Black Knight

by Christopher Pike

  “He’ll be in tomorrow evening. If you give me your card, I can have him give you a call.”

  “That’s all right, you know us conniving reporters. I’d rather catch him at work when he’s not looking. In fact, please do me a favor and don’t tell him I’m going to stop by. I want to observe him in action before I slide over and interrogate him.”

  Mr. Green is amused. “I’m afraid I can’t promise that. All valets live by a secret code. We always cover each other’s back. But I’ll encourage him to do the interview. Marc’s easy to talk to, especially if you’re a pretty girl.”

  “Thank you for your time,” I say, backing up. “And good luck with the baby.”

  The man blinks in surprise and I quickly realize my slip.

  “How’d you know my wife’s going to have a baby?”

  I force a chuckle. “I told you, I work for the Times. We have a policy of never going to an interview unprepared. Thanks again for being so helpful.”

  I get out of there in a hurry.

  Having lived and breathed so many nights in a row inside Marc Simona’s mind and body, I know exactly where he lives—just two blocks shy of the alley where he stopped to take a piss as the sun came up. The same spot where the bright light snatched him from the face of the earth. I drive to the alley hoping to find clues of how it was done. But studying the area, I only manage to find the spot where Marc took a piss. Only two blocks to go and he couldn’t hold it. Just like a guy, I think.

  I didn’t start the day thinking that I’d try to meet Marc’s witch-world counterpart. For one thing, until I spoke to Mr. Green, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure which version of Marc I’d been observing in my dreams. But now that I know it was the real-world Marc, the temptation to speak to his witch-world counterpart is powerful. Of course, via Mr. Green, I’ve already set up a tentative meeting for tomorrow night. But with so much happening, that feels like a long ways off.

  I drive to 14742 Twenty-second Street, near La Brea, and park fifty yards down the block from his studio apartment. He lives in unit twenty-seven—I can see his front door from where I’m sitting. The building is badly run-down and I know Marc chose it because of the cheap rent, and the fact that it’s close enough to the theater that he’s able to walk or jog to work. Marc’s never played formal sports but I know he’s in excellent shape. It’s kind of spooky knowing so much about him.

  Yet at the same time I know nothing. What’s our connection? Why did I dream about him? Why was he chosen to be kidnapped with me? It’s like someone’s moving us around like pieces on a chessboard. Cleo told me how ancient the Alchemist is but could he really be behind all that’s happening? I wonder. . . .

  Climbing out of my car before I lose my nerve, I stride toward Marc’s door, taking a flight of stairs to the second floor. The wood on the door is chipped and could use a fresh coat of paint. To the left of it is a sliding-glass window, and through a crack in the curtains I’m able to see Marc reclining on the couch with a can of beer in his hand, watching TV.

  I’m surprised to see he’s watching Casablanca. The movie’s almost over and Humphrey Bogart is telling the love of his life, the incredibly gorgeous and extraordinarily talented Ingrid Bergman, to get on the plane and leave him for another man. It’s like Marc has seen the movie dozens of times. He mouths aloud Rick’s famous last words to Ilsa, “Here’s looking at you, kid.” Marc busts up at the scene but wipes at his eyes as well, before taking a gulp of his beer.

  Is he crying? I always cry when I watch that scene. It looks like we have more than one thing in common. Casablanca is my favorite movie as well.

  I can’t knock. I don’t know what to say, how to explain that we’re trapped together in a metal cage in an alternate world. Even if we hadn’t been kidnapped, there’s not much chance he’d believe I’m a witch. Not unless I lifted him to the ceiling with one hand. I’ve already been through that with Jimmy, though, and dislike demonstrating my powers.

  Yet it’s good to see him in his natural environment. I have to admit he’s awfully cute. If it weren’t for Jimmy . . . well, there’s no point in thinking about that. Jimmy gave up his normal life to save me and we have a kid and I love him and . . . it’s enough. I don’t need another lover.

  I suspect there’s a good chance Marc’s gloating over the emeralds he stole the night before. Although I hate whenever I get ripped off, even when it’s something small, I have to admit it was kind of cool how he jumped in Silvia’s Jaguar and used her own car to escape. It took a lot of guts.

  Unknown to Chad and the others, Marc might be the real survivor in the group. I’m stronger but Marc’s got instincts. He knows how to get out of a tight spot. Under normal circumstances he’d make for a dangerous adversary.

  “See you tomorrow,” I say softly, thinking I’m not being entirely accurate. It’s Sunday in witch world and when I wake up tomorrow morning it will be Sunday in the real world. So, in a sense, I’ll be seeing him today.

  Walking back to my car, I wonder if we’ll still be locked in that strange compartment.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I AWAKEN TO FIND THE sun in my eyes. The glare is blinding—I have to raise a hand and squint through my fingers to see where the light is coming from. A section of our cell wall has been pulled aside as if it were a sliding doorway, and through the yellow glare I catch a glimpse of acres of green and hear the sound of a trickling stream.

  “What the hell?” I mutter, glancing at my partners. Although I was the last one to awaken before, I’m the first one this time around. Marc stirs in his seat at my remark but doesn’t open his eyes. The others are out cold. Chad, Shira, and Li all sit with their chins resting on their chests, while Ora lies with his huge head hanging back over the top of his seat, snoring loudly. The guy is so big he can hardly fit in the chair.

  I stand and stretch, feeling a momentary wave of dizziness. Since I never feel dizzy when I wake up, and since the rest of the gang has yet to open their eyes, I suspect someone pumped an odorless gas into our cell before we landed. For sure, I have no recollection of us touching down.

  I step to Marc and gently shake him, whispering, “Marc, wake up.”

  He opens his eyes and frowns when he sees it’s me. “I was just dreaming about you,” he mumbles.

  “What was the dream about?”

  “None of your business.” He notices the missing section of the wall and the bright sunlight. “Shit. Did we crash-land?”

  “I’m pretty sure our landing spot was chosen very carefully. Get up, I want to look around. And don’t wake the others.”

  Marc stands uneasily; I have to help steady him on his feet.

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “Because I don’t trust them.”

  “But you trust me?”

  “Don’t fool yourself. Come, let’s take a look outside.”

  Outside is unmistakably a jungle. The green foliage is extraordinarily dense; it rises sharply a half mile to our right and a mile on our left. Which means we’re somewhere in the middle of a valley. The stream I heard from inside the cell is to our left—running east, in the direction of the rising sun—and it has enough kick in it to be labeled a river. Although it’s clearly early in the day, the air is warm and humid.

  “What the fuck?” Marc gasps as he takes in the scenery. “Where are we?”

  “Somewhere we’ve never been before. Close your eyes and listen. What do you hear?”

  He indulges me and shuts his eyes. “Running water. What am I supposed to hear?”

  “Keep your eyes shut. Listen. What else do you hear?”

  He shrugs. “Nothing. Can I open my eyes now?”

  “Yes.” I take a step away from him, scanning the surrounding hills and the sky. Although the sun is bright, we’re seeing it through a thin haze—a mist perhaps that rises from the damp foliage.

  Marc comes up at
my side. “What’s wrong?”

  “We hear the river but that’s all we hear. This is a jungle. It should be swarming with insects and birds. But there’s nothing. If it wasn’t for the running water, this place would be as silent as a tomb.”

  “That’s silly. There’s got to be insects. There’s no place on earth that doesn’t have insects. Maybe this area’s just been sprayed with a powerful insecticide.”

  “And the birds?”

  “You don’t always hear birds,” Marc says.

  “Really? How many jungles have you been in?”

  “As many as you. None. Look, we just got here. Don’t start jumping to conclusions.”

  “I’m puzzled is all.” I point in the direction of the river, to a man-size stone standing at the edge of the water. “That rock. See it? There’s something pinned to it.”

  Marc is wary. “It doesn’t look like something that grew here.”

  I pat him on the arm. “Stay here, I’ll check it out.”

  Marc brushes away my hand. “Like you’re in charge.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I was just trying to say . . .” I don’t finish for obvious reasons. I was about to say it’s better if I check out anything weird because I’m a witch and am better able to protect myself. Like that would put him at ease.

  Together, Marc and I walk to the river. It’s only two hundred feet away and we struggle to get there. I’ve never hiked in a place before that didn’t have even a semblance of a path. We have to skirt a few trees but worse is the thick grass and shrubs. Every square inch of ground is covered with life. We hike less than the length of a football field and yet Marc’s sweating by the time we reach the rock. I think it annoys him I’m hardly breathing.

  Fastened to the gray stone is a wooden plaque etched with six lines. Despite the fact they’re written in an elaborate flowing script, the words are in English and are easy to read.

  It takes me a moment to realize I’ve seen the script before—when I was with Kendor in the desert outside Las Vegas. He took me to a delicious pool of water hidden within an outcrop of rocks he said used to belong to a tribe of Paleo-Indians. At one end of the pond was a stone wall covered with petroglyphs, and littered with words written in this style, only in an unknown language Kendor had to translate for me.

  At the time Kendor had implied the Alchemist had been involved with the creation of the Paleo’s petroglyphs, although he hadn’t elaborated on the point. Yet standing before the wooden plaque with Marc by my side, I’m more and more convinced the Alchemist must be behind our abduction.

  The message on the plaque reads as follows:

  To protect the righteous and slay the wicked

  Six of six are called to the Field

  To live

  To fight

  To die

  One will survive

  “What the fuck?” Marc says.

  “You’ve got to stop saying that. I have a feeling this place is going to be full of surprises.”

  “To hell with that. Do you know what this message is saying?”

  “Yep. We’ve been put here to fight to the death.”

  “Fuck that shit!”

  “I told you . . .”

  “Shut up, Jessie!” Marc steps back, shaking his head. “This is too much. Who would set something like this up?”

  “Somebody who wants to see who’s the strongest.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you saying this honestly means something to you? I mean—what is it with you, Jessie—you’re not acting at all surprised.”

  “I’m as surprised as you are.”

  “Bullshit! I may not have Chad’s IQ but I know people. And from the second you woke up in that tin can, you haven’t so much as blinked. I’ve been in some pretty hairy situations in my life and like to think I’ve got balls. But right now, standing next to you, I’m the equivalent of a whimpering schoolgirl. While you . . .” He doesn’t finish.

  “Go on,” I prod.

  “You know what’s going on here. Don’t deny it.”

  “I don’t, honestly. I don’t know where we are or who put us here.”

  He stares at my face. “But you’re not surprised we’re here. Admit it.”

  I shake my head but don’t speak. When it comes to my lying, Marc’s almost as good—or bad, depending on your point of view—as Jimmy at picking up when I’m being evasive. Somehow he can see right through me. He puts his hands on my shoulders as I glance at the ground.

  “Tell me what you know,” Marc presses.

  I raise my head. “We’re in a place called the Field. We’re here with five other groups containing six people each. The six of us here—Shira, Chad, Li, Ora, you, and me—have been selected to work together to defeat the other groups.”

  Marc takes back his hands. “Why do you assume we’re supposed to work together? So far Shira acts like she’d love nothing more than to stab me in the back.”

  I hold up the bright green bracelet on my wrist. It appears to be made of plastic but it’s not. Because I can’t break it off and I have the strength of twenty men when I draw on the power of my witch gene.

  “This bracelet is bright green because it’s designed to identify us,” I say. “I doubt it has any other purpose. Our uniform is green for probably the same reason—although if that’s the case we’re lucky because it blends in with the surroundings.”

  “Are you saying we’re the green team and the other groups we run into will be wearing red, brown, yellow, blue, or purple?”

  “Yes. I mean, it’s possible they’ll have on green uniforms as well but I’m confident they’ll have different-colored bracelets.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Marc asks.

  “Because it’s logical,” Chad says, causing both of us to jump. People are not normally able to sneak up on me, which makes me wonder again if Chad and his buddies might not be latent witches, just unaware of who they are.

  “How long have you been standing there?” Marc demands.

  “Long enough to follow your argument,” Chad says, stepping closer to the plaque and briefly taking off his glasses to clean them on the hem of his green shirt. Already, I’ve decided the long sleeves will have to go—it’s just too hot and humid. I keep eyeing the river, wishing I could strip down and take a dip.

  If I do go for a swim, though, it will be quick. My antenna is on high alert. We’re in an unknown environment surrounded by hostiles. The plaque made that clear. It wasn’t by chance that it was placed in the one spot we’d head to before going anywhere else—at the edge of the river. The person or people who organized this contest wanted us to know the rules of the game right from the start.

  Chad studies the plaque for a full minute before speaking. “Whoever etched this had a steady hand,” he says finally.

  “Who gives a damn about his hands?” Marc snaps. “It’s the message I’m worried about.”

  Chad wipes at the sweat on his forehead and gives Marc a weak smile. “If it’s any consolation I’m as freaked out as you are.”

  I groan. “Would you two quit acting like I’m not scared. I’m supposed to start college in a couple of months. Instead I’m stuck here in a wild jungle like some idiotic character in Battle Royale.”

  “Is that a book?” Chad asks.

  Marc speaks. “Yeah. I read it, I liked it. It’s one of those gladiator-inspired novels where everyone kills everyone else.”

  “Glad you enjoyed it,” Chad says before turning back to the plaque. “This last line, ‘One will survive’—it can be taken two ways. It can mean that only one of us will survive or it could mean—hopefully—that one of the six of six will survive.”

  “Meaning a whole group,” I say.

  “Exactly,” Chad says.

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Marc mutters.


  I punch him in the arm. “Hey, what’s with all the gloom and doom? You were the life of the party on the way here.”

  “That was before I knew I’d been chosen to amuse a group of rich assholes,” Marc says.

  “Is that our latest theory on who brought us here?” Chad asks.

  Marc shrugs. “Unless Jessie’s got a better one, which wouldn’t surprise me. But consider the opening line here. It says, ‘To protect the righteous and slay the wicked.’ A line like that could only have been written by two types of people: a religious freak or a sadist. Personally, I think this is some kind of elaborate sadistic ritual designed to amuse a small group of sick minds.”

  “It’s an interesting idea,” Chad says. “But if we’re here for entertainment, the trees should be loaded with video cameras and omnidirectional microphones, monitoring our every move.”

  “Who says they aren’t?” Marc says.

  I scan the trees. “I don’t see any cameras.”

  “Give it time,” Marc says.

  Chad speaks up. “Hey! What if we’re on the Internet and don’t know it? Think about it. A fight to the death would easily draw a hundred million hits on YouTube.”

  “The whole world would watch,” Marc agrees. “Shit, I’d watch if I weren’t here.”

  “I for one would stop watching if the hero kept swearing every other time he spoke,” I say.

  “Since when did you become such a prude?” Marc asks.

  “I’m not a prude,” I say.

  “Since when is he the hero?” Chad asks, insulted.

  I have to laugh. “We’re off to a great start. If we’re being watched, no one’s going to bet on our group winning. We may as well lie down here and surrender.”

  No one responds for a moment but I notice the guys have slowly turned back to the plaque. My remark was supposed to be a joke to lighten the mood but it seems to have had the opposite effect. Probably because Marc’s right—I’m the only one who has a clue what’s really going on.

  Marc and Chad are both brave young men. But that’s the problem—they’re men, they’re human. In a crisis they can’t call upon genetically enhanced powers to protect themselves. I’m scared too but I know what I’m capable of. There might be other witches in the Field—there probably are—but I know I’m not going to be defeated easily.