The reality would be much worse; he would be dreaming, big black nightmares with no end. Perhaps in these dreams, which would become more lucid as he got better at having them, he would realize that he would never wake. He would scream futilely at the walls of the dream, knowing his real mouth was frozen, unmoving. He would scream, but nothing would happen, no one would hear him except himself.
Despite the argument in the hall, Lucas drifted off to sleep. This time it was a real sleep, and he knew he'd wake up.
Evidently Doctor Vaughan had won the argument, because it was Thursday morning before Lucas' stepfather returned for him.
"Up and at 'em, boy." Tatum's greeting was infused with his usual good cheer. "Time to go home."
Vaughan arrived as Tatum was helping Lucas dress.
"I must reiterate," he said, "that this is not a good idea. Lucas should be kept for observation for at least another day."
But Tatum would not be moved. "We'll observe him at home." He smiled at Lucas. "He'll be fine. A couple of days off from school and he'll be good as new."
Doctor Vaughan stopped by the house on Friday while Lucas' folks were out.
"I want to show you something," he said.
For a while Lucas thought Vaughan was taking him to school, but instead they turned into Sunset Memorial Park Cemetery, which was right across the street from his high school.
"I've never been in a graveyard before," Lucas said.
"This won't take long. I don't spend much time here, when I do come," the doctor said, sounding sad. He stopped the car on the narrow road that wound through the cemetery.
"This way," Vaughan said, leading him through the grave markers. Lucas remembered reading somewhere that one shouldn't step directly on the grave, so he did his best to stay between them. Somewhere down there, six feet under, were boxes of dead people, he realized.
They stopped in front of a tombstone, small and new.
MIKE VAUGHAN
MARCH 13. 1980 - NOVEMBER 20.
Lucas stared at the marker, the name sinking in, like a thin veil dropping over his head.
"He was my son," Doctor Vaughan said. "Did you know him?"
He looked up at the doctor, feeling weak all over again. "I need to sit down."
"Then sit," the doctor said, helping him down. Vaughan joined him on the grass, right at the foot of the grave.
"Yes, I knew him," Lucas said. "Why wouldn't you let me talk to him?"
Vaughan stared at him. Then understanding softened his features. "I thought your name was familiar."
They both looked at the grass between them, which had recently been mowed. The smell was refreshing, reminding Lucas that it was spring.
"He was on medication. Anti-depressants," said Vaughan. "He didn't want to talk to anyone, not even you." His eyes wandered to the grave, and his lips pressed together. "Not even me."
Lucas felt numb, inside and out.
"We were trying a different drug, something we hoped would make him snap out of it. It didn't. It made his depression much worse."
Lucas shifted position on the grass. Looking at Mike's grave, Lucas started to feel grateful that his own attempt had failed. "I was depressed, I saw no way out," he said, more to Mike than to his father. "I was so certain I was doing the right thing."
"If you're depressed, you are not thinking clearly," Vaughan pointed out. "You can't do your best thinking because you're impaired."
They sat quietly. The doctor looked down again, his half hidden face unreadable. Is he blaming himself for what happened to Mike? he wondered. Does he really think he had something do to with it?
A gentle breeze caressed the graveyard in the bright afternoon sun, spinning the pinwheels people had placed on graves. Flowers were everywhere, it seemed.
A hawk called overhead, and he glanced up to see the great bird kiting gently in the wind. The greens of the grass, the trees, and the vivid colors of some of the fresher flowers stood out as if highlighted with a special marker, one which underscored the beauty of everything in nature. Lucas took a long deep breath.
As he exhaled he felt an enormous load slide off his shoulders.
I don't have to die, he thought. Whatever it is… I can deal with it. He thought about the vampire dreams, the Gothic elements of his life, and the dazzling brilliance of all the living things around him. Suddenly it all meshed, as if a key had been dropped in his lap. Something between all these things connected, and the result would, somehow, bring him closer to whatever it was he was looking for.
But now to get there…
In that moment, something changed in Lucas.
He sensed Mike's body, cold dead, and lifeless, somewhere beneath the earth he sat on. Mike's face came back to him with startling clarity, a young kid his own age, full of life and lusty dreams, full of promise. Lucas realized that he had never grieved for his friend, had never shed a single tear.
"I'm going back to the car," Lucas said, but his voice cracked, betraying the tears he was fighting so hard to hold back.
Mike's dead. It felt like news.
Doctor Vaughan stood with him but neither started for the car. Lucas wouldn't remember who reached for who, but in the end it didn't really matter. Lucas found himself hugging Doctor Vaughan and sobbing into his chest. The doctor held him as if he held his own son.
"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry," Lucas managed to blurt out, as the grief subsided. "I didn't think what it would do to anyone else…"
"It's all right," the doctor said, stroking his head.
During the ride home he learned that there was a suicide prevention hotline in the phone book. They'll talk about anything, the doctor had said, driving the Beemer through Albuquerque rush hour. You won't shock them,
Lucas had his doubts, but already he was feeling better.
Chapter Five
From the glaring whiteness of the Gate's interior, Japhet Dhu drove his elvensteed into the uncertain darkness of the humans' world. The steed landed unsteadily, then regained her footing. Japhet heard the familiar sound of loose gravel and the scuffing of hooves against dirt.
He and his steed stood atop a mesa looking down on a brightly lit city, in the blackest of nights he had ever seen. It seemed like a lake of light at the bottom of a canyon, but as his vision adjusted he discerned streets, and moving lights following these streets.
He turned to face the Gate. He had thought the others were right behind him. Where were they now?
The Gate glowed a dull orange, still active but diminishing in power. He pulled his sword in case Avalon elves charged through it instead of his own soldiers. The escape had been close, but it had looked like most of his elite forces would make it through.
Where are they? Japhet seethed.
The Gate flickered, then blazed white as a mounted steed, followed by another, leapt through. He immediately saw they were his men, and drew back to give them room. Japhet counted four, followed by a smaller shadow he recognized as Mort, a demon who was eager to serve any Unseleighe who happened to be in charge.
A fifth shadow, a robed mage Japhet recognized immediately, crossed the Gate's threshold. His eyes plowed white, and bore directly on Japhet as his 'steed trotted toward him.
"There are no more, Sire," Nargach told the Unseleighe leader. "At least, none of our elite group."
"Then dismiss the Gate," Japhet said, "I have the forces I need to rebuild." He spoke with faked confidence. If he showed any weakness in this new world he would lose his command quickly. Nargach would see to that.
"As you wish," Nargach said, turning toward his magical construction. Japhet saw that the Mage was rattled. His escape must have been made at the last possible moment, as the Avalon forces closed in.
Nargach raised both arms, murmured something in ancient Elvish; the Gate shrank to the size of a coin, then blipped from existence. They were left with the darkness, the desert, and Japhet's uncertainty as to what to do next.
He needed time to think, alone and without interr
uption, and he knew he had to disguise his indecisiveness. Japhet dismounted and stormed off to the edge of the mesa, which gave way to a steep slope. Beneath him, spread majestically, was the human city.
What manner of power causes these lights? he wondered, sensing no elven magics that might account for the display.
This he would learn later. Now, he needed to concentrate on inventorying his assets, and determine what he could do with the small group he had.
The mage. At the very least, I have Nargach, he groused, knowing his presence was a threat as well as an asset. Japhet's succession to ruler of this Unseleighe court had taken place without debate; he was, after all, Zeldan's son. Though it didn't hurt that he had cultivated his own power base while father was away, this particular clan of elves held blood ties, particularly noble blood ties, sacred.
His remaining three were all seasoned soldiers, skilled in all the tools of warfare, though each with their own special talents. Youthful Rochad was an expert at bow and arrow, while Semion was a champion swordsman. Domnu, the eldest of the warriors, had trained the others to fight in battle with whatever happened to be handy. If he'd had the chance to hand pick his best three warriors, he would have likely chosen these.
Then there was the oddity, Mort, a demon who had found a place among the Unseleighe, although a tenuous one. Mort had been allied with Morrigan, with whom Zeldan had formed a partnership, and the demon had been included as some kind of bonus. The details were vague; Japhet had been too busy pulling together his own people to pay much attention to their arrangement. What he did know was that as soon as Zeldan fell, Mort had been more than happy to throw in with Japhet.
With whoever was in charge, with whoever was winning, Japhet thought wryly. Mort had also been with Zeldan while he was among the humans. Mort knows this place he realized with relief. He was here before and operated in it, manipulated the humans, took advantage of their weaknesses. Mort had also been one of the few to escape to Underhill when Aedham defeated Zeldan, which in itself was either suspicious behavior, or a redeeming quality. It would be a matter of time before he determined which it was. This explained the little demon's smugness when they had been discussing possible flight to the humans' world.
Japhet rejoined the others, who were still mounted on their 'steeds, barely visible in the darkness. The leader's own 'steed had remained where she was, though she looked like she might be nosing around the ground for grass to eat. None was to be found on this patch of earth, a rocky, dusty land.
"Sire, look!" Rochad said, pointing to something behind him. Japhet reached for his sword as he turned around. On the horizon, creeping up from behind a range of mountains, was a deep orange sphere, spotted with pockmarks.
"Is it the sun?" Domnu inquired. Japhet's eyes remained fixed on the disk, a fascinating sight. Its size, and apparent distance revealed more of the land's vastness. Though this world was chaotic, and absent of the magic Japhet was accustomed to, its size was staggering.
"It is not the sun," Mort said. "It's the moon, and it will rise and make more light for us."
Japhet returned his attention to the little demon, who was standing casually off to the side. Indeed, the moon was already making it easier to see. The demon was a small creature, with thin arms and legs. Dark and green of skin, and bearing a close resemblance to the gargoyles of Underhill, Mort had the long, pointed ears of elves. Perhaps this was why he chose this particular form, if choice were involved. He wore no armor, as he did not fight, instead assuming the court dress of a high ranking servant.
"The moon is not as bright as the sun," Mort continued, sounding confident, knowledgeable. He folded his arms with the ease and grace of an insect folding its wings, cupping his elbows in either palm. "The sun's arrival will be slow enough. It won't blind us."
"You've been to the humans' world before," Nargach observed.
"Once or twice," Mort said, casting a sly, knowing look toward Japhet, then looking away. "The humans can be… great sport, as it were."
"What he means to say," Japhet interjected, "is that the humans are easily manipulated. I learned as much from my father."
Mort looked ready to reply, when something else distracted him.
Two beams of light appeared at the far end of the black path, grew in size, and started growling like an animal.
"It's only a car," Mort said, moving to Japhet's side. "Probably some pathetic young humans, by the sound of their carriage and the hour of the evening. Carousing." The demon sniffed at the air as the car came closer, slowing as it seemed to find the end of the path. "Hmmm, and a very nice carriage, at that," Mort exclaimed as the car passed them and came to a stop. "A Camaro unless I'm mistaken."
Japhet saw his men dampening their steeds' fear with spells of calming, and did the same to his own mount as this strange carriage pulled to a stop, belching foul-smelling smoke.
"This might be fun," Mort said. "Allow me to indulge myself, Sire?"
Japhet cautiously nodded his permission.
A door on one side of the Camaro swung open. A light from within revealed a young male human in black leather. The youth leaned out and began retching his guts out on the pavement. Mort was careful to stay clear of what the human had been drinking that night; it made a sizable puddle.
"My my my, what a mess," Mort said amiably as he walked over and stood on the other side of the open door, leaned his elbows on it and peered down with a feral, gargoyle expression. Japhet noted with amusement that his minion had made his eyes fiery red. "Tsk tsk. You boys haven't been drinking the devil's brew this evening, have you?"
Indeed, there were two inside. The other didn't seem to be that coherent, but then again neither did the first, who appeared to be the one driving the vehicle. He stared at Mort, unblinking, uncomprehending.
"What the hell?" the boy mumbled, apparently recovering from his illness.
"What the fuck is that?" said the other, stirring a bit on his side, leaning over to get a better look at Mort. He looked like he regretted the move.
Mort, however, appeared to be enjoying himself. If the two humans saw the other elves in the darkness, they made no comment on them; transfixed by the demon, they looked completely confused. They were not yet afraid.
Mort meant to change that.
"You ever hear of Satan?" Mort asked jovially, breaking into a low rumble of laughter. Flame appeared in a halo around his head, and two long horns grew suddenly from the demons forehead. Behind him, flicking back and forth was a long forked tail Mort had summoned. The illusion was convincing, and Japhet had to admit admiration for the demons ability to invoke illusions. And this was clearly the proper illusion for the "fun" he'd had in mind. The humans were terrified.
"I don't know, maaan," one of the humans said. "I'm freakin' out, man. It's the Underwood Deviled Ham dude or something. What was in that joint, anyway?"
"That's not the Underwood dude," the driver said, pulling his door shut. The halo of flame turned to burning snakes, writhing toward the drivers face. 'That's Satan! That's the devil! Our shits gone, man!"
Amid the brouhaha Japhet sensed a black power from these humans, a force associated with their fear. The same force my father harnessed! he realized gleefully, remembering the system of energy transmission Zeldan and Morrigan had set up. Fear, terror. The very force the Unseleighe thrive on. Using a drug synthesized by Morrigan, Zeldan had induced horrible images for the unwitting humans, tapping the resultant power for his own use, and trading the rest to Morrigan for more of the drug. Mart's raising the same power with his antics, or very nearly so… But does he really know what he's doing, short of scaring the life out of some human kids?
"Rise! And be healed! And feeel the presence of God!" Mort's halo became less fiery, and the court dress shifted to black, with a thick, white collar around his neck. But the horns and gargoyle face remained intact. "I shall cast the demons from your soul!" Mort continued, walking after the Camaro as it sped away in a shower of gravel. It moved away from t
hem at such speed that Japhet thought they might have an elvensteed; but no, this was just human technology, which had its limits.
Mort was clearly pleased with himself, laughing heartily at the results of his work. They both stared after the twin red dots, until they were gone.
"I'd almost forgot what fun humans can be," Mort said. "It has been so long. Far too long."
Japhet's thoughts were on other things. "Tell me, Mort. What is this Satan that invokes such terror?"
"Just one of their myths," Mort said casually, but already he was considering ways Satan might aid them. "Many things scare these primitives. Many, many things."
Mort was pleased to see this fear of Satan had remained intact over the centuries; but the demon knew this was only one of many methods with which he might harvest terror, the nectar of the Unseleighe.
The fear is the same, Mort thought as he watched the Camaro's taillights fade from view. Hallelujah!
"We must see where we are," Japhet announced, sounding as if he were simply trying to assert his authority. Mort knew Japhet probably felt lost in this place. Even so, the demon {knew it would be a challenge to stay ahead of the elves, in spite of his head start in assimilating the human's strange world.
Japhet remounted and led the rest down the road. The uneasiness seemed to have left the Unseleighe, Mort sensed. Riding behind Japhet was something they were accustomed to doing, and they fell into its familiarity.
Mort walked alongside, easily keeping up, as he was not truly walking; as a demon he was more spirit than matter, and ghosted alongside them as a matter of respect, staying a few paces behind Japhet's steed.
They must think I am still their pawn, the demon thought giddily, sending his thoughts ahead, to see what might await them. Reaching through this atmosphere was like wading through a churning river, with currents and eddies shooting off in all directions. The magic here was powerful, but disorganized, no surprise given the lack of magical abilities of most humans. In a place like Underhill, where most of its inhabitants wielded magical power to some degree, the force was carefully parceled out and guarded in natural and manufactured pools the elves called nodes. Here the power was wild and untapped and, alas, mostly useless, at least for their party. The white noise of the free-flowing power drowned out whatever vibrations natural nodes might have emitted here.
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