Nightworld ac-6

by F. Paul Wilson

  Nick stepped over to the picture window and pointed at the Park, at the hole down there. Alan had wanted to take a look through that window to see the hole from above but it had seemed like such a hassle to wheel his chair around all the furniture.

  "He's down there," Nick said. "Way down there. I saw him. He opened his heart to me. I…I…" His mouth worked but he seemed incapable of describing what he had seen.

  "Why?" Veilleur said. "Why is he down there?"

  "He's changing."

  For the first time, Mr. Veilleur appeared disturbed, and something deep inside Alan quailed at the thought of that man being afraid.

  "He's started the Change already?"

  "Yes!" Nick's eyes were wilder than ever. "And when the Change is complete, he's going to come for you!"

  "I know," Veilleur said in a low voice. "I know."

  The light suddenly died in Nick eyes. His gaze drifted and his shoulders slumped.

  Father Ryan gripped his shoulder. "Nick? Nick?"

  But Nick didn't answer.

  "What's wrong with him?" Alan said.

  He hadn't practiced medicine in over a year but he could almost hear the associations clicking into place. The man had lapsed into an almost catatonic state. Alan wondered if his behavior had anything to do with the cranial deformities he'd noticed as he'd watched the man. But that was unlikely. And they certainly wouldn't have sent a schizophrenic down into that hole.

  "He's been like this since last night—since he came out of the hole."

  "Has he been examined by a doctor?"

  The priest nodded. "Scads of them. They're not sure what to do for him."

  "Why isn't he in a hospital? He should be closely monitored until they work out an appropriate course of therapy."

  Father Ryan looked at him a moment and Alan was jolted by the depth of the pain in his eyes. Then the priest looked away.

  "Sorry, Dr. Bulmer, but it's…it's been my experience that modem medicine isn't really equipped to deal with Nick's sort of problem."

  He took Nick's arm and the younger man docilely followed him into the kitchen, leaving Alan to wonder at what sort of hell that priest had been through.

  "Well," Mr. Veilleur said, facing Sylvia and Alan. Jeffy still hung on his leg. "I'm expecting two more people any minute now; then our company will be complete." He pried the boy loose from his leg. "There now, Jeffy. Be a good boy and sit with your mother."

  Reluctantly, Jeffy complied, seating himself next to Sylvia, but barely glancing at her. His eyes remained fixed on Glaeken.

  "I'm glad you decided to come," Glaeken told Sylvia.

  "You didn't leave us much choice," she said. "Not after what happened last night." Her voice slowed. "Strange…you show up at our house Thursday, I kick you out, and on Friday all hell breaks loose."

  "No connection, I assure you, Mrs. Nash. I'm not responsible for any of this."

  "So you say. But the area around your apartment building this morning looks like a slaughterhouse. And out on Long Island, way out in Nassau County, in the Village of Monroe, the same little monstrosities that did all the damage around here swarmed in and attacked one house. Ours. Why is that, Mr. Veilleur?"

  "Call me Glaeken," the old man said. "And I believe you know the answer to your own question."

  Alan caught the slightest tremor along Sylvia's lips; he noticed her eyes were suddenly moist. He ached for her. What she must be feeling to let even this much show. In all the years he'd known her, Sylvia had never once let her feelings show in public. Around the house she'd let her hair down with the best of them, but in public she was pretty much like Ba.

  "Why would anyone want to hurt him?" she said in a small voice.

  Alan noted how she avoided saying Jeffy's name.

  The man who wanted to be called Glaeken smiled sadly and ruffled the boy's hair.

  "He's not the target. It's what resides within him."

  Sylvia leaned back and closed her eyes. Her voice was a whisper.

  "The Dat-tay-vao"

  Alan sagged with relief in his chair. Finally, after all these months, she'd admitted it. Now maybe they could get on with the problem of dealing with it.

  "Yes," Glaeken said. "There's an instinctive enmity between the things from the hole and something like the Dat-tay-vao. That's why I'd like you to move in here with me."

  Sylvia looked at him as if he'd just propositioned her. Before she could answer, the doorbell rang.

  "Will you get that, Bill?" Glaeken called toward the kitchen. "I believe it's Mrs. Treece."

  Father Ryan came out of the kitchen and headed for the door, tossing Glaeken a baffled look along the way.

  A middle-aged couple entered, a trim, anxious-looking man, pale, with thinning light brown hair, and a slender, attractive ash blonde who had an immediate, bright smile for Father Ryan. The woman and the priest seemed to be old friends. Alan sensed that they might be more than just old friends.

  Father Ryan introduced them around as Henry—"Hank"—and Carol Treece, then they seated themselves on the other section of the angled sofa. The priest stood behind them, but kept an eye on the entrance to the kitchen.

  "Very good," Glaeken said. "Everyone is here. But before you can fully grasp why you are here, I must give you some background. It's a long story. Eons long. It begins—"

  Suddenly there was screaming outside the window. Glaeken turned and Alan looked with the rest of them.

  A woman was there—portly, middle-aged, dressed in a white blouse and a polyester pants suit—rising through the air a dozen feet beyond the window, twisting, turning, kicking, writhing, futilely reaching for something, anything that would halt her helpless ascent. Her face was a study in panic. Her terrified screams penetrated the double-paned windows.

  We're twelve stories up! Alan thought as everyone but he, Ba, and Nick ran to the windows.

  As quickly as she had appeared, she was gone, rising above the level of the windows and tumbling out of sight like a lost balloon.

  Sylvia's face was white, her lips tight; Mrs. Treece's hands were pressed over her mouth. Her husband turned to Glaeken with an uncertain smile.

  "It's a gag, right?"

  The old man shook his head. "I'm afraid not. That woman is a victim of another kind of hole that will begin appearing at random intervals and locations—a gravity hole."

  "Can't we do anything for her?" the priest said.

  "No. She's beyond our reach. Perhaps a helicopter…" He sighed. "But please, all of you, sit down and let me finish. Perhaps it's a good thing this happened now. It's no accident that it occurred outside my windows. But even so, what I'm about to tell you will strain your credulity. I had little hope of any of you believing me before now. I hope, however, that the events of the past two days—the bottomless hole in Central Park, the depredations last night of the first wave of creatures from the hole, this unfortunate woman outside—have put you all in a more receptive frame of mind. It is important that you believe me, because our survival, the survival of most of the human race, will depend on the course of action we take from this day forward. And for you to act intelligently and get the job done, you must know what you are up against."

  Alan glanced around the room. At the rear, Ba and Jack were listening intently. Nearby on his right, Sylvia wore her Go-ahead-and-this-had-better-be-good expression. Father Ryan hovered behind the sofa with a faraway look in his eyes; Alan got the impression that he'd already heard what Glaeken had to say. On the far side of the sofa, Carol's expression mirrored the priest's, while Hank's was frankly dubious.

  Then Glaeken began to speak. He told of two warring forces existing beyond the veil of our reality—ageless, deathless, implacable, nebulous, huge beyond comprehension. One inimical to humanity, feeding on fear and depravity; the other an ally—not a friend, not a protector or guardian, an ally simply by circumstance, simply because it opposed the other force. He told of the endless war between these two forces, raging across the galaxies, across the d
imensions, across all time itself; of the human named Rasalom who in ancient times aligned himself with the malign force, and of the other man, equally ancient, who'd had thrust upon him the burden of bearing the standard of the opposing force. And now the ages-long battle was coming to a close with only one army on the field. The outcome depended on this small group of people collected in this room. Unless they acted to muster an opposing force, all was lost.

  "This is it?" the man named Jack said from where he stood by Ba. "This is it!" He shook his head as his eyes roamed the room. "I sure hope you're crazy. Because if you're not, we're in big trouble."

  Emotionally, Alan believed Glaeken. Deep within he felt the truth of what Glaeken was saying. Perhaps that too was the result of his entanglement with the Dat-tay-vao. But intellectually he rebelled.

  "Why are we so important to these…forces?" he blurted.

  "So far as I know, we're not," Glaeken said. "It's almost impossible to divine the motives of such entities, but long experience has led me to conclude that we have not the slightest strategic value to either side."

  "Then why—?"

  "I think we amuse the side I've come to call, for obvious reasons, the Enemy. It is inimical to everything that gives our lives meaning, that makes life worth living. It thrives on what's worst in us, feeds on the misery and pain we cause each other. Perhaps it gathers enormous strength from our negative emotions. Or maybe we're only a potential snack."

  Alan heard Jack mutter at the rear of the room.

  "Swell! We're a cosmic McDonald's!"

  "Whatever its reasons, it wants to be here."

  "And this other power," Sylvia said, leaning forward. "It wants to protect us?"

  "I doubt it. I very much doubt that the ally power cares a whit for our welfare. It has intervened only because the Enemy is interested in us or has some use for us."

  "Where was it last night?" Alan said.

  "It's gone," Glaeken said.

  "Dead?"

  "No. Just…gone. Off to other battlefields, I imagine. My guess is that back in 1941 it thought it had won the little skirmish that our backwater world represented and so it turned its attention elsewhere."

  "That's it?" Alan said. "This ally or whatever battles for eons, thinks it's won, then goes 'elsewhere'? Didn't it want to hang around and show off the prize, or maybe just gloat a little?"

  Glaeken fixed him with his blue eyes and Alan felt the power behind them. He spoke softly.

  "In chess, do you really want the other player's pieces for their intrinsic value? Do you have any plans for those pieces? After you've taken an opponent's pawn in a chess game, do you give it another thought?"

  The room was dead quiet for a long, breathless moment.

  From the back of the room, Jack said, "What you're telling us, I take it, is that in the old days we had some heavy back-up, but now we're on our own."

  "Precisely. He glanced at Mrs. Treece. "Back in 1968 the ally made a subtle attempt to foil what it probably considered a half-hearted feint by the Enemy, then it deserted this sphere for good. We now know that Rasalom's transmigration was not a feint, but the ally power does not."

  "So this is the Little Big Horn and we're not the Indians."

  "You could put it that way. But we might have a chance of calling in the cavalry, so to speak."

  "The necklaces," Jack said.

  Glaeken nodded. "The necklaces, the right smithies, and…" He gestured toward Jeffy. "This little boy."

  "Would you mind being just a little more specific?" Sylvia said. She was speaking through her teeth. "Just what the hell are you talking about?"

  Glaeken was unfazed by Sylvia's outburst. He smiled her way.

  "To put it in a nutshell, Mrs. Nash: We need to let the ally force know that the battle isn't over yet, that the Enemy is still active here and about to take complete control of this sphere. We need to send the ally force a signal."

  "And just how do we do that?" Sylvia said.

  "We need to reconstruct an ancient artifact."

  "A weapon?"

  "In a way, but what I'm talking about is not so much a weapon as an antenna, a focal point."

  "Where is it?" Jack asked.

  "It was deactivated more than a half century ago when it supposedly destroyed the Enemy's agent in a Rumanian mountain pass outside a place called the keep."

  Alan's mind continued to rebel against Glaeken's words, more intensely now than ever, but his heart, his emotions insisted that he believe.

  "All right," Alan said. "Suppose we accept all this at face value." That earned him a sharp look from Sylvia. "How do we go about reactivating the focus deactivated in Rumania?"

  "We don't," Glaeken said. "All the essences that made it a focus were drained off by the act of destroying Rasalom—or what appeared to be Rasalom's destruction. Only through a set of unfortunate circumstances—unfortunate for the rest of us—did he manage to survive. And the remnant of that instrument was reduced to dust when Rasalom started on the path toward rebirth back in 1968."

  "If it's gone and we can't get it back," Jack said, annoyance creeping into his voice, "why are we jawing about it?"

  "Because there were two. The other was stolen in ancient times and dismantled—melted down into other things."

  "Oh, jeez." It was Jack again. "The necklaces."

  Glaeken smiled. "Correct."

  "What are you two talking about?" Sylvia said. Alan sensed her anger edging closer to the surface.

  "The other instrument—the other focus—was stolen and melted down. The melting process dislodged a powerful elemental force within the focus, releasing it to wander free. But a residue of that force remained in the molten metal. The metal was fashioned into a pair of necklaces which have been used for ages by the high priests and priestesses of an ancient cult to keep them well and to prolong their lives."

  "And the elemental force?" Sylvia said, leaning forward, her face pale, her expression tight, tense.

  The answer flashed into Alan's mind. He suspected Sylvia had guessed it as well.

  "It wandered the globe for ages," Glaeken said. "It's been called many things in its time, but eventually it became known as the Dat-tay-vao"

  Alan thought he heard a faint groan escape Sylvia as she closed her eyes and slipped an arm around Jeffy.

  Just then a voice broke through from somewhere in the apartment.

  "Glen? Glen!" It rose in pitch, edging toward panic. "Glen, I'm all alone in here! Where are you?"

  As Glaeken glanced toward the rear rooms, Alan saw genuine concern and dismay mix in his eyes. It was the first time he had shown a hint of uncertainty. He took a hesitant step in the direction of the cries.

  "Let me go," Father Ryan said, moving from his spot behind the sofa and slipping behind Glaeken. "She knows me by now. Maybe I can reassure her."

  "Thank you, Bill," Glaeken said, then turned to his audience. "My wife is ill."

  "Anything I can do?" Alan said.

  "I'm afraid not, Dr. Bulmer, but I thank you for offering." Alan saw no hope in the man's eyes as he spoke. "She has Alzheimer's disease."

  Alan could only say, "I'm sorry."

  But Sylvia shot to her feet. "Now I get it!"

  "Get what, Mrs. Nash?" Glaeken said. He appeared genuinely confused.

  Sylvia was leaning forward, jabbing her finger toward him over the coffee table. Her core of anger was fully uncoiled, its fangs were bared, and it was lashing out.

  "I should have known! Do you think I'm an idiot? You want Jeffy here so you can use him—or rather use the power you think is in him—to cure your wife!"

  "Not at all, Mrs. Nash," he said softly with a slow, sad shake of his head. "The Dat-tay-vao will not work against a degenerative process like Alzheimer's. It can cure disease, but it can't turn back the clock."

  "So you say."

  Then Jeffy tugged at Sylvia's sleeve. "Don't yell at him, Mom. He's my friend."

  That did it. Alan saw Sylvia wince as if she'd been
jabbed by a needle.

  "We're leaving," she said, taking Jeffy by the hand and guiding him away from the sofa.

  "But Mrs. Nash," Glaeken said. "We need Jeffy to reactivate the focus. We need to reunite the Dat-tay-vao and the metal from the instrument."

  "But you don't have the metal, do you."

  "Not yet, but—"

  "Then I see no point in discussing this further. When you've located this magic metal, call me. You have my number. Then we'll talk. Not before."

  "But where are you going?"

  "Back home. Where else?"

  "No, you mustn't. It's too dangerous. It's better that you stay here. You'll be safe here."

  "Here?" she said, stopping at the door. "This place is practically on top of that hole out there—all but falling into it. I'll take my chances in Monroe."

  "This place is protected, in a way. It will be preserved until the end. You and Jeffy and your friends can share that protection."

  "Why? What's so special about this place?"

  "I'm here. I'm to be saved until the last."

  …and then he plans to make you suffer the tortures of the damned!

  Alan remembered Nick's words and wondered why the old man didn't look more frightened.

  "Toad Hall will be protected too. Alan and I have already seen to that."

  Alan turned his chair and wheeled it toward Sylvia and Jeffy. He'd got on the phone first thing this morning and called around until he found a contractor who could start installing steel storm shutters immediately. He'd offered a substantial bonus if the job was completed by sundown. Now he wondered if shutters would be enough.

  Why not stay here? It might be a good move. Crowded, yes, but Alan felt at home with this group, had a feeling that there was safety here among this disparate, unlikely crew. Something going on here. A subtle chemistry, a subliminal bond.

  But Sylvia seemed oblivious to all that. She got this way when her anger-core broke free and took the helm. She dug in her heels and refused to budge. Alan knew he couldn't talk to her when she got like this. Nobody could. He'd learned to recognize the signs and—when the storm came—to sit back and let it have its way with her. When the clouds and winds had blown past and she was cooler, calmer, she'd be a different Sylvia, and be able to discuss it. Later he might be able to change her mind. Sylvia's anger could be inconvenient, frustrating, even infuriating at times, but the anger was part of what made Sylvia who she was. And Alan loved who Sylvia was.