by Lisa Shearin
“Before we discuss the dreams that have been bothering you, tell me more about this creature.”
“Where would you like me to start?” Ian asked.
“The beginning is usually a good place.”
Ian snorted. “Not for me.”
“I understand,” Noel said. “What would be helpful for me is whether you recognized this creature—on any level—when you first saw him. A fleeting sense of familiarity, perhaps?”
“Should I have?”
“That is for you to tell me. Did you sense that he knew you?”
“He looked glad to see me, but I thought he was just hungry.” Ian was being glib, but his hands were clenched on the chair’s wooden arms. They appeared to be sturdy, but were creaking ominously. I hoped Noel had replacements stowed somewhere, because Ian was about to snap them plum off.
“When you first encountered him that night, he was wearing a mask. You thought he was human.”
“I did.” Ian glanced away from Noel and at a plant in the corner that was far from flourishing. “But plenty of perps have a crazy look in their eye.”
Ian told Noel the entire story, including the dreams he’d been having, sparing no detail. He followed that with the encounter we’d had with the ghoul on New Year’s Eve in an abandoned subway station beneath Times Square. I told him of my encounter on a snowy street in SoHo several days before that.
Noel sat quietly for a few moments after we’d finished, absorbing and pondering what we’d said. “In my professional opinion—in my studies of the supernatural criminal mind—such a being would not continue pursuit merely to recapture a meal that escaped, if I may be so blunt. Beings that live multiple centuries and millennia view events and time differently than we do.”
“The big picture,” I said.
“Precisely. And to live for as long as this being theoretically has, that picture is very big indeed. His fixation on Ian is part of that picture. He has robbed two banks and taken the contents of a total of seven safe deposit boxes. Do we know what the contents were?”
“Not yet,” Ian replied. “Moreau is working on finding out from the vampires who were renting the boxes.”
“Do you think these robberies could have any connection to the robbery five years ago? Ian, you said that this gang had been responsible for a string of robberies at jewelry and high-end pawn shops. What was taken?”
“Various pieces.”
“Like what?”
“Necklaces, bracelets, rings, brooches.”
“Were they similar?”
“No, different stones, both modern and old settings.”
I sat up straight, a theory forming. “How about the size of the stones? Was at least one stone per piece over a certain carat size?”
“I don’t know,” Ian admitted.
“We might need to find out. Were any of them ever recovered?”
“Initially I tried to trace the ghoul through the stolen jewelry. None of the pieces ever turned up on the market, either broken up or whole.”
“Maybe because he kept what he needed and trashed the rest. If you were that old . . . One, would you suddenly decide to become a jewel thief? And two, if you did, wouldn’t you go after something bigger and more valuable?” I half smiled as it came together. “Unless . . . he didn’t care about the value of the stones, because he planned to keep them, at least the larger ones, because he wanted—no, he needed—those specific stones.”
“What are you thinking?” Noel asked.
“We know the ghoul was at the Met for that opening night gala, when the Dragon Eggs were stolen. We also know that Sebastian du Beckett wasn’t the mastermind behind stealing those seven diamonds. Did the jewelers have insurance photos of the stolen pieces? And if so, could you still get them?”
Ian nodded, liking where this was going. After having things out of his control for the past few hours, he had something that he could do. He took out his phone and began texting. “I’ve got an old friend on the force who’s worked in Evidence for years. There were photos of most of the stolen pieces. If he can lay his hands on them, I’m sure he’ll e-mail them to me.”
“Just because the settings are modern doesn’t mean the stones are,” I said. “Some gems are much older than that ghoul. They may have even been recut from larger gems between the time the ghoul last had contact with them and when they were set in the latest pieces of jewelry. They’d still be the stones he was looking for, but just broken into smaller pieces.” I flashed a grin. “Just because something is small doesn’t mean it doesn’t have kick.”
“Speaking of kick,” Noel said. “I’d like for you to tell me what you felt when you picked up that spearhead.”
Ian settled back in his chair, an actual half smile on his face. “I will, if you tell me how you knew by looking at me that it had been used with ‘enthusiasm.’”
Noel gave a short laugh. “Fair enough. Over the years, I’ve done enough consulting with SPI offices and other agencies to determine the background on artifacts, relics, and devices with suspected paranormal qualities—both ancient and of recent make. I, myself, am not qualified to determine the age of an object, but through past experience I’ve discovered that the more I feel as if I’m spiraling down a bottomless pit, the older and more powerful an object is.” He turned his head to the side and flipped his ear forward. He was wearing a scopolamine patch.
I grinned. “Nice to know I’m not the only one around here who gets the woozies.”
“When Alain told me he wanted me to have a look at the spearhead, I patched up as a precautionary measure.” He winced. “It was a good thing I did—for everyone in that lab. When I picked up that spearhead, I felt its age as well as the violence it had been used for. Though that wasn’t unexpected. After all, it’s a spearhead, not a knitting needle. As to how I connected that to you personally . . .” Noel paused. He wasn’t uncomfortable with what he was about to say, but he knew Ian would be.
“Past life?” I asked.
“It seems like a logical conclusion.” Noel glanced at Ian. “An ancient creature that is obsessed with you, a spearhead left for you, the spearhead’s reaction when you picked it up . . . and most of all, your reaction to the spearhead. As to my ‘enthusiasm’ remark, I had a sense of you wielding the full spear with that head attached. Let’s just say you had a grim purpose. You felt your opponents needed to die and you took satisfaction in causing their deaths.”
Whoa.
“Uh, did you get a sense of whether the spearhead was good or evil?” I asked.
“Neither. Which probably means it could be used for either one.”
“That sounds like something we shouldn’t send back to the NYPD.”
“I agree, and so does Alain. He’s having our armory’s museum searched for a similar-looking spearhead so the mages upstairs can throw enough mojo on it to make it appear identical.” Noel gave Ian an impish smile. “As a former NYPD detective, you didn’t hear that.”
Ian’s brief chuckle was totally without humor. “I end up doing that a lot. But in this instance, I agree.”
“Okay, I’ve told you mine,” Noel said. “Tell me yours.”
“When I picked it up, I felt powerful. More than that. I felt invincible. I could cut down every opponent who came against me. None survived, I couldn’t allow it.”
Ian was gazing into the fire, its light making his profile even stronger than usual, harder, colder. I sat perfectly still, not daring to move.
“I wasn’t alone,” he continued. “Other men and women were fighting by my side and near me, glowing with power. We waged war against things that didn’t belong in the same land as the rest of us.” Ian’s eyes darkened. “Tentacles, not arms. Two heads, not one. Four arms or six, instead of two. Only one eye. Deformed. Monstrous. They fought with their backs to the sea, and we kept advancing, forcing their retreat
, retreat or die, driving them into the sea.”
“Would you be willing to allow me to view your dream as you’re having it—to help identify your enemies?”
Ian’s gaze stayed locked on the flames. “I am willing.”
I didn’t know who was doing the answering: Ian or the man who had driven the monsters into the sea.
Ian’s phone beeped with an incoming call, snapping my partner out of his reverie.
I swore silently at the crappy timing.
14
IT was Ian’s evidence contact at the NYPD, and he stepped outside to take the call.
I stuck my head out the door to make sure Yasha was still standing guard to keep Ian from making a run for it. He was, so I ducked back into the office and closed the door, hoping the call would take longer than a few seconds.
“What was that?” I blurted at Noel. “Or more to the point, who was that?”
“I believe we got a look at an event in the life, if you will, of that spearhead. A very important event.”
“That sounded entirely too much like Ian’s dream.” A dream triggered when Ian had first met the ghoul—and deepened by a spearhead that the ghoul left for Ian. “The ghoul knows who Ian is—or was.”
“It appears likely.”
“It was like pulling eye teeth for me to get Ian to talk about it, but in less than five minutes here—”
“The fireplace isn’t only for comfort,” Noel said. “Mine or my patients’. And I confess, it’s not entirely a fireplace. The flames flicker at a rate that is very conducive to relaxation. Another touch added by our mages. Anyone seeing a psychiatrist for the first time is understandably nervous. There is nothing more soothing on a deep primal level than a warm and flickering fire. Our distant ancestors gathered around fires for protection against what prowled just out of sight in the darkness—either real or imagined. That need for safety is a part of who we are as humans. It’s a need that has never left us. Agent Byrne felt safe here. He was in headquarters, surrounded by his friends, his trusted partner by his side. The fire merely aided what was already there.”
“So you didn’t hypnotize him,” I said rather than asked.
Noel shook his head. “And it’s doubtful that it would have worked, given Ian’s natural reticence and his distrust of my calling.”
“He hypnotized himself.”
“In a way. The fire was soothing, and due to his emotional state and lack of sleep, Ian was obviously near exhaustion. It worked because it was on his terms and he was in complete control the entire time. I merely guided his thoughts.”
I smiled and nodded in approval. “Slick. You’re a smart guy.”
A corner of his lips briefly turned up. “That’s what my diplomas say. Success is what counts.”
“Do you think he knows this thing from a past life?”
“It’s my opinion that’s what Ian believes.”
“What’s the next step?”
“If Ian’s dreams are indeed a remembrance of a past life, I would like to do a dream link.”
“Which is?”
“I have a gift, Mac. Under the right conditions, I will be able to experience Ian’s dream as he is having it.” Noel’s eyes took on a haunted cast. “And I will remember every moment of it.”
“How can you be sure he’ll have the same dream again?”
“My asking Ian whether he would be willing to have me view his dream as he was having it was more than a question.”
“It was a hypnotic suggestion,” I realized.
Noel nodded. “But as was the case with the entire session, Ian was in control of the direction our discussion took. He agreed to the link; it was his choice.”
“And because it was Ian’s choice and he agreed to it, he’ll hold himself to it.”
Noel smiled. “Agent Byrne is a man of his word, and he will keep that word, even to himself.”
• • •
Needless to say, once he was out of Noel’s office, Ian didn’t like the psychiatrist’s suggestion.
However, as Noel had predicted, he agreed to it.
“I want that ghoul gone,” Ian was saying. “Somehow these robberies are connected to me and men are being butchered. If there’s a possibility that letting Tierney inside my head will save even one life, I have to do it.”
Since Ian was having trouble getting to sleep, let alone staying that way, Noel prescribed a dose of a drug that’d been developed by SPI’s doctors in cooperation with two of the pharmaceutically gifted mages in our Research and Development department. It’d help Ian get to sleep, but it wouldn’t interrupt his regularly scheduled dreams.
Ian was sitting on the side of the bed. Noel would be using a nearby reclining chair. My partner only had to shuck his shoes this time, but at least now he was conscious to do it himself. On the downside, he’d be sleeping in a hospital room, hooked up to monitors, with people watching him sleep and studying his brain waves like he was some kind of lab experiment.
Ian had asked if I would stay.
We had been partners for a year and a half. That one request told me that my partner trusted me to have his back. We were in a room in headquarters surrounded by the good guys, not in a dark alley surrounded by monsters. In a situation like that I still didn’t think I’d be his first pick to have his back. Yasha during a full moon would be a much better choice. I didn’t blame him; I wouldn’t want me to have my back, either. None of that changed the fact that he wanted me here with him now.
“We can start whenever you’re ready, Agent Byrne.” Noel got to keep his shoes on, but as a concession to comfort, he’d taken off his bow tie.
Dr. Stephens was standing by to administer the shot to Ian. An IV would be preferable, but these were nightmares Ian was having, not visions of fluffy unicorns. The human body generally kept itself still during REM sleep, where dreams occurred, but neither Dr. Stephens nor Noel wanted to take a chance that Ian’s sleeping self would strike out. And with him dreaming about a battle . . . well, nobody was lining up for a piece of that.
Ian lay back on the bed and shook his head when Dr. Stephens offered him a blanket. My partner had no intention of staying here one minute longer than necessary.
Noel attached the sensors to Ian’s temples and on his forehead above his eyes; the doc wore a matching set of sensors. To me they looked like the round sticky patches used to monitor vitals during surgery, but what showed on the monitors looked like nothing I’d ever seen before.
Ian studied them with keen interest. “At least there’s something going on in there,” he quipped.
“There will be more once you begin dreaming,” Noel said. He went to sit in the reclining chair, a sketch pad and pencils in his lap, and Dr. Stephens attached his sensors to the same monitoring machine.
Ian lay back and closed his eyes. The drug must have kicked in quick, because in less than five minutes the monitors started going crazy; at least that’s what it looked like to me.
It was mighty interesting to the Drs. Tierney and Stephens as well. Dr. Stephens flipped a switch to what looked like a fancy printer, and Noel settled back in his chair, closed his eyes, and did some kind of yoga breathing.
Apparently it was showtime.
The only indication I could see that anything was happening—other than the impressively patterned light show on the monitors—was Ian’s eyes rapidly moving beneath his lids.
Noel sat up and began sketching, his hand moving so quickly it was nearly a blur. I stayed perfectly still, forcing down an almost overwhelming urge to cross the room and stand over Tierney’s shoulder to see what he was getting from Ian.
Then Ian’s breathing came faster and took on a ragged edge.
Noel smoothly ripped the page from the pad, his pencil flowing over the next page before it’d even hit the floor.
Naturally, it landed facedown. So
much for immediate gratification for my curiosity.
I didn’t know how long dreams lasted, but Ian’s was at least six sketched pages worth. Some of Noel’s pages landed faceup, and I really wished they hadn’t.
It was a nightmare I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Cancel that. The ghoul had caused Ian to have them, so as far as I was concerned, he deserved them right back—with interest.
Ian—or whoever he had been channeling in Noel’s office—hadn’t been exaggerating when he said the things he’d fought didn’t belong here. The creatures in Noel’s sketches looked like a progression of horrific part-human/part-aquatic hallucinations. On the page that had landed closest to me was a thing I’d seen in person and entirely too up close.
The squid demon from the parking garage.
I had an unwanted flashback to a thing that had been a man one minute, and a squid demon less than thirty seconds later. His two human arms had lengthened and smoothed into tentacles, and two more pairs of tentacles had sprouted from his fish-belly-pale torso. The bottom half of his face had writhed as snake-like tentacles emerged like a fleshy beard. Putting a bullet between his eyes had only made a dimple that’d spit that silver-infused bullet right back out. His six tentacles versus my two arms equaled no contest, and also no chance for survival on my end. I’d had two knives which had made the difference between escape and being dragged through a portal to Hell. The tentacles had been rubbery, the core tough, and the grip like a python on steroids. I’d had to hack and saw, but my life was worth every effort. The blood that’d come out of those tentacles had been black and as slippery as oil. As a result, I now carried knives with some serious grips. Loose knife, lose life.
The director of SPI’s Demonology department, Martin DiMatteo, had been confused that a squid demon had appeared so far from open water. Was it a coincidence that I’d had a nearly fatal encounter with one seven months ago, and that Ian was having a nightmare with one in a supporting role right now? Ian hadn’t seen my squid demon, so this one was all his.
It was all a little too coincidental for my taste—or nerves.
