Siege Perilous

by Nigel Bennett

  End of the block, pull into the drive, park, cut the motor. The house looked different from when he'd left that morning, but he knew the difference was within himself. Catastrophe had turned the familiar alien, showing him once again that he lived in a safe, friendly, sheltered world with no more substance to it than tissue and just as easily ripped.

  He went inside, this time to the answering machine first. More ads. He ought to disconnect the ridiculous thing. When the last one played out, he hit the erase and moved glumly to the kitchen.

  The blood which he'd taken from Mercedes White would hold him through tomorrow, but he didn't know what to expect over the next few days. From one of the lower vegetable drawers where it was hidden under a still airtight package of three-year-old turkey bacon he drew out a bag of blood. It was also beyond its usable date, but only for medical purposes. It suited him just fine for his singular requirements. He cut a small hole in one corner, poured the lot into an outsized plastic commuter's mug with a sealable top against spillage, and dropped the exhausted bag in the trash compactor. Very tidy. He loved this century.

  While gradually drinking his meal, he made quick use of the shower to wake up, shaved, and donned fresh clothes, throwing plenty more into a travel bag. Richard knew the guest room of the faux-Tudor house was open to him for as long as he liked.

  He finished the blood, ran water to thoroughly rinse the mug, and shrugged on his long leather overcoat. He loaded the Rover, then went back to set the house alarm and lock up. It was so damned quiet, even the lake. He went out to the end of the street, where the old concrete stairs led down to the beach. The vast plain of water was perfectly still, almost as though it had iced over. That kind of calm didn't happen often. He hoped it wasn't a bad sign, but then he always hoped certain things he noticed weren't a bad sign. Usually as soon as the thought came, it departed, and he forgot it. This one stayed longer than it should. Was that a bad sign?

  God, no wonder people fell into superstition.

  As he walked around to the driver's side one of his boots trod on a patch of ice the wrong way and that was all it took. He pitched violently forward, hitting the truck and just managing to twist, palms out and arms bent to absorb the shock, a reflex action. That's what kept him from breaking both wrists when he landed on the driveway, but it was a nasty jolt all the same, and set his adrenaline buzzing.

  He got up after a minute, grumbling, dusted snow and wet from his front, and slid gingerly into the Rover, favoring new bruises. It took two tries to slot the key, his hand shook so much. When he'd bashed against the Rover's body he'd banged his shoulder rather hard. It wasn't dislocated, but there was a hell of a bruise forming already.

  Unsettled by the fall and disgusted for letting it get to him, he shifted gears, backed out, and left, roaring up the street.

  What in hell was wrong with the world? He did not need that little surprise.

  * * *

  Fifty yards away, Charon was also disgusted. He'd waited for hours in this exterior deep freeze for his moment and all for nothing. The damn jock's luck had saved him.

  Charon dismantled his long rifle with the huge silencer, carefully returning them to their special case. It was hardly worth hauling the thing out of storage if this was to be his only chance. Queered, totally queered, not even one shot. He'd set too narrow a window, gauging the sights and the rest for just this precise distance. Should have bagged Dun when he was at the end of the street looking at the pretty water, aw. But Charon's hand-eye coordination wasn't what it used to be since his change back to human, and the medications were way too good at ballsing them up even more. What should have been an easy-peasy-in-the-barrel snuffing had become a thorny challenge because of his limits.

  He didn't dare try after Dun took that fall and dropped behind a row of scraggly bushes. Another hesitation when he stood up and wobbled. Too easy to screw up. Had there been a miss he'd have seen the bullet's impact against the body of his truck and come hunting. Charon was in no shape for any one-on-one dancing with that dude. A couple years ago, perhaps, when he used to swig down the red fire himself, but not now while he was human-weak, not even with the razor-edged bowie knife he'd purchased that afternoon at a sporting goods chain store. Dammit to hell, but he'd had a clear line of sight right to the bloodsucker's chest. It wouldn't have killed him, but certainly have taken him out long enough to move in and cut his head off. Instead, the son of a bitch had been oh-so-conveniently swept from his feet by . . . what?

  There'd been no way to get a good look at it, like trying to see wind, but Charon caught an impression, a shimmering flash of silver light zipping along the ground. There was force to it, enough to pitch old Lance right over. What a look on his face. He'd had no clue that something had done him a favor.

  Something powerful.

  Charon—minus his eye patch now—squinted, frowning, trying to see what was not normally visible. His Sight was usually pretty good, but he was aware of his blind spots, and the stuff eating him alive from the inside out didn't help. Even if he'd been at two hundred percent it might not have served here. That was the problem with the opposition; most of the time they're invisible until it's too late to dodge them. And, for some reason, they often remained so even to their own people.

  Damned cagey flakers.

  He sensed plenty of energies in this place, some of it natural interference from the nearby water, but there was a decided protective glow hovering around the house, Dun, and his vehicle. He thought about draining it off the property for a recharge, but better not. Fang-boy might be tuned in enough to notice and call his old lady over to play bloodhound. She'd be able to track quick enough. Better to wait until the jock was toast.

  There he goes, driving cluelessly toward Queen Street.

  Too late to follow, but from the look of the bag Dun carried, he might be away for a few days. No telling where. Off on one of his little quests, tally-ho and rooty-toot-toot, damn him to Hell. The real one.

  Charon emerged stiffly from his makeshift hunting blind in the snow-crusted bushes of a side yard. The other houses along the street were occupied. He'd picked this one for the dark windows and snowdrift drive. The occupants, if they had any sense, were in a place where winter was something you only saw in calendar photos. His shiny new arctic gear had served to keep him from freezing during his stakeout, but now he wanted to get truly warm—

  A sudden, intense spasm of pain and a wash of weakness, of gut-twisting nausea, halted him in his tracks. It crashed home hard and went on for several minutes, with him fighting it every inch, until he staggered against the house wall and puked his last meal. Then he moved off and dropped to his knees, panting until the booming in his ears subsided. He was covered with a sweat that raised more of a chill in him than the goddamned weather.

  Damn. That was starting up again. He hoped he'd left it behind at Chichén Itzá. Great. He fumbled at a pocket and one of the containers tucked inside. Pulling a glove off with his teeth, he wrestled with the child-proof cap and shook out a pill, swallowing it dry. The bitter taste clung to the back of his throat.

  That decided him. It would be safer, better to strike Lance down from cover, but Charon couldn't afford to hang here indefinitely hoping for his return. Time was getting short, and he was losing ground.

  He didn't want show his presence, though. No sense letting Dun know who he was dealing with until the last possible moment. With any luck, it would be Dun's last possible moment.

  Charon wondered what had become of the witchy girl friend. He kept tabs on his enemies, but sometimes it was impossible to find out the why behind their actions. She'd left her Vancouver hermitage and moved here for some reason. Maybe to do with the Grail or so she and Lancelot could start banging each other regularly again. With her turned human too, she couldn't have many years left for it.

  Fine with me. Either way, she was conveniently close to a bullet.

  She'd not been at home when he phoned. That had been taking a chance, but he figure
d she'd not be able to identify him if he hung up just as she said 'hello.' But all day long it'd been the freaking answering machine, so there'd been no reason to go driving up to her wilderness hut to whack her.

  If he could arrange things just right, make a feint or, if possible, a solid hit at her from a distance, it would bring Dun in roaring, perfectly primed to be chopped.

  Which would take some setting up. Might as well plan it in a nice warm hotel room and give the pill a chance to work.

  * * *

  All was quiet at Bourland's house, except for the ubiquitous television noise. Richard was not immune to watching hours of it himself when the mood was on him, but he never left his own set running just for the sake of having it on.

  Not so for Michael, who had taken up residence in the TV room. On his way to the office Richard looked in. His godson was sprawled on one of the long sofas there, his socked feet up on its arm. He stared at the screen as though phased out, but was methodically clicking the remote through the satellite channels several times in a row. He finally settled on a hockey game, but pressed the mute button, watching the players gliding on the ice in a silent, near-hypnotic dance.

  "Wanna watch?" he asked, barely glancing up.

  "Shortly. I've some things to do first."

  "You staying over?"

  "Your very kind housekeeper's prepping the guest room now."

  "Good."

  "Are you all right?"

  Michael rolled his eyes, exaggerating. "Between her and you and Dad and my therapist . . . I'm fine."

  "Your therapist?"

  "Dad called her, and we talked on the phone. I'm fine. It's not like I'm made of glass and gonna break, okay?"

  "Okay. Then I won't ask if you've eaten anything."

  Michael's head lifted and swiveled his way. "There's this pizza place that delivers late . . ."

  Richard delved into his wallet and pulled out money. "Get whatever you want, no caffeine in the soda. Don't forget to tip the driver. He'll expect something decent from this neighborhood."

  "Deal!" Michael launched up and rolled over the top of the sofa like a commando, just missing a lamp with one of his feet. He tore off to the kitchen where presumably the pizza number would be magnetically clinging to the refrigerator. Richard's was similarly adorned, for his guests' convenience, when he had any. All the food he kept on hand was for show and usually expired. There was a fifteen-year-old can of peas on one pantry shelf that had to be a biohazard by now. Or a collectable ready for an on-line auction.

  He moved on to the office to fire up the computer and when it asked, entered the password Bourland supplied. It opened to the desktop without hitch, which was well, since he'd washed the letters and numbers off in the shower.

  The DVD player program was on top. He clicked it awake and once more wondered how in hell it had been able to record Michael's vision. Richard had heard of electronic voice phenomenon, where ghostly voices could be recorded on magnetic tape, but this was several light-years beyond that. The mixing of Otherside powers and Realside technology was very unsettling. Especially when they worked.

  However it happened, the images on the disk had not lost their ability to disturb. He played the glimpse into this apparent Otherside hell again and again, freezing it for study, hoping for recognizable clues. He felt out of his depth and missed Sabra desperately.

  There was only one other who could help them, and she was the breadth of a continent away in an isolated corner of Vancouver. Certainly she would have sensed this calamity, and might be able to help, to explain the signs, but how to contact her . . . ?

  "That's the bad stuff, isn't it?" asked Michael, standing in the doorway.

  He was too tired to jump. "Yes. It is."

  "Dad wouldn't let me look, but I've already seen them in my head."

  "You remember them?"

  "Yeah, it's like watching a movie trailer. Real fast, so it blurs, but some pictures stay. Can I look at these?"

  Richard debated inwardly. Bourland's hesitation must have been based on trying to protect Michael, but the boy seemed unafraid. "All right."

  Coming over, Michael studied the screen, frowning. "What do they mean?"

  "I was rather hoping you might have an insight."

  He shrugged. "Aunt Sabra was going to tell us."

  "Wasn't she helping you interpret dreams for yourself?"

  "Yeah, sort of, but this is way farther along than we ever got. The one last night with the pyramid and the snake and the rest . . . but that was a vision, not a dream. It just happened to come when I was sleeping."

  "It frightened you?"

  He moved off to collapse untidily on the tufted leather couch. Didn't boys sit at all? "Yeah. She'd tell me not to be afraid, though, wouldn't she?"

  "I'm sure she would."

  "You're not afraid, are you, Uncle Richard?"

  "Not of a dream, no."

  "But that wasn't a dream. It's something that really happened."

  "I think so, yes. But none of it was your doing."

  Michael's shrugged, quite a feat, given his horizontal position. "I feel like I could have done something to help, but I didn't. All I did was stand there and watch like everyone else. If I'd known more maybe I could have stopped things, but I kinda thought you were supposed to do something."

  "Any idea what that might have been?"

  "No. I wish I did."

  And be careful what you wish for, he automatically thought. "Did you see anything else? I was rather busy looking at the snake."

  "Uh-uh. Just that man and woman fighting and the pyramid and the storm . . ." Michael squirmed around until he sat up. "Aunt Sabra told me that sometimes what I see is like that." He pointed to a small TV stuffed into a bookshelf. "When the news is on and they show a story about something awful, you see it, but there's nothing you can do because it's already happened. It's okay to feel bad, but it's not your fault, and it's not the TV's fault for showing you. It just is. And it's going to go on whether you watch or not. When a tree falls in the woods it does make a noise."

  Richard agreed.

  "Like what happened to me when I was little. Aunt Sabra always says it's not my fault. You all do."

  "We're quite right, too."

  "I know." But Michael sighed. "I know it up here"—he mashed a palm against his forehead— "but sometimes not here." He thumped his chest over his heart. "That's when it hurts here, too. She says everything's connected. Is what happened in Texas connected to what happened in the vision?"

  The only connection Richard knew was Michael himself, but saw no help to the boy in saying it. "I don't know. We'll ask her when she's better." He said this quite on purpose, looking at Michael for a reaction, conscious or not, in case he knew what was to happen. There was none. Sabra was the one with the Sight, for not only seeing the future, but the possibilities of multiple futures. It was just as well Michael did not possess that particular facet of the Gift.

  "Is Aunt Sabra dying?" Michael asked.

  Richard smiled. "Of course not." And he hoped to God and Goddess that was true.

  The doorbell rang. The chimes of Big Ben, of a lesser volume than the original in London, notified the house of a visitor.

  "Pizza!" Michael again launched out. It was as though he had two speeds: complete stop and Mach 1, with nothing in between.

  He trailed Michael to the front entry, hanging back to allow the boy freedom to enjoy firsthand the pleasure of participating in the wonders of commerce. Still, he kept an eye out for trouble. Some force had made a try at killing Sabra, there was no reason to think Michael might be immune. Richard thought it most unlikely, though. No visions since this morning. Though they were powerful, the boy was yet a novice, not worthy of notice yet from anyone or anything bad. Sabra was the more dangerous foe on that Side.

  Michael swept his steaming prize off to the TV room, laying the flat box out on the coffee table and calling for company to come share before he ate it all. The housekeeper, used to the
ritual, disappeared and reappeared with paper plates, a wad of paper napkins, glasses, and a bucket of ice for the soda. She took one slice and announced that if Mr. Dun planned to remain, then she'd prefer to go to her own home if that was all right. Richard said it was perfectly fine, thanked her, and off she went. He was invited to dig into the feast, but begged off, claiming he'd eaten earlier. Which was true.

  The TV still played the apparently prerecorded hockey game; Michael set the sound to low so small voices droned in undercurrent to his meal.

  "Those commentators are so boring," he said. "I mean, we can see what's going on. Do they think we're blind or something?"

  "Sometimes they catch things we miss. The cameras aren't always fast enough to follow the action, but the babble can be annoying."

  "That's the word. I wish they'd just shut up and let us hear the crowd instead. It'd be more like being there."

  The food, such as it was, heavy on pepperoni, peameal bacon, and God knows what else, served to fill up even Michael's usually bottomless stomach. After finishing nearly the whole thing he fell into a doze.

  Richard had stretched out on the other sofa to keep him company and found himself drifting off as well. A stray thought, some idea he was sure he should have come up with before, floated toward him, hanging out of reach. He'd forgotten something. No matter. His mind was good at throwing out the right idea given the chance.

  Damn, but his shoulder ached from that fall. No matter. It would mend in a few hours, good as new . . .

  * * *

  Normandy, the Past

  Richard cracked his heavy eyelids and stifled a grunt of pain. Someone was doing terrible things to his shoulder.

  "I'm sorry, Lord Richard. I did not mean to wake you." The Holy Sister tending him looked stricken.

  "What . . . ?"

  "I was just bathing it clean."

  "Is the tourney over?"

  "Yes, your lordship. Two days now."

  Two? "Impossible, I was there only this morning."