. We all saw each other in it, along with many other people we didn't know. It had us rather upset."
"And you couldn't identify the man in it?"
He shook his head. "I wish I could. I saw only his outline in light. The rest was darkness. Sharon was . . . glowing brightly. Very symbolic, I'm sure."
"Philip has suggested that there might have been a paranormal factor to the car crash."
"I would take that seriously, yes."
"We have people checking it out."
"So I've gathered. One thing . . ."
Perfect eyebrows raised with inquiry. "Yes?"
"Please do be very careful while down there, use extreme caution. I did not see the man—or whatever he was—clearly, but my every instinct tells me he's extraordinarily dangerous. If the vision was pure imagination combined with coincidence, then you've nothing to fear. But if not . . ."
"I understand, Mr. Dun."
He put her card in his wallet and passed over one of his own. "If you find out anything about Sharon please don't hesitate to call my cell at any hour no matter how late or early. Consider it urgent. I must know what—what's become of her." He pressed the point home with a firm hypnotic nudge. She blinked and swayed as though he'd done it physically.
"Of course." Her eyes cleared, she favored him with a kind smile, shook his hand, and left.
Oh, God. Sharon.
He rubbed his face again and suppressed a groan. How long since she'd been taken away? He stared at his watch. Over twenty hours. If she was lost in the Otherside she wouldn't have lasted ten minutes with the creatures there. But that snake . . . or god, as Sabra had called it. The young woman had suggested it might be Kukulcan. That couldn't be good. The ancient natives had done blood sacrifice to him. Richard could still call back from memory the smell of it soaked deep into the stones of the pyramid. So much death . . .
He put an arm over his eyes and tried to will himself unconscious but the dreadful thoughts and worries kept coming like legions.
* * *
Sharon Geary drifted in darkness, struggling mightily against mind-numbing, heart-stopping terror and mostly succeeding. Wild animals were like that when trapped in a cage. After a few moments of blind panic and beating against the bars they go very still, either conserving effort or fallen into shock. If they didn't get past the shock they died.
She told herself she was conserving effort.
But where . . . ? The last thing she remembered before the dark sealed around her was Richard. He'd just stood there not doing a bloody thing. Then again, what could he be expected to do? Fly up and attack the serpent with his bare hands? That was a bit much to ask, though Rivers had had no trouble doing the latter, it seemed. By God, if she ever got her own hands around his throat . . .
Oh, yes, an
ger was a great way to keep the fear down to manageable levels.
Where the hell was she?
She felt along one leg of her BDU pants and the cargo pocket there. Her torch was still inside. Brilliant. Pun intended. She pulled it out, holding it away from her, and switched it on.
Not what she expected, though she could never have said what that might have been.
Hand-sized scales, glittering like jewels set in polished steel, completely surrounded her. It was like she was inside a gigantic ball some dozen feet across made from . . .
Mother of God, the sna—serpent—bloody big monster. It was wrapped all around her. A living cage made from its enormous body.
Bad enough, but she was floating in it.
She'd seen films of astronauts training. They achieved a state similar to the microgravity of orbit by going up in a plane and waiting for it to go into a dive, then they seemed to float about the compartment. It looked like great fun until you remembered it lasted only a few moments, then the plane had to come out of its controlled dive and climb again.
Sharon knew she'd been here for much longer than that. Where was "here"? And were they falling? Falling a long, long way?
Think, girl. She wasn't in outer space. What other options were available where gravity was scarce?
Otherside? That didn't seem right. She'd been halfway in it when Rivers threw her from the—by God I'm going kill that bastard!—pyramid. Then the serpent, Kukulcan, had reached her, wrapped around her . . . and it felt like something had seized them both. What could be out there big enough to pull this size of creature off course?
There's always a bigger fish, it seemed, wherever you found yourself.
Cheering thought. Sort of.
Relatively calmer, she drifted close to one of the living walls. Each round of its body was as large across as the biggest oak tree she'd ever seen, and she'd seen some that—my God, it's breathing. Very slow, but constant, she watched in awe the massive expanding and contracting of her prison.
How about that? They had air.
For some reason, she'd not been too very certain about it. She could—rotten thought—be dead, after all. It wasn't likely. She had firm ideas about the afterlife and this wasn't even close.
Siege Perilous Page 14
