Holmes and Piper looked at each other.
Piper shrugged, “What do we have to lose?”
“I agree…” Holmes said, turning back to Rand, “but you’ll need to walk us through this step by step.”
“Don’t worry,” Rand responded with a reassuring smile. “We won’t take your training wheels off too soon. Right now, all we ask is that you assemble the group. We’ll do the rest.”
“How do we begin?” Holmes asked.
“Here is a list of those you need to contact.” She handed him a folded piece of paper. “We’ve already contacted these individually, and they’re expecting your call. It’s imperative that you gather the group quickly.”
Holmes accepted the paper and glanced at it. It was a list of four names along with phone numbers. He skimmed the list and noted that all of the numbers had Dallas area codes.
As he read the last name he hesitated a moment and smiled.
“Do you see someone you know?” Rand asked.
“Not exactly,” Holmes said. “Though I’ve met her a few times. But everyone in Dallas knows the name Erin Vanderberg. Seems like Erin gets involved in everything sooner or later.”
“Erin’s a special woman,” Araton said. “And she’s crucial to the future of your world, though she doesn’t yet understand her true value. You must keep an eye on her, though. The Archons have targeted her for destruction, and won’t give up easily.”
Rand continued, “In addition to these four, there are two other humans vital to our success. You need to be on the lookout for both of them.”
“The first is named Patrick O’Neill. He’s in Scotland now but should return to Dallas within the week. He’ll bring a friend with him who is also part of our plan. We’ll direct them both to you.
“The other human essential to our success is a woman named Lysandra Johnston. There hasn’t been a human born with her level of ability in over a millennium, though she has no inkling of her potential. She’ll also be coming to Dallas in the near future. We believe we can influence her to contact one of you as a patient. She’s vital to our plan, and the enemy knows it.”
“They’ve tried to kill Lysandra twice.” Araton interjected. “They’ve also released the shades against her.”
“What are shades?” Piper asked.
Rand took a long sip of her coffee, then explained. “On the edge of your dimension is a region we call the shadow realm. It’s part of your world, but invisible to you, shifted slightly out of the plane you can access.
“There are creatures in the shadow realm. We call them shades. They’re an artificial life form created by the Archons during the Great Wars. They’re normally invisible to you, although you sometimes perceive them as a faint cloud of darkness. Shades are mental and emotional parasites. They attach themselves to susceptible humans, distorting their emotions and feeding on their pain. They often drive their hosts to destruction.
“As psychologists, you’ve dealt with shades many times without knowing it,” Araton added. “When a shade tries to attach to a human, the human feels something ‘come over’ him. It feels like an inexplicable, yet powerful, wave of emotion.
“A person may suddenly be overwhelmed with anxiety, without being aware of anything to be anxious about. Shades come in many forms. Some produce anxiety, some unreasoning fear, some depression, some lust, and some rage.”
“Most humans are able to simply shrug them off,” Rand said. “But if you’re susceptible—and Lys is at this point—they can attach themselves. It can be overpowering.
“The Archons are using the shades to try to drive Lys to suicide. If they succeed, I see little hope for your world.”
Araton drained the last of his coffee and put the empty cup on the coffee table. “I hate to cut this short,” he said. “But our time is limited. This is Saturday. Holmes, can you call the first synaxis for next Wednesday night?”
“I don’t see why not, if the others are able to come.”
“Good.” Rand cut in, “Then Eliel will meet you at your home at 7:14 Wednesday night.”
The Irin stood to their feet and thanked their hosts. To Piper’s amazement, the three turned and walked right through the plate glass windows of the great room, onto the deck. Without a word, they unfurled large, white feathered wings, seemingly from nowhere, mounted the deck rail in a single step, then stepped off and flew.
Watching the three rise effortlessly into the air, it struck Piper that, while the Irin used their wings to fly, they didn’t operate on aerodynamic principles. They didn’t flap their wings, as a bird would. Rather their wings seemed to be interacting with invisible flows of energy, gracefully angling against unseen forces like a sail adjusting to the wind.
The three circled the house, gaining altitude, then banked into a gentle glide down, almost to the surface of the lake. Near the center of the lake, they spread their wings wide and shot upward with incredible speed. In a few moments they were lost from sight.
***
BRENTWOOD MEMORIAL HOSPITAL – BOULDER, COLORADO
Morgan Johnston was no pushover. Although married to a prominent Dallas attorney and maintaining an active social life, she had still found time to raise two children and earn acclaim as a fashion designer for Metro Designs International, even developing her own line of boutique sportswear.
In her mid-fifties Morgan was as slender, blonde, and nearly as active, as her daughter, Lys. Morgan had always been fiercely protective of her children, earning her the nickname “Mama Bear” in their younger years. God help anyone who tried to harm her kids. She was justifiably proud of both.
But the last two months had left her daughter recovering from a near-fatal automobile accident—apparently the object of attempted murder—and her step-son in ICU with a gunshot wound to the chest. Morgan couldn’t help Roger at the moment, but she was determined to get Lys out of Colorado.
Lys had spent most of the past week in bed. Since the doctors began to wean her from the heaviest of her medications, the pain was almost constant. The only way she found relief was lying flat on her back. Even then, however, there were twinges of pain that grated on her. The slightest movement could bring agonizing torment.
Yet pain wasn’t the worst part. Lys felt she was losing her mind. For days she’d battled waves of depression.
She knew part of it was her appearance. With her light ash-blonde hair, trim body, and captivating steel-blue eyes, Lys had always enjoyed being considered an attractive woman. But when the doctors removed her bandages, the mirror revealed a swollen mass of bruises and lacerations where her face had been. Her first thought was, I look like Frankenstein’s monster! Though the doctors assured her that she would eventually heal up “almost as good as new,” the sight of her face still brought tears to her eyes.
Then there was Roger. She didn’t know why anyone would fire a high powered rifle at a hospital window, but she was certain of one thing. They had not been aiming at her brother. They were aiming at her. Twice now someone had tried to kill her, and she had no idea why.
Along with the depression came waves of fear. Someone had tried to kill her twice. Would they try again? Would someone burst into her room? Would they poison her food? She knew it was insane to follow that line of thought, but it seemed no more insane than what had already taken place.
A police lieutenant interrogated Lys three times, trying to discern why someone would want to kill her. When she had no answers, he didn’t seem to believe her.
Finally Morgan Johnston arrived from Dallas to take her home. Physically, Lys no longer required hospital care, but the hospital was concerned enough about her mental condition that they resisted her release. But Morgan Johnston was not to be deterred. A forty-five minute confrontation with the hospital administrator, coupled with a call from her husband’s law firm, produced the desired result.
Morgan checked Lys out of the hospital at 2:00 PM and headed south to Denver, taking State Highway 470 across the northern edge of the city. At th
e Denver Intercontinental Airport exit, Morgan swung the silver Lexus onto Pena Boulevard, and followed the signs to rental car return.
They’d just made the turn from Pena onto Gun Club Road when Lys noticed three figures standing at the side of the road. Dressed in black, they had the appearance of hitch-hikers but they weren’t trying to catch a ride. They simply stood beside the road, studying each car that passed, as if watching for someone.
And then they were looking at her. Their eyes followed her as the car approached. Lys found herself returning the gaze of the tallest figure. It was a woman—a thin, unattractive woman, with long black hair. The woman was staring at her. Lys’s mouth fell open in unbelief. It was Kareina. As the car swung past, Kareina smiled at her—a look of twisted satisfaction.
Only then did Lys notice the two young men standing beside Kareina.
“Mother!” she screamed, “Stop the car!”
At the sharp cry from Lys, Morgan Johnston jammed her foot on the brake and steered for the shoulder. Even before the car ceased its forward motion, Lys had thrown open the door. Ignoring her pain, she jumped out, ready to confront the three figures.
But the three were no longer in sight. They had disappeared. Lys looked around franticly. She had an unobstructed view in all directions—wide fields of mown grass, with the towering, white, tent-like roof of the Denver Intercontinental Airport terminal in the distance. But the three figures were simply not there.
Chapter Fourteen: Synaxis Begins
FRISCO, TEXAS (A SUBURB OF DALLAS)
The intercom function on his phone gave its usual irritating chirp. Holmes looked up from the journal he was reading and tapped the speakerphone button. “Yes, Shersti?”
“Dr. Holmes, there’s a Donald Johnston on line one. He says he knows you and needs to speak with you urgently.”
“Sure, put him through.”
A second later his phone gave a gentle buzz, and Holmes picked up the receiver, “Yes?”
“Derek, thanks for taking my call. This is Don Johnston. We’ve played golf together several times out at Preston Lakes Country Club.”
“Sure, Don, I remember you. What’s up?”
“Derek, I’m in a desperate situation and need to ask a big favor. My 26-year-old daughter has experienced a severe trauma. I believe she’s suffering from depression and also appears to be delusional.” He paused, then continued, “…I also fear she may be suicidal.”
“I talked to your receptionist, but she said you were booked solid for the next three weeks. Is there any way you can see her sooner than that?”
“Sure, Don, I’m sure I can find a time. Let me check my schedule and call you back. We may be able to work her in later this week… What’s her name?”
“Her name is Lys—short for Lysandra—Lysandra Johnston.”
Holmes froze.
After a brief pause, Holmes continued, “Don, I just remembered I have a cancelation later today. Can Lys come in this afternoon at 3:30?”
Holmes gave a lame excuse for ending his three o’clock appointment twenty minutes early and gave Shersti instructions to send Lys into his office as soon as the disgruntled three o’clock appointment left.
Lys hobbled into the office with a limp, obviously in a great deal of pain. She forced a gallant smile and introduced herself. “Hi, I’m Lys Johnston.”
Holmes stood and greeted her, hoping his face didn’t register the shock he felt at her appearance. A few weeks earlier, Lys might have been described as an attractive blonde with a cute face and pleasing figure. But the woman who entered his office now would get no votes for anyone’s pin-up calendar. Her once-pretty face looked like it had been run over by a truck. Large areas were bruised, swollen and discolored with a number of cuts and abrasions in various stages of healing. She walked bent over with pain and the lines of stress on her face added years to her appearance.
Worse than any of that was the almost visible cloud of darkness that surrounded her. She gave the appearance of someone who was fighting a determined battle with depression, and losing.
Holmes thought to himself, this woman still possesses an incredible reserve of strength. Only sheer determination could have brought her here in this condition.
Holmes motioned for Lys to sit down and took a seat across from her, notebook in hand. He made some introductory remarks, laying down the ground rules for his counseling sessions, and explaining that he always devoted his first appointment to taking a “case history.” He asked Lys to give him some background on her life, and the events that led to her present condition.
As Lys poured out her story, Holmes jotted down some notes and made a few comments. For most of the session, however, he just let her talk.
Piper had gotten a call from Holmes, and was sitting in the waiting room when his appointment with Lys ended.
Holmes accompanied Lys into the waiting room and introduced her to Piper. “Lys, let me introduce you to a good friend, Ginny Ann Piper. Piper’s a psychologist also. I asked her to meet us here after your session.
“Piper and I have a group meeting at my house tomorrow night. There are six members so far, and we just began meeting last week. We’d like to invite you to come. I believe it may help you.”
“Some kind of group therapy?” Lys asked.
Holmes hesitated, not certain how to answer. “Not exactly…” he finally replied. “It’s not part of our normal professional treatment, but I believe in your case, it can be very helpful.”
Lys was instantly suspicious, and it showed in her expression.
Before she could object, Piper cut in, “Believe me, Lys, it’s totally safe. It’s a new approach, but I believe it holds great promise.”
Lys looked from Piper back to Holmes. Both seemed trustworthy. And Lys was aware that Holmes had a well-deserved reputation as one of the most effective counselors in the Dallas Metroplex.
“Okay,” Lys said, still obviously cautious. “I’ll come.”
“Good,” Holmes smiled. Pulling out one of his cards, he added, “Let me write down the address. The meeting starts at seven, but feel free to get there early for drinks.”
The next evening as Lys prepared to leave for the group, she found herself battling increasing waves of depression. Several times she picked up the phone to cancel, but each time resisted the temptation.
Her back was in agony. Lys had been up most of the day, and every muscle in her back was tied in knots. Her mother offered to drive her, but she firmly refused. No one’s going to make me an invalid. She limped to her car and struggled to pull the door open without wrenching her back.
Something told her this was a stupid decision. She ought to go back to her room and lie flat on her back; then the worst of the pain would subside. She needed to relax and rest. That’s what the doctor had told her. She could wait a few months, and when her back was feeling better, she could visit the group.
Then her determination kicked in. Maybe it was stubbornness, but the depression and pain made her angry. She hated the way people treated her now. She hated being limited. She hated being dependent, and she wasn’t going to let this thing beat her.
As she drove, she felt an almost physical resistance. Waves of apprehension crashed against her. What was this new treatment? They hadn’t really told her anything about it. What could they do at a group session that could possibly help her?
Then came the fear. Was this new treatment really legitimate? She was foolish to go to a stranger’s house without getting more information. Was this really a treatment at all? Maybe Holmes and Piper were part of a religious cult. When she got there, they would kidnap her… brainwash her. Make her do… what?
She continued on. At each intersection she battled the temptation to turn back. She felt she was pushing through a tangible cloud of opposition, and had to muster all her resolve to keep moving.
Nearing the address, Lys slowed to a crawl. She pulled to the curb two houses away and cut the engine. The neighborhood was a typical affluent
North Dallas neighborhood. Large custom homes with distinctive architecture were set on beautifully landscaped lots and surrounded by carefully manicured lawns.
It all looked legitimate, yet she hesitated. She watched several others park and walk up to the door. Who were these people? Why did they come here?
Lys finally forced herself out of the car. She hobbled up the walk, driven by a sheer determination not to be beaten. She rang the doorbell. As the door swung open, Piper greeted her with a gracious smile and escorted her in.
The exterior of the home was designed to suggest a medieval castle with rough-hewn stone walls, leaded glass windows, and a cylindrical turret rising near the right-hand side.
The interior mirrored the same theme. Entering the house Lys crossed an expansive flagstone entry with a small formal sitting area on the right and leaded glass doors leading to a paneled study on the left. A curved staircase led to the second floor.
Passing through the entry they came to an immense great room where the gathering was evidently to be held. The furnishings here were massive, and in a Mediterranean style, with a great deal of rich leather and wrought-iron. Great wooden beams supported the ceiling high above them. A balcony overlooked the room on three sides, while directly ahead, on the fourth side, a massive rock wall was highlighted by an equally massive walk-in stone fireplace that could have been borrowed from a medieval castle keep. A well-stocked wet-bar occupied the southwest corner.
Most of the group were already present. Trying to be sensitive to Lys’s back problems, Piper had reserved the firmest chair for her. Lys carefully eased herself into the seat, her face contorting as a stab of pain shot from her spine all the way to her feet. Lys looked around warily.
Most of the guests were already caught up in conversation, sipping drinks and laughing. How could she tell if this was a religious cult?
Iona Portal (The Synaxis Chronicles) Page 11
