by Ted Dekker
Samuel’s arms jerked and his chest expanded. He was alive.
“I always did like you, Thomas,” a voice whispered. In his head or aloud so they could all hear, he couldn’t tell. “You make my head spin.”
The words of approval echoed through his mind.
“The end is near, much sooner than you’ve guessed. Find your way back. Take the diseased one with you. Use the books that were lost.” The voice paused. “Here is your son.” Samuel’s body was released by the tendrils in the green light and landed on the stone surface with a dull thump. “Let him have his heart.”
And then the green shaft withdrew to the night sky, slowly at first, then faster. It pulled up in a slight arc to the west, then vanished in a blink. After hours of chanting and ringing bells under a rushing wind caused by so much rotting Shataiki flesh, the night was pristine and quiet.
Then Samuel’s bloody body sat upright and sucked in a lungful of air.
A gasp rippled through the Throaters, who remained to guard Qurong and Ba’al, stunned by the sudden reversal of fortunes.
Thomas lifted his arm and lined his finger up with Qurong. “You, father of my bride, tell us all what has happened here!”
QURONG SAT on his steed, unable to respond to the infidel’s command. He was to explain what had just happened? He was supposed to interpret these signs from the heavens and suggest the next course of action? Was he a priest? Had he ever pretended to know the ways of Teeleh or Elyon or these cursed creatures of the night?
No. He was a simple man who knew two things only: One, that the ways of the gods were trickery, always trickery, so that no man could truly know the ways of the gods. And two, that although no man could know the ways of the gods, they all could and did understand another way.
The way of the sword.
Where was his wife when he needed her? She was better versed in these never-ending deceptions, not because she herself employed them, but because he didn’t, preferring a straight up-and-down fight over clever talk and deception. He’d been down that road and was still paying the price.
“My lord, you must—”
“Quiet, priest.” He raised the back of his hand to Ba’al. “You’ve failed.”
“No.” The man trembled. “My master has delivered Thomas to you. I heard his voice. He spoke to my belly. You have to take him.”
“Leave me! And for the love of all gods, put some clothes on.”
“My lord, I cannot express the price we will pay if—”
“Leave!”
Ba’al jettisoned a stream of black spittle, glared at the infidel Thomas, and spun away from the altar. One of the twenty-four priests who hadn’t bled themselves approached him and threw a purple cloak over his skinny body. Ba’al was dismissed.
But what he said wasn’t lost. Qurong had seen enough in the last few minutes alone to know that the powers behind both Ba’al and Thomas were not only real, but life-threatening.
More to the point, the power behind Ba’al was life-threatening. The other, the green magic, however impressive and disturbing, didn’t strike him as . . . fatal.
Qurong walked his horse closer to Thomas and the boy, who’d crawled off the altar, stripped the robes off a dead priest, and was joining the other albinos. To think that Thomas was the husband of the daughter he’d once held precious . . . there was no end to injustice in this cursed world.
He pulled up, ten yards from the man. The mighty Thomas of Hunter, leader of all albinos, poisoned by the red pools, enemy of Teeleh. He didn’t look so threatening without a sword. No battle dress. The tunic he wore was made of tanned leather, perhaps sewn by Chelise’s own hand. His brown hair was tossed by a long ride. What had happened to cause Thomas to issue such a challenge? Was he losing control over the Circle?
His son hadn’t appeared too eager to submit.
“Our agreement was clear,” Thomas said. “And now the outcome is as clear. Your daughter awaits.”
Qurong didn’t turn the tables yet. “You want me to go with you and drown?”
“That was our agreement.”
“So what is that like? Sucking in water and dying?”
“Do I look dead to you? It’s life, not death.”
“Because you don’t drown, and you don’t come back to life. The red poison strips your skin bare and clouds your minds. So you have a few thousand followers who are gullible enough to believe they’ve somehow drowned and been brought back to life. Well, I can imagine offering that kind of immortality would make you a bit of a legend. Religious nonsense.”
“Thomas . . .” It was the albino woman warning him. But Thomas didn’t seem interested.
“You will soon know, won’t you?” Thomas said.
“Yes. Yes, of course, that was the agreement.”
“Do you doubt that Elyon has brought my son back to life here on your altar?”
“Is that what you saw?” Qurong glanced at the carnage. “Clearly there are powers at work here that none of us understand. But I saw more. Much more.”
“You saw the life-giving power of Elyon scatter a hundred thousand Shataiki and embrace my son with new life.”
“I saw the power of Teeleh. And I see that two hundred of his servants have been slain. Now that you’ve killed two hundred priests, if I were to take you into captivity, you would no longer be seen as a martyr.”
“Father . . .” Now it was Samuel who warned.
“Your daughter cries for you every day,” Thomas said quietly, unfazed by Qurong’s direct threat. “I’ve never seen a daughter love a father the way she loves you.”
The words cut like a dagger, and for a moment Qurong lost his bearings. Then rage flooded his heart.
“I have no daughter.”
“Go!”
The woman and the albino next to her had issued the command together, unexpectedly, as if the word were an arranged signal. Thomas whirled and sprinted just behind Samuel and the others, picking their way over dead bones, directly for the horses. The speed with which albinos could move never ceased to amaze him.
“Stop them!”
“You saw the power of the one we serve,” the woman cried, leaping to one of the four albino horses they’d tethered to a stake.
Even Cassak hesitated. The albinos were already leaning over the necks of their mounts, whipping the animals’ rumps, hair flowing behind as they galloped toward the far ring of boulders. It had been years since Qurong had engaged albino warriors in the open, and watching them flee brought the reason into clear focus. They could move at two, maybe three times the speed of his Throaters. His men could match them in strength, but this swift movement was a skill that made him cringe. A beautiful thing.
He thundered at his general. “After them, you fool!”
The man seemed to snap out of a trance. “Close the gap. After them!”
“I want them back, dead or alive,” Qurong shouted. “Either you or Thomas, Cassak! I didn’t come all this way to watch magicians play tricks!”
“Understood, sir.” Then to the warriors behind them: “Markus, Ceril, drop behind and cut off the Mirrado Pass west. Keep to the high ground. If they escape, Ba’al will have your head.”
The albinos reached the boulders a good twenty paces before the closest Throaters did, and they flew past the perimeter at twice the assassins’ speed. They rose to the depression’s lip and vanished into the dark horizon.
Qurong swore and spun his horse back. His personal guard, a dozen strong, waited in a line. Ba’al had already fled the high place, leaving the vultures or the Shataiki, whichever dared return sooner, to feed on the remains of the two hundred bodies. The high priest would rage like a wounded tiger and become more dangerous than he was before.
But it wasn’t fear of Ba’al that pounded through Qurong’s head as he galloped south to Qurongi City. Nor was it the desire to seize Thomas and lock him in a deep hole until he died of starvation. Nor was it the half-breed Eramites who undoubtedly plotted his overthrow even now.
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All of these problems spoke to him, pulling for attention. But none shouted so loudly as the seven words spoken by Thomas before he’d fled.
Your daughter cries for you every day.
14
KARA HUNTER hurried down the hall, hot, not because Bangkok was a humid city regardless of the time of year, but because a bomb had just exploded in her chest.
Blood. More to the point, Thomas’s blood.
Why did life always come down to blood? The blood of a sacrificial lamb to atone for sin. The blood of Christ to drink in remembrance. The blood of the innocent to feed the bloodlust of creatures in the night. The Raison Strain, plundering its host through the bloodstream.
Blood had taken her brother, Thomas, into a reality that changed everything. She knew because she had followed him, using that same blood, and what she found took her breath away.
When it was all over and the world set about the business of picking up the pieces, she and Monique had hidden away one vial of that precious blood. Just one vial, ten ccs to be exact. All for understandable, even noble, reasons. They’d planned on every conceivable threat.
But they’d never factored in a maniacal redhead named Billy who could read minds. Worse, they’d never imagined that Janae, Monique’s own daughter, would willingly throw herself into a pit of vipers with this stranger from Paradise, Colorado.
What could she possibly have been thinking?
Kara flashed her ID badge at the white-suited security guard, who used his own pass card to open the heavy steel door into the secure lab. The hall ended at a second door, also under guard.
“’Morning, Miss Hunter. She wants you to suit up.”
Kara wanted to object. Raison Strain B could only be contracted through direct contact. Instead, she nodded and stepped through the glass side door into a room equipped with white biohazard suits and a chemical-mist shower. She shrugged into the suit and slipped on black gloves, but didn’t bother with the head gear or with sealing the suit. A barrier against accidental contact was wise, but going in like a polar bear didn’t make any sense.
She stepped though a narrow passage and walked through a second glass door that slid open with a loud buzz. Seven lab techs were at work, three at their stations, four standing with folded arms, deep in discussion that hushed as Kara crossed the room.
Monique stood outside the quarantine room, hands on hips, suited like Kara, staring at the gurneys inside through one of the glass panels. Kara saw the reclining forms, dressed in street clothes rather than in typical lab attire. Janae in a short black dress, par for the course. Billy wore what he’d waltzed into their world wearing: jeans and a T-shirt.
The egotistical little snot-nose.
“How long ago?” she demanded, stopping beside Monique.
Other than Thomas, Monique had been more complicit in the creation of the first virus than any other living person. She sighed. “Based on the culture we’re looking at”—she nodded at the clean room opposite this one—“I’d estimate eight hours ago.”
“So we have time.”
“Some. Not much. She shot them each with a full cc.”
“What? Has she lost her marbles?”
Monique just looked at her, deadpan.
“Dumb question, sorry.”
“Is it?” Monique said, looking back at her daughter lying parallel to Billy Rediger. They lay on their backs, hands folded over their chests, which rose and fell together. Lost to this world.
“Thing is, I don’t think Janae has lost her mind,” Monique said. “She knew exactly what she was doing.” She clenched her jaw, closed her eyes, then opened them again, still deadpan. This was Monique expressing contempt for herself. “I can’t believe we allowed this to happen.”
“We didn’t. She did.”
“I should have known the moment that punk entered our compound that he was bad news.”
“You did.”
“I should have known he was the devil himself, able to bring to life the worst in Janae.”
She was referring to the nonsense about Janae having bad blood from her father. Monique had never opened up about her affair with the man who’d fathered Janae and then vanished, but whenever Janae did something irrational or particularly unhanded, Monique blamed it on her father’s side. Bad blood.
“She knew what she was doing all right,” Monique said, jaw bunching again. “At this rate they’ll both be dead within twenty-four hours. Maybe sooner.”
Kara felt like she should object, turn to her friend and express her horror at such a prospect. Demand they use the blood immediately.
Instead, she felt only confusion, so she said nothing.
Monique came to her rescue. “They took a strong sedative to ensure that they would be asleep the moment Thomas’s blood made contact with theirs. She knew that I wouldn’t be able to resist.”
What was Monique saying? That she would use the blood?
“And why should she assume anything different? Have I ever not showed her all of my love? She’s the only one I have now. She means everything to me.”
Tears settled in Monique’s eyes. Kara wanted to put her hand on Monique’s shoulder, but she was still torn by the conflicting emotions that hammered her own mind.
“There’s no guarantee that the blood will work,” Kara said.
“No.”
“What are the risks?”
“The same as they were the last time a gateway was opened to the other world,” Monique said.
Speaking of it so stoically in the face of such a tragedy required a measure of self-possession, Kara thought. The world had barely survived the last such crossing.
“Or worse,” Kara said. “That was Thomas. This is a crazed psychic named Billy.” And Janae, she thought but did not say.
Monique nodded slowly, keeping her eyes on her daughter. “Billy and Janae. They could do a lot of damage in either reality.”
“If they did make it to the other world and back . . . only God knows what magic they could bring back to upset the balance of powers. They could destroy a world.”
“They can’t possibly be trusted.”
“No.”
Simple. But not so simple at all. This was Monique’s daughter on the table, slowly drawing breath.
“She knew exactly what she was doing!” Monique whispered, barely able to control herself. “Maybe we should have discussed it with her. She’s doing this out of bitterness.” She wiped a tear that had spilled over her lower lid.
“You know we couldn’t risk her knowing that we had the blood. She might have tried something like this a long time ago.”
“Not if we didn’t tell her where it was hidden. Indonesia’s a long way from here.”
“Monique.” Kara did put her hand on her friend’s shoulder now. “You can’t blame yourself. Janae is a grown woman who decides for herself. Thousands, millions of lives could be at stake. Sometimes . . . the risk has to be weighed.”
Monique glared at her. “Please, Kara, I don’t need a lecture.”
She felt horrible. What if it were Thomas on that gurney? What would Kara say then? Let him die, let the fool die. But she’d already crossed that road once. They both knew that the moment Janae had injected herself with the virus, she’d signed her own death certificate.
At sixty years of age, Kara could live with that. She’d seen so many come and go in this life. And she’d spent some time in that other world.
“Do you think it would work?” Monique asked, staring at her daughter’s calm form.
“It didn’t work in the test—”
“We didn’t inject his blood into a living body,” Monique interrupted. “We couldn’t risk the possibility of the subject crossing over. I’m talking about crossing over, not killing the virus.”
“Would a person whose blood comes in contact with Thomas’s blood wake up in the other place?”
“Surely you still wonder what it would be like to go again.” Monique spoke as if lost. “What Thomas
is doing. If he’s even alive. The Horde . . . the lakes . . . what’s become of everyone?”
“How old is he? Is he married? Children? Everything was happening very quickly over there,” Kara said. “Maybe it’s all over. I think about it every day.”
Monique nodded and wiped another tear, then turned away. “We’ll never know.”
Which was as good as stating that she wasn’t going to use the blood on Janae. It was the right decision, of course. Janae and Billy were only two lives. Opening a way into the other reality could be disastrous. And they’d done this to themselves. She pitied Billy, felt sick that Janae, who in so many ways reminded Kara of herself thirty years earlier, had taken her life like this. She’d liked the girl very much. Such a spirited woman, so beautiful, so intelligent. Such a waste.
However difficult, this was the best way.
“Do you think letting them die is murder?” Monique asked.
15
THE HORSES clawed up the incline at dawn, struggling for breath after the brutal ride through hidden canyonland that rose to the Ba’al Bek plateau. Marie had let Chelise lead but pulled alongside as they approached the huge rim.
Chelise was out of breath, not from riding, but from her own state of unrelenting anxiety. They were too late. Every fiber in her being warned that they’d come too late.
They’d plunged into a deep canyon an hour earlier and lost sight of the Shataiki mass that winged over the plateau like a cloud of giant locusts. When they emerged, the sky was empty of all but stars.
Which could only mean that the reason for their coming was also gone.
But that didn’t mean Thomas was gone. He might still be there, clinging to life, waiting for her to rescue him from certain death, the way he’d rescued her once. Or maybe the challenge hadn’t started yet. The Shataiki could have been drawn by Thomas’s presence on their sacred ground. He could be seated with the others around a campfire, biding his time while Qurong considered his challenge. A dozen scenarios could explain what they’d seen on their approach.
“Careful, Chelise,” Marie breathed. “They might see us if we stumble over the top.”
